North Cape

Now he was strong and fresh again. The territory unreeled beneath his feet as he bounded over the snow. On the horizon was the low bulk of the naval base and the slender stems of gun barrels thrusting out toward the sea. He was so close, he thought, that he could stop and rest awhile, for there was no sense in arriving so out of breath that he could not tell his story. He stopped and sank down in the snow. Only a few minutes rest and then he would finish the last half mile. The brilliantly lit base area was now clearly visible, even if it was a few feet above the ground. That would make no difference. He could jump that high. Funny, these Norwegians, that they should paint the buildings and the compound a bright green. It was a naval base… it should be blue.… Folsom came completely awake the instant Gadsen burst through the tent flaps.

"Off to the west, about a dozen men… a mile out." Folsom was already shrugging into his parka as McPherson grabbed up his pack and twisted to wake Teleman. "Goddamn," he bellowed.

Folsom swung around and stared at the empty sleeping bag. "For Christ's sake, where the hell has he gone?" he roared. Gadsen popped his head outside and then back in again.

"Wherever it is, we ain't got much time to look for him. It's going to take these bastards about ten minutes to get here."

Folsom stood stock-still in the center of the tent, his mind churning furiously as he tried to decide what had to be done next. "All right, leave everything here but the carbines and ammunition. Outside and keep low so they can't see us." The three men crawled quickly outside into the bitter air and huddled close to the ground. Folsom pulled the binoculars to his eyes and examined the approaching Russians. There were six men spread out into a skirmish line almost half a mile long, both ends beginning to curl around to flank the tent. Quickly he swept the horizon north and then south. Turning to the east, he scanned the snow carefully to the horizon, but saw no sign of any second party closing from that direction.

In the meantime McPherson had been searching the snow around the tent. He raised an arm and motioned the others to join him, then pointed at a line of tracks leading south.

"I'll lay odds that's our boy."

"Okay, south is as good a direction as any now. We go get him," Folsom ordered, his angry voice gritting through clenched teeth. "What the hell do you suppose got into him anyway?"

Neither Gadsen nor McPherson replied, and in moments, hunching low to the ground, they were running south along the line of tracks. McPherson had unslung his pack and was dragging it after him in a vain effort to wipe away the trail they were leaving. If anything, the temperature had fallen even lower in the past five hours. As the men ran they left long streamers of frozen breath hanging in the crystal air. Above them the multicolored aurora borealis glimmered and writhed across the northern sky and Folsom again felt the strange, nagging sensation that he had forgotten some vital point. But as his body began to tire after the insufficient three hours of sleep, he found himself concentrating to the exclusion of all else, on running.

They stopped after ten minutes and threw themselves prone in the snow to rest and check on the Soviets. Through the glasses Folsom could see that the Russian troops were less than a hundred yards from the tent. The northern and southern ends of the line had circled until the tent was in the center. They were lying prone in the snow while two soldiers were crawling up to the tent. Folsom rolled over on his back and waited for his ragged breathing to smooth. In the ten minutes the three had been running they had covered perhaps one mile at a half trot, half run. All three were severely winded, but at least, Folsom thought, they had put enough distance between themselves and the tent so that they could now go on without being spotted in the fitful light.

"How far do you think Teleman managed to get?" he asked McPherson.

"I doubt if he could have gone much farther. I'm surprised we haven't found him yet. He was in pretty bad shape when we stopped. We'll be lucky to find him alive," McPherson finished bleakly.

Folsom swore savagely. "The old man will have my head if we don't." Gadsen, looking miserable, rubbed his face with gloved hands. "I don't see how the hell he could have gotten out of that tent without me seeing him," he muttered.