Joe Poyer - North Cape

“Feel up to it, Major?”

“There’s only one way down…”

“Yeah, there is at that. Look, just take it easy. I’ll pay out the rope. You just hang on for the ride. The commander will help you down that last bit.” Teleman nodded. “How are you going to get down?”

“Just tell the others to stand clear. I’ll be right behind you.” He grinned. Teleman smiled back at him. “Thanks for your help, Beau. I couldn’t have made it this far without you.”

Teleman grasped his arm, then started down the slope. A few feet away he slipped, and McPherson hauled back on the rope to keep him from tumbling. The stretch with Teleman was the hardest of all for McPherson, who had to maintain a steady tension of the line to keep him from going over the edge of the drop-off. His strength, as prodigious as it was, was nearly exhausted by the past days’ efforts. Teleman, all but dangling on the end of the rope, realized this and scrabbled hard with his boots for a foothold in the wind-packed snow. Finally he managed to kick through the crust and dig the toe of a boot in and bring himself to a halt. Teleman waved weakly up to McPherson to wait and gratefully felt the cutting edge of the rope slack off. He knew that both of them needed a moment’s rest.

With his left boot he kicked a second toehold in the snow and lowered himself the length of his drawn-up knee and kicked a third hole with the right boot. Then he rested a moment and peered over his shoulder to see how near the drop-off was. Still twenty feet or so to go. Teleman lowered himself again and clutched at the first toehold with his gloved hand. Now he was able to work his way down carefully, saving McPherson the effort of fending his 172-pound weight. Shortly he felt empty space beneath his boot, then a moment later Gadsen had reached up and caught his foot. The rope slacked enough to give him room and he waved Gadsen away and dropped the last eight feet into the banked snow at the foot of the wall. The rope followed him down like a snake and he got shakily to his feet and backed away from the wall, motioning Gadsen and Folsom to do the same.

“The man says watch out…”

At the same time he caught sight of McPherson scrabbling down the slope on his seat, legs extended to break his speed, an idiot grin affixed to his face. He slowed slightly above the drop-off, then shot over to land relaxed in the trained parachutist’s roll, legs bent and a roll-over onto the left hip. McPherson got to his feet, brushing away the snow, still grinning.

“Most fun I’ve had since I started this cruise.”

“Crazy idiot, you could have busted your neck in three places.” Folsom grinned and waved at the other two. “Come on, let’s tackle the next phase of this endless jaunt.” The next mile was an easy slope downhill leading to what Folsom had optimistically termed the pass through the rock wall that now stretched above them. Close-up the wall did not appear as formidable as it had through the glasses, but still the pass offered an easier and less strenuous climb.

The faint touches of wind that had begun to spring up again on the plain were stronger among the rock formations. The weirdness of the tiny valley was accentuated by the aurora borealis, which, at the same time, made seeing so difficult that Folsom had been forced to an easier pace than he would otherwise have chosen. Even so, they had covered the mile to the pass quickly enough. The pass was a natural path leading up, twisting through the rock until it disappeared around a curve several hundred feet away. For a moment Folsom hesitated to start forward. The narrow way was an ideal ambush site. Ridiculous, he thought, there was no way in the world that the Russians could have selected this particular place to lie in wait…. Folsom snorted and started the climb.

Folsom had been partially right The pass, such as it was, had been clear through the rock barrier barring their way to the narrow ledges that marked the beginning of the steep slopes leading down to the fjord. The Russians spotted them as they were midway in their descent.

The four had reached the top of the pass and rested for a few minutes before going on. On the narrow ledges between the top of the pass and the edge of the cliffs they were buffeted again by the stiffening winds blowing in from the sea. After a brief exam-nation of the cliffs Folsom was surprised with the apparent ease with which they could make the descent Although steep, the cliff face — sheltered from the generations of wind in the deep fjord, which had worn the seaward-facing rock smooth — was broken and channeled enough to present an almost ladder-like descent of its 160 feet They began the climb down to the beach with some faint degree of optimism. It was Gadsen who first heard the faint rifle report and saw the spurt of rock indicating where the bullet had struck. His warning shout thrust them under an overhang into the cover of the wall itself, from which they tried to spot the Soviets on the cliff top. The overhang was invisible from above and prevented a clear shot from the top of the cliffs. It had been pure luck that someone, overeager perhaps, had fired too soon. In any event, the four Americans were safe for the moment

But only for a moment There were several alternate ways leading down from the cliff edge and the Soviets could flank them easily and within minutes. While the overhang furnished cover from above, there was nothing to use as shelter against fire coming from either side. The four men knew that they had to move and move fast.

“Down that way, through the cleft,” Folsom shouted over the wind gusting through the rock crannies. “One at a time. Mac, lead off. When you reach the cleft, give us covering fire.”

McPherson nodded, crawled to the edge of the overhang, and peered carefully upward. Nothing moved on the cliff tops, above or on either side. He looked down and spent a few seconds examining the route he would follow. Then, satisfied, he came to his feet and plunged downward to a narrow shelf, ran lightly along it for several feet, and vaulted over a boulder into the shelter of a slot in the rock wall. A single shot snapped after him, but no spurt of rock indicated where the bullet had struck. McPherson waved a hand over the top of the boulder to show that he was all right A moment later Teleman saw the muzzle of his carbine appear and he nudged Gadsen.

“Let’s get set,” he muttered.

“You first, Major,” Folsom said tightly, “and don’t stop. Just go!” Teleman nodded. McPherson popped up and fired a fast burst, then ducked back down again to scramble to the far end of the slab-shaped rock. A fusilade of rifle fire danced off the rock where he had been. McPherson waited for it to die away and jumped up to fire again, a long burst this time that raked across the top of the cliff. Teleman scrambled forward at the same time. As he dropped onto the ledge he thought he heard a faint scream, but the sound whirled away on the wind, almost instantaneously. It sounded as if it had come from above, but he couldn’t be sure. He shuttled along the ledge awkwardly, wondering if it had come from McPherson, until he heard Mac’s carbine stuttering again, and he concentrated on his running.

The ledge was less than eighteen inches wide and the footing treacherous with scattered rock and shale. As he neared the end he slipped and fell forward onto the boulder with stunning force. His head glanced off the rock and exploded with pain. Feebly cursing, he dragged himself over, almost directly beneath McPherson’s carbine, and slid down the other side. Seconds later

Gadsen fell over on top of him and Folsom followed in a dive that just missed the tangle of arms and legs.

McPherson crouched down beside them. “Everybody get here in one piece?” Teleman sat up, massaging his forehead, and his hand came away coated with blood. So what else is new, he thought with resignation.