North Cape

"… flare… pinpoint… your…" The rest was lost in the roar of static. Seconds later Folsom fired the next-to-last flare and all three watched as the thin trail of red formed the stalk of a blossoming rose. As it faded Folsom fired the last for good measure.

"Now, run like hell," he roared.

The four men ran as they had never run before. They pounded down the rocky beach, skirting along the water's edge where the footing was firm. The breath whistled in their lungs as they ran, ran with the desperation of life itself. Behind them the Russians were running also, no longer firing, but running to overtake them. In spite of efforts that came with an impetus from their innermost beings, the Americans were losing ground. The pursuing Russians, fresher by many days of sleep, were less than two hundred yards behind when the first salvo of rockets screamed in to explode across the beach and out into the fjord. Almost immediately a second salvo followed twenty yards to the rear of the first, and then a third and fourth salvo, each moving back on the Russian troops, who broke and ran for the cover of the cliffs. It seemed almost as if the fire control officer on board the RFK could see his target. A rain, a curtain of fire exploded behind them, the concussions hammering at their bodies while the air filled with the continual roar of exploding missiles.

They ran on, Teleman straining every last ounce of energy he possessed to keep up. Then, as suddenly as it began, the, fire died away, and behind them they could see the stick figures of the Russians up and running after them again. The rock walls of the cliffs had furnished sufficient protection from the missile. fire and they came on unharmed. Teleman suddenly became aware that bullets were kicking up the beach around them again. He flattened, threw a glance over his shoulder, but Gadsen was past and running back before he could stop him. Teleman saw Julie's slight figure go to one knee, heard the sharp crack as he began firing rapidly. The lead figure screamed, threw up his hands, and tumbled headlong. Bullets smacked around Gadsen with curious popping noises, but he continued to fire coolly, the crack, crack, crack of his AR 18 abnormally loud in the cold air. Folsom yelled at Teleman to run and himself, turned, his rifle blazing toward the Russians. Teleman heard the faint plat of the bullet that struck Gadsen and knocked him backward across the beach.

As if at a great distance, he heard someone ask if Gadsen was dead and realized that it was his own voice. Folsom screamed at him, but he saw from the angular position of Julie's body, where it lay at the water's edge, that he was dead. Nothing exploded inside his brain, no-galvanizing fury flung him at the Russians. Instead a cold fury at the entire foolish system that was responsible for this man's death took hold of him. He cocked the Russian submachine gun, he was carrying and walked back down the beach, away from Julie's body. The submachine gun kicked in his hands and he saw the line of Russians hesitate, then scatter to the right and left. He tripped over a rock and fell headlong. He put his head down on the cold snow and knew that he would never run another step from where he lay. His frustration came out a harsh scream. Folsom and McPherson dropped down beside him and began firing at the zigzagging figures that, in spite of the barrage, seemed to pass through untouched. McPherson emptied a clip at the approaching Russians and rammed a new one home. Carefully he picked his targets as Folsom kept up a continual line of fire to keep the approaching soldiers off balance. McPherson sighted carefully and fired and watched as the soldier in his sights disappeared, his rifle flying from his hands. Then a bullet struck him in the cheek and tore through his shoulder.

Without thinking, Teleman threw away his empty Russian submachine gun and scrabbled for McPherson's carbine. He fired twelve shots, closely spaced, but very carefully, and thought he hit one.

The answering fire was striking ever closer now. The Russians were less than a hundred yards away and still they came on, four left, crouching low and running swiftly forward, firing as they came. These were no sailors, Folsom realized, but trained soldiers, probably marines.