North Cape

His face betraying none of the anxiety he felt, Larkin continued his pacing back and forth across the bridge, stopping now' and then to examine a scope over a technician's shoulder. If ever there had been a hand-picked crew aboard any United States Navy ship, the small complement of eighty men aboard the highly automated RFK were it. Every man had been personally requested by Larkin, many from personal knowledge of their capabilities and the rest from service records. They were the best there was, he knew. And he had drilled them mercilessly into an operational team in which every man knew exactly what was expected of him — the basis of proper and workable military discipline. It was not, however, the crew's reaction to the tense situation facing them — or their future performance — that he was worried about. Each and every crew member was aware that the Russian submarine they were stalking could easily be carrying nuclear missiles. And at a few miles, even if their missile defenses were quick enough to destroy incoming weaponry, any nuclear explosion could be fatal to the ship's crew. No, Larkin was not worried about the crew. They knew what they faced, and had known since the day they agreed to sign on — that this possibility was more likely to come to pass on the RFK than on any other operational ship of the Navy. For a moment the grim humor of the situation relaxed Larkin's mind. The ship, the most advanced in any navy in the world, the one always earmarked for just such clandestine operations as played tag with nuclear destruction, had been named for a man whose overriding concern was the nuclear disarmament of the world. Larkin shook his head and turned to face the line of windows.

The cold seas were running savagely; there was no relief for his introspective mood from that quarter. Larkin swung himself into the high seat before his own console. The meteorological officer two consoles away tore off a Xerox and reached over to hand it to him. Larkin took it with some misgivings. But it was only the quarter-hourly weather report indicating moderating seas for the next thirty-six hours. He turned again toward the window.

The seas, this close onto the coast, were no longer breaking over the bow in huge runnels of water, but the waves were still running forty feet or better. The lingering half light of the short midwinter day was still bright enough to show the grayish-green color of the half-frozen surface as it billowed up into sharp-edged mountains only to be struck broadside by violent winds that sheered off the crests, as neatly as would a razor, in long foamy streamers. The seas might be in the process of moderating, but here on the Norwegian north coast, exposed to the full force of the dying gale, actual conditions were showing little support for such optimistic predictions. As he continued to gaze out the ports, his mind turned to the supplementary orders that had come in over the private channel minutes earlier. The gist of the orders was that Larkin was empowered to notify the Norwegian Government and request their assistance if the situation got out of hand too rapidly for long-distance consultation. If that was not forthcoming, then he was instructed to ask for asylum for the pilot and his three crewmen. He was not, and the not was underlined, allowed to do so except in the most extreme emergency.

But it was the last paragraph of the message that added a few more gray hairs to his head. The message stated that he was to use all powers of persuasion at his disposal to rescue the pilot if the Norwegians should prove to be uncooperative — as they had every right to be, he thought. It was utter nonsense for the State Department not to notify the Norwegian Government as soon as possible. Not only could they render valuable assistance, but for God's sake, it was their country and they were allies. He might have his orders to bring Teleman out with all of the force at his disposal, but he was damn sure that no copy of any such message existed in Washington. Washington, if caught, would merely claim that it was a transmitting error or that Larkin had exceeded his authority. In any event, if he had to act pursuant to those orders, the entire wrath of both governments would fall on him like a ton of bricks. His naval career would be at an end. And, if he did not act in accordance with the orders, he would be either secretly court-martialed or shunted out of the Navy. It had happened before, he knew. And Larkin could count at least fifteen qualified naval officers waiting to step into his shoes.