Paths of Courage (9 page)

The XO raised eyebrows in surprise before scurrying off, shocked again by not having been made fully aware of the captain's orders.

Captain Denko, a short, stocky, bull of a man with dark, brooding features, ordered the helmsman to steer a course that would track the Russian submarine; he now firmly believed K449 was crewed by the North Koreans. Regarded as one of the better submarine commanders and a veteran of skirmishes with the Americans in the Pacific, Denko's orders had been to discreetly track K449 on leaving Rybachiy and report on the Delta III-class submarine's sea trials under the direction of Admiral Park Hyok and the command of Captain Grosky. Most importantly he was to monitor and report on the result of any missile testing that took place. He had patiently followed K449 right down the Pacific to Heard Island, making sure he kept a respectable distance away in its wake where it would be difficult for Grosky to detect him.

The Akula (Shark), which he had commanded for the past five years, was considered the fastest and quietest of all Russian nuclear attack submarines. It was virtually impossible to detect at speeds up to ten knots. With a crew of seventy and driven by a Pressurized Water Reactor, the vessel could reach an underwater speed of up to thirty-five knots. Her 370-foot long steel hull had a displacement of 10,000 tons submerged. Although Denko had never gone beyond a depth of 1,000 feet, the specifications stated 1,700 feet as the maximum. K267 carried twenty-four twenty-one inch, heavy torpedoes and twelve cruise missiles. Her sonar suite was capable of detecting vessels forty-five nautical miles, or more, away.

Within the hour, new orders came through: sink K449.

Thankfully it did not rain during the night march towards the lake. The group, led by Ryder, travelled easily through what appeared to be uninhabited countryside under a full moon. He kept up a steady pace on a northwesterly course, keeping to the valleys, avoiding the steep slopes.

After several miles of wooded terrain broken by grassy knolls and rocky outcrops, they arrived on the outskirts of Hagaru-ri. The sun began to rise above the horizon as they reached the southern end of the lake and surveyed the main highway into the town. Hazy early morning light progressively bathed the western shoreline about a mile away on the other side of the serene waters. Only a handful of boats could be seen out in the distance, along with a few boats lining the shore below. All seemed to be small sail boats and not in the best of repair. Slowly shifting his binoculars to the left, Ryder scanned the area of wharfs about half a mile distant and settled on a small group of motor-driven vessels.

“Look like steam boats down there,” he said, handing the binoculars to Song.

He ran the lenses over the wharfs. “I agree – ramshackle lot – seen better days,” he replied.

Ryder took the binoculars and looked again at the boats. He swung the lenses towards the highway below, which ran almost parallel to a river in full flood flowing from the lake. After focusing on the crowds of people milling about on the highway, he let the binoculars drop and turned to Song.

“Forget the town,” he snapped. “We'll take a sail. At those wharfs, we could find ourselves trapped if things go wrong. If those boats are coal driven, it'll take time to fire up – time we don't have. Sail presents less risk.”

A short silence followed, then Chol spoke. “A sail boat without wind could also be a problem if we get stuck out there,” he said, motioning towards the lake.

“Wind is never far away in the mountains,” Bom chimed in. “The wind, even now, is freshening. I doubt it will prove a problem.”

Ryder looked in turn at the others; they agreed with Bom.

“So be it. We'll rest up here until nightfall, then take one of those boats moored below.”

They found cover amongst the bush, ate some rations and settled down, easing their aching bodies. Bom took the first watch whilst Song and Chol grabbed what sleep they could.

After he'd eaten, Ryder – still yearning for a smoke – sat mulling over what lay ahead. He finally gave away these thoughts and let his mind wander to Grace sitting silently next to him. He was intrigued by her stoicism and wondered out of growing interest what drove her.

“Seymour is not Korean. You married to a Westerner?”

She turned to him, seemingly surprised at the question. “I'm not sure if that is any of your business, Mr Ryder. Why the sudden interest?”

“Mr Ryder,” maybe she was still angry at him for killing the goat herder and the bear cubs. He gave a boyish grin, strands of dark hair falling across his forehead. “No reason. We're all in this together and what we're doing here is highly dangerous. I'm just curious to find out what motivated you to volunteer… Also, I'd prefer it if you called me Frank.” He was christened “Francis,” a name he hated and used only when legally required.

She stared into the bush and then, after a short while, quietly said, “No, I'm not married. My parents changed their name by deed poll before I was born. And I did not volunteer. My ethnic background and qualifications precluded any choice really.”

He sympathised. “You born in England?”

“Yes.”

“Parents still alive?”

“My mother is. We live in Oxford. Father died last year from cancer.”

“I'm sorry.”

“Don't be; he had a good, long life; he was a kind and gentle man.” She turned away.

He could see a glint of tears and changed the subject. “How long have you been a military virologist?”

Wiping her eyes gracefully with the palms of her hands, she said, “Since leaving university. I had a fascination for microbes and contagious diseases. The army paid for med school and uni. I felt I owed them. The army gave me the freedom to experiment with the best equipment.”

“Dangerous vocation, dealing with deadly germs day in and day out.”

“Less dangerous than yours. At least we get to control every situation.”

She had a point.

Her look softened, almond pools of liquid brown fixed upon him. “Look, Frank; I've not really had a chance to thank you for getting me out of that dreadful place.”

“Hey, forget it. It was not your fault. Besides, we couldn't leave you to their tender mercies, now could we? Without you checking out any bugs we might find, all this could be for nothing.” He meant it too; no way would he be happy with that responsibility.

“Anyway, I needed to thank you.” Then she changed the subject: “Do you think we'll find what we are looking for?”

“Your guess is as good as mine. But to be honest I hope we don't, not because of the risks we have to take to find them, but it could mean the commies may not possess a superbug after all.”

She nodded and stared back into the bush. “I hope it turns out that way. How soon to the search area?”

“Two, three days, depending on the terrain and provided we keep out of trouble. If the wind on the lake is favourable, it could lessen that by a day,” he replied optimistically.

A short silence followed, then she asked, “What makes you do this kind of thing – constantly risking your life? How do you cope with the fear?”

He wanted to say, “Desperation and needing a challenge” to the first part, and to the second: “You don't. It's a never-ending battle to conquer fear, especially when there is nothing between you and the abyss.” Instead he said, “All part of the job for the ‘Queen's shilling'. You must've experienced it yourself when entering a ‘hot zone'?”

“True, but only mildly with the knowledge of all the ‘safeguards'. This is the first time for me experiencing fear of the unknown in a hostile environment.”

“You'll get used to it.” She would have to if they were to succeed.

“You a Londoner, Frank?”

Caught off guard, he shot, “Brixton,” surprising himself. Why did he divulge that? Not many knew where he was from, then again, not many had asked. He preferred to keep that part of his life private; it brought back too many painful memories of the tough life experienced in and around that borough. When his father walked out on him at nine, never to be seen again, and his mother spent most of her time enjoying herself with other men, he virtually had to fend for himself in the drug and alcohol-fuelled violence of life on the streets. “You guessed, no doubt, from the accent?” he grinned. Although he'd lost most of the south London intonation over the years, it was still slightly there.

“Are you married, Frank?”

Was she playing his game? “Eh… No.” He had been, though, to a really nice girl. But the army got in the way. They had both been too young and he had to admit he was somewhat selfish, as most young men were at eighteen. The break-up and divorce had been traumatic; thank God no children were involved.

She gave him a weak smile and silence descended.

It was time to get some sleep. Making themselves as comfortable as possible in the confined area of bush cover, they both eventually succumbed.

As twilight descended, Ryder and his little group broke camp and made their way down the hillside towards the sail boats moored alongside a narrow timber jetty. Under a clear star-studded sky, the single file gingerly negotiated the shale-covered ground. The group was thankful that a moderate wind now prevailed as they eventually made the half-mile distance to the lake shoreline without incident. They could make out huts in the distance, but as far as they could see the area was empty of people. Making their way along the dilapidated jetty, they commandeered the vessel at the end – a very old, fifty-foot long, two-masted, timber-hulled craft that stunk of fish and pitch. On board they quietly set the sails – a large grey, four-cornered lugsail on the front mast and a smaller one on the rear. The deck was completely open with only a small square wheelhouse in the centre capable of holding four people at a time; the rest was littered with nets, tarpaulins and fish boxes. Once they were underway, Bom and Chol took charge, since they had experience in such lugger-style craft.

K267 cruised at fifteen knots, 400 feet below the surface of the Indian Ocean, along latitude 35 degrees south, heading westward. In the control room, Captain Denko monitored the gauges and computers around him. He was furious that he had lost K449. He could only assume they had dropped abruptly through a thermocline layer and changed course rapidly, leaving him to guess which course they had taken. One moment they were there, the next K449 had simply vanished. Passive had picked up nothing in the last twenty-four hours and he feared he had guessed wrong. His dilemma: should he continue on into the Atlantic searching or should he return to base? The latter did not appeal to him; therefore he decided to take the risk. It was good they had provisioned well, but the men would now have to go on half-rations to last the extended mission up into the Atlantic and eventually to Murmansk.

Where the hell had K449 got to?

They were now some 600 miles away from the African continent and the Cape of Good Hope. To enter the Atlantic would be placing himself and his crew in a highly dangerous situation, especially now he had been signalled that American and British warships were heavily patrolling all entrances into that ocean. Where there were surface ships, there would certainly be submarines; the next seventy-two hours would be crucial and no doubt fraught with danger. Captain Denko would be exposing the sub to sonar detection and God knows what else if he remained out in the open much longer on the current course. If he was to successfully enter the Atlantic he would need to lose himself in coastal noise. He turned to the helmsman.

“Course three-one-five. Speed twenty knots. Make your depth three hundred.”

*

The sleek, black submarine sliced silently through the dark depths of the Indian Ocean, 400 feet below the surface. It ran at twenty knots, some 1500 miles south of the Cape of Good Hope. Captain Michael Curtis sat thoughtfully in the commander's seat listening to the voices that were quietly issuing instructions around him. Glancing now and then at the rows of display screens lining the bulkheads, he was able to monitor everything taking place through the computer screens and large colour display consoles integrating all of the boat's sensors, countermeasures, navigation and weapon systems. Dominating were the big screens for the optronic high-resolution digital colour cameras, allowing him and others on the command deck to see what was happening above and below the surface in clear and precise terms. The change from the traditional periscopes to non-hull penetrating masts installed in the sail structure took some getting used to, but now he would not be without. At thirty-nine years of age, he was the youngest captain to command a submarine of this class, the HMS
Ambush
– the British Navy's state-of-the-art, nuclear-powered, Astute-class attack submarine – and commanded a crew of 110 officers and enlisted men.

Designed for stealth in deep ocean anti-submarine warfare, as well as shallow water operations, Ambush
propelled by two 50,000-horsepower steam turbine engines, could obtain speeds submerged in excess of twenty-five knots. With a displacement of 7,800 tons submerged, the boat could dive to beyond 1,000 feet. At speeds up to twenty knots, the only sound heard is sea water parted by her 318-foot long titanium hull, sheathed in a sound-absorbent coating.

Captain Curtis had been ordered to break away from sea trials in the central Atlantic and patrol the waters between the African continent and Antarctica to search for a Russian Delta III-class submarine, the K449, along with an Akula-class – K267. Once spotted, he was to set them in his sights and disable. Any other Russian sub he encountered was to be reported to COMOPS for further orders. He felt good knowing he was now on full operational duty. This unexpected special deployment would be his first real independent command of this lethal war machine, which encapsulated him hundreds of feet below the surface of the ocean. He surmised that if the Russian K449 had left Rybachiy and the British Isles was the destination, the shorter route would be across the Indian Ocean, not the Pacific, thus avoiding the danger of Drake Passage. Whatever the reason for COMOPS wanting to destroy any Russian sub entering the Atlantic, he hoped
Ambush
would make the kill – the first for him and the first for any Royal Navy submarine since HMS
Conqueror
torpedoed and sunk the Argentinian cruiser General Belgrano during the Falklands war. The anticipation of possibly deploying
Spearfish
torpedoes against any Russian submarine attempting to enter the Atlantic filled him with a mixture of dread and excitement; dread that he might fail and excitement that at last he would be able to put all the theory into practice. This deployment, however, had the real possibility of his boat ending up at the bottom of the ocean.

Captain Curtis had been patrolling the seas above the Antarctic Circle for more than a week in a triangular search pattern where the Atlantic and Indian Oceans met.
Ambush's
search speed had ranged between fifteen and twenty-five knots and had covered the triangle twice so far without so much as a whiff of any Russian. He had to use good judgement in his selection of speed – too slow and the search could seem endless or, worse still, he could miss any contact that might be on the 1,000-mile sonar periphery. Too fast would introduce more noise, which in turn would reduce the listening range. He hoped he would be close enough to hear the quarry, but be far enough away to avoid counter detection. No surface or submerged vessel could activate its sonar or radar, communicate or move without
Ambush
hearing. The acoustic countermeasures system guarding against torpedo attack would provide him and his crew with early warning of incoming torpedoes. It would compute a quick range and bearing response, enabling deployment of decoy devices to seduce the torpedo away from the hull. Her thirty-eight
Tomahawk
cruise missiles together with twenty-four
Spearfish
wire-guided torpedoes made his submarine attack capabilities second to none.

“Captain – sonar. Contact. Designate Sierra One. Faint signature. Submersible. Relative one-three-zero.”

“Captain, aye. Come right on bearing. Resolve ambiguity.” Captain Curtis suddenly felt a surge of anticipation at a positive hostile contact and possible chase.

HMS
Ambush
turned
to allow sonar to confirm the bearing.

Minutes passed and there was fleeting contact once again. The computers whirred to determine the type, range and speed for the second time.

Seconds later, “Captain – sonar. Contact too weak to fully translate. Possibly Russian.”

“Captain, aye.” Curtis turned to the helmsman. “Maintain course. Make your speed twenty.”

“Helmsman, aye. Maintain course. Speed twenty knots.”

“I'll lay money that was a Russian sub,” said the captain to his XO, Robert Talbot. Then to communications, he ordered, “Captain – comms. Relay what we have of that last sonar transmission to group, just in case no one else picked it up.”

“So let's go get it,” the XO replied with a grin. “You may well be right; Russian subs rarely come this far south. The contact must've been right on the edge of the range. If it's one we're looking for, the bearing suggests she may be heading for the Cape and noisier coastal waters.”

“We could lose her if she goes hugging the coastline at five to ten knots. I want us closer to that last bearing. Maybe we'll get lucky and pick it up again, this time with a positive fix.”

“And if she's not K449 or K267, but still Russian?”

“Await orders from COMOPS,” the captain replied, fixing Talbot with steely ice-blue eyes.

“Captain – comms. Signal from COMOPS.”

“Captain – comms. Roger that. Immediate translation required.”

Talbot raised his eyebrows and side-glanced the captain. “Direct from commander of Maritime Operations. This must be important.”

Seconds later the deciphered signal came up on the captain's personal monitor, which he quickly read before turning to the XO.

“Change of orders. We are to proceed immediately to patrol between the Strait of Magellan and the Falklands, then at our discretion patrol the South American eastern seaboard up to the equator. They want us to cover the possibility of a sub attempting passage through the Strait.” He paused, then exclaimed, “Damn! Just when we might've been on to something.”

“That's the way it goes, Captain. Ours is not to wonder why,” Talbot offered, a broad smile creasing his round, open features under cropped dark hair. Slightly taller than the captain, five years his senior and equally muscular and fit, Talbot, like Curtis, had no other wish than to be in submarines. One more year as XO and he would be recommended for a command of his own. In the meantime, Curtis was glad to have him as second in command.

“Ours is but to do or die. Yes, I know, Bob. A fitting quote for us naval men at sea,” the commander grinned. He then came to a decision. “However, inform COMOPS we have a possible Russian contact and are pursuing. If negative we'll disengage and head for the Falklands.”

“Aye, Captain,” the XO replied.

The captain turned to his helmsman.

“Right, standard rudder. Course two-seven-zero. Full ahead. Make your depth 300.”

HMS
Ambush
patrolled the seas for several hours where they thought the faint hostile signal might have come from. They met no further contact and Captain Curtis eventually gave the order to change course for the Falklands.