North Cape

"Be that as it may, they are out looking for you. Three hours ago Mac, here, got back from a little delaying action. He waylaid the party about twelve miles down the beach, shot them.up a little, then led them off into the forest. He estimates we gained about six hours while they sort themselves out of the trees enough to realize they have been tricked. When they figure that out, they will head west again, even faster."

"Do you think they know exactly where we are?"

"I don't think so. If they did, they would have come straight here. As it is, Mae says they have one group down on the beach and the other along the top of the cliffs."

"Well if that's it," Teleman said with a deep sigh, "then there isn't much to worry about. I landed about five miles into the trees. The capsule contains a self-destruct mechanism that literally reduces the thing to a lump of metal. If it's still snowing, it ought to be pretty well covered up by now. How far back from the cliffs are we?"

"Wait a minute," Folsom said quietly. "It's not that simple. We are about a mile back from the beach. And we could move the tent farther south if I thought it would do any good. But our lifeboat is still on the beach. And the damned thing weighs about three tons. There is no way to move it, short of using explosives, which we haven't got. So the Russians are going to find us if we stay around."

"Now there is a problem there, isn't there?" said McPherson, peering through the tent flap.-In spite of himself, Teleman shivered in the icy touch of the Arctic wind.

"It looks as though the wind will be kicking up the sea pretty badly by now. You can even hear the waves smacking into the cliffs. On top of which, the snow is so thick that you can't see your hand in front of your face. -That rules out the helicopter on two counts.… So we walk."

"Walk?" Teleman repeated weakly.

"Walk. All the way to the Norwegian naval base, or at least as far in that direction as we can to stay ahead of the Russians. We walk until the helicopter can get in to pick us up or we reach the base."

Gadsen, who had been studying the map, looked up. "Commander, you've studied this place pretty thoroughly, just what kind of a base is it?"

"It's now a combination radar and naval station. Pretty heavily defended and with some outmoded coastal artillery left by the Nazis, but supplemented with Hawk missiles. Our Ruski friends won't risk outright aggression to get Teleman back — at least I hope they won't — and if they do the Norwegians know how to use both the missiles and the artillery."

"Well why in hell don't we call them up and ask them to send some help. They 'must have Sno-cats or something like that" Folsom looked pained for a moment. "Come on, you know the answer to that as well as I do. The old man says no. And that is that." Teleman glanced away, slightly ashamed. He knew why the "old man" said no. And he knew that Folsom was practicing a slight deception. The old man was not the commanding officer of the RFK, but his own boss sitting warm and comfortable somewhere in the Virginia foothills. They could not ask, except as a last resort, for help from the Norwegians because he was not supposed to be in Norway. The United States had no authorization from the Norwegian Government for overflights. And the only way to avoid embarrassing questions and strained relations was not to let the Norwegians know that he was in Norway. So they would have to start walking toward the base in the hope that something would happen — either the weather would moderate or else they would be able to get some other kind of aircraft in to pick up the party. If all else failed, they would have to walk in on the Norwegians. The problem at the moment was to stay far enough ahead of the Russians to keep from being captured. Teleman's head ached with the intensity of tightening thumb screws. In addition to being weary beyond reason, his vision was hazy and full of wild afterimages resulting from the microtraces of lysergic acid remaining in his system. As he sat across from the executive officer he was positive that ample precautions had been taken to ensure that he would not be captured by the Russians. But which of the three sailors had orders to kill him if capture appeared imminent?

Was it Folsom? he wondered. Folsom knew too many details, knew the vital importance of his missions — details that could not be gained by conjecture alone. If not Folsom, which of the other two? McPherson, if what Folsom had told him was true, had hiked eleven miles one way to waylay the Russians. A former member of the SEALS, he would know all about assassination. But, on the other hand, he knew nothing about the other—