Joe Poyer - North Cape

For several seconds he did not move a muscle, as his mind raced to find a way to capitalize on the possession of the revolver. One .22 caliber, nine-shot revolver against a 7.65 mm Soviet service rifle_ and five other assorted weapons. In the semidarkness of the tent could the guard determine its puny size? If he could, would it make a difference?

Would he guess at the power of the magnum charges? Could he, Teleman, cover him in time to prevent an outcry that would alert the others? Too many questions, too damn many, but then, it was their only chance.

Teleman settled himself as if falling asleep and cracked his eyelids only far enough to watch the guard. Obviously the man was as weary as they. Although he still sat upright, the rifle now rested across his lap and his eyes were half closed. Even so, Teleman could see that they glanced steadily around the tent, watching, aware of every move being made.

Teleman felt the deep gulfs of sleep tugging at him again. The tent had warmed considerably from the heat of, packed bodies and the small stove. The folded sleeping bag made an excessively comfortable bed, and he had to continue the portrayal of the exhausted pilot in order not to arouse their suspicions. Teleman knew that it was now a race to see if the Russian would relax his vigil before he, himself, fell asleep. Five minutes passed, then ten minutes. Teleman concentrated so hard on staying awake that his eyes watered, blurring his vision. He turned his head ever so slightly to the left and felt a sharp disappointment. Folsom would be of no immediate help. Although he had not been tied, he was sound asleep, and Teleman was certain that it would take something akin to the last trumpet to wake him.

But he was wrong. Folsom groaned and started to turn over. In the process he half sat up and so was facing directly across the tent from the guard. Immediately the Russian came to his knees, raising the rifle, pointing it directly at Folsom. This was the opening that Teleman had been waiting for.

The guard leaned forward to prod Folsom and his shoulder momentarily obscured his view of Teleman. Quickly, yet carefully, Teleman reached beneath his parka and pulled the revolver from his waistband. Before the guard had settled back, glaring at Folsom, Teleman had dropped his arm back to his side, hiding the pistol under a fold of his parka. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Folsom half sit forward, ruhbing his forehead where the guard’s rifle muzzle had jabbed him. Every second counted now, literally counted, Teleman knew. The five Russians in the front of the tent were still deeply engrossed in their conversation and nearly all had their backs to him. The guard was still watching Folsom. In a moment he would settle back across from Teleman.

Teleman raised his hand and arm until the pistol was lying across his chest, muzzle pointing directly at the Russian’s heart. The guard, rifle still aiming at Folsom, turned and Teleman watched with satisfaction as his face took on a comical look of surprise. Very carefully Teleman pointed with his left hand, motioning for the guard to keep silent. Then he kicked Folsom.

For a minute Folsom did not respond, and Teleman felt sweat break out on his forehead in fear that the executive officer had fallen asleep again. He did not dare take his eyes off the guard, who any moment now would recover from his surprise. Teleman motioned savagely for him to raise the rifle toward the tent roof and kicked Folsom squarely in the knee. This time he jumped.

The entire scenario unfolded as a slow-motion dream. Each action was drawn out to a nervous breaking point and Teleman was almost convinced that the Russian would blur into motion and pluck the pistol from his unresponsive fingers. Then Folsom was moving out of the line of the muzzle and extracting the rifle from the dazed guard. Folsom glanced at Teleman from his kneeling position and shook his head in wonderment. Feeling very aged and decrepit, Teleman got to his knees, then both Teleman and Folsom faced the five Russians in the front of the tent.

“The first one who makes the slightest move gets shot,” Folsom intoned solemnly. They stiffened as one man and swung around. The same shock suffused the five faces as had colored the face of the guard. Finally the one who spoke English managed to stammer out a confused question. His answer was the roar of the heavy military rifle tearing a hole in the tent flap. Folsom said nothing more, merely glared over the rifle barrel, his meaning intently clear in the acrid cordite fumes filling the tent. Satisfied that they were thoroughly cowed, Teleman crawled around behind Folsom and went to work on the lengths of nylon cord binding Gadsen and McPherson.

“All right; if you are all ready let’s move out.” Folsom finished a quick survey of the tent and motioned toward the tent flap. He turned once and grinned back at the miserable and bound Soviet troopers as Teleman, Gadsen, and McPherson, shouldering a large bundle, pushed past him and out into the cold. “Have fun boys. We’ll send the Norwegians back for you. Strasvechil.”

“Oh… that means ‘Hello,’ Pete,” Gadsen chortled.

“Oh, yeah… how ’bout that?”

Still grinning, he followed the others out and they turned southwesterly. The Russians had been stripped of their clothes down to long underwear and socks. Their clothes were in the bundle McPherson was carrying. Without clothes, these six Soviet troopers would he unable to chase them farther. Five minutes exposure in the bitter, subzero weather would kill them if they tried. Instead, they were left with an ample supply of fuel, at least enough to last until the Norwegians or their own comrades could rescue them from their predicament.

The four men, heightened with the excitement, almost, but not quite looked forward to the remaining miles of the trek across the tundra and down through the edging cliffs that would bring them to the Norwegian naval base. Even the fact that Folsom had added an extra three miles to the trek to take them far south of the anticipated second party did little to dim their spirits. In a matter of five or six hours at most they would be trudging into the safe hands of the Norwegians. The warmth of that reception they would worry about when the time came. The worst that could happen would be internment—

preferable under any conditions to the MVD cellars in Murmansk. Although still exhausted by the three days and more of exposure to. the Arctic storm, the several hours of forced rest had done much to revive them. Teleman was completely clear-headed, though still experiencing brief periods of dizziness and disorientation from the remaining drug residues. Even so, he was confident that he would make it through. What shape he would be in he did not know, or even much care any more. Just to make it through, that would be enough now. Folsom set an easy yet steady pace. The four men moved along under the brightening aurora borealis. They were strung out in a line one hundred yards long, Folsom leading off, Gadsen second, followed by Teleman and McPherson, with his bundle of clothing, acting as rear guard.

McPherson, as he strode along carefully watching Teleman, smiled to himself every once in a while, recalling the scene in the tent. The first he remembered after falling asleep in the overheated tent was Teleman sawing away at his, McPherson’s, bonds with the guard’ s knife. It had taken him several moments to awaken enough to realize what was happening. The Russian troopers had been lined up in front of the tent and ordered to lean precariously forward with legs and arms spread and hands on the tent wall, which provided a not-too-firm support. Folsom had watched every move with the heavy Russian army rifle cocked and ready as the Russians stripped under his watchful eye. Gadsen, cradling a Russian submachine gun, had joined him, making pointed comments in Polish, which some of the Russians understood.