North Cape

"Another little missive from our bosses. In spite of our health, we must put forth our ultimate effort," he said dryly.

Folsom grinned and took the flimsy. It was as Larkin had said, minus the sarcasm of course: they were to expend every effort to assure the safety of the pilot. In short, get him before the Russians did.

"They seem to be forgetting that. the Norwegians might have something to say. Allies or no, I should think they wouldn't take too kindly to such operations off their coasts, or in their coastal waters, for that matter."

"I agree. And I would also guess that if Washington had informed Oslo, they would have told us so."

Folsom nodded, then glanced at the chronometer. "About four hours yet and we should be off the point where he came down."

Already, Folsom noted, both he and Larkin had begun referring to the unknown pilot as a personal acquaintance.

Larkin got up stiffly and walked over to the forward ports. "In effect, those orders say to bring him back at any cost," he said half aloud. "At least we appear to have the weather on our side. It is doubtful if the Soviets will send surface ships out searching after him, or aircraft either for that matter. But submarines are definitely in this year and the sub pens at Murmansk are only ten, high-speed hours away."

Folsom joined him at the ports, both staring out into the sky that was beginning to lighten with a gray dawn that only made the seas and the cold that much more oppressive. "Well, it at least is going to give us a chance to test our own ECM gear under what you might call semicombat conditions. To this point, I hope, they do not know that we are out here. Or rather," he amended, "they don't know who and where we are. It's very likely that they picked up part of the transmission and so they will know that somebody must be out here to pick it up."

Larkin nodded agreement with his analysis. "And it will be very important that we keep it that way."

"What about those?" Folsom indicated the silent tape console with its full reels of data from the aircraft.

"I am sending those at o800—direct — and through double-scrambled circuits. It may be that the whole ball game is over in terms of these missions. What his mission was this time I don't have the faintest idea. But the Soviets know that the pilot picked up whatever he was after. So we have to get to him before they do."

"So we go get him," Folsom said simply.

"That's right."

Teleman opened his eyes. A gray, washed-out light stared at him. The sound of the wind roaring through trees was louder than ever and the rocking of the capsule was more pronounced' than he remembered. An insistent shrilling filled the capsule and it was several moments before he could wake himself enough to realize that it was his wrist alarm. Teleman shut it off with a fretful twist and lay back on the couch. Weariness that was almost pain flowed through his body, flooding down his arms and legs with heaviness. Flashes of light obscured his vision and the control board before him swam unevenly with the residual effects of the lysergic drugs. The batteries were just about dead and the intense cold was beginning to work its way inside. In addition to the tiredness, he was stiff and aching in every joint, both from the cold.and the cramped position in which he had been lying. Finally, his. head ached abominably.

When at last he managed to sit up, the first thing he did was to remove his helmet. With the pressure of the heavy plastic and leather gone, his head felt curiously lighter, but at the same time ached even more. Teleman groaned and rubbed his temples. After five minutes more of half sleep, half wakefulness, he managed to get himself moving. He worked the acceleration couch into a sitting position with a great deal of pulling and swearing only to find that he could not get at the lockers where the survival gear was stored without getting completely out of the ejection capsule. Peering through the view port, he was not sure that he liked that idea at all.

The narrow slit showed thick forest. He must have come down through the trees, which accounted for the terrific pounding he had taken. The snow was more than a foot deep, with deeper drifts piled up around parts of trees and brush. The branches of the trees danced wildly in the wind. Snow blown up from the surface mingled with the snowfall to create an obscuring ground blizzard composed more of ice particles than snow. Nevertheless, unless he wanted to freeze to death here, there was no help for it — he had to leave the capsule to get the gear out of the lockers.

Teleman slipped his helmet back on and fought with the hatch release until it popped open. He half fell, half climbed out into the bitter cold that immediately bent him double and made him gasp for air. The intense cold, close to twenty below zero, snatched the warm air from his lungs and for several minutes he struggled to regain his breath, breathing air warmed by cupped hands.