North Cape

Farther east Larkin could see the long red trail culminating in a boat-shaped target point that was the Russian submarine heading into Porsangerfjord. A yellow dotted line extended ahead and was now resting on a shallow beach where the cliffs began to straggle down into a steep shelf. Twelve miles west and five south was the Norwegian town of Kjelvik, scarcely more than a fishing village of some two hundred inhabitants and a small Norwegian Coast Guard Base. The fjord waters were frozen solid just north of the town and the Russians would have little trouble crossing. Larkin shifted his gaze to the western coast showing on the map and found the extensive naval air base north of Rolfsö, first constructed by the Nazis in World War II as their northernmost air base for use against the Allied convoys making the dangerous run to Murmansk. From this same base the German Condor bombers had been able to bring the convoys under attack almost from the time they left Iceland. The Norwegians had taken the base over following the war and it now was their main defense post against a northern attack by the Russians. Even though tensions had eased considerably in recent years the base was still manned and in ready condition as a NATO installation. He knew that the twelve-inch radar-controlled guns first installed by the Nazis could cover anything within a radius of seventeen miles. They were backed up by intermediate-range surface-to-air and surface-to-surface missiles. Larkin knew that he had better not involve the Norwegians unless absolutely necessary. His orders were strict: to pick up the pilot at any cost; avoid alerting the Norwegians; avoid a pitched battle or any contact at all with the Soviets.

Larkin sighed heavily and sat back in the chair. The heavy red line marking the path of the submarine had moved another half inch and he sighed again. "Another complication."

"Pardon, sir?"

"Nothing, just talking to myself.… What do you make of it, Mister?" The radar man hesitated only a moment. "From the radar, she's running half submerged with only her conning tower out. She's hugging the coast and heading for a point fifteen miles from where

Mr. Folsom landed. There is only one place she could have come from, sir — the sub pens at Murmansk."

"Why not from out at sea, riding out the storm below the surface?"

"Wouldn't make sense, sir. In order to be safe from the coastal ridges and rocks outside of the Murmansk channel, she would have had to stand at least forty miles off the coast. A surface ship would be safe enough anywhere along the Russian coast, but a submarine would need at least sixty feet over her sail in these seas and that means at least a hundred and twenty feet of water-for maneuvering room. The coast around Murmansk, in fact in any of these fjord areas, does not run much over eighty feet. So she had to come from the sub pens. It would take her at least eight hours at her present cruising speed of — fourteen knots to get here."

"That Makes a good bit of sense," Larkin agreed. "I think you may be right. If so, then we should not have to worry about any other Russian subs sneaking up on us from the northern waters for a while. If they are going to come, they will come in from Murmansk." Larkin sat back a moment and stared at the map. The rugged coast of the North Cape stretched away to the southeast before it turned sharply south into both Porsangerfjord and Laksefjord, wide deep chasms that would furnish protection for the submarine when it surfaced. It would also put them eighteen miles down the coast from where Folsom had landed. The submarine's apparent track indicated they were heading for the northern end of Porsangerfjord, where they would have the additional protection of the point. The map showed the ground in this area of the North Cape rising quickly from sea level to eight hundred feet, but gradually enough so that there would be a decent beach, partially sheltered from both the sea and the winds, with more than enough protection to land a small boat.

Larkin made his decision. "Mr. Bridges, lay a course for a point where we can keep an eye on both the submarine when she goes under the lee and Mr. Folsom's party. Then have the crew stand to general quarters."

"Aye, aye, sir," Bridges replied. He motioned to the communications officer and strode quickly to the plotting table. As he went over the lighted board, the GQ klaxon began its strident rasping throughout the ship. Almost immediately the control 'board began to wink from red to green as each station reported in.