For 1,000 miles through the southern Barents, they stayed deep, quiet and slow. Their gateway into the most northern part of the Pacific lay through the Unimak Pass, that narrow stretch of seaway bisecting the Aleutian Archipelago between Unimak and Akun Islands. Here they would have to negotiate the shallow waters of the Pass under the ever-watchful eyes of the U.S. listening station on Unimak Island overlooking the twenty-mile stretch of seaway at Cape Sarichef. To achieve this, Captain Grosky would do what he and many other Russian commanders had done in the past: go through in the wake of a large surface ship.
On arrival at the entrance to the Pass, twelve miles off the northern headland of Akutan Island, they waited at periscope depth, in a slow circular pattern for a suitable ship to follow. They dared not raise the periscope for fear of discovery until the very last moment to ensure the vessel was of sufficient size to cover and enable them to line up with the stern after it had passed over. They remained in this holding pattern for several hours and at 0830 sonar reported a large surface contact bearing down on them from the northwest at ten knots. The captain waited until it was less than a 1,000 yards away before ordering the periscope up for a brief scan. The weather was bad; heavy rain squalls and mist, visibility down to little more than a mile in rough seas, but he was able to confirm a large container ship thrusting its way into the Pass. For the next few minutes, using sonar, they manoeuvred into position and then, with one last peek to line up the stern, they slipped into the turbulent wake of the vessel, praying for a safe passage out into the Pacific beyond.
The Unimak Pass was negotiated without incident and once through they parted company with the commercial vessel. Slowly, at a depth of 600 feet, K449 crossed the eastern end of the two-mile deep Aleutian Trench and on into the Gulf of Alaska, gingerly making its way at no more than dead-slow speed to avoid SOSUS tripwires and any U.S. submarines that might be lurking in this part of the Pacific. They reached the 135th line of longitude and turned south. Once in the lower regions they would no longer have to worry about U.S. underwater surveillance or the U.S. ROI satellite system; there was hardly any in the northeast Pacific Basin and none at all in the southern oceans, including complete absence of warships from any nation.
In the small cramped bunk area he shared with his XO, Captain Asad Kamani reflected on the last few months. Once the submarine deal had been successfully completed, al-Qaeda’s all powerful connections within the Iranian governing regime had arranged for his release and that of Lieutenant Zaha’s from naval duties. Both men had been preparing for this moment for a very long time and when the order finally came, the two eagerly flew from Tehran to Pyongyang. From there they took a flight up to Nikolayevsk at the top of Sakhalin Island, then over the Sea of Okhotsk to Petropavlovsk at the southern end of the Kamchatka Peninsula. After spending more than a week crawling all over K449 in the sub pen at Rybachiy and inspecting as much of the vessel’s systems as they could under dock conditions, the Delta III finally set out on her mission.
Captain Kamani had reached the zenith of his career. At fifty-two, he was small in stature, slim and possessed handsome Arabic features with thick, dark hair. He was supremely ready for the task ahead. From a young age he had wanted to be a submariner after an almost continuous diet of American Cold War submarine movies. He was bright and ambitious, and, coupled with his Islamic fervour, had little trouble in entering the Iranian Navy where he quickly demonstrated his ability to master the complexities of the Russian Kilo-class diesel/electric submarines purchased by the Iranians. It was not long until he succeeded as captain to one of the five hunter-killer submarines operating out of the naval base at Bandar Abbas. For Kamani, the future was nuclear power and he managed, through exchange and marketing programmes, to serve time as an auxiliary officer in France’s Triomphant-class and China’s Xia-class nuclear submarines. Both classes were similar in many respects to the Russian Delta III he was now in and soon to command once the exchange was completed. To his superiors he was the most appropriate man to lead this mission for Islamic supremacy, due to his experience and to his strong, fundamental Islamic beliefs coupled with an undying hatred of everything Western. He was humbled at the opportunity to punish America and her allies, whom he believed were undermining the sacred values of Sharia. To him, Western culture and all it stood for exposed the vulnerable youth of the Muslim world to corruption and greed. Single and with hardly any family commitments, Kamani wanted to play a part in destroying this creeping malevolence. He thus offered his services to al-Qaeda and was eventually absorbed into its worldwide network to await the call, which, after many years of waiting, had finally come.
Lieutenant Hamid Zaha was several years younger than Kamani, also single and without family ties. He was taller, stockier, and had much less hair, but he had deep-set, penetrating brown eyes that called for respect. Born in Tehran to middle-class parents, he had joined the Iranian Navy straight from university and was attracted to the submarine life. He was fascinated by the power, the technology and the stealth of these underwater warships. Like his commanding officer, Zaha had served in French nuclear submarines. If he had only had a little more experience, the current position may well have been reversed and he would now be in command of the Delta. However, he had great respect for Kamani and considered it a privilege to serve as his XO on this momentous mission for the glory of Islam and Allah. His beliefs and hatreds followed those of Kamani’s. He dearly wanted to see the destruction of the infidel and a Fundamentalist Islamic Federation in total control of all Middle Eastern regions. The call had been taken up and he could not wait to fulfil what he thought to be his rightful destiny.
After week four, the submarine had crept slowly south through what seemed an endless ocean, at speeds between five to seven knots and at depths of 500 to 600 feet. Yet they were almost to the Antarctic Circle. They had not surfaced once or raised the periscope; navigation had been purely by the vessel’s inertial navigation system (SINS), providing the submarine with a continuous and accurate picture of its position as it passed well east of the Hawaiian Islands and French Polynesia and then on down into the vastness of the empty southern Pacific, west of South America.
During the long, slow journey down the Pacific, Asad Kamani and Hamid Zaha had made good use of their time, quietly observing the myriad of technical activities on board K449, absorbing everything they could under the guidance of Captain Grosky. They carefully studied the operational systems and the day-to-day running of the vessel until they knew almost all there was to know about the individual idiosyncrasies common to every submarine.
Sitting together on their bunks, Zaha voiced concerns. “The Russian crew are very efficient; I worry when we take control the new crew won’t be as good. If we are to succeed, we all need to be at our best.”
“Probably not at first,” Kamani replied. “They will not have spent time together in this class of boat. But do not worry, Hamid, all are handpicked and highly experienced, having operated in French, Chinese and in some cases, American nuclear subs. We will use the time we have during our journey to make them efficient. They will cope well. Remember, it is our first command of a nuclear boat. Our superiors have confidence in us; therefore, we should also have confidence in our crew.”
“This Delta is old. I fear if we are hunted, it will be by state-of-the-art enemy boats.”
“Only if they are aware of us and our mission. Stealth is paramount, swiftly striking the target close in, then disappearing quickly back into the depths. You surprise me, Hamid. I find no fault in any of the systems; the sonar is excellent and in my opinion the refit has made her all but new and capable of holding her own in any situation. You had better believe that, Hamid. We are on a mission for Allah and cannot fail.”
“Russian nuclear sub propulsion systems have a history of breaking down with disastrous consequences, as you well know, and we have a long way to go.”
“You worry too much,” shot Kamani, seemingly irritated by his number two. “I’ve been k
eeping a close watch on the daily reports from the engineer. Everything is in order.”
Zaha nodded and dropped the subject. “Then all we can hope for is that this boat and the freighter carrying the warhead reach the RV safely and we go on to successfully complete our mission – Allahu Akbar!”
Both men lapsed into silence, returning to their technical manuals.
Now almost at the Antarctic Circle, relatively safe deep in the southern Pacific and ready to turn due east, they were over what Captain Grosky perceived to be the most dangerous part of the journey. He was glad they had not encountered hostile submarines, but would keep the 12 USET-80 torpedoes stored and ready to be fired in the four 21-inch forward tubes. He looked up from the map table and around the control room, taking in the many computer screens and consuls and felt reassured listening to the almost inaudible hum of the 52,000-hp nuclear propulsion system. The two VM-4 Pressurized Water Reactors (PWR) gave unending power for all the Delta’s systems and drove the 10,600 ton sleek hull silently through the depths at a maximum speed of twenty-five knots. It was virtually undetectable under ten knots. From the sonar centre alongside the control, he listened to the subdued voices of the operators as they monitored the updated active/passive sonar suite. Sonar was their eyes and ears, and to him one of the most important parts of the boat. He thought about the SS-N-18 ‘Stingray’, liquid-propelled ballistic missiles (SLBM) sitting snugly in four of the sixteen tubes towards the stern and wondered when the Korean admiral would order the test firing. With these thoughts, he turned to the helmsman. “Come left 90 degrees, steer course two-seven-zero. Make your depth 400. Make your speed ten…”
9
Light drizzle fell as Frank Ryder led the team in single-file through the dense forest heading northwest. Several hours had passed since leaving Sinhung. Travelling through the night with only brief stops, dawn broke and it was time for a full rest. He would have preferred to continue, but worried that Grace might falter in keeping up with the gruelling pace. They had moved relatively swiftly through the darkness, covering some fifteen klicks. Fortunately, the valleys they followed pointed roughly in the direction they were headed, avoiding the necessity of climbing the often steep slopes to either side. This area of mountains was remote and seemingly uninhabited; he hoped it would stay that way. If they were being pursued, searchers would have to cover a very wide, rugged area and he counted upon it being more directly to the north or better still, to the south.
Eventually they reached a rocky outcrop that housed a cave big enough for all to rest under cover until the late afternoon. Then it would be time to move out again. After checking that all was clear inside, they made camp, thankful to be out of the rain. Bom took watch and the rest settled in. Soon they had a small fire burning and they tucked into rations, boiling a pot full of water from a nearby stream.
Grace could not eat. She was totally exhausted after the forced march. She looked all done in. Ryder could almost feel her pain, but knew there was no turning back now.
He moved to her side. “I know this is tough, but a lot of people are depending on us. Without you, this whole thing will fail.”
She nodded, running her hand through matted hair.
He encouraged her to eat a little rice and meat, which she reluctantly did.
“Get some sleep, you’ll feel better later,” he said when she’d finished.
Without another word she curled up by the wall closest to the fire and fell into a fitful sleep.
“What’s our position, boss?” Chol asked, finishing a strip of dried goat meat.
“About five klicks southeast of a place called Hagaru-ri. A small town by a lake,” Ryder replied. A town of low-rise, mainly concrete buildings, bitterly remembered by the Americans for the fierce fighting that took place around it during the Korean War.
“How far is that from where we’re heading?”
Ryder reached for the map and spread it. “Sixty klicks. A little luck and we should make it in three days or less.”
“Do we go through this Hagaru-ri?” asked Chol.
“I’d prefer to avoid it, but it’d be a big detour if we don’t.”
“Can we?” shot Song.
“Maybe, if we take the lake instead,” replied Frank, thinking again about Grace. A boat ride would at least give her some respite from the relentless pace he had set. “It’s about twelve klicks long. I suggest we hijack a boat and go as far north as we can. Doing this will reduce travel time by at least a day.”
“And if we can’t find a boat?” Chol questioned.
“Then we’ve no choice but to go through.”
“The Koreans must use the lake for trade; there has to be boats,” said Chol.
Ryder glanced at each of the others. “Okay, it looks like a boat, but we’ll assess the situation when we get there. Change out of those uniforms; they might raise suspicion if we encounter anyone in this wilderness. Our peasant gear is better anyway. Keep them, though; they’ll be useful if we find a base.”
They agreed to the watch. Ryder then reminded the men to shave as best they could; he did not want the team drawing attention unnecessarily. Most males encountered so far were clean-shaven.
The men changed back into peasant gear and packed the uniforms into the sacks before finally turning in.
10
The captain of the Maru Blue lowered his binoculars and handed them to Ali bin Rashid, pointing to the white mountain rising out of the ocean on the horizon.
“Heard Island… And that my friend is ‘Big Ben’ directly ahead,” he said in soft tones.
“Very impressive,” the al-Qaeda operative replied, scanning the island’s highest mountain, Mawson Peak – an active volcano. “How soon will we arrive?”
“Three hours, then we will drop anchor in Atlas Cove.”
Rashid smiled and handed the binoculars back to Captain Moradi.
“Heard Island,” offered the captain, “was named after Captain John Heard, an American who sighted the pinpoint of land in 1853.”
“The infidels are everywhere,” snarled Rashid. “Where did you learn this?”
“It is my job to know everything about the oceans.”
“Tell me more about this little island.”
“It is one of the remotest islands in the southern Indian Ocean. That’s why it was chosen. Atlas Cove is a sheltered inlet at the northwestern side. It was here that most of the scientific stations were set-up. The island is officially Australian territory.”
“Are we likely to encounter anyone?”
The captain laughed. “No, all scientific research was abandoned late last century. It is now only inhabited by sea mammals and birds. The remote location precludes it from regular shipping lanes and from being overflown by commercial airlines; also, and most important of all, away from the all-seeing eyes of satellites.” He hated the Americans with a passion since the time they murdered his grandfather during the attempted rescue of the embassy hostages in Tehran back in 1979. He did not hesitate to join al-Qaeda when they came to Iran to seek recruits. He left the Iranian Navy, obtained a commercial captain’s licence and gave his services to the organization without question whenever and wherever required. He was able to master most seagoing vessels and find the appropriate, trustworthy crews equally fervent for the cause.
Rashid seemed assured and wanted to know the statistics of this island.
The captain obliged. “It is roughly circular, around twenty-five miles in diameter, and has over seventy percent of its surface permanently iced, some say up to 500 feet. Big Ben feeds a dozen glaciers descending from the summit, forming large ice cliffs along the coastline. Atlas Cove, fortunately for us, is fairly sheltered from the winds. It’s a godforsaken wasteland, gale-swept for most of the year and represents the tip of an underwater mountain range rising three to four miles above the ocean floor.”
Rashid nodded. “Inhospitable, to say the least. But it will serve our needs,” he said quietly before slipping back into a silent
, reflective mood. As a boy from an impoverished family living in the Saudi Arabian city of Riyadh, Rashid had been encouraged by his father to follow the teachings of the puritanical Islamic preacher, Abdul Wahhab. His head was filled with the austere and deeply conservative brand of religious zealotry that had not progressed since the Middle Ages. However, as a young man, he had no ambitions to become a cleric so he joined the Saudi Arabian Army and rose against all odds to become a major in the Intelligence Corps whilst still secretly following the Wahhabi doctrine. On the surface, all seemed well. He managed the two diverse lives without too much effort, but beneath the surface he was gradually drawn into the hatred that bubbled amongst a minority officer class against the Saudi Royal Family. At first he supplied them with periphery general intelligence, increasing to specific classified information of the Saudi Army’s military movements and also those of its Western allies. Eventually it became too risky to carry on, so Rashid’s beliefs led him to leave the army and join the terrorist group al-Qaeda.
After many months of negotiation, the North Koreans had agreed to supply a warhead carrying the specific weapon required by al-Qaeda and would also act as an intermediary in obtaining a missile and a nuclear submarine for the right price. The Maru Blue had spent three days at Nampo, during which time Rashid attended several secret meetings with Korean officials to finalize details and take possession of the warhead. On the last day, in a secure underground laboratory full of technicians and military personnel, he had inspected the gleaming white warhead and watched as the contents were assembled with great care and placed securely within the cone. The outer edge was prepared for easy attachment to a missile and was then carefully stored away inside a foam and metal-lined wooden crate. It had been a much harder task to obtain the nuclear submarine and cost a great deal of money. The North Koreans had lied to the Russians, telling them they wanted to start a blue water presence in the Pacific. Rashid recalled their scepticism at the time, but the deal eventually had gone through. This had called for a total handover of the vessel to a predominantly Korean crew away from prying eyes and the return of the Russian trial crew to Vladivostok. The deal also included a full complement of live torpedoes and SLBMs. The Russian Eastern Command, in need of funds, reluctantly accepted most of the conditions, but would only provide four missiles for testing purposes. They stopped short at supplying the missiles with live warheads. This of course did not bother Rashid, as he only needed one missile anyway; the Koreans were providing the warhead. Rashid had also guessed rightly that from the Russian point of view, the quicker they fulfilled their part of the deal and banked the money, the better. Thus, for a considerable sum of money, al-Qaeda eventually purchased the perfect delivery vehicles: four Russian R-29 ([SS-N-18) Stingray submarine-launched ballistic missiles (SLBM), a deadly warhead and a partly manned Delta III Russian nuclear submarine from which to launch it deep beneath the waves on the doorstep of the infidel’s lair.
Paths of Courage Page 7