Authors: Joe Poyer
"Strasvechi, tovarish—Americanski." Then in English, "Do you speak English?" Very carefully the head wobbled back and forth in what Larkin took for a negative answer. The sailor, with the .445 Navy Colt pressed against his temple, looked ready to faint.
"Nyet," he managed to force out.
Above his head, Larkin heard two carbines firing.
"What's going on?" he demanded sharply.
"Trying to get out the forward hatch, sir. We fired a couple of bursts across the deck and they changed their minds." "Good, keep 'em scared." Larkin risked a quick look at his watch. Pour minutes to go. "Any sign of the ship?" he yelled.
"No, sir . . . wait, aye, sir, just rounding the headland now." "Anybody down there speak English?" Larkin called through the hatch.
After a moment, a voice answered, "Yes."
Larkin tapped the sailor on the head with thepistol butt "Down, buddy. . . . All right, get up here fast."
A minor commotion was created in the narrow hatchway as the reprieved sailor scrambled down past the other climbing up. Another minute was wasted while he did so. Larkin waved his pistol and an officer climbed out to stare around in shock. The Russian was dressed only in shipboard uniform and gasped as he felt the cold. He immediately huddled against the canvas windbreak that had been rigged on the bridge.
"My name is Larkin, commanding officer of the battle cruiser Robert F. Kennedy, United States Navy. You are now a prisoner of war and your ship a prize of war." Larkin knew that this was not true since no state of war had been declared, but he was depending on the shock value of the statement to unbalance the Russian even more. The Russian glanced around and saw the others with leveled carbines, gulped once, and swung back to stare at Larkin, who was casually slinging his carbine over his shoulder.
"I . . . I . . . I am Ptior Shafesky Rasnikov, Lieutenant Commander . . ." He broke down and finished up lamely, "Executive Officer . . . what are you—"
"Cut it," Larkin grated harshly. "You have just two minutes left to surrender this ship. Look out there."
The Russian officer followed Larkin's pointing finger and saw the RFK running at full speed for the submarine, less than 15oo
yards off. His eyes, as they turned back to Larkin, were round with surprise. Larkin waved the flare gun in his left hand. "Two minutes. If I don't fire a flare before then, she'll run you under."
It took a full half minute for Rasnikov to digest what Larkin had just said, and then he swung around and grabbed the bridge microphone and shouted a stream of incomprehensible Russian. The sounds that emerged from the speaker were just as incomprehensible, but seconds later Larkin heard feet scrabbling on the ladder. He jumped to the hatch and pulled it loose, but Rasnikov screamed at him to stop.
"The Captain . . ." he explained weakly.
A slim figure jumped from the hatch, brushed past Larkin, and leaned across the railing to peer at the approaching RFK.
The RFK had come to within two hundred yards and every detail behind the ports of the lighted bridge was plainly visible. The curling bow wave served to accentuate the sharpness of the prow, aimed directly for The submarine's bridge. The Russian captain stiffened, and turned slowly to face Larkin. As they stood there examining each other, Larkin sensed the shock that he knew must come with the knowledge of a ship lost. He' thought that perhaps he must have come close to this same feeling the day he had run in under the North Vietnamese coastal guns and taken that hit in the fantail.
Slowly the Russian nodded and turned his palms outward. He said something in Russian and the executive officer translated.
"We surrender," he said quietly. Larkin looked sharply at the Russian officer. He was certain that the captain had said I. The we surrender was indicative to Larkin of both discipline and ability. He nodded with approval and raised the VERY pistol and fired the second flare.
Twenty minutes later Larkin was climbing the netting thrown over the side of the RFK. Behind him, on the deck and bridge of the submarine, RFK crew members were herding the Russian crew up on deck and filing down into the submarine. As he regained the deck he looked down the fjord, then back at the Russian captain clambering up after him. Suddenly he jerked his eyes back to the fjord. There against the sky a red flare was climbing. Seconds later
it was followed by a third and then a fourth. Forgetting about the Russians, he ran for the bridge.
As he came through the hatch Bridges swung around on him. "Captain, flares at 8563
yards down the fjord. Our recognition signal—one long, two short. We had part of a radio transmission a minute ago. They need fire support." Larkin did not hesitate. "Answer fast. Plot the range and get me an open channel to Virginia." Seconds later he was explaining quickly the capture of the Russian ship and advising official contact with the Norwegians before he had to contact them.
A sick feeling of despair settled over Folsom as Gadsen struggled 'With the radio to raise the ship. Each time he flicked the switch over to receive, a steady stream of hissing poured from the speaker.
"Damn it all, it's no use," Gadsen said bitterly. "The aurora is blanking everything out." The problem that had been nagging at Folsom throughout the night and into the early morning hours now burst upon him. It had been the intensity of the northern lights, the aurora borealis. The stream of electrons pouring into the magnetic field of the earth from the sun was probably causing a world-wide disruption of radio transmission—at least for all communications depending upon ionospiheric bounce. For all practical purposes, under the onslaught of the solar storm, there was no ionosphere right now.
"Any chance of getting through at all?"
Gadsen settled his carbine on his shoulder, slung the radio set around his neck, and began to play with the transmit switch, flicking it back and forth in a code pattern. "Maybe we can stir up some interest in a code," he muttered.
The jerky gait over the rocky beach of the fjord did, not help Gadsen any and twice he stumbled as he concentrated c-n the radio. After a few minutes he switched to receive.
"Nothing," he said over the hiss of static. "Damned thing is useless for now." Darkness was falling swiftly now. Only a few brief glimpses of light were visible over the top of the eastern wall. Folsom glanced back and saw Teleman stumbling along, half carried by McPherson.
There was nothing yet visible of the pursuing Russians and they had almost reached the headland. They had gained at least five hundred yards, but Folsom knew that, as soon as the Russians reached the beach, they would come on with twice the speed his people were able to make.
Grimly he concentrated on reaching the mass of rock that would furnish them a small measure of cover, perhaps enough for the last mile to the Norwegian naval base. He only hoped to God that flares would attract attention in time for the Norwegians to get a boat across the fjord to pick them up. Maybe, just maybe, the Russians would not pass the headlands. But he doubted it. With._ the wind blowing straight down the fjord they could hold a major gun battle, complete with artillery, within sight of the Norwegians and not he heard. Again he looked back the way they had come and this time saw that Teleman had fallen and McPherson was wearily trying to get him up.
"Go on, Julie . . . the headland . . ."
Folsom ran back to where Teleman was still on the ground. As he came up, McPherson had stooped down and was trying to lift him in a shoulder carry. But Mac had pushed himself too far. Even this last effort was too much for the giant reserve of strength he had inherited from his Scotch ancestry.
Folsom slid to a stop, panting too heavily to speak: Teleman opened his eyes and saw Folsom bending over him.
"Seem's I see you from . . . this position-. . . quite a . . . bit . . ." Folsom grinned in spite of himself and rummaged in the pocket of the parka and came up with the aluminum tube of Benzedrine tablets.
Teleman stared at them, then nodded. "Yeah .
Folsom willed his shaking hands steady as he uncapped the tube and poured out two tablets each for Teleman, McPherson, and himself. Mac unstoppered his canteen and they choked the pills down.
Teleman sank back down. "You may deliver a dead pilot, but at least you'll deliver a pilot," he whispered.
Folsom smiled, feeling very small and weak in the face of the endurance and courage the man on the ground in front of him had shown. "You'll be alive, or none of us will be." Mac got ponderously to his feet and bent and helped Teleman up. Already, in their weakened condition, they were beginning to
feel the effects of the pills. To Teleman the vile taste of the half-chewed capsules was the first real indication of returning sensation he had felt in hours of trudging through the subzero cold. The taste of the capsules also increased his thirst, but as the effects of the pills heightened the taste was soon forgotten.
As his mind cleared he felt a measure of strength returning. The misty edge of unconsciousness began to recede somewhat and, like the others, he began to run in a jerky half trot. Shortly, as they approached the mass of rock that marked the headland, he lost all sense of weariness. He knew it would not last long. His only hope was to hang on until he could obtain medical care, before his heart burst from the overload. He put aside all thoughts of what might happen and concentrated on moving ahead as fast as possible while he could.
As they caught up with Gadsen, Folsom handed him two pills and without a word they trotted on.
They passed the headlands and came out onto a long, straight stretch that disappeared around a sharp curve in the fjord, three miles north. Folsom cursed violently and yanked the map out. The beach to the headland was accurately marked, but the area beyond showed no long stretch of beach, merely a short bend to the east and then the naval base on the western side of the fjord. Folsom threw his head back and breathed deeply through his mouth, fighting to control a futile anger. The damnable chart had been wrong, wrong all across the island. This time it was so wrong it would kill them. They could never clear the three miles of beach before the Russians overtook them. They did not have the strength. Goddamn it all, he swore savagely to himself, we could have stayed in the tent and gone peacefully back to Murmansk and saved all this trouble. The effects of the Benzedrine tablets still held them, but Gadsen, Teleman, and McPherson stood in a stupefied circle around Folsom waiting for his decision. He recalled what he had told Teleman only minutes before--"You'll be alive, or none of us will be."
"Come on. Let's go."
Darkness had fallen completely and their old comrade the aurora borealis was again triumphant in the night sky to light their way. They had covered nearly a mile when the sound of a rolling explosion reached them. As one man, they came to a halt, ears straining forward. No other sound came, merely the echoes of the boom. Folsom did not wait. He grabbed the VERY pistol and fired a flare straight up. Then they broke into a run. Folsom fired a second and a third in their recognition signal. It could have been the Russian submarine he knew, and then again it could have been the Norwegians, or even the RM. In any event, it no longer mattered. Twice more, at four-minute intervals, Folsom fired flares in patterns, and each time, as they ran, their eyes fastened on the line of cliffs to the north. On the fifth volley an answering pattern ascended into the night sky, low over the cliffs, two short and one long intervals. If they had had the breath, they would have cheered. Instead, they ran even faster, though the effects of the Benzedrine tablets were beginning to wear off.
Ten minutes later the first bullets kicked up sand and pebbles beneath their feet. Without breaking stride, Gadsen swung the radio up and frantically began to call their ID in the hope that, somehow, he could punch through.
"Down," Folsom yelled.
The open beach offered no shelter of any kind. Their only hope now was to hold the Russians at a distance where their bodies, lying prone, would offer an almost impossible target. McPherson hit the ground in a firing position, the sling of his carbine already wrapped around his forearm in manual-approved fashion. Carefully he selected his targets and snapped off shots. The distance was too far for rapid fire; it would only waste the remaining ammunition already pretty well exhausted by the two previous actions. Folsom and Teleman followed suit, and at least had the satisfaction of seeing the approaching Russians drop to the beach, although whether from strikes or for cover they had no way of telling.
Folsom rolled half over, "Any luck with that damned radio?"
"Nothing."
He reached under his parka and extracted the flare pistol. He had two cartridges left. Just as he brought the pistol into firing position, Gadsen's voice screamed excitedly:
"I got 'em, for a moment, Commander."
"Fox Baker, read you loud . . . under fire . . . do you need, support?" Gadsen twirled the gain to maximum, and there, on the rock-strewn beach of a deserted Norwegian fjord, Folsom, Teleman, McPherson, and Gadsen heard the most beautiful sound of their lives to date—the flat tones of the ship's radio operator.
". . . flare . . . pinpoint . . . your . . ." The rest was lost in the roar of static. Seconds later Folsom fired the next-to-last flare and all three watched as the thin trail of red formed the stalk of a blossoming rose. As it faded Folsom fired the last for good measure.
"Now, run like hell," he roared.
The four men ran as they had never run before. They pounded down the rocky beach, skirting along the water's edge where the footing was firm. The breath whistled in their lungs as they ran, ran with the desperation of life itself. Behind them the Russians were running also, no longer firing, but running to overtake them. In spite of efforts that came with an impetus from their innermost beings, the Americans were losing ground. The pursuing Russians, fresher by many days of sleep, were less than two hundred yards behind when the first salvo of rockets screamed in to explode across the beach and out into the fjord. Almost immediately a second salvo followed twenty yards to the rear of the first, and then a third and fourth salvo, each moving back on the Russian troops, who broke and ran for the cover of the cliffs. It seemed almost as if the fire control officer on board the RFK could see his target. A rain, a curtain of fire exploded behind them, the concussions hammering at their bodies while the air filled with the continual roar of exploding missiles.