North Cape

Folsom smiled, feeling very small and weak in the face of the endurance and courage the man on the ground in front of him had shown. "You'll be alive, or none of us will be." Mac got ponderously to his feet and bent and helped Teleman up. Already, in their weakened condition, they were beginning to feel the effects of the pills. To Teleman the vile taste of the half-chewed capsules was the first real indication of returning sensation he had felt in hours of trudging through the subzero cold. The taste of the capsules also increased his thirst, but as the effects of the pills heightened the taste was soon forgotten.

As his mind cleared he felt a measure of strength returning. The misty edge of unconsciousness began to recede somewhat and, like the others, he began to run in a jerky half trot. Shortly, as they approached the mass of rock that marked the headland, he lost all sense of weariness. He knew it would not last long. His only hope was to hang on until he could obtain medical care, before his heart burst from the overload. He put aside all thoughts of what might happen and concentrated on moving ahead as fast as possible while he could.

As they caught up with Gadsen, Folsom handed him two pills and without a word they trotted on.

They passed the headlands and came out onto a long, straight stretch that disappeared around a sharp curve in the fjord, three miles north. Folsom cursed violently and yanked the map out. The beach to the headland was accurately marked, but the area beyond showed no long stretch of beach, merely a short bend to the east and then the naval base on the western side of the fjord. Folsom threw his head back and breathed deeply through his mouth, fighting to control a futile anger. The damnable chart had been wrong, wrong all across the island. This time it was so wrong it would kill them. They could never clear the three miles of beach before the Russians overtook them. They did not have the strength. Goddamn it all, he swore savagely to himself, we could have stayed in the tent and gone peacefully back to Murmansk and saved all this trouble. The effects of the Benzedrine tablets still held them, but Gadsen, Teleman, and McPherson stood in a stupefied circle around Folsom waiting for his decision. He recalled what he had told Teleman only minutes before-"You'll be alive, or none of us will be."

"Come on. Let's go."

Darkness had fallen completely and their old comrade the aurora borealis was again triumphant in the night sky to light their way. They had covered nearly a mile when the sound of a rolling explosion reached them. As one man, they came to a halt, ears straining forward. No other sound came, merely the echoes of the boom. Folsom did not wait. He grabbed the VERY pistol and fired a flare straight up. Then they broke into a run. Folsom fired a second and a third in their recognition signal. It could have been the Russian submarine he knew, and then again it could have been the Norwegians, or even the RM. In any event, it no longer mattered. Twice more, at four-minute intervals, Folsom fired flares in patterns, and each time, as they ran, their eyes fastened on the line of cliffs to the north. On the fifth volley an answering pattern ascended into the night sky, low over the cliffs, two short and one long intervals. If they had had the breath, they would have cheered. Instead, they ran even faster, though the effects of the Benzedrine tablets were beginning to wear off.

Ten minutes later the first bullets kicked up sand and pebbles beneath their feet. Without breaking stride, Gadsen swung the radio up and frantically began to call their ID in the hope that, somehow, he could punch through.

"Down," Folsom yelled.

The open beach offered no shelter of any kind. Their only hope now was to hold the Russians at a distance where their bodies, lying prone, would offer an almost impossible target. McPherson hit the ground in a firing position, the sling of his carbine already wrapped around his forearm in manual-approved fashion. Carefully he selected his targets and snapped off shots. The distance was too far for rapid fire; it would only waste the remaining ammunition already pretty well exhausted by the two previous actions. Folsom and Teleman followed suit, and at least had the satisfaction of seeing the approaching Russians drop to the beach, although whether from strikes or for cover they had no way of telling.

Folsom rolled half over, "Any luck with that damned radio?"

"Nothing."

He reached under his parka and extracted the flare pistol. He had two cartridges left. Just as he brought the pistol into firing position, Gadsen's voice screamed excitedly:

"I got 'em, for a moment, Commander."

"Fox Baker, read you loud… under fire… do you need, support?" Gadsen twirled the gain to maximum, and there, on the rock-strewn beach of a deserted Norwegian fjord, Folsom, Teleman, McPherson, and Gadsen heard the most beautiful sound of their lives to date — the flat tones of the ship's radio operator.