Joe Poyer - North Cape

Folsom turned away from the dials and noticed Larkin’s face as he stared into the wind-and wave-filled night. The narrow face was strangely lit by the soft bridge lights, causing the angles and planes of the skull to set in rigid patterns. The face betrayed not the first sign of emotion. In spite of the intensity of the angry sea, Larkin sat comfortably in the high seat, arms folded across his chest, studying the small cone of night visible through the madly whirling screen.

Folsom’s musings were interrupted by the radioman. Startled, he turned to find the rating standing at his shoulder. Folsom glanced at the sailor’s face and was not surprised to see the small light of controlled fear deep in the man’s eyes. He knew the same flicker of light must also be in his. Hurriedly he took the message and turned away.

“Ye gods,” he said softly. “Here it comes.” Larkin turned his head to look at him, then accepted the message Folsom handed to him. He read it through without comment, then passed it back to Folsom.

“It does look like we are in for it. Gale force winds of 125 to 130 knots expected in the next three hours, decreasing to go to 110 knots for the following eight hours. Ouch.” Larkin bent forward to read the strain gauges. “How much time before we reach the turnaround point?” Folsom glanced at his watch. “About ninety minutes, sir.” Larkin rubbed his face absently, and then stared at hid hand as if expecting to find the answer there. When he did not, he grunted and looked up at Folsom.

“Stress is building far too rapidly on the bow section to suit me. I think it’s time we came about. We can loiter somewhat on the way back to make it come out right, can’t we?”

“Yes, sir?’

“In that case, prepare to come about, Mr. Folsom.” Folsom nodded and made for the plotting table, the ball of fear in his stomach growing larger and tighter at the same time.

He had to force himself to keep his voice steady as he ordered the general quarters alarm sounded through the ship, then made the announcement. He had just finished and was putting the microphone back into its clip when the ship’s intercom buzzer sounded. He flicked the switch on. “Bridge here.”

“Mr. Folsom, Rigsby here. We got real trouble in the hull tank. Those damned welders… the whole patch is weakening fast.”

Folsom spun around. One of the needles on the strain-gauge dial was jerking madly. Almost at the same time, the other gauge started to follow.

“Captain,” he spat out, and flipped the volume up a bit so that Larkin could hear.

“Go on, Rigsby.”

“The main forward structural member is cracked-right alongside the weld. I’m getting a trickle of water right now near the top of the patch.”

“Is there anything that can be done?” Larkin asked.

“Yes, sir. Flood the tank.” The tinny reproduction of the intercom barely concealed the nervousness of the man’s voice. Folsom could imagine him all alone in the immensity of the tank, knowing that the interior hatch was secured and that it would take forty seconds to get it open. If the patch should go, he would be crushed to death by tons of freezing water pouring into the tank. That same water would also pull the RFK down farther by the how until the first wave that broke would send her straight to the bottom. Folsom could feel the knot of fear rising into his throat, threatening to erupt into endless screams. The figures on the scratch pad, which he had scribbled from the strain-gauge dials, dissolved into a meaningless jumble, and the console reeled for a moment before he clenched the side of the plotting table and gripped until his knuckles went dead white. He fought with his body to control the panic as he watched the wind indicator flicker wildly with the first of the gusts that would quickly grow to a full 125-knot gale. Flashes of thought broke through his guard… the sudden wrenching snap as the bow broke loose under the pounding and the bulkheads… never designed to withstand the pressures of the naked, angry sea… giving way one by one… the RFK settling deeper into the waves… the Arctic seas pounding and smashing through the bulkheads… the ship buckling against the impact… plunging bow downward….

“We’re shoring up the patch and the structural member with braces, but they won’t hold up long.”

“All right then, do what you can and keep me informed.” Larkin’s voice was calm in the midst of Folsom’s own mental storm. “But as soon as you get the braces installed, I want you and the crew out of there. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir, but if we stay, or one of us anyway, we’ll shave time to warn you and get out.”

“No,” Larkin said sharply. “You could not give me any more than a minute or so warning. The strain gauges will provide that. As soon as you are finished with the bracing, get out and report aft to the repair station. Is that understood?” Larkin’s matter-of-fact analysis of the situation and Rigsby’s almost suicidal offer to remain behind in the hull tank to provide the ship with a few seconds extra warning began to calm Folsom. He had never experienced this kind of paralyzing fear before, but he knew, as did every man who faces danger in situations over which he has little control, that eventually he would meet this shattering fear at least once before he died. He had seen men suddenly grow rigid before going into battle, or divers just before making a deep dive, veterans who had been through many engagements. It happened, and there was nothing you could do about it except hope that you could handle the situation when it did happen. He reached down and picked up the pencil that had dropped from his nerveless fingers and pressed it slowly onto the pad, willing his muscles to move again, to continue to draw the numbers indicating the course change required and the time they would have to lose at reduced speed to bring them to the rendezvous point on time.

Larkin flicked off the intercom and turned to Folsom. His voice was strong and full of command. “Mr. Folsom, get me an exact position fix, as close as you can. Then run the new course through the computer and alert the crew that we are coming about. Keep them at general quarters until We have straightened out on the new course… and make sure that Rigsby and the rest are out of that hull tank. Give them five minutes more. I’m going below for my foul-weather gear. You will take the conn while I am outside, but follow my directions.”

“Outside!” Folsom exploded. “Captain, you can’t go out there!” Larkin grinned. “Watch me. How else do you think we are going to get her around? You can’t see worth a damn through that screen. This ship is going to have to be steered around those waves like a tin can. That means we come about as we crest a wave — and only the right wave at that — and complete the turn before we hit the bottom of the trough or else we will roll over and go right to the bottom.” Folsom took a deep breath. “Captain, you. will freeze to death before we can come about.”

“Not if you hurry about it.”

Larkin turned away and hurried down to his cabin for his foul-weather gear. When he returned to the bridge a few minutes later, Folsom was just finishing his instructions to the helmsman. He looked up as Larkin came onto the bridge, zipping up his jacket. A marine came hurrying up with a nylon safety line and clipped one end to the harness already around Larkin’s chest.

“Listen for my count. As we come up the wave I’ll start counting backward from ten. When I get to one, be ready to put the helm over hard… and better keep the turbine engines idling up to speed as well. We’ll have plenty of need of an extra kick” Folsom nodded and Larkin turned away, jamming the helmet down over his head. He snapped the throat mike into place, tested it quickly, then pulled down the faceplate and left through the emergency hatch. Once outside, still in the lee of the bridge, he checked the microphone again, then buckled his safety straps to the railing. With the safety line trailing behind, he was now about as safe as he could possibly be… until the first good wave decided to wash him overboard. Against the power of those tons, of water the line would snap; or, if it held, would probably cut him in half. The plates of the catway leading around the top of the bridge structure were caked solid with ice. That ice, washed constantly by spray, was slippery underfoot, and he moved carefully to keep his footing. As he came out of the lee of the deckhouse, Larkin grunted in surprise as the wind cut through the nylon and electrically heated layers of foam padding as if they did not exist. Almost immediately his fingers and toes went numb. The temperature close to -20°, when combined with the 110-knot wind, gave a chill index of -98°. Unprotected, he would not last more than a minute before his heart stopped beating. As Larkin moved out onto the forward position of the weather deck, the wind pulled and plucked at him to send his feet sweeping away. He crashed against the steel wall of the deckhouse with stunning force, and for several minutes was unable to clear his head enough to get to his feet. The — forty-foot journey from the deck hatch, up the narrow ladder, and around the curve of the bridge was made, an inch at a time, on hands and knees. The wind was a solid wall of force through which he had to tunnel, and finally he was reduced to using his hands to pull himself from stanchion to stanchion along the railing. The stanchions were set every six feet, just beyond the grasp of his extended arm. He had to wait between each stanchion, arms stretched wide to hold the stanchion and the edge of the catway, resting, readying himself for the lunge to the next. Then, when he grasped it, he had to pull himself painfully up to the frozen metal and reach for the next. His task was made even harder by the fact that each stanchion supported a wedge of ice nearly two feet long to windward. His gloves froze to the ice and he had to pull them loose each time. If he lost a glove, he would also lose a hand. An uncovered hand would freeze into uselessness in less than two minutes. And Larkin needed the use of both hands to make any progress at all. Larkin stretched out full length on the ice-coated deck to reduce the amount of his body exposed to the wind. The wind was like a solid hammer of steel pounding away in rhythmic gusts, thumping him into the ice, and then, as it got under his body and lifted him clear of the deck, flinging him back against the safety line. The struggle soon became concentrated into forcing his Land out to grasp the next stanchion and pull himself along the deck. He had thirty-five more feet to go to reach the center of the catway.