Standing on the crest of the hill, he could make out the sheen of the fjord waters below. Between the hill on which he stood and the final line of cliffs leading down to the fjord were a series of rugged and broken hillocks and cols of bare rock, resembling the snaggle-toothed mouth of some mythical Scandinavian giant wrenched up from the fringing rock.
Disappointment crashed down on Folsom. They would have at least another hour of rugged climbing before they could reach the fjord. And then there still remained the hike to the Norwegian naval base, out of sight around a headland a mile or so north. So damn close… so damn close…
Folsom turned away from the depressing scene and trudged back to where the others waited and sank down beside them.
“There’s a stiff climb ahead,” he said bitterly. “Another hour of climbing before we hit the cliffs.” He picked up his, carbine and fiddled with the stock. After a moment of silence, McPherson stood up and took the glasses to search the horizon to the east and north. The four-hundred-foot height of the. hill gave him a wide scope of vision. hi the uncertain light he almost thought he had spotted their tent far to the north and east, but when he tried to find it again, he failed. Finally he swung around restlessly and went back to the far side of the hill. The spectral figures of Folsom, Teleman, and Gadsen joined °him as he went past.
Folsom accepted the glasses again and, after another moment’s hesitation, trudged to the rim of the hogback and lay down full length in the snow. The expanse of frosted rock stretched away below him, resembling the familiar waves of the Arctic storm, each crest of rock capped with a dusting of snow. He rewarmed the eyepieces in his hands. Directly below, the hillside sloped away at a gentle angle until it met a sharp drop of some forty or so feet to a shelf of granite, a man’s height below that. From there the slope was gentle for a half mile until it rose abruptly to a sheer rock wall that, from this distance anyway, offered little hope of hand-or footholds. He shifted slowly south, Ending-nothing that would indicate an easier way, then north. After several minutes he located a shelf that seemed to have been slashed out of the rock wall, forming a small pass that cut through at mid-height. From what he could see of the other side, there were no impassable obstacles.
He rolled over and sat up. “I think maybe there is a way to at least get through that rock wall down there.”
Teleman nodded painfully and shifted the burden of the Russian carbine he had been carrying since leaving the tent. So far he had successfully resisted McPherson’s attempts to exchange it for his own lighter AR-18. Teleman shifted the carbine on its sling around his neck and shoulder and nodded. “After having come so far, it would be a shame to quit now.”
McPherson nodded.
“I guess that makes it unanimous then,” Gadsen said. “Let’s move out.” Once again Folsom watched the motley crew of scarecrows assemble and rope themselves together. On the verge of exhaustion, as he himself was, he marveled at the deep reserves in Teleman that enabled the man to go on.
They headed down the slope with the shuffling gait of tired men, each fighting to retain his foothold in the hard-packed snow of the windward side. At the foot of the hogback they halted while McPherson hauled a longer rope out of his pack and fastened one end into fixed loop.
“You first, Commander?”
Folsom nodded and slipped the noose over his head and down under his shoulders. He backed off a ways and tested the firmness of the knot by pulling against McPherson, then swung carefully over the edge of the steep slope and half slid, half climbed down until he was just above the vertical drop to the shelf. He glanced up at McPherson and waved one hand for slack and disappeared abruptly over the edge. He reappeared a moment later, standing on the ledge and slipped the noose off. McPherson pulled it up and motioned Gadsen to go next. Gadsen followed Folsom down, and, in minutes, McPherson was hauling it up for Teleman.
“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.