North Cape

The boat ran on, cutting around the final curve of the rock out-thrust, and cautiously Larkin edged even closer to the rock wall. The noise of the engine was faint, but he wondered if the soft whoosh of the steady wind would be enough to conceal it from the lookouts that would surely be stationed on the sub's bridge. Before they cleared the final jut of rock, Larkin idled the engine down and let the boat drift, slipping the gears into reverse but keeping the clutch depressed. The whaleboat continued under its own momentum, and there against the far shore was the sail of the submarine. The bows were pointing in toward the eastern side and she seemed to be anchored in the middle of the fjord, although Larkin knew that no skipper in his right mind would anchor under these conditions. Then he heard the muffled chugging of engines. She was using her engines to keep station. Larkin was flabbergasted. She was not nuclear powered. Those were diesel engines.

What a lucky break, he thought If they cut directly across the fjord and approached from the stern the chances of being spotted by the lookouts, who would be watching the eastern cliffs, were remote. And he could make speed. The noise of the submarine's own engines would cover the whaleboat's.

"Watch them very carefully. We're going in."

Larkin shifted back into forward and let the clutch out in one smooth motion. He pulled the throttle out and felt the reassuring feel of the boat as it leaped ahead. Five minutes. That's all he needed. Five minutes.

He almost got it. They were fifty feet from the submarine's stern when they were spotted. Larkin kept the throttle out until the last moment, as two sailors from the lookout stations came running aft to see who they were. One called out something questioning in Russian that sounded like Norski.

Norski," he shouted back, promptly exhausting his Norwegian vocabulary. He cut the engine and called softly to his men, — "When I yell go… do so. But no shooting unless you have to."

As they pulled up to the stern a figure appeared on the bridge, took one look, and ducked back out of sight. Larkin could almost hear him frantically calling the bridge. A line was thrown to the two Russian sailors, who caught it and pulled in. While they were occupied with the rope, Larkin bellowed, "Go." His own men poured out of the whaleboat and onto the sloping stern to the surprise of the two Russians, who dropped the rope and reached for their slung rifles. They never had a chance. It seemed that half a dozen carbine butts hit all at once. They dropped without a sound.

Larkin leaped onto the stern and immediately felt a vibration run through the ship as the beat of the engines deepened at the same time.

"Get those charges set!" From forward and the bridge simultaneously came the sound of hatches slamming shut.

"Peterson, you and Johnson take the aft hatch. Orlowski and Brone get a charge against that ballast tank, where it joins the hull five feet for'ard the hatch. Mover As the men jumped onto the decking with the demolition charges, Larkin could feel the submarine begin to move. He knew that it would take less than thirty seconds to get up enough weigh and ballast to get the decks under water.

He yelled at the remaining four men and ran for the sail and bolted up the ladder. The bridge was clear, all hatches battened down.

"Two of you up on the lookout. The rest, get around the sides, out of sight." Larkin backed away rapidly. He knew that when the charges went off somebody was going to come out of that hatch, and they would probably come out shooting. He waved the two men now on the catwalk to watch the forward hatch.

"Anybody comes out, open up."

He glanced around quickly and swung back down over the side to see how the demolition parties were coming. Both were running for the bridge, the ignition wires trailing out behind them to the charges taped against the hatch and ballast tank. Larkin hopped back onto the bridge and shouted-down to fire the charges. Already the after portion of the deck was under water and forward, waves were curling up around the forepeak.

The explosives went off with a resounding clang. The submarine shuddered along its length and the engines changed beat as he heard the high-pitched whoosh of compressed air blowing ballast from the tanks.

Larkin yanked the VERY pistol from his belt and fired the flare straight up into the rapidly darkening sky. The flare arced up to three hundred feet and burst with a beautiful display of red flame. In less than two minutes the RFK should burst around the headland. He broke open the pistol, ejected the second flare, and rammed a new one home. Larkin had estimated that it would take the RFK six minutes or so to reach the submarine. He had managed to stop the submarine; now could he capture it before the RFK smashed it to the bottom under her forefoot?