North Cape

The guard leaned forward to prod Folsom and his shoulder momentarily obscured his view of Teleman. Quickly, yet carefully, Teleman reached beneath his parka and pulled the revolver from his waistband. Before the guard had settled back, glaring at Folsom, Teleman had dropped his arm back to his side, hiding the pistol under a fold of his parka. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Folsom half sit forward, ruhbing his forehead where the guard's rifle muzzle had jabbed him. Every second counted now, literally counted, Teleman knew. The five Russians in the front of the tent were still deeply engrossed in their conversation and nearly all had their backs to him. The guard was still watching Folsom. In a moment he would settle back across from Teleman.

Teleman raised his hand and arm until the pistol was lying across his chest, muzzle pointing directly at the Russian's heart. The guard, rifle still aiming at Folsom, turned and Teleman watched with satisfaction as his face took on a comical look of surprise. Very carefully Teleman pointed with his left hand, motioning for the guard to keep silent. Then he kicked Folsom.

For a minute Folsom did not respond, and Teleman felt sweat break out on his forehead in fear that the executive officer had fallen asleep again. He did not dare take his eyes off the guard, who any moment now would recover from his surprise. Teleman motioned savagely for him to raise the rifle toward the tent roof and kicked Folsom squarely in the knee. This time he jumped.

The entire scenario unfolded as a slow-motion dream. Each action was drawn out to a nervous breaking point and Teleman was almost convinced that the Russian would blur into motion and pluck the pistol from his unresponsive fingers. Then Folsom was moving out of the line of the muzzle and extracting the rifle from the dazed guard. Folsom glanced at Teleman from his kneeling position and shook his head in wonderment. Feeling very aged and decrepit, Teleman got to his knees, then both Teleman and Folsom faced the five Russians in the front of the tent.

"The first one who makes the slightest move gets shot," Folsom intoned solemnly. They stiffened as one man and swung around. The same shock suffused the five faces as had colored the face of the guard. Finally the one who spoke English managed to stammer out a confused question. His answer was the roar of the heavy milltary rifle tearing a hole in the tent flap. Folsom said nothing more, merely glared over the rifle barrel, his meaning intently clear in the acrid cordite fumes filling the tent. Satisfied that they were thoroughly cowed, Teleman crawled around behind Folsom and went to work on the lengths of nylon cord binding Gadsen and McPherson.

"All right; if you are all ready let's move out." Folsom finished a quick survey of the tent and motioned toward the tent flap. He turned once and grinned back at the miserable and bound Soviet troopers as Teleman, Gadsen, and McPherson, shouldering a large bundle, pushed past him and out into the cold. "Have fun boys. We'll send the Norwegians back for you. Strasvechil"

"Oh… that means 'Hello,' Pete," Gadsen chortled.

"Oh, yeah… how 'bout that?"

Still grinning, he followed the others out and they turned southwesterly. The Russians had been stripped of their clothes down to long underwear and socks. Their clothes were in the bundle McPherson was carrying. Without clothes, these six Soviet troopers would he unahle to chase them farther. Five minutes exposure in the bitter, subzero weather would kill them if they tried. Instead, they were left with an ample supply of fuel, at least enough to last until the Norwegians or their own comrades could rescue them from their predicament.

The four men, heightened with the excitement, almost, but not quite looked forward to the remaining miles of the trek across the tundra and down through the edging cliffs that would bring them to the Norwegian naval base. Even the fact that Folsom had added an extra three miles to the trek to take them far south of the anticipated second party did little to dim their spirits. In a matter of five or six hours at most they would be trudging into the safe hands of the Norwegians. The warmth of that reception they would worry about when the time came. The worst that could happen would be internment—