“Not if it’s done gradually and, as I said, with precision. Both subs are following one another; their courses are almost identical. Once we get into line and in behind Hostile One, we will merge as one on Hostile Two’s sonar.”
“When will we break away?”
“When it’s safe to do so or should the American turn and head for deeper water. Whatever happens, we must stay close inshore.”
“Very well, Captain,” said the XO, his adrenaline surging.
Captain Denko ordered the helmsman to adjust course to come in line with that of the American submarine and to increase speed sufficiently to catch up with Hostile One in a slow and precise manner, finishing, “Keep a tight line astern and keep as close as you can get in the wake. Our lives will depend on it.”
For the next two hours, K267 inched its way into Hostile One’s wake without incident and then sat there in 400 feet of water following the unsuspecting American submarine along the African coastline at speeds varying between fifteen to twenty knots. Hostile Two trailed some four miles astern, with only his fellow countryman up front showing on the sonar screens.
Twenty-four hours later, Hostile One suddenly veered west into deeper water, followed by Hostile Two; K267 maintained her course, reducing speed to less than five knots in the protection of the noisy African shoreline off Cape Columbine, a hundred miles north of Cape Town. The two American submarines gathered speed as they penetrated the wider ocean, unaware that they had been instrumental in assisting the Russian submarine to enter into the Atlantic undetected.
17
After eight hours of almost non-stop trekking at a steady pace, Ryder led his exhausted band into a shallow scrub-filled hollow surrounded by trees. Darkness fell in the small, narrow valley more than twenty klicks from the lake. Since the morning, they had traversed undulating tree and scrub-covered terrain, broken by steep valleys, ravines and narrow ridges. There was no sign of human presence, apart from a small convoy of army vehicles seen travelling along a dirt road just north of the lake. This reinforced the fear that they were being hunted and the hunters may well know the direction they were taking. If correct, their mission would now be doubly dangerous; extra vigilance was now imperative.
They quickly settled into the hollow and formed a makeshift brush shelter amongst the tangled scrub. Ryder insisted on no fire; rations were to be eaten cold. Fortunately, the good weather held and the summer temperatures meant that they would not freeze during the night. With Chol on first watch, the rest bunched together, unable to sleep until the adrenaline began to subside.
Ryder looked over at the captain; Grace had kept up well. He could see her exhaustion and felt sorry for her. He could not deny the spunk of the lady.
“You okay?” he asked with genuine concern.
She attempted a smile. “I ache all over and my feet feel like lead,” she said wearily, running her fingers through matted hair. “Believe me, a shower and a good night’s sleep would go down very well.”
“No shower, but go for the sleep. We’ll rest up at least until early morning.”
Grace managed a grin. “Thanks, boss.”
They finished eating in silence and then, one by one, exhausted bodies succumbed to sleep.
Night passed without a hitch and they awoke refreshed to the sound of a dawn chorus as the sun rose in a clear sky. After a quick breakfast of dried meat and water, Ryder checked the GPS and confirmed what he and the rest had suspected: they were now on the southern fringe of the search area. Today, the search pattern would begin. The sixteen-klick square grid, predefined on the map and subdivided into smaller eight-klick square grids, would be systematically searched grid by grid.
“Okay, it’s confirmed; we’re on the southeastern fringe of the search box so we start as of now,” he declared with a sense of relief. Now they could get on with what they had come to do.
As planned, they split into two groups – one with Song and Chol, the other Ryder, Bom and Seymour. He wanted to keep an eye on the doc himself. If something happened to her, it would put the whole operation in serious jeopardy. Separate searching covered more area in less time and should something happen to take one group out, it was possible the other could carry on. At the end of each day, the two groups would meet at prearranged coordinates within the search grid to share and act on what they had found.
Shortly after all signs of their presence in the hollow were removed, Ryder gave the order to move out. Both groups promptly headed away in opposite directions along the valley and up into the tree-lined hills.
Bom went up alongside Ryder. “That convoy we saw back there, boss; not a good sign.”
“Maybe an exercise of some sort? Seen nothing since,” he said, hiding concern. It did reinforce his worry that the commies were more than likely hunting them. Their vulnerability weighed heavily.
“If it’s us they’re looking for, Frank, a convoy that size in this wilderness would suggest they know which direction we’re heading,” Bom pressed, outwardly calm, but Ryder could sense his nervousness.
“They don’t know who we are or why we’re here; that gives us an advantage to stay one step ahead unless they get lucky,” he said, more to reassure himself than Bom. “Stay extra alert.”
They lapsed into silence and moved in single file into the trees. The mountain air felt fresh and clean, and Ryder, although apprehensive, felt a strong feeling of anticipation knowing they had now begun the search in earnest.
18
In the control room of K449, Captain Kamani looked up from the chart table and turned to his XO.
“Another hour and we will enter the Strait. Cape Pilar is ten miles on bearing zero-six-four.” He swung to the helmsman. “Maintain present course. Reduce speed to seven knots. Make your depth 400 feet.”
After twelve uneventful days slicing eastward through the cold depths of the southeast Pacific Basin from Heard Island, K449 had all but reached her destination. Following latitude 60 degrees south along the Pacific Antarctic Ridge at a maximum speed of twenty-five knots and at a constant depth of 600 feet, the Strait of Magellan lay not far ahead to the northeast. He had not worried much about detection in the remote southern waters, on a course that had taken them part-way near and almost parallel to the Antarctic continent’s coastline. However, when they were within 200 miles of Drake Passage, he’d altered course to head northeast directly towards the Strait, reducing speed to ten knots in case American submarines had ventured well west of the Passage. During the long journey, both he and his crew had used the time to hone up on skills necessary to run the sleek, black warship competently and with a high degree of confidence.
“Captain – sonar. Contact bearing zero-four-five. Course one-two-five. Range eight miles. Speed twenty-five knots.”
“At the entrance to the Strait!” shot the XO.
“Profile translation,” called Captain Kamani, voice calm.
Seconds later, “Los Angeles-class, SSN seven-two-three.”
“She will hear us if we go through,” the XO said anxiously.
“Reduce speed to four knots. Maintain course,” ordered the captain. “The Americans are taking no chances patrolling this far up from Drake Passage and seem not to care who hears.”
“Obviously, at that speed. Thanks to Allah, she is travelling fast enough to hear. What now?”
“Maintain present course and speed on into the Strait. I am confident she will not hear us this close in.”
“Unless she switches to active.”
“Then we must rely on Allah to protect us,” said Captain Kamani abruptly, returning to his charts.
The American submarine barrelled across K449’s path only seven miles ahead and three miles out from Cape Pilar in the noisy coastal waters, 400 feet below the surface, seemingly oblivious to the Russian submarine off her starboard bow. K449 continued slowly ahead at the same depth, trusting she was safe in the turbulence of the shoreline currents.
“Captain – sonar. Contact course now two-zero-
two. Bearing zero-five-zero. Speed unchanged.”
Kamani and his executive officer together looked up urgently at the tracking screens.
“She’s turned and coming straight at us!” the XO cried.
Captain Kamani remained calm, mind calculating the level of evasive action. The American would be on them in less than fifteen minutes if both vessels maintained their present course and speed. He dared not increase speed for fear of detection, and to stand and fight was out of the question.
He came to a decision, “Stop all engines, lay to the seabed. Prepare for silent ship.”
K449 immediately angled down through the water at 15 degrees to the horizontal gliding silently in free fall until coming to rest on the ocean floor some 600 feet below the surface. Shortly after, as they waited silently on the seabed, the American submarine cruised past, 200 feet overhead; the menacing sound of its propeller turbulence filling the occupants of K449 with dread.
“Captain – sonar. Contact course changed to two-nine-two. Bearing two-eight-zero. Speed unchanged.”
“Captain, aye.”
“Allah be praised, the infidels have not gone active – otherwise we would probably be cooked fish by now,” said Lieutenant Zaha with a forced grin, sweat glistening on his forehead.
The captain ignored the XO’s attempt to ease the tension; his mind was on other things. “This course reversal indicates they are backtracking, which means the mouth of the Strait is being closely patrolled back and forth or possibly in a triangular pattern into the mouth. Either way it is going to be very dangerous now to attempt entry, even at a snail’s pace,” he concluded, disappointment in his voice.
“We have to try,” said the XO, voice taut. “Otherwise, all we have achieved so far will have been a waste of time and our mission for the glory of Islam will be a total failure.”
“Lieutenant, do not think for one moment that I intend to give up because of this setback. We have not come all this way to be stopped by a single American submarine,” shot Kamani, anger now in his words. “We will still go through the Magellan, but not the way we intended.”
The XO looked at his captain in surprise.
The captain turned back to the charts. “Look at this,” he said, anger diminished. He ran a finger down the detailed maritime map covering the southern Chilean coastline with its myriad of big and small islands, inlets and channels, and tapped the end of his finger on a point halfway down the chart. “I have been looking closely since we left the island for an alternative way through just in case. This waterway here, called the Cockburn Channel, provides that alternative. The stretch is deep according to the chart, almost 1,600 feet, narrow I concede, but it connects midway into the Magellan and is a much shorter route. I believe we can navigate safely through into the broader reaches of the Strait here.” He stabbed a finger where the narrow channel met the broader central reaches of the Magellan Strait. “We can be through in less than ten hours at five to six knots.”
“How wide is the channel?”
“The widest entry point is here.” Kamani pointed to the small group of islands at the entrance to the channel. “One thousand feet between this island, Penin, and the one next to it, Brecknock. Once through, the channel broadens out, averaging three to four miles across, as you can see.”
“You are right, Captain. The main channel looks only marginally narrower than the western stretch of the Magellan. Why did we not observe this before?”
“Simply because I had no idea it existed until looking at the collection of quality maritime charts we carry. This whole southern area is one mass of islands, inlets and channels; only a captain familiar with this part of the world would know of its existence.”
The two men lapsed into silence as both poured over the chart, noting all information necessary to negotiate their way through the Cockburn Channel.
Eventually the captain looked up.
“Captain – sonar. What is the position of the American sub?”
“Captain – sonar. Contact bearing three-one-five. Speed twenty-five knots. Range fifteen miles. Course three-two-zero.”
Kamani turned to his XO and said, “She’s heading fast away. Soon the infidel will be well to the north and unlikely to bother us again. It is time to move south. Start engines.” Then to the helmsman, he ordered, “Course one-one-two. Speed ten knots. Make your depth 400.”
“Aye, sir,” then repeated the order.
Shortly, K449 rose slowly up from the sea floor, turned 130 degrees in a wide sweep, and headed south for the Cockburn Channel.
19
Ryder, Bom and Captain Seymour made their way at a steady pace through the rough terrain; the sun rising and penetrating through the conifers and birch cast a pale watery light over the forested landscape. They were now in the second day of combing this remote central mountain region east of Pyorha-ri, but so far all they had encountered was deserted forest. Grace was beginning to feel the strain of the search, engaging muscles she never knew she had. Her thighs and buttocks were starting to ache as never before, as she moved over the undulating, uneven ground. She hoped they would soon find what they were looking for. Chol and Song, searching further to the east, had also found nothing. Although gruelling and strenuous on the body, no stone was left unturned in their search. Fortunately, the weather held. The absence of military activity in the area also helped to reduce everyone’s fears that hunters were searching for them. If today’s search proved unsuccessful, they would have to move on and set up a new grid further west towards Pyorha-ri. Ryder seriously began to worry now. How long could the doc keep this up?
In the late afternoon, under low cloud cover, the group crested a narrow ridge and suddenly froze. Below them, at the bottom of a steep slope, they could see several ragged people milling about in a flat clearing less than forty yards away. A closer look revealed that they were loading logs onto a wagon drawn by two mules. Three uniformed guards stood close by watching, rifles slung over their shoulders, and frequently kicking individuals in the group whenever they stumbled or fell. They watched in horror at the brutality so unexpected in such isolated surroundings. Who were these poor wretches?
After a few minutes, Ryder signalled to continue on, thankful that no dogs were with the guards.
They carefully edged along the rim of the ridge.
Suddenly, Grace tripped on a partly concealed tree root, lost balance and crashed heavily halfway down the slope, alerting those below.
Two guards quickly turned to see what was happening, ran up the slope brandishing rifles and within seconds had reached the struggling Grace.
Reacting swiftly, Ryder and Bom reached for pistols, aimed and fired, instantly killing the two guards on the slope. Bom took out the remaining guard still in the clearing.
Scrambling down the slope, Ryder was relieved to find Grace uninjured and only slightly dazed from the fall. She quickly rallied and followed the other two down to the valley floor.
When they reached the emaciated group, Bom asked the ragged loggers who they were, noting three of the seven were women – two of whom were unable to stand. One of the men spoke frantically, but his accent was a thick, northern dialect. Neither Ryder nor Grace could understand a word he said. Fortunately, Bom did and he turned away looking shaken.
“They want us to shoot them,” he said quietly.
“Shoot them!” Ryder exclaimed. “Jesus Christ! What the hell is going down here?”
“They say they’ll be tortured and left to die slowly for the death of these guards.”
“Where’re they from?”
“Labour compound, five klicks north of here – Camp 19.”
“You mean like a Russian gulag?” Grace shot.
“Sounds worse,” Bom replied.
As they spoke, Grace tended to the two injured women. “These women are totally exhausted and badly beaten. They are near death,” she said sadly, comforting the worst of the two.
The strongest looking of the four men spoke in a listle
ss tone. Bom translated. “He says he’s the detachment leader.”
“Ask him why these women are in such a terrible state,” snapped Ryder, shocked at what he was seeing.
Bom did and replied. “The camp is full of women and children; these three are of many regularly abused by the camp officers, get little sleep and have had recent abortions. They were of no further use. Logging work normally finishes them off. He says inmates are used as human guinea pigs; they’re treated like animals.”
Thoughts flashed through Ryder’s mind on aspects he had learned from SIS files about North Korean gulags; the brutality, the depravity and dehumanization of the inmates. Over 400,000 men, women and children suffered daily, simply because they could not accept the harsh doctrine of Kim Jong Un’s dictatorial regime. Entire families, including children, were incarcerated and punished for one member’s indiscretion, even for the most simplest of political statements against the regime or on the basis of denunciation by those who sought revenge on innocent individuals. There were no human rights whatsoever in the thirty or so gulags scattered in the more remote northern regions. The beating and killing of inmates was not only tolerated but encouraged and even rewarded. These prison camps were throwbacks to those run last century by the Stalinist and Maoist communist regimes. They were used to eradicate political dissidents, whilst providing continuous cheap labour to manufacture goods and to mine for minerals. Kim Jong Un, like his father, Kim Jong Il, gloried in this heinous past.
“Why’s he there?” asked Ryder, anger showing.
Bom put the question and gave the answer. “Political detainee once held high-rank in the government’s electronic communications division. For various reasons he did not come up to expectations.”
“They’re being systematically starved,” Grace said, voice quivering. “Do we have any food to spare?”
“No,” Ryder shot back. “We need food ourselves.”
Paths of Courage Page 11