North Cape

Larkin, very uncharacteristically, had sent off a blistering message to Virginia with instructions to relay to Washington and the White House Position Room for immediate action. The message had laid down in no uncertain terms exactly what would happen if the submarine was allowed to disgorge its human freight. Minutes ago a terse message had come in over the direct channel ordering him to wait for orders. Now he sat at the command console, the power and weaponry of an entire World War II Navy at his command rolled into one single ship, and he was powerless. All he could do was shadow the submarine at a distance of eighty miles. It was now obvious to Larkin that the submarine commander was heading for a sheltered spot on the western. coast of the North Cape to drop a third landing party. The Soviet skipper was obviously going to attempt to take advantage of the bad sea conditions as cover *for his landing party above the Norwegian naval base. If he did so, all hope for Folsom and his party outrunning the other two parties was gone. They would fall right into the arms of this third party. Larkin was caught in a quandary and his helplessness showed in the steady drumming of his fingers on the console panel. He decided to wait. The submarine was now moving around the lee of the North Cape. and into the weather side, exposed to the wind and waves that screamed down from — the Great Barrier across two hundred miles of open sea. It was just possible that the submarine would not be able to spot a location where a third shore party could be landed.

The U.S.S. Robert F. Kennedy dug into the waves as Larkin ordered her speed increased to fifteen knots. She burrowed into the high waves and thrust forward, white water breaking around her bow as she swept on, running for position off.the mouth of the fjord.

"Hold his head up a little higher… he'll choke if…" Teleman did choke as the steaming hot tea dribbled in equal portions down his chin and throat. He coughed wealdy, tried to sit up, and found he could not.

"I'll be damned," he heard someone say. "I never thought he'd wake up again." He managed to open his eyes, focus on the face above, but it was a moment or two before he recognized Folsom beneath the beard and cold blisters. He lay back exhausted until a heavy voice, speaking a guttural language, brought him bolt upright, mind clear and sharp for the first time in two days. In back of Folsom was a parka-clad. figure holding a rifle loosely but ready on the back of Folsom's head. Beyond the Russian soldier were several more, all crowded into the tent, heads bent together as they talked. Every few moments one of them would look over at him, a smite of victory on his face. He found Gadsen and McPherson, both cramped against the tent wall with their hands and feet bound securely. Only Folsom was unfettered, and the Russian guard never took the rifle off the back of his head.

"How the hell…" he began.

Folsom gave a brief smile. "You decided to…"

That was as far as he got. The Russian jabbed him in the back with the rifle and motioned him away from Teleman. Then he called out a phrase in Russian to the group of men. One of them, stooping in the low tent, came over to where Teleman. was sitting and grabbed his wrist. Angrily, Teleman shook his hand loose and pushed the man away. The guard stepped in close with the rifle, shoving it into Teleman's face, forcing him back against the rolled-up sleeping bag.

"You goddanined idiot, get that thing out of my face before I take it away from you and bend it over your head."

The Russian did not understand English, but the intent of Teleman's words was clear. His smile grew wider and he moved in closer, snapping off the safety at the same time. A harsh word from the man Teleman had pushed away stopped him and he backed up, still wearing the grin that plainly invited Teleman to try and back up his outburst. Teleman saw that, like Folsom, the Russians were heavily bearded and their faces all bore traces of frostbite and the chapping effects of the dry, bitter air. This must have been the first party, he thought, the group that had been chasing them for nearly three days. He wondered how they had managed to take them unaware in the tent. He glanced over at Folsom, but the exhausted executive officer was sitting with his forehead resting on drawn-up knees, almost asleep.

"You are the pilot of the American spy airplane?" the Russian asked in accented but perfectly understandable English. "What kind of airplane?" Teleman mimicked the accent.

"You are stubborn. However, that will not last. For now, are you feeling all right?"

Teleman ignored him and slumped back down on the sleeping bag and closed his eyes. " Get lost," he said wearily.