Paths of Courage (17 page)

Rain fell at dawn as the group huddled in a small cave at the base of a rock outcrop surrounded by forest. After only a short rest, Ryder's group was now ready to continue the journey back to the coast. Frank gently turned Grace onto her stomach and replaced the dressing to her wound. The bleeding had thankfully stopped and he hoped that their basic first-aid-kits would last until they reached the submarine. He was concerned by her condition and worried it would deteriorate rapidly; she would have little rest as they continuously moved over the rough, irregular terrain. The four men took turns at carrying the stretcher. Speed was necessary if they were to reach safety before the three-week vaccine deadline.

Bom pulled Ryder aside.

“Twenty-four hours since the mountain, boss. We can expect units out in force soon. Those helicopters last night… not good.”

He agreed. But if they upped the pace, Grace may not survive.

Bom looked him straight in the eye. “She's slowing us down, boss, and there's still a long way to go.”

“We're not leaving her,” Ryder shot back.

“What I'm saying is that maybe two of us should go on ahead with the vaccine and the other two follow as best they can.”

Ryder could see the sense in that, wondering why he hadn't thought of it himself.
Was his concern for Grace overriding the objective?
The vaccine is what they had come for and would save a lot of lives if needed, but not if they failed to deliver.

He conceded. “You're right; makes sense. You and Dan go.”

Bom hesitated. “Makes more sense if you go, boss. Things could get tricky forcing the pace out front. Chol and me can look out for the doc. Our job is support.”

Frank thought about it for a moment; maybe he was right. However, no time for debate; getting the vaccine back was the priority. “Okay, so be it.” He then called Song over, explained the situation and turned back to Bom. “Don't let those commies get their hands on the doc, you understand?”

Bom nodded.

With that Ryder and Song left the cave, grateful the rain had stopped and the sun now shone. Bom and Chol, stretcher between them, followed shortly after.

The black hull of K449 glided silently through the blue depths of the Guiana Basin and entered the eastern end of the five-mile deep Puerto Rico Trench, eighty-five miles north of the Leeward Island of Barbuda on latitude 18.30N, longitude 62W. She had crawled her way northeastwards up the coast of South America at less than seven knots, hugging the seabed wherever she could, keeping to the busy shipping lanes as close to the shore as she dared. With the mass of land always to port, she passed the Brazilian cities of Rio de Janeiro, Salvador and Recife, changing course northwest at Cape Sao Roque, before crossing the equator a few miles north of the Amazon Delta, then on up past French Guiana, Suriname and Guyana. At Trinidad and Tobago she changed course once more, tracking north past the Windward Islands of Barbados, Martinique and Guadeloupe until she reached the westward end of the Leewards.

The journey had been painfully slow for Captain Asad Kamani and his crew as they maintained a silent ship, poring over charts and listening to the incessant sound of the passive sonar. The monotony of daily routine was alleviated only by the thought of fulfilling their glorious mission and the effect of the on-off adrenaline fix, knowing they were being hunted. One wrong move and they could all end up dead at the bottom of the Atlantic Ocean.

In the small wardroom, Captain Kamani, Lieutenant Zaha, Ali bin Rashid and Captain Moradi sat drinking tea. A map of the Caribbean and northwest Atlantic was on the table between them.

“…Once through the 400 miles of this trench, another 1,100 will see us at the firing coordinates here,” said Kamani, finishing his description of their intended route and pointing to a position some fifty nautical miles off the North Carolina coast. He looked tired and perspiration glistened on his strong features, but his eyes displayed determination and fire.

“We have been fortunate that the British sub has not located us. Your tactics, Captain, have worked well so far,” said Rashid, pleased with Kamani's skill and tenacity. He had been wrong about the captain; this man was truly committed and focused.

“Pray to Allah they continue,” Kamani replied. “If the infidel thought we were here, the seas around us would be crawling with warships of all kinds. We can expect to encounter patrolling subs and surface ships the closer we get to the target. From now on we cannot avoid deeper water; we will need to be extremely careful.”

“How long now before releasing the payload?” Rashid asked.

“Six days if all goes well.”

“And if something happens before that?” questioned Captain Moradi.

“The
Stingray
is primed and ready for launch any time. We are now already within range of the target.”

A moment's silence passed before Kamani spoke. “We follow the trench west keeping at a depth of around 700 feet at a speed of seven to ten knots until we reach here.” He placed the tip of his finger on lat20N, long68W, just east of the Navidad Bank, the southernmost stretch of shallow water before reaching the Caicos Islands and Bahama chain. “From this point we make our way northwest up the Atlantic side of the Bahamas to San Salvador Island, then head directly north to the release point.” He paused. “We soon will be in very dangerous waters close to the infidel's lair. Stealth will be our only ally. If we are to achieve the glory of Allah, we must run silent and we must run deep.”

Ryder and Song, some two klicks in front of the others, heard the throb of a helicopter and dived for cover on the tree-lined ridge, just before it flew low over and on down into the narrow wooded valley they had just crossed. Once the craft was out of sight, both emerged, then froze. Less than half a klick away on the slope below, lines of troops were crossing open parts of the forest heading up towards them.

“Holy shit!” exclaimed Song, fear momentarily etched on his features.

“Just what we bloody needed,” said Ryder, forcing himself not to panic.

“Too many to take on,” said Song. “Follow this ridge; maybe they're not looking further to the east.”

“This is the most direct route southeast. Carrying the doc, the others will come this way,” spat Ryder, scanning the valley. “We'll be lucky to break through those lines…” He stopped short. “Oh, shit – dogs.” He pointed down the valley. “One sniff and we're history, Dan. We have to warn the others. We must go back.”

“What's the fucking point in that?” Song shot back defiantly. “This vaccine is more important. Why the fuck throw it all away after what we've been through?” Then, as if realizing what he had just blurted out, he said, in a more conciliatory tone, “Lots of people could die without this vaccine.”

Surprised at the Korean's outburst, and angry at the insubordination, Ryder wanted to deck him, but instead quickly reconsidered the options. It was obvious they stood little to no chance of breaking through the oncoming lines. They could follow the ridge eastwards in the hope that the next valley was clear. If they got back quick enough to warn the others, they could perhaps detour inland towards the west and turn eastwards later when safe or he could go it alone. He was torn between duty and concern for the others. He made his choice.

“I'll go back. You carry on. Follow this ridge eastwards into the next valley.”

“Too late,” Song said, pointing east over Ryder's shoulder.

Troops were moving towards them along the ridge. Ryder's heart sank. “Fuck! Swarming everywhere.” A tremor of fear and uncertainty engulfed him, but he quickly rallied. “No choice now, we'll both have to go back.”

The Korean shrugged and both men hurriedly left the ridge, moving silently down amongst the thick foliage, heading back along the valley to find the others.

*

Chol heard the throb of helicopter motors first before he and Bom gently placed the stretcher under a bush and craned their necks to try and spot the aircraft through the trees.

Then they saw it: a Russian Mi-8. It swept low over the treetops, circled above and landed in a clearing not far from where they hid. From the grey and brown camouflaged helicopter a dozen soldiers, with two Alsatian dogs, spilled from the side and fanned out into the trees heading their way. Both men looked at one another determinedly – two against twelve was not good odds. Bom placed Grace's pistol in her hand without a word; the way he looked at her and gently patted her arm said it all. Grace understood and smiled weakly. Taking up a position not far from the stretcher he watched and waited, his Sig P226 and AK- 47 poised and ready.

The soldiers approached, weaving through the trees, dogs straining at the leash. They came closer and closer. The dogs had to be taken out first. When a clear shot at the nearest oncoming dog and its handler presented itself, Bom quickly took aim with the P226 and fired two rounds. The first at the dog, the second at the man – both fell instantly. From the corner of his eye he saw the other dog and its handler go down too; Chol was thinking the same. Ten left. Before the remaining soldiers realized what had happened, another four died, leaving only six. Both men were grateful the odds had evened up a little. With the element of surprise now gone, the stunned soldiers dived for cover and began to frantically spray the bush and trees around with machine-gun fire. Bom stayed close to Grace; this could be the end of the road.

The Russian Akula-II-class attack submarine, K267, arrived at the Puerto Rico Trench, 100 nautical miles northeast of Barbuda on latitude 19.22N, longitude 61W, after a long, slow crossing of the North Atlantic from the African continent. Entering the Trench 400 feet below the surface at a speed of seven knots, she maintained a due westerly course, which would take her to the western end of the Trench. Here her commander, Captain Vasily Denko, planned to change course northwestwards, to follow the Bahama chain of islands in the hope that his quarry, K449, would be doing the same if she too were in these waters.

“Not even a sniff of K449. Are we chasing an illusion, Captain?” asked Sergio Nanovich, the XO, as he and Denko stood studying charts in the control room.

“Grosky does not command, I just know it. We're dealing with someone else,” snapped the captain, nerves a little frayed after searching halfway around the world for the Russian rogue submarine. “Our orders are to find K449 and destroy it. We will carry out those orders to the best of our ability. If a strike is intended on America's eastern seaboard, the sub has to be somewhere in this area if coming from the south. We will find it.”

“Vasily, my friend, I wish I had your faith. I still believe they went north to attack the American Battle Group off the Azores.”

“Maybe, but it's too late now to turn back. Have no fear, Sergio, the decision was mine.”

“The men are growing restless; short rations are beginning to tell. We have to think of returning home, and soon.”

“And we shall. If K449 is not in this part of the Atlantic, we will stay close to the American mainland, go through the Newfoundland Basin, head for Greenland, then home under the polar cap. All being well, we should make it in less than five weeks.” The captain removed the peaked cap he always wore in the control room and wiped the sweat from his forehead, and placed it firmly back on his head.

The XO nodded; he trusted his captain explicitly. However, he was unconvinced they would make it back in that time, but said nothing.

“Once through the Trench, we will be very vulnerable for the rest of the way up to Newfoundland. We will have to be vigilant at all times.” The captain reflected on past patrols in the Atlantic, particularly along America's eastern seaboard, and the dread that had been slowly mounting began to increase once again at the thought of going so close to the American mainland.

Lieutenant Nanovich again nodded, resigning himself to the toughest and most dangerous part of the search that lay beyond the Trench.

Captain Denko ordered the helmsman to take K267 down to 600 feet and increase speed slightly to ten knots. The increase would get them back to the motherland quicker and he deemed the speed relatively safe in this almost five-mile deep stretch of water where he could lose himself in the thermoclines should it become necessary. Ocean temperatures varied with depth; a marked change occurred anywhere between 100 and 4,000 feet, dividing the warmer surface water from the colder depths. This can frustrate sonar signals; sound originating on one side of the thermocline tended to get bent, or refracted, off the layers thus providing protection from passive sonar detection. The captain was confident he could go deeper and faster than any American submarine currently in service, if such action needed to be taken.

Ryder heard firing ahead and feared the worst, knowing Bom and Chol would be following the same route he and Song had taken. Within a short time, both reached a small clearing and were surprised to come across a bug-like helicopter squatting in the middle. Cautiously they circled the craft, keeping hidden on the wooded periphery. Ryder wanted to continue on and find the others, but he was acutely aware this helicopter could well be the ticket out.

“Can you fly this baby?” he whispered, knowing Song had flown helicopters before.

“Yeah, flew a few in Afghanistan. It's an Mi-8 Hip-C, Russian assault helo, powered by two 1270Kw Isotov engines, max speed 160mph. Fuel tanks give it a range of around 450 miles. She looks fairly old.”

“The Russians have no qualms selling outdated aircraft to anyone who wants to buy,” Ryder whispered, Song's insubordination forgotten.

“No guards. Can we take her?”

“Need a closer look,” said Ryder, pointing to the large passenger door on the side just behind the cockpit.

Song understood and acknowledged. Both men returned the way they had come until they were immediately to the rear of the aircraft. After making sure no one was at the tree line, they made a dash for the helicopter, praying anyone inside was not looking in the rear-view mirrors.

Within seconds, they covered the thirty yards to the craft and slunk beneath the port side; silenced pistols cocked and ready. Arriving at the door, they listened for several seconds, hearing voices.

Nodding to each other, both men emerged swiftly from under the helicopter, rose up to the open doorway not knowing what to expect, saw two heads in the cockpit seats and leapt through the door. They swept the fuselage with pistols; thankfully nobody was in the rear.

Upfront, the pilot and co-pilot turned, expecting to see their comrades. Realizing instantly that something was amiss, they reached for guns. Ryder and Song simultaneously fired, sending both men slumping over the controls, neat holes in each temple.

“Fire her up and I'll go get the others,” Ryder snapped, worrying the soldiers he had seen on the ridge may not be that far behind. He quickly surveyed the inside of the chopper, noting boxes of ammunition and several AKs in racks before he sprang from the helicopter and made his way swiftly towards the sound of gunfire.

Song dragged the two men to the rear before strapping himself into the pilot's seat. He checked the controls. Thankfully the aircraft was equipped with night-flying instruments, including sophisticated terrain following radar – a little out-of-date, but good enough. On the downside, the fuel was low. Would it be enough to get them back to the beach, which he estimated to be some eighty klicks or more?