Joe Poyer - North Cape

The strain on Larkin’s shoulders was causing the muscles to scream, in-protest each time he reached for the next stanchion. Then it happened.

Between the fourth and fifth stanchion, his hand slipped off the ice-coated tube. The wind reached, slamming him back against the harness, and the line fouled. Another gust of wind caught him and almost pulled him through the railing before he got the straps cleared. Then the petulant wind smashed him back, cracking his leg viciously against the bridge plating as if it were alive and frustrated by the puny efforts of this unbearable, unnoticeable insect. For a minute Larkin lay crumpled against the bulkhead while the pain in his leg slowly subsided. Then by sheer strength of will he pulled himself to the next stanchion.

After twenty minutes he had managed to get as close to the center of the bridge as he could.

So much ice, he thought. He would never have believed it. Every square inch of the ship above the water line was coated with several feet of ice that glistened here and there in the bridge lights. The forward part of the deck was covered with mounds of ice that obscured bollards and lines and winches. No wonder the RFK was riding so low. If he had filled that hull tank the extra tonnage of water in the bow would have brought her so low in the water that they would have been swamped in short order. Although the RFK was no submarine, she could ride low for a long while, But eventually the weight of the steadily accumulating ice would send her to the bottom as surely as if the patch had opened.

Larkin rested against the railing with his arms wrapped around the icy stanchion. After a minute or so he regained enough strength to ask for the searchlights. Two powerful beams of light lanced out, swirling around to light the forepeak before disappearing into the twilight gray. Highlights of green and white foam were snatched from the waves and flung back at him by the wind.

Larkin pulled himself to his knees and wedged his body be-tween two close-set stanchions. Standing on his knees, he tried to peer ahead into the deep twilight gloom of the Arctic storm as water and ice smashed back at him from the knife-edged prow. He found that he could keep the faceplate of his electrically heated helmet and suit free of ice with his gloves, but the sea and sky were so close to the same shades of greenish gray that it was almost impossible to tell which was which. After a while he began to make sense of the scene. The waves, he found, were silhouetted in the searchlight as the ship climbed toward their crests. He timed several, counting the seconds — one thousand… two thousand… three thousand — until he had gained a rough average of the time it took the RFK to climb, pause at the crest, then rocket down the far side into the deep trough. The motion of the ship was far too irregular to judge the size and height of the waves because of the tremendous forces being applied laterally to the ship by the wind blowing from only two points off the port bow.

He crouched, waiting, his arms wrapped around the railing. The water streamed back, soaking him thoroughly in spite of the waterproof clothing. The wind drove into his trouser legs between the sealed boot tops and cuffs, down his neck and beneath the helmet, disregarding the faceplate as if it did not exist. He waited, already half frozen, trying desperately to stay awake in the intense cold.

A towering roller built up in front of the ship. The bow followed, lifting toward the crest at an impossible angle, and Larkin started his count. He reached one, just as the ship crested, teetered for a moment. Now, he thought, just… “howl” he screamed into the microphone and felt the ship vibrate through its shroud of ice as full power was fed from its nuclear engines to the spinning propeller shafts. The ship tilted and started its headlong rush for the trough.

For a curious moment Larkin was aware only of the beams of the twin searchlights probing into the depths of the trough, immeasurably distant. The stark, white light caught and held the peculiar green-blue color of the frigid Arctic waters. With an effort he wrenched his eyes away and strained through the gloom to the next wave, not quite a quarter of a mile away. Light flashes from the searchlights danced in front of his eyes, obscuring the express train speed of approach. In spite of the pounding, the cold, the spray, and the near panic, he found he was still counting smoothly.

“Now, hard to port, all engines emergency full.” Again his voice was a near scream. In spite of the violence of the wind on the crest, the ship shuddered along its stem as the nuclear engines were supplemented by the six gas turbine engines spewing thirty thousand shp apiece in less than eight seconds from idle. The cruiser, which had begun to swing from the wind, stopped as suddenly as though it had hit a brick wall. The engines drove her deep down below the crest, and momentarily out of the full force of the wind. The RFK slewed to port, its stern snapping around as the rudders came hard over. As she reached the, trough she was broadside to the next mountainous wave. Larkin groaned in agony. That damned ice, he cursed. The vast tonnage of ice had slowed her, pressed her too deep into the water for the engines to cope. And the next wave was already towering above her and would roll her like a stick. The ship heeled, farther and farther over, until Larkin gave up hope. A deluge of’ water washed him under, burying him completely. Then the great battle cruiser broke free; shaking her head like an angry terrier, she righted herself and shed water in torrents. She came up with a bone in her teeth as she surged around to point in the opposite direction. The following wave rolled under and lifted her high into the wind. The ship skidded down into another trough, her bow smashing deeply into the water. For a heart-sickening moment, Larkin thought again she would never surface, but once. more the bow knifed up, and she shed water. The next wave was easier, as the engines were cut back to one third. And finally she ran before the wind, moving with an easy rolling motion through the towering waves.

Larkin hung exhausted and freezing as the: ship straightened and lifted more easily into the next wave, now chasing water to the crest. Water was no longer breaking over her bow in a steady stream, but came instead in fitful spurts. Larkin felt two hands go under his arms and he was lifted to his feet. The forward portion of.the bridge on which he stood was now in the lee of the wind as the storm pounded in from directly astern. Half supported, he stumbled across the deck and into the heat and glare of the bridge. After the intense cold, the 72° temperature of the interior was almost intolerable. He slumped into the seat and Folsom pulled off his helmet and boots. It was Bridges who had come out onto the deck for him, and now he stripped off his mask and gloves and fetched a cup of hot coffee. Larkin gulped it down as fast as the scalding liquid would allow.

Folsom walked easily across the bridge to where Larkin was seated clutching his coffee. He stopped and grinned down at the captain. “Aren’t you the iron sailor,” he chuckled in a low voice. Larkin smiled back.

“I thought I was before I went out there. Now I’m not so sure.”

Folsom bent to read the dials on the strain gauges. “Well, at least that’s one worry gone. At this rate we could keep on for the next ten years.”

“Good. In that case, I’m going below for some sleep. Call me in two hours.”

“I’ll call you when we hit the rendezvous point, not before.” Larkin glanced up, startled.

“Not before I said.”

The captain stood up, trying valiantly to square his shoulders. “That is mutiny, I think, Mr. Folsom,” he said in mock anger.