“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.
34
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.
35
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?
36
At about the same time as the two Russian submarines entered the Puerto Rico Trench, Captain Michael Curtis and his XO, Lieutenant-Commander Robert Talbot, stood intently watching data screens in the control centre of HMS Ambush as she too entered the Trench at latitude 18.25N, longitude 61W, approximately eighty nautical miles northeast of Barbuda – her depth at 300 feet and speed ten knots. They had strayed this far north on the captain’s hunch that the brief contact made at the mouth of the River Plate was in fact a Russian submarine. This hunch was spurred by similar faint intermittent contacts as they slowly moved northwards, frustrated by the inability to pinpoint the source or to obtain a positive translation. What sonar had recorded in the myriad of background noises was not really enough to call for more support, so Curtis had continued up the South American eastern and northern seaboards alone, keeping between fifty and seventy-five miles offshore, in the hope that his hunch would eventually prove right. However, doubts were now beginning to grow.
“How long since the last contact?” Curtis asked, worrying now he may have exceeded his discretionary brief, but sensing he was on the right track.
“Forty-eight hours.”
“Speed and position at the time?”
The XO referred to the computer, punching in the appropriate code. “Twelve knots; fifty nautical miles due east of St Vincent,” he paused to wait for another page to show. “Time: zero-eight hours. Sierra Eight, bearing two-two-five, very faint. Unable to record speed.”
“The bearing indicates we were ahead. The contact had to be doing less than seven.”
“Assuming a sub is out there, a course change could’ve been made; a move into deeper water. A Delta can be almost silent at ten,” offered the XO, not convinced the captain’s hunch was right.
“Possibly, but why do that? Why head for deeper water? Why risk detection?” Curtis lifted his cap and scratched his head. To go out further and deeper would definitely increase the chance of detection. All his instincts were telling him it would and that any captain worth his badge would not take the risk.
“Ten or less would still make it difficult to locate, even in deep water,” pressed the XO.
“You cannot argue, assuming a sub is out there, it would make her less vulnerable though, can you, Lieutenant?” Curtis shot back, knowing his friend and second in command had never really shared his conviction that a Russian sub would ever have chanced to make it through the net. Tempers were getting a little frayed after what could only be described as a tedious patrol so far.
“I agree, it could be more vulnerable, Captain,” conceded the XO, not wanting to exacerbate the situation, knowing his captain’s determination to continue on their current course.
Curtis nodded, satisfied.
“If you were the captain of a Russian sub in this vicinity bent on attacking an American city on the eastern seaboard, which course would you take?”
The XO thought for a moment. “Hug the coastline between the Leewards and the Trench on a northwesterly course, cross the Trench north of Puerto Rico then head northwest up the Atlantic side of the Bahamas, keeping close to the shoreline.”
“Why not the western side? North of the Dominican Republic, Haiti and Cuba?”
“Too shallow, especially the Great Bahama Bank and, to a lesser extent, the Florida Straits. To get pinged in those areas could prove fatal.”
“Exactly,” said Captain Curtis. “But I am very tempted to do the former.” However, he knew if he continued on the assumption that the rogue was out there based on the scant contacts made so far, he would be greatly exceeding his discretionary brief by coming even this far north. Curtis felt compelled to head back south or perhaps head northeast back to Faslane.
“The Americans will have adequate patrols along the eastern seaboard anyway. If the Russian gets that close, he’ll be very lucky,” said the XO in an attempt to discourage his captain from going further north.
Captain Curtis, after a few moments of thought, made up his mind and turned to the helmsman. “Steer course two-seven-zero. Speed fifteen. Make your depth 400.” He was not going to give up just yet; he would continue searching until they reached the western end of the Puerto Rico Trench. Glancing at the data screens one more time, he swung to the XO. “Lieutenant, we’re staying with it until we reach the Navidad Bank, then we head home.” He paused, awaiting a reply that never came. “I’m taking a break; you have the conn.”
37
Ryder soon reached the fire-fight and quickly took in the scene from a raised earth mound behind the North Koreans’ position. He could make out clearly four green-helmeted soldiers returning fire, together with eight dead and two dogs scattered amongst the trees and rocks. From the number of dead, he was concerned that Bom, Chol and Grace were on the receiving end. Scanning the area for more North Koreans, he saw none and came to a decision: he would attempt to take out the four below and hope they were the last.
Ryder set the AK-47 rifle for a single shot operation and quickly lined up the soldier furthest away. Squeezing the trigger, he watched the soldier slump over his rifle. Moving a few yards to his left so the next target gave a clearer shot, he fired and the man too collapsed into a heap. If it was Bom and Chol returning fire, they were doing a good job pinning the last two down. Suddenly the two soldiers rolled away from their position and started to retreat straight towards where Ryder hid. He fired immediately, dropping the nearest and then swung the AK towards the other, now almost upon him, and pulled the trigger. The rifle jammed. The Korean saw him and raised his weapon, but before he could pull the trigger, Ryder lunged at him with his knife, stabbing the man through the throat and killing him instantly.
Silence descended over the wooded area and Ryder waited to see who would emerge from the undergrowth. After a few minutes, he could wait no longer and whistled a bird call he knew the others would recognize.
Bom, wedged behind a rock not far from Grace, listened to the silence. Why had they stopped firing? Were the Koreans regrouping? Had they run out of ammunition? Then he heard the call.
Bom could hardly believe his ears; the boss and Song were supposed to be miles away. Returning the call, he waited, and then it came back. He and Chol ran to where Grace lay and found the doctor as they had left her.
Ryder emerged from the undergrowth and greeted the group, relieved to see all had come through the fire-fight. He quickly told them about the helicopter, including what happened on the ridge, urging them all to move out fast.
As dusk began to engulf the forest, Chol and Bom carried the stretcher and followed Ryder back to the helicopter. He hoped like hell that nothing had happened to Song in the meantime. He couldn’t believe their luck at commandeering this aircraft, which gave renewed hope of getting the fuck out of this place and back to safety.
They had almost reached the edge of the clearing when a sudden burst of gunfire sent them to the ground. Ryder frantically searched for the source; eventually he saw a handful of soldiers between the trees bearing down.
Alerted by the gunfire, Song instantly gunned the helicopter into life. As the blades began to whirl, he gradually opened the throttle and held it ready for immediate lift-off.
Ryder faced a dilemma: if they made a dash for the helicopter, they could all be mowed down; maintaining a rear guard to hold the Koreans back would give them a chance, but that unlucky person would have little, or no, chance of escaping. He came to a decision.
“Go for it! I’ll hold for as long as I can,” he shouted over the gunfire.
No one moved; they kept on firing.
“That’s an order!” Ryder screamed.
Bom took one end of the stretcher, expecting Chol to take the other, but he didn’t.
Ryder continued firing at the same time reaching for the vials.
Chol turned to Ryder and shouted into his ear, “You go! I’ll hold them! You’re Caucasian, Frank. If you get captured or if you die, they’ll use you
any way they can to discredit the West. I’m Korean; if I get captured in this uniform, they’ll think I’m just another insurgent. Get the fuck outta here, now! GO! GO! GO!”
Ryder knew Chol was right; bullets whizzed all around them and there was no time to argue. Gripping the stretcher, he and Bom hurried for the craft, now hovering a few feet off the ground.
Within seconds they reached the passenger door safely, hoisted Grace through, then bundled themselves inside amidst a hail of bullets. Despite the peppering, Ryder ordered Song to hold back in case Chol was behind. After waiting for what seemed a lifetime, he failed to show; they could wait no longer. Reluctantly, Ryder gave the order and Song immediately sent the helicopter soaring up into the darkening sky, banked sharply when they had sufficient height and headed southeast. As they rose, they watched soldiers rush out into the clearing still firing. Chol had held them back just long enough and presumably had paid with his life.
Dan Song flew the helicopter with confidence, hugging the treetops to avoid radar detection to the rendezvous beach, a journey that would take less than an hour at this altitude and at full speed, provided they did not encounter hostile aircraft.
Dumping the two dead Korean pilots shortly after take-off, Ryder and Bom allowed themselves to relax just a little. Song fought with the aircraft’s controls whilst Grace floated in and out of consciousness. Ryder knew the respite would be short-lived; the Korean air-force would be alerted by now, but he hoped and prayed they would have difficulty locating them in these mountains and in the darkness, which had now fully descended. He did his best to comfort Grace in the turbulence. She had suffered in the last two days. Soon, he hoped, she would be back on the submarine where proper medical attention could be given. Mouth dry, mind whirling, Ryder wondered if the Queen’s shilling was worth it. He would have given anything at that moment to be in his local with a pint and a fag.
Paths of Courage Page 18