North Cape (31 page)

Teleman grasped his arm, then started down the slope. A few feet away he slipped, and McPherson hauled back on the rope to keep him from tumbling. The stretch with Teleman was the hardest of all for McPherson, who had to maintain a steady tension of the line to keep him from going over the edge of the drop-off. His strength, as prodigious as it was, was nearly exhausted by the past days' efforts. Teleman, all but dangling on the end of the rope, realized this and scrabbled hard with his boots for a foothold in the wind-packed snow. Finally he managed to kick through the crust and dig the toe of a boot in and bring himself to a halt. Teleman waved weakly up to McPherson to wait and gratefully felt the cutting edge of the rope slack off. He knew that both of them needed a moment's rest.

With his left boot he kicked a second toehold in the snow and lowered himself the length of his drawn-up knee and kicked a third hole with the right boot. Then he rested a moment and peered over his shoulder to see how near the drop-off was. Still twenty feet or so to go. Teleman lowered himself again and clutched at the first toehold with his gloved hand. Now he was able to work his way down carefully, saving McPherson the effort of fending his 172-pound weight. Shortly he felt empty space beneath his boot, then a moment later Gadsen had reached up and caught his foot. The rope slacked enough to give him room and

he waved Gadsen away and dropped the last eight feet into the banked snow at the foot of the wall. The rope followed him down like a snake and he got shakily to his feet and backed away from the wall, motioning Gadsen and Folsom to do the same.

"The man says watch out . . ."

At the same time he caught sight of McPherson scrabbling down the slope on his seat, legs extended to break his speed, an idiot grin affixed to his face. He slowed slightly above the drop-off, then shot over to land relaxed in the trained parachutist's roll, legs bent and a roll-over onto the left hip. McPherson got to his feet, brushing away the snow, still grinning.

"Most fun I've had since I started this cruise."

"Crazy idiot, you could have busted your neck in three places." Folsom grinned and waved at the other two. "Come on, let's tackle the next phase of this endless jaunt." The next mile was an easy slope downhill leading to what Folsom had optimistically termed the pass through the rock wall that now stretched above them. Close-up the wall did not appear as formidable as it had through the glasses, but still the pass offered an easier and less strenuous climb.

The faint touches of wind that had begun to spring up again on the plain were stronger among the rock formations. The weirdness of the tiny valley was accentuated by the aurora borealis, which, at the same time, made seeing so difficult that Folsom had been forced to an easier pace than he would otherwise have chosen. Even so, they had covered the mile to the pass quickly enough. The pass was a natural path leading up, twisting through the rock until it disappeared around a curve several hundred feet away. For a moment Folsom hesitated to start forward. The narrow way was an ideal ambush site. Ridiculous, he thought, there was no way in the world that the Russians could have selected this particular place to lie in wait. . . . Folsom snorted and started the climb.

Folsom had been partially right The pass, such as it was, had been clear through the rock barrier barring their way to the narrow ledges that marked the beginning of the steep slopes leading down to the fjord. The Russians spotted them as they were midway in their descent.

The four had reached the top of the pass and rested for a few minutes before going on. On the narrow ledges between the top of the 'pass and the edge of the cliffs they were buffeted again

by the stiffening winds blowing in from the sea. After a brief exam-nation of the cliffs Folsom was surprised with the apparent ease

with which they could make the descent Although steep, the cliff face—sheltered from the generations of wind in the deep fjord, which had worn the seaward-facing rock smooth—was broken and channeled enough to present an almost ladder-like descent of its 16o feet They began the climb down to the beach with some faint degree of optimism. It was Gadsen who first heard the faint rifle report and saw the spurt of rock indicating where the bullet had struck. His warning shout thrust them under an overhang into the cover of the wall itself, from which they tried to spot the Soviets on the cliff top. The overhang was invisible from above and prevented a clear shot from the top of the cliffs. It had been pure luck that someone, overeager perhaps, had fired too soon. In any event, the four Americans were safe for the moment

But only for a moment There were several alternate ways leading down from the cliff edge and the Soviets could flank them

easily and within minutes. While the overhang furnished cover from above, there was nothing to use as shelter against fire coming from either side. The four men knew that they had to move and move fast.

"Down that way, throt.gh the cleft," Folsom shouted over the wind gusting through the rock crannies. "One at a time. Mac, lead off. When you reach the cleft, give us covering fire."

McPherson nodded, crawled to the edge of the overhang, and peered carefully upward. Nothing moved on the cliff tops, above or on either side. He looked down and spent a few seconds examining the route he would follow. Then, satisfied, he came to his feet and plunged downward to a narrow shelf, ran lightly along it for several feet, and vaulted over a boulder into the shelter of a slot in the rock wall. A single shot snapped after him, but no spurt of rock indicated where the bullet had struck. McPherson waved a hand over the top of the boulder to show that he was all right A moment later Teleman saw the muzzle of his carbine appear and he nudged Gadsen.

"Let's get set," he muttered.

`You first, Major," Folsom said tightly, "and don't stop. Just go!' Teleman nodded. McPherson popped up and fired a fast burst, then ducked back down again to scramble to the far end of the slab-shaped rock. A fusilade of rifle fire danced off the rock where he had been. McPherson waited for it to die away and jumped up to fire again, a long burst this time that raked across the top of the cliff. Teleman scrambled forward at the same time. As he dropped onto the ledge he thought he heard a faint scream, but the sound whirled away on the wind, almost instantaneously. It sounded as if it had come from above, but he couldn't be sure. He shuttled along the ledge awkwardly, wondering if it had come from McPherson, until he heard Mac's carbine stuttering again, and he concentrated on his running.

The ledge was less than eighteen inches wide and the footing treacherous with scattered rock and shale. As he neared the end he slipped and fell forward onto the boulder with stunning force. His head glanced off the rock and exploded with pain. Feebly cursing, he dragged himself over, almost directly beneath Mc-Pherson's carbine, and slid down the other side. Seconds later

Gadsen fell over on top of him and Folsom followed in a dive that just missed the tangle of arms and legs.

McPherson crouched down beside them. "Everybody get here in one piece?" Teleman sat up, massaging his forehead, and his hand came away coated with blood. So what else is new, he thought with resignation.

"Julie, check that cut," Folsom snapped. "Mac, what's the situation?"

"About seven of them, I think. One was going over the edge when I hit him. He got hung up on that spur of rock there," he finished.

Folsom pulled the binoculars from beneath his parka and turned them on the cliff tops. In the brightening light of midday he could make out a green-clad arm draped over the same outthrust of rock McPherson had pointed out. Nothing more. The cliff top was bare.

"Okay, you convinced them to keep their heads down anyway. I think we have enough cover, if we move fast and stay close to the rock, to make it down to the beach. We should be able to reach that headland before they hit the beach." He turned to Teleman and squatted down beside him, where Gadsen was wrapping a piece of cloth around Teleman's forehead. The make-shift bandage was already stained bright red, but the blood was congealing quickly in the cold. Folsom had caught a glimpse of the cut before Gadsen had gone to work on it. An ugly gash across the bend of the forehead on the right side, almost three inches long. The fall on the rock had laid the skin open to the whitish bone.

"That cut is going to leave a nasty scar," he murmured as Gadsen tied the bandage tight and sawed off the ends with his sheath knife.

"Big deal," Teleman muttered.

Folsom backed into the shelter on the cleft, stood up, and carefully edged forward until he could just see over the boulder. The sun was just edging above the horizon as they went over the top. Now the line of the cliff was back-lit with what to his night-adjusted eyes appeared as full daylight. Down in the cleft, where the sun would not reach until at least May, he knew that it

was still pitch dark. He was counting on the gloom in the southwestward-facing cliff to provide as much shelter as the rock.

He watched for a full minute before he caught sight of someone moving on the top. As he watched, the figure crawled cautiously to the edge and peered over. Folsom motioned to McPherson to raise his carbine. Mac joined him quickly and as Folsom fired a snap shot Mac followed up with a burst. The figure rolled back. Whether or not they had hit him was impossible to tell. Folsom watched for another minute to see if he would try again.. McPherson nudged his arm and pointed to the left of where the figure had appeared. A soldier, almost invisible in his green uniform as he slid over the edge into the gloom, caught Folsom's eye. He nodded to McPherson and together they poured bursts of fire at the figure. But they were too late. The trooper had made it into shelter.

"All right," Folsom called softly. "Let's get out of here before they start tossing grenades down."

McPherson led the way down the cleft, and, singly, they made a dash out of the cleft into the shelter of another overhang. No shots were fired after them. The way down would have been no trouble to rested men, but in their exhausted condition, the journey was another nightmare of snow-covered rocks and icy sheathing. They moved from cover to cover, never daring to pause for rest as they slipped and slid and climbed down and around the cliff face. Near the base they encountered a sloping pile of rubble that eased the steep descent SOME, what, but threw in their path another obstacle of large boulders and chunks of fluted rock that had to be circumnavigated and wriggled through rather than climbed over.

Twenty minutes later they were on the pebbled beach. In spite of their desperate need to go on, Folsom called a rest halt. Teleman sprawled out on his back, barely conscious of the biting cold and snow that lay thickly in the shelter of the fjord. The soft lapping of the waves against the shore less than a hundred yards away belied the fury of the storm, whose final traces they were still experiencing. Teleman lay, gasping for breath. Above him, he realized for the first time that the sky was brightening quickly. The gap of space between the narrow walls was changing to velvet blue and the stars were disappearing from sight.. The wavering aurora borealis had all but evaporated in the sunlight, weak as it was. This was the first sunlight he remembered seeing since several hours before he had ejected, and for some reason it felt good. The steadily increasing light gave him a measure of badly needed hope.

He sat up. "Commander," he croaked, "I don't even know your first name." Folsom rolled over on his side and grinned lopsidedly. "Hell, you don't do you? It's Pete .

. ." And he stuck out his hand.

"Glad to meet you . . . hell of a place for it though." Then he remembered: "How about the radio. Since everyone knows where we are now, maybe you should tell the ship."

"Yeah . . . Julie, break out the radio and see if you can raise the ship. If not, then the Norwegians. We're gonna need some help, man, and fast." Gadsen pulled the transceiver out of his pack and, as they started down the beach in a half walk, half trot, began to fiddle 'with the dials.

"Hell of a note if the Russians get us two miles from the Norwegian base."

"Don't worry, Major, soon as we round that headland, orders or no orders, I'm going to fire every damn flare I got."

The low profile of the headlands rose starkly out of the sea off the portside of the U.S.S. Robert F. Kennedy as the battle cruiser ran past the eastern entrance to the fjord. The cruel gray waters of the Barents Ka were still running heavily and even from two miles out the bridge crew could make out the dash of spray rising from the fringing rocks. The, fjord was dangerously narrow for any ship the size of the RFK, even one as well equipped with underwater navigational aids as she was. Only cutters called at the Norwegian naval air base through the fjord. Larger ships unloaded, when they had to, in the deep-water port on the ° Nor-wegian Sea side and supplies were trucked five miles to the base on the all-weather road. But for the most part, resupply was accomplished by aircraft.

At sea the winds were still running an average of thirty-seven knots, as Larkin had known they would be. Now he sat helplessly, eight line-of-sight nautical miles away from the shore-based Norwegian help, and he was still powerless to do anything to request their aid. In addition, they had long since lost the submarine as it had entered the fjord. He was, however, very certain that the sub was still deep within the rock walls, and that it was going to get a very nasty surprise when it tried to leave. But for the moment there was little or nothing that he could do. Daylight had come with a vengeance. The aurora borealis had been driven away by the low-hanging but brilliant sun as it edged farther across the narrow band of sky for its brief two-hour appearance. The uncertain light of the aurora borealis had been almost worse than no light at all. Its constant flickering and dim glow made firm visual sightings impossible. In spite of this handicap, Larkin had managed to sketch the outline of the fjord's mouth on a pad to fix the details in his mind and had marked in the rough positions of both ships. The radar provided an approximate outline of the fjord walls for a distance of three miles into the meandering canyon and indicated just enough room to swing the ship almost on the axis point of her keel. The sonar confirmed the chart depth markings. There would be sufficient room beneath her keel Larkin tapped the pencil on the pad and made his decision.