“I have enough,” Grace quickly replied, sadness in her voice as she looked down on the skeletal body of the worst of the two women. “This woman needs nourishment immediately,” and she reached into her pack offering what was left of her rations, but all the woman could do was look at it with glazed, unseeing eyes.
Ryder said nothing; the women had not the strength to eat what was offered.
The Korean spoke and Bom translated. “They only eat the daily corn cake with water, together with dead rats eaten raw and anything else edible that comes their way. He says not to waste food on them, they want to die with our help.”
Appalled at the desperation of these poor people, Ryder asked, “Where is the camp?”
Bom put the question and came back shortly with a look of surprise. “He wants to know who we are and won’t tell us unless we agree to end their misery.”
Ryder was taken aback by the reply, but knew they would have to kill them anyway; no one could remain alive to tell of their presence.
“Tell him we’re British and here to help rid his country of the dictator.” He paused and looked the man straight in the eye. “Tell him also we’ll do as he asks.”
Bom did. The man bowed his head and shortly looked up again. His eyes filled with tears as he spoke.
Bom quickly translated and there was a real edge to his voice now. “He says the camp is very small compared to the others. It houses around 1,500 inmates, mainly political and of the Christian faith. Apparently the regime hates that faith more than any other.” He turned to Grace, then back to Ryder. “He also states that the inmates are primarily used to test biological and chemical agents.”
Ryder and Grace threw an urgent, hopeful glance at one another. In the silence that ensued only the sounds of the forest and the jingling of the mules’ harness could be heard.
“What type of testing?” shot Grace. She was all business now.
Bom asked, conveying the answer. “He doesn’t know. Says many are deformed and disfigured by the experiments and often die slowly. Some die quickly. Others are just beaten to death.”
“Do they carry out the testing in the camp?” Grace pressed.
Bom asked and quickly replied, “No; the inmates are taken somewhere outside the camp.”
“Does he know where?” Ryder pushed, his anticipation growing.
“No,” replied Bom.
“How long are inmates away from the camp?”
“Some a long time, others no more than a few days. Some only a few hours and some never return,” Bom came back.
“That could mean lab facilities are close to the camp – the one we’re looking for,” said Grace, staring intently at Ryder.
“Let’s just hope it is,” he replied with a sense of relief. “Can he tell us anything more about where the inmates are taken, how they are taken and at what intervals?”
Bom asked and translated the reply. “Inmates who’ve been there and survived say they are taken into an underground facility somewhere in the surrounding hills. Some are transported by truck, others by mule-drawn cart, but most are marched. The frequency is maybe two or three times a month and only in darkness.”
Ryder knew there was nothing more to be gained hanging around any longer. “We’re done here,” he said, looking with sorrow at the group of quietly sobbing men and women. “Greg, hand him your pistol. We can only give him a few minutes.” He and Grace then walked a discreet distance away and waited.
Grace buried her head in Ryder’s shoulder and he comforted her. She did not want to watch. Several short ‘phuts’ from the suppressed pistol told them it was over. The Korean killed his six companions in quick succession and then turned the gun on himself.
Bom retrieved the pistol from the forest floor.
“Let’s bury them and those bastards,” Ryder said, nodding towards the dead soldiers. “We don’t want them to be found in a hurry.” Fortunately, the ground was soft and the two men quickly dug shallow graves amongst the trees and scattered leaves and branches over the freshly dug soil. They then led the mules and cart into the denser part of the wood, unharnessed the animals and shooed them away.
When they were satisfied the area showed little sign of what had happened, Ryder, Grace and Bom hurried away from the clearing and headed towards the next rendezvous point with the others. Shaken by the whole episode, they hoped maybe they were finally on the brink of discovering the bio-lab they had come all this way to find.
20
Hugging the rugged south Chilean coastline in the shoals, 150 nautical miles and fifteen hours later, K449 cautiously approached the narrow stretch of water between Penin and Brecknock Islands at the western end of the sixty-mile long, gently curving, doglegged Cockburn Channel. It was deemed necessary from here on in to make way at periscope depth to see where they were going and to lessen the use of active sonar to detect underwater objects in their path. Since his encounter with the American submarine, Captain Kamani worried that even in these back channels and waterways, enemy submarines could be lurking. He worried too that American military satellite coverage may even exist in these more remote regions to detect the wake of the periscope as it sliced through the cold, grey waters. However, the likelihood of submarines outweighed the presence of satellites.
“Proceed to periscope depth,” he ordered.
Minutes later, “Up periscope.”
The hiss of hydraulics faded and the viewer came to eye level. Captain Kamani lowered the bar grips and looked through the lens for the first time on leaving Heard Island.
Morning sunshine bathed the green slopes of the two islands to the fore and beyond them the white-capped mountains filled the lens in a blue grey-haze as they rose majestically out from the sea. This was indeed a stark and beautiful land, lost in splendid isolation and a far cry from the brown desert regions where he was born.
“Come left 2 degrees. Reduce speed to five knots. Keep her trim,” said the captain as he lined up K449 to go through the centre of the narrow channel between the islands. He was thankful he had more than 400 feet of water below him and would have much more once he was through.
Fifteen minutes later, they came out of the 1,000-foot wide stretch of water into the main Cockburn Channel without a hitch and continued on a westward course at periscope depth, increasing speed to ten knots. Before them, the channel widened to three miles or so. Steep slopes of the surrounding mountains formed a corridor dominating the scene, plunging straight down to the channel floor some 1,400 feet below the water’s surface. The charts gave no indication of dangerous land formations below the surface, but nevertheless Captain Kamani was taking no chances. He ordered intermittent use of active sonar to ensure no underwater rocky outcrops lay in their path. The deep waters created a confusion of currents, strong and treacherous, and course corrections had to be continuously made. Both the captain and his XO shared the periscope making sure they kept to the middle of the channel at all times. However, as they progressed down the stretch of water, becoming more accustomed to the tidal currents, they allowed themselves to relax a little and even enjoy, to a certain extent, what they could see of this foreign land through the periscope lens.
Several hours later, after bisecting the southern Andes, K449 reached the dogleg three quarters of the way through the Cockburn Channel. Captain Kamani ordered left full rudder to proceed on a northerly course into a broadening stretch of steel-grey waters as the evening shadows began to dim the horizon. The lens displayed fading sunlight, illuminating the snow-capped peaks of Mount Hurt on the starboard side and Mount Vernal to port. Once past these craggy sentinels, K449 would enter the much broader reaches of the central Magellan Strait.
Three hours later they entered the Strait from the south, opposite the Brunswick Peninsular some twenty miles in the distance, with the large Dawson Island one mile to starboard. Here at the bottom point of the Magellan’s own dogleg, where the narrower arm to the Pacific joined the much broader arm stretching northeast, K449 turned into the br
oader arm that led to the Atlantic. The Portuguese explorer Ferdinand Magellan discovered the Strait in 1520. Once a popular trade route for sailing ships from the Atlantic into the Pacific as an alternative to navigating the dangerous waters around Cape Horn, it was now used mostly by scientific expeditions and tourist cruisers.
After sharing time between the Magellan maritime charts and the periscope, Captain Kamani and Lieutenant Zaha now studied the charts together.
“One hundred and eighty miles to the Atlantic,” said the captain. “At fifteen knots, we should be there in less than twelve hours.”
“The narrows here could be a problem,” said the lieutenant, pointing to a neck one mile wide and six miles long, two-thirds the way up the Strait between broad stretches of water. These were named St Phillip Bay and De Lomas Bay, the latter being at the mouth leading into the Atlantic.
“Better than when we entered the Cockburn Channel,” said the captain.
“I agree, but the chart indicates depths of only around 200 feet.”
“Lieutenant, we have no alternative but to go through,” Kamani said sharply. “Our problem will be entering the Atlantic in about the same depth of water.”
The XO shrugged. “That depth could expose us to anyone on shore; the eastern end is far more populated than the more remote west. The map indicates it is the closest point to the mainland from the island of Tierra del Fuego. Ferries must operate here and ferries mean people.”
The captain replied with finality. “We’re going through.”
The lieutenant nodded acceptance and looked back down at the chart.
“There is a large township here,” Zaha said, pointing to a position halfway up the northeast arm on the western side.
“Punta Arenas,” shot the captain. “The most southerly city in the world; population: about 150,000.”
“Could mean surface activity.”
“Probably; the Strait is twenty miles across at that point. We will stick to the centre. When we pass, it will be in darkness. I doubt if there will be any activity at that time.”
“Deep water runs out at that point too,” shot Zaha. “Depths range from 600 feet to 150 at the mouth.”
“Let us hope an American sub is not waiting at the mouth. 150 does not leave much cover and even less to manoeuvre.”
The two men lapsed into silence as they continued to study the chart, then a few minutes later, the captain rubbed both eyes with the heel of his hands and said, “I will rest now; wake me when we reach the city.”
In a little over three hours, Kamani was back in the control room. He was rested as much as a man could be after a series of catnaps. He ordered the periscope up. In the distance, on the port beam, he could see the twinkling lights of Punta Arenas above the moonlit surface of the Strait. He then swung the scope 360 degrees slowly, the lens displaying land and sea in shades of darkness caught by the light of the full moon. He concluded that all was clear with nothing impeding their path. In approximately eight hours, they would be in the Atlantic.
Through the wide stretch they cruised at fifteen knots, fifty feet below the surface, on past Elizabeth Island, sweeping right into a narrow seven-mile wide channel that ran for some fifteen miles, before broadening out once again into St Phillip Bay. Here in this much more open expanse of water, Captain Kamani increased speed to twenty knots, heading direct for the narrowest part of the entire Strait twenty-eight miles dead ahead.
At the increased speed, K449 soon reached the one-mile strip of water separating Chile from Tierra del Fuego, reduced rate of knots to seven and promptly entered the narrow channel on a middle course. Dawn had all but broken as Captain Kamani ordered the periscope down and prepared to wait out the six-mile run.
“Captain – sonar. Go active.”
“Aye, sonar.”
The hollow pinging sound of the sonar, seeking underwater obstacles that may be in their path, rose above the quiet murmurings of the crew as they went about their business guiding K449 down the 150 to 200-foot deep channel.
Then, when they were one third along the narrows,
“Surface contact. Bearing zero-four-five. Range five miles. Speed fifteen knots.”
Captain Kamani leapt from the command seat.
“Up periscope.”
Seconds later he had eye to the viewer and in the cold light of a clear dawn, he observed a cruise liner, lights ablaze, coming straight at him down the centre of the channel from around the starboard headland. He guessed it to be 40,000 tons, or more, with a probable draft in excess of forty feet. That kind of depth would create a major underwater surge, sufficient to do them damage if the ship came too close in this relatively narrow channel. He quickly calculated they had less than ten minutes to get out of the way.
“Left 3 degrees. Increase speed to ten knots. Take her down one hundred.”
“Aye, sir,” said the helmsman, then repeated the order.
K449 responded immediately and began to descend on the course change.
Two minutes later the helmsman called, “Seabed rising. One hundred… Seventy-five… Fifty.”
“Level off!” Kamani ordered urgently.
They were now so close to the shoreline the seabed was rapidly rising to meet it.
“Captain – sonar. Contact course two-two-five. Speed unchanged. Range 1,000 yards and closing.”
“Captain, aye,” acknowledged Kamani, now seriously concerned that the liner had changed course to come closer to the shoreline that he was running parallel with. If the liner kept on coming, it would effectively squeeze him up against the shore. He calculated there would be less than 500 feet between them if the liner remained on its present course, and he could get no closer to the shore at the time that they were passing.
“Come to periscope depth – all haste. Rise with the seabed. Keep your depth ten feet clear. Maintain periscope depth.”
One minute later, “Up periscope.”
“Captain – sonar. Contact course unchanged. Speed unchanged. Range 500 yards.”
The periscope hissed into position; Kamani grabbed at the cross grips and hurriedly looked through the viewer, heart leaping upon seeing the big liner fill the lens; it was almost upon them. They were now so close into the shoreline with no more room to manoeuvre in the 1,500 feet that separated the two vessels. If he did not react immediately to the danger, K449 would effectively be crushed against the steeply rising channel bed.
“Flank speed!” he all but screamed, praying the seabed rose evenly and had no uncharted obstacles along its course.
K449 surged forward at full speed like a startled fish, her hull scraping the seabed in the frantic effort to escape the fast narrowing confines, wobbling sharply as the underwater turbulence of both ships met when the liner passed only 200 feet away to starboard.
They made it to safety, but only by the smallest of margins.
“Reduce speed to ten knots,” ordered a relieved Captain Kamani once out of the narrow channel and into De Lomas Bay. “All sections check and report on damage.”
Those on the bridge of the cruise liner had noticed the sudden surge of water forming a bow wave to starboard for no apparent reason. The duty officer duly logged it and continued his watch, wondering if perhaps that could have been a sub, but immediately discounted it on the grounds that it was unlikely for one to be here in the Strait and so close to the shore.
Soon reports came back to Captain Kamani that no damage had occurred to K449 and all was intact, apart from superficial damage to the hull, which in no way weakened its structural integrity according to the monitoring equipment. The captain was again relieved and thanked Allah for their good fortune. However, he would have preferred a visual check of the hull, but there was no time for that. He worried too that someone on the liner may have seen the swell caused by the sudden burst of underwater speed so close to the surface.
De Lomas Bay was the last stretch of water before entering the Atlantic forty miles eastwards through the seventeen mile wide mouth betw
een Point Catalina on the south side and Point Dungeness on the north. According to the charts, water depth there ranged from between 150 to 200 feet. If the mouth was patrolled, and Kamani had no reason to believe otherwise based on what they had experienced at the other end, they could expect a passage fraught with danger and this time there would be no alternative route to take.
“We will go in as close as we can to the northern shore and creep around this head at no more than five knots,” said the captain to his XO, running his finger over the chart and placing it down on Dungeness Point. “And pray to Allah we get lost in shore noise to anyone listening.”
Four hours later, K449 arrived without mishap at Dungeness Point and edged slowly around the headland, two miles offshore, heading north into the Atlantic and keeping as close as she dared to the coastline. Once well away from the mouth, a sense of profound relief overcame Captain Kamani and his crew, knowing that they had come through the Magellan Strait and into the Atlantic Ocean unscathed. They gave thanks to Allah for deliverance and the heightened opportunity now to strike at the very heart of the infidel for the glory of Islam.
21
From a well-concealed vantage point overlooking gulag Camp 19, Ryder focused his binoculars on the oblong-shaped camp below, enclosed by a double line of five-yard high mesh fencing topped with barbed-wire. From what he could make out, the compound covered a very large area surrounded by dense forest. The smell of sewage and wood smoke hung heavily in the air. Lines of single-storey rectangular army-style barracks were laid out in a regular pattern for as far as the eye could see. To the left, on the shorter western end immediately below them stood the main gate, the administration buildings and what Ryder assumed to be a large hall. In the early evening light, from their elevated position, they could clearly make out inmates milling around the timber huts, guards at the entrance and a group of fifteen to twenty inmates being herded into the hall. One of them had been set upon by several guards and was being beaten mercilessly.
Paths of Courage Page 12