North Cape

Twenty minutes later Larkin was climbing the netting thrown over the side of the RFK. Behind him, on the deck and bridge of the submarine, RFK crew members were herding the Russian crew up on deck and filing down into the submarine. As he regained the deck he looked down the fjord, then back at the Russian captain clambering up after him. Suddenly he jerked his eyes back to the fjord. There against the sky a red flare was climbing. Seconds later it was followed by a third and then a fourth. Forgetting about the Russians, he ran for the bridge.

As he came through the hatch Bridges swung around on him. "Captain, flares at 8563 yards down the fjord. Our recognition signal — one long, two short. We had part of a radio transmission a minute ago. They need fire support." Larkin did not hesitate. "Answer fast. Plot the range and get me an open channel to Virginia." Seconds later he was explaining quickly the capture of the Russian ship and advising official contact with the Norwegians before he had to contact them.

CHAPTER 21

A sick feeling of despair settled over Folsom as Gadsen struggled 'With the radio to raise the ship. Each time he flicked the switch over to receive, a steady stream of hissing poured from the speaker.

"Damn it all, it's no use," Gadsen said bitterly. "The aurora is blanking everything out." The problem that had been nagging at Folsom throughout the night and into the early morning hours now burst upon him. It had been the intensity of the northern lights, the aurora borealis. The stream of electrons pouring into the magnetic field of the earth from the sun was probably causing a world-wide disruption of radio transmission — at least for all communications depending upon ionospiheric bounce. For all practical purposes, under the onslaught of the solar storm, there was no ionosphere right now.

"Any chance of getting through at all?"

Gadsen settled his carbine on his shoulder, slung the radio set around his neck, and began to play with the transmit switch, flicking it back and forth in a code pattern. "Maybe we can stir up some interest in a code," he muttered.

The jerky gait over the rocky beach of the fjord did, not help Gadsen any and twice he stumbled as he concentrated c-n the radio. After a few minutes he switched to receive.

"Nothing," he said over the hiss of static. "Damned thing is useless for now." Darkness was falling swiftly now. Only a few brief glimpses of light were visible over the top of the eastern wall. Folsom glanced back and saw Teleman stumbling along, half carried by McPherson.

There was nothing yet visible of the pursuing Russians and they had almost reached the headland. They had gained at least five hundred yards, but Folsom knew that, as soon as the Russians reached the beach, they would come on with twice the speed his people were able to make.

Grimly he concentrated on reaching the mass of rock that would furnish them a small measure of cover, perhaps enough for the last mile to the Norwegian naval base. He only hoped to God that flares would attract attention in time for the Norwegians to get a boat across the fjord to pick them up. Maybe, just maybe, the Russians would not pass the headlands. But he doubted it. With._ the wind blowing straight down the fjord they could hold a major gun battle, complete with artillery, within sight of the Norwegians and not he heard. Again he looked back the way they had come and this time saw that Teleman had fallen and McPherson was wearily trying to get him up.

"Go on, Julie… the headland…"

Folsom ran back to where Teleman was still on the ground. As he came up, McPherson had stooped down and was trying to lift him in a shoulder carry. But Mac had pushed himself too far. Even this last effort was too much for the giant reserve of strength he had inherited from his Scotch ancestry.

Folsom slid to a stop, panting too heavily to speak: Teleman opened his eyes and saw Folsom bending over him.

"Seem's I see you from… this position-… quite a… bit…" Folsom grinned in spite of himself and rummaged in the pocket of the parka and came up with the aluminum tube of Benzedrine tablets.

Teleman stared at them, then nodded. "Yeah.

Folsom willed his shaking hands steady as he uncapped the tube and poured out two tablets each for Teleman, McPherson, and himself. Mac unstoppered his canteen and they choked the pills down.

Teleman sank back down. "You may deliver a dead pilot, but at least you'll deliver a pilot," he whispered.