North Cape

"Of course. You are a spy," the other hissed and left him. So that's that, Teleman thought. No information is going to come out of that one. Of course he knew what was going to happen now. Very soon there would be more Russians, and then a long walk to the coast and the waiting submarine. Then back to Murmansk at high speed where an MVD cellar and an intelligence squad would be waiting to question him. Oh, very carefully of course. There would be no actual physical torture, but Teleman knew what successive hours of sleeplessness could do, particularly in his condition. And after they had taken blood samples and found the drug traces in his system, they would know just what chemicals and combinations of interrogation to use. He would never know just what he would sign in a matter of hours. Nor, for the purposes the Russians had in mind, Would he need to know. With a signed confession and carefully edited television tapes to play to the world, it would make little or no difference what he said or did. His capture and subsequent confession would not offset the black mark the Russians were going to take over the war in Sinkiang, but the information they would extract from him would make the trouble more than worthwhile. Then it would be years before the United States would be able to develop a new surveillance system of such magnitude — the completion of the Super SAMOS system was still five years away. Damn it all, he thought bitterly, he had really blown it now. Teleman lay back against the sleeping bag and closed his eyes, trying to shut out the knowledge of what the coming hours would bring, not only for himself, but for Folsom, McPherson, and Gadsen. Be knew they would receive the same kind of treatment. The capture of three American sailors would only be the icing on the propaganda cake. For the Russians it would be a double victory. Not only would they have the pilot of the most advanced aircraft the United States had ever built, but three crew members, of the most advanced naval ship — all for practically free.

Teleman shifted uncomfortably, and as he did so his hand brushed something hard beneath his parka. His breath caught in his throat. Very carefully, as casually as he could, he moved his hand away. The Russians had not searched him. Of course not, he thought, he had been almost dead when they found him. They would have been in too much of a hurry to get him back to the tent. And, in failing to search him, they had missed the .22 caliber survival pistol he had pushed into the waistband of his trousers when he had dressed for the start of the long race. Probably not even Folsom was aware that he had the pistol. It had remained tucked inside the folds of fur and nylon where even he had forgotten about it.

For several seconds he did not move a muscle, as his mind raced to find a way to capitalize on the possession of the revolver. One .22 caliber, nine-shot revolver against a 7.65 mm Soviet service rifle_ and five other assorted weapons. In the semidarkness of the tent could the guard determine its puny size? If he could, would it make a difference?

Would he guess at the power of the magnum charges? Could he, Teleman, cover him in time to prevent an outcry that would alert the others? Too many questions, too damn many, but then, it was their only chance.

Teleman settled himself as if falling asleep and cracked his eyelids only far enough to watch the guard. Obviously the man was as weary as they. Although he still sat upright, the rifle now rested across his lap and his eyes were half closed. Even so, Teleman could see that they glanced steadily around the tent, watching, aware of every move being made.

Teleman felt the deep gulfs of sleep tugging at him again. The tent had warmed considerably from the heat of, packed bodies and the small stove. The folded sleeping bag made an excessively comfortable bed, and he had to continue the portrayal of the exhausted pilot in order not to arouse their suspicions. Teleman knew that it was now a race to see if the Russian would relax his vigil before he, himself, fell asleep. Five minutes passed, then ten minutes. Teleman concentrated so hard on staying awake that his eyes watered, blurring his vision. He turned his head ever so slightly to the left and felt a sharp disappointment. Folsom would be of no immediate help. Although he had not been tied, he was sound asleep, and Teleman was certain that it would take something akin to the last trumpet to wake him.

But he was wrong. Folsom groaned and started to turn over. In the process he half sat up and so was facing directly across the tent from the guard. Immediately the Russian came to his knees, raising the rifle, pointing it directly at Folsom. This was the opening that Teleman had been waiting for.