Joe Poyer - North Cape

When Teleman awoke for the second time, the period of disorientation was immeasurably shorter. In fact, after the dimly remembered cold and wind on the cliffs, the stark, blue walls of the tent, with the litter of survival gear and Arctic clothing, seemed almost comforting. Across the tent, cleaning one of the carbines, knelt the man who had introduced himself as the ship’s executive officer, Lieutenant Commander Peter Folsom. A second sailor, the one who had been asleep next to him before, worked over a pair of makeshift snowshoes. He was a small, almost rat-faced’ young man, Teleman thought, and he was instantly sorry for the comparison:. He hated snap judgments, but was forever making them and usually regretting it later. Teleman grimaced and shifted his head for a better look. Unconscious of the scrutiny, the other worked on, face screwed up in his effort to twist the webbing strings of the netting tighter over the frame. He had a pile of dishwater blond hair that could only be described as unruly, trite though the description was. It was his hands that Teleman noted almost at once. They had long, tapering fingers, but unlike most thin hands these were at once powerful-and sensitive. The sailor looked up from his work and a pleased smile crossed his face.

“Hey, boss, I think our partner in crime is awake.” Folsom looked away from the rifle and grinned as well. “So he is. How are you feeling this time around?”

Teleman pushed a hand out of the sleeping bag and rubbed his forehead. “Other than the damnedest headache you ever heard of, all right, I guess.”

“Feel like you’re up to some traveling?”

“Traveling!” Teleman struggled into a sitting position. The effort left him dizzy and weak. Folsom got up swiftly and crossed the tent, grabbing up a pack as he came. He helped Teleman to sit up and shoved the pack behind his back for support. In the sitting position, Teleman could see that the sailor he had been introduced to earlier, McPherson, was now against the other wall, wrapped in a sleeping bag.

“What about this traveling? Out to the ship, maybe?” The grin disappeared from Folsom’s face to be replaced with a worried frown. “I’m afraid not. The seas are too rough to launch the helicopter and our lifeboat got smashed up as we came in. Now the waves are too high to launch another with even a hope of reaching the beach in one piece. So it seems we are pretty well cut off from the ship.” Teleman absorbed this for a moment “Then what’s the next step?”

“That’s where the traveling comes in. There is a Norwegian-NATO naval air base about twenty-five miles down the coast. We are going to have to head for it.”

“You mean we have to walk twenty-five miles?” Teleman was astounded. He doubted right now if he could walk twenty-five steps, let alone twenty-five miles, and said so. Folsom gave him a wan smile. “I know how you feel, or at least I think I do. I am not so sure that any of us can do it. The weather out there is like nothing you have ever seen before, worse even than when you landed yesterday.”

The executive officer smiled at the surprise on Teleman’s face. “Yeah, early yesterday in fact. You’ve been out for the twenty-four hours since we found you.”

“Good God, I had no idea…”

“Don’t feel bad about it. You were in pretty rough shape when we picked you up. Another few minutes out there and we would have had to chip you out of a block of ice.” Folsom turned. “Julie, wake Mac up. We got some talking to do, then we had better make tracks.”

Folsom stretched across the mound of gear and pulled another pack to him. While McPherson went through the motions of waking up, Folsom rummaged through the contents of the pack and came out with a zippered, waterproof plastic map case. He selected one and spread it out next to Teleman’s sleeping bag while. the other two gathered around. McPherson crawled up on his knees, scratching his heavy black beard. He smiled shyly again at Teleman and stuck out a hand. “Glad to see you awake again, sir.”

“This joker here,” Folsom said, indicating the other sailor, “the one you haven’t been formally introduced to, is Chief Warrant Officer Julian Gadsen. He’s another free-loader. His specialty is driving the captain’s launch — and eating.” Gadsen chuckled and reached a band through the maze of shoulders and shook Teleman’s hand. Teleman discovered that at least part of his first impression had been right. Gadsen’ s hands were indeed strong. Obviously Gadsen was something other than what Folsom suggested — a seagoing taxi driver.

“I didn’t get a chance to tell you before because you dropped off to sleep again, but we’re all three from the U.S.S. Robert F. Kennedy .”

Immediately, Teleman glanced sharply at Folsom.

“Now wait,” Folsom said, “I’m aware of what’s going on. These two aren’t, but. at this point in the situation we are all in, you don’t have to worry. Both are cleared about as high as you can go. You have to be to get assigned to the RFK.” Teleman thought about it a moment. “Okay,” he said tightly, “maybe you are right for now. I’m in no position to bargain at the moment. But let’s just stay away from that area right now.”

Folsom nodded. He could see that Gadsen and McPherson were doing their best to maintain noncommittal smiles. He knew that security procedures do funny things to people, particularly when they are not privy to the secrets being discussed. Innuendoes or oblique references always create hostilities no matter how much you realize the need for security and secrecy in military or defense affairs. He only hoped that Teleman wasn’t going to turn out to be a son of a bitch on such a minor matter — at least at the moment. Teleman was well aware of what Folsom was thinking. He could see by the withdrawn expressions that maybe he had overstepped a little. He was about to say something to ease the situation when the thought suddenly occurred to him that he really did not know who these people were. The idea that they could be. Soviet agents acting out a part was half rejected in his mind as being overly dramatic, when angrily he pushed the modifying thought down.

It was not too farfetched. It was not any more farfetched than his flying a supersecret aircraft at one to two hundred thousand feet over the continent of Asia for five and six days at a time, or that they should shoot him down and on, of all places, the North Cape of Norway. He studied the three men gathered around him and for a moment found himself ready to listen for traces of a Russian accent. That did it. He burst out laughing. The three sailors were taken by surprise. “Now what the hell are you laughing about?” Gadsen demanded.

Teleman laughed even harder. “You… wouldn’t believe… it if I—I… I told you,” he choked out at last. Then he went into throes of hysterical laughter. Gadsen and Folsom exchanged glances, then Julie leaned forward and slapped him sharply, once, then twice. The second slap brought Teleman around and he stopped, shut his eyes, and sank back down into the sleeping bag. In seconds he was sound asleep.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” Folsom said.

“You probably are anyway, chief,” Gadsen snorted. “That was a classic case,of nervous release. God, what that poor guy must have been through lately. Judging from his reaction, he must have been close to a complete nervous collapse. Now he’ll probably sleep for an hour or two, then when he wakes up he’ll be all right.”

“Julie” — Folsom clapped him on the shoulder — “even if you never finished medical school, you are a definite comfort to have around. Come on you two,” he said, shaking his head, let’s get this junk ready to go.”

This time, as Teleman slept, he dreamed that he was back in the A-17, being pursued by a series of Falcons. As each aircraft rose to replace the one ahead it closed quickly and fired a missile.. The ice-sharp clarity of the Asian terrain unreeling before him shifted’ with the watery changes of dreams, but somehow the mass of the Himalayas to his right never varied, either in view or intensity. He was passing so close to the bulk of the mountain flanks that he could clearly see a Mongolian sheepherder, mounted on a wiry pony, waving to him. As he watched the man, the A-17 came to bang opposite, so close that the wing tip, fully extended, seemed to brush along the Mongolian’s cap. The sheepherder glanced back along the way Teleman had come, and turning himself, Teleman could see through the solid wall of the cockpit the entire valley spread out below. Close behind were two Falcons, so close that rockets emerging in slow motion from the pods on either side of the aircraft’s nose were already visible. Both he and the sheepherder turned at the same moment to stare directly at one another. The Mongolian began to wave at the following aircraft, his face suffused with the agony of helplessness. Teleman turned again, and this time the rockets had traveled half the distance and grown in size until they were as wide as freight cars. They traveled in three sets of pairs and seemed to reach out to encompass him. The Mongolian was still waving desperately at his wings. Sittihg in the pilot’s couch, face pressed against the glassite of the view port, Teleman could not understand why the A-17 was not moving. The sound of the engines thundered in his ears, yet the aircraft would not budge. The Mongolian vaulted from his horse and ran forward to grasp the extended wing and, with a mighty heave, wrenched it backward. Then Teleman understood. With a last glance back at the rockets reaching out hungry hands for the tail section of the A-17, he threw the switch that swung the wings back. The aircraft vaulted forward, instantly leaving the now smiling face of the sheepherder disappearing in the distance. The crazy patchwork of the dream began to flow backward into a smooth whirlpool that suddenly sprang high and Teleman was sitting both upright and awake. Folsom sprang up, startled by Teleman’s sudden movement. “Ye gods, you startled me.” Teleman looked around for a moment, not quite sure what was reality and what was dream. “Where are my clothes?” he asked thickly.