North Cape

"Thule also said that we can expect snow toward the end. It seems to be one of those blasted Greenland storms, and when this one finally spilled over the edge it found a lowpressure area along the coast and kept coming… bringing everything in its path with it." Larkin merely grunted as he continued to stare thoughtfully into the storm. His mind was churning with dozens of lines of thought, all ending at one consideration… the safety of the ship. Fourteen years of sea duty in every ocean of the world had taught him one certain lesson: the sea can never be trusted. Even the weather satellite system, with its computerized data reduction processes, was not to be trusted completely. There were too many unknowns, too many variables in the billions of cubic miles that comprised the ocean of air and the ocean of water that always obscured the pattern. Larkin had weathered both Mid-Atlantic hurricanes and South Pacific typhoons. He had seen a destroyer almost turned turtle in a South China Sea typhoon off the coast of Taiwan and rode out the Pacific typhoon of '57 in a light cruiser. If nothing else, Larkin had immense respect for the sea. He was worried about this storm. If the predictions were right, it was going to get an awful lot worse before it got better. And, he remembered, it was here in the Barents Sea in 1942 that two lend-lease British destroyers had been sunk by just this same kind of Arctic cyclone. The RFK was a much more powerful and stouter ship than those two World War I tin cans—"tin cans" built in a day when they were really not much more than that — but still, every ship, every crew had its limit. One small mistake could be extremely fatal.

He turned to survey the bridge quickly, noting each station manned with all of the ship's electronic and visual eyes and ears tuned outward to register the slightest alteration in the storm or the condition of the sea. Radar units quested ceaselessly to pinpoint the most insignificant object revealed by an instant's break in wave or cloud that might turn out to be the conning tower of a submarine or rocket-loaded fighter bomber. For all intents and. purposes, the Barents Sea, edging the northern coasts of the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics as well as Norway and Finland, was enemy water. The panel above the ECM — electronic countermeasures — console was lit a bright red, indicating that the highly secret sonar, radar, and infrared jamming devices were in full operation. Any contact with a Soviet vessel — or that of any nationality — would be a matter of pure, blind luck in these seas, but Larkin was not one to trust luck any more than he trusted the sea.

"Helmsman, course and speed," he called out. Folsom glanced at him for a moment, then went back to staring out the ports.

"026° at sixteen knots sir."

Larkin considered a moment. "Sixteen knots against these head-winds, not bad. Let's cut her back to ten. I don't want to carry any more pressure on that bow patch-up than we absolutely have to have."

Folsom nodded agreement and called out the changed speed, then ordered communications to make the proper correction in the rendezvous location and time and get it off. As he finished talking, the screen door swung open with a bang and a furshrouded figure stumbled in, followed by the banshee shriek of the wind. A howled chorus of "shut the door" rose from the bridge crew as they swung around as one man from their consoles to glare at the snow-covered apparition. The hatch was jerked from the man's grip by the wind and thudded back against the stops, then just as perversely swung the other way and slammed shut, abruptly ending the noise. Lieutenant Commander Joel Bridges leaned wearily against the hatch and stripped the Arctic mask from his face with a great deal of care. The mask and his nylon all-weather gear were coated with an inch of solid ice. Bridges worked the zipper on the parka loose and pulled it down. The parka then fell away of its own volition and the ice coating dumped onto the deck plates in thick chunks.

Bridges stood swaying among the ruins of his parka, his face flushed in the sudden ninety-degree temperature change. His expression, as circulation began returning to his legs and anus, was almost comical.

"It's colder than a bitch kitty out there!"

"Now, now, that's no way to talk in the presence of your ranking officers, is it, Lieutenant?" Folsom asked innocently.

Bridges delivered a muffled comment, glaring from the corner of his eyes as he stumbled around in a wobbly circle looking for the coffee. Larkin chuckled and poured coffee for him. "I take it that it is cold. Anyone else out there?"

"No, sir, I sent them in about twenty minutes ago."

"Good, there is no need to stand watch outside tonight. You can't see anything anyway."