North Cape

McPherson lifted his carbine and laid it on the shoulder of rock in front of him. He snapped the safety off and squinted down the barrel through the sights until the Russian was centered exactly. Slowly he opened both eyes and, as the man came into range, waited until he had approached to one hundred yards and slowly squeezed the trigger. The snap of the .222 cartridge was lost in the wind and snow. McPherson glanced hurriedly around to see if the others in the party on the cliffs had noticed. Apparently they had not. The soldier, shot squarely through the chest, had dropped, then slid down into a crevice. But his rifle had fallen out of his hands and slithered down onto the beach, fifty feet in front of the advancing troops. One of them scurried ahead and bent to pick it up. His shout of surprise carried clearly to McPherson and, with a sigh, he shifted the rifle to cover the men on the beach as they dropped flat and wormed quickly under cover. McPherson watched while the officer in charge ran up and examined the rifle. He stepped back quickly to examine the top of the cliff, then reached for his radio. McPherson dropped him with one shot, then followed up with a raking blast that drove the others deeper into cover.

He poked his head up for a quick look at the cliff party still approaching and unaware. A rifle shot splattered the rock above his head, and then a ragged fusillade splashed snow and ice around him. He returned the fire briefly, more to make them pull their heads in than to do any damage. At this range and in the heavy snowfall there was little likelihood of them hitting him, and his only chance lay in carefully selecting his targets, one by one. He did so and was rewarded by a thin cry and the sight of a body toppling out of the line of rocks. The volume of fire at his position increased. The Russians were quickly, but very gingerly, working their way closer to the shelter of the dam. Once they reached that point, he knew, it would be time to leave.

He opened up again with short bursts at the fleeting glimpses of uniforms below. The wind had increased sharply and, instead of working for him, was now beginning to work against him. Suddenly a flare burst almost directly over his position. McPherson forgot about the beach party and flung himself up to sight on the members of the cliff-top party, momentarily transfixed by the flare. Before they could move he pulled the trigger and swung the muzzle, traversing the line of tiny figures. At the first report they dropped into the snow, but McPherson kept up the fire steadily for several seconds. Then he sprang out of the cleft and charged inland at a diagonal, leading away from the cliffs into the trees. He had a good lead and in his white snowsuit made an impossible target to follow. Quick rounds of desultory fire followed, but none hit close enough to be seen. In less than a minute he reached the trees, slowed to a trot, and continued for half a mile until he reached an open glade.

The open area was several hundred feet across, large enough for the wind to have full play. As a result the surface toward the center was a smooth expanse of unbroken snow, while the southern end was drifted high. He thrashed out into the glade, making as deep a trail as he could. At the first line of drifts he threw himself down and kicked and thrashed for a moment, then stood up to survey his work. Even at the rate the snow was drifting this would remain for at least an hour. Satisfied, he carefully retraced his steps back to the trees on the same side of the clearing that he had entered and backtracked for several yards. A low-hanging branch gave him the opportunity to swing up and out of his trail and head deeper into the forest at a wide angle from the track he had made going in. Certain that he had both sidetracked the Russians and done as much damage as he could for now, McPherson trotted to the edge of the forest and, once out into the open, made for the edge of the cliffs and the comparatively easy going of the wind-swept rock. A couple of hours spent floundering around in the deep snow and woods should tire the Russians enough to delay them by at least four to six hours. Smiling happily to himself, he ran steadily on.

CHAPTER 17