North Cape

Larkin was on watch, strapped securely into Ms high seat, when Folsom stumbled through the Hatchway onto the bridge. Larkin nodded a greeting without taking his eyes from the violent seas visible through the revolving screen. Truly mountainous waves were building, even here in the lee of the cliffs forming the sea edge of the North Cape. Folsom, peering out through the spinning circle of glass that kept the ice and sleet from completely shrouding the bridge windows, was shocked to see just how high and rough they had become in the two hours he had been off bridge duty. In the engine room, where he had been assisting with the overhaul for the last hour, the motion of the ship had been rough, rougher than he had ever experienced that far down in the hull of any ship. But the spread of tortured wave and glooming sky through the glass was beyond belief. Folsom estimated the waves to be rising nearly eighty feet. The anemometer showed wind speed gusting to 1°5 knots. The sweep of horizon, broken only by the faintly visible headlands of the Cape to the extreme west, was filled with masses of cyclonic cloud that intermittently obscured frost-sharp stars, glistening momentarily overhead whenever the ship, cresting a wave, rose out of the dense spray fog. The wind-riven clouds, still low on the horizon; were bearing down savagely. In less than two hours the U.S.S. Robert F. Kennedy would reel under the impact of the storm's major onslaught. Since early morning Folsom had been aware of a mild tension building in the pit of his stomach. Now staring through the spinning disk of glass, it threatened to choke him. He swallowed and reswallowed as inconspicuously as possible. He had been through bad gales before, but never one of such fury or with a damaged ship. For the hundredth time since the strain gauges had been installed, he leaned over to study the dials. All four gauges, their leads attached to the insides of the patch and to the hull plates, showed periodic flex that he knew would be loosening the welding beads. Earlier he had sent a crew into the hull tank to reweld the plates flush against the tank, but they had been. unable to finish more than three strengthening bars before the mounting vibration of the hull plates against the hammering of wind and wave made further work impossible.

Folsom turned away from the dials and noticed Larkin's face as he stared into the wind-and wave-filled night. The narrow face was strangely lit by the soft bridge lights, causing the angles and planes of the skull to set in rigid patterns. The face betrayed not the first sign of emotion. In spite of the intensity of the angry sea, Larkin sat comfortably in the high seat, arms folded across his chest, studying the small cone of night visible through the madly whirling screen.

Folsom's musings were interrupted by the radioman.. Startled, he turned to find the rating standing at his shoulder. Folsom glanced at the sailor's face and was not surprised to see the small light of controlled fear deep in the man's eyes. He knew the same flicker of light must also be in his. Hurriedly he took the message and turned away.

"Ye gods," he said softly. "Here it comes." Larkin turned his head to look at him, then accepted the message Folsom handed to him. He read it through without comment, then passed it back to Folsom.

"It does look like we are in for it. Gale force winds of 125 to 130 knots expected in the next three hours, decreasing to go to 110 knots for the following eight hours. Ouch." Larkin bent forward to read the strain gauges. "How much time before we reach the turnaround point?" Folsom glanced at his watch. "About ninety minutes, sir." Larkin rubbed his face absently, and then stared at hid hand as if expecting to find the answer there. When he did not, he grunted and looked up at Folsom.

"Stress is building far too rapidly on the bow section to suit me. I think it's time we came about. We can loiter somewhat on the way back to make it come out right, can't we?"

"Yes, sir?'

"In that case, prepare to come about, Mr. Folsom." Folsom nodded and made for the plotting table, the ball of fear in his stomach growing larger and tighter at the same time.

He had to force himself to keep his voice steady as he ordered the general quarters alarm sounded through the ship, then made the announcement. He had just finished and was putting the microphone back into its clip when the ship's intercom buzzer sounded. He flicked the switch on. "Bridge here."

"Mr. Folsom, Rigsby here. We got real trouble in the hull tank. Those damned welders… the whole patch is weakening fast."

Folsom spun around. One of the needles on the strain-gauge dial was jerking madly. Almost at the same time, the other gauge started to follow.

"Captain," he spat out, and flipped the volume up a bit so that Larkin could hear.

"Go on, Rigsby."

"The main forward structural member is cracked-right alongside the weld. I'm getting a trickle of water right now near the top of the patch."