The helicopter bucked and weaved as it swept through wooded valleys just above the treetops. Song showed his skill at the controls as he flew low across dark open spaces and above rocky outcrops. The roar of the engines drowned out everything else as they flew over dimly-lit townships, unlit villages and across moonlit rivers following a precarious and erratic route towards the southeast and the rendezvous beach. They all hoped and prayed their luck would hold out.
Eventually they saw the pale glow of the ocean not far in the distance and Ryder began to really believe they would make it to safety; everything looked good for a swift, orderly extraction. Then, with only minutes to go before landing, luck finally did run out.
“Hostiles! Nine o’clock!” Song shouted.
Ryder and Bom looked urgently out of the port windows and watched in horror as two helicopters swept over the darkened line of the nearest foothills and headed towards them in a blaze of light.
“Land! Land! Land!” Ryder screamed, fearing a missile at any moment.
Seconds later, Song cut the engines and skilfully landed the helicopter in some dense bush almost at the beach front.
Ryder and Bom hit the ground running before taking up defensive positions behind scattered rocks several yards away from the aircraft.
The ‘homers’ were then activated. Ryder prayed the sub was not too far out at sea and would respond quickly. Song, now out of the cockpit, threw his gear and weapons to the ground. With Ryder’s help, he lifted Grace out and gently placed the stretcher amongst the dense bush. Ryder felt for the vaccine vials safe inside his clothing, reassuring himself that they had not been damaged. Then the two of them took up a defensive position amongst the rocks, hoping that rescue would be soon. In the meantime, they would just have to hold their ground until the cavalry arrived.
38
“Contact, designate Sierra Nine, bearing three-two-five, direct path. Speed twelve. Range twenty miles. Faint. Translating.”
Captain Curtis shot a glance at his XO and punched the air. Both men then looked intently at the tracking screens.
“Could be one of ours,” said the XO calmly.
The captain did not answer, but waited intently for the contact analysis.
One minute later, “Captain – sonar. Profile reading: Akula-II-class. K267. Course two-nine-four. Signal weak, but constant.”
Both men glanced at each other in astonishment.
“Captain, aye.” Then urgently to the helmsman, “Left standard rudder. Steer three-two-zero. Speed twelve.”
“K267!” exclaimed the XO.
Captain Curtis looked thoughtful, studying the tracking screen. “You thinking what I’m thinking?” he asked.
“Two Russian subs out there? Could this be the one making intermittent contact since the Falklands? If so, where is K449 – if it exists in these waters?”
The captain ignored Talbot’s last remark. “Our orders are clear: disable K449 and K267.”
“The ramifications could be serious, Captain,” offered Talbot, concern in his voice. “Maybe even start a war.”
Curtis knew he was right, but that was a political decision, not his. He elected to confirm the order. “Inform COMSUBOPs,” he shot back. “Tell them we await orders.”
The XO acknowledged and ordered Comms to release the signal buoy and make contact, advising command of the Russian submarine’s class, course and speed together with range and bearing. He then added, “Contact imminent; confirm engage and destroy?”
Meanwhile, HMS Ambush rose to periscope depth, changing course at the same time heading for the Russian Akula that was obliquely crossing her path from right to left at twelve knots, eighteen miles ahead on course two-nine-four. Captain Curtis felt the urge to increase speed, but refrained. He did not want, in any way, to disclose his presence. The Russian had not changed course or speed, suggesting they were unaware of the approaching British warship. Curtis wanted it kept that way.
“Captain – sonar. Contact characteristics unchanged.”
“Captain, aye. Prepare for action.”
Tension mounted in the control room; this was the real thing.
“Captain – weapons. Set range 20,000 yards. Ready tubes one and two in all respects.”
“Weapons, aye,” replied the weapons officer, then instructed his team in the torpedo bay to load Spearfish heavyweight torpedoes into two of the twenty-one-inch bow tubes.
“Captain – weapons. Tracking solution when you have it,” Curtis ordered sharply.
Minutes later,
“Captain – weapons. Tubes one and two ready.”
“Very well. Hold course for tracking solution. Use passive, low speed; go active at 2,000 yards.” Curtis did not want the Russian to be aware of the torpedoes until they were almost upon him.
“Weapons, aye.”
“Captain – sonar. Target bearing three-two-zero. Range 20,000 yards. Speed unchanged.”
“Captain, aye. Stand by tubes one and two. Fire by sonar on my command.”
Tension now was almost palpable; everyone held their breath awaiting the captain’s order to fire. He remained cool, but inwardly impatient for OP’s reply.
“Captain – weapons. Tracking confirmed. Firing solution resolved; computer set.”
To Curtis, it seemed like a lifetime waiting for COMSUBOP’s reply. If it didn’t come soon they would have to break away and try again later, but by that time the Akula would have vanished.
Five minutes later,
“Captain – comms. Signal from COMSUBOP: Engage and destroy Sierra Nine.”
Relief washed over the commander, tinged with excitement at the anticipation of his first kill.
“Captain – weapons. Confirm tracking and firing solution unchanged.”
“Captain – weapons. Tracking and firing solution unchanged.”
“Captain, aye.”
Curtis fixed his gaze on the tracking consul. Then, with an almost overwhelming sense of expectation, mixed with excitement and a little fear, he barked, “Fire One!”
“Number one tube fired.”
“Fire Two!”
“Number two tube fired.”
HMS Ambush quivered as the two self-propelled Spearfish torpedoes, attached to fibre optic cables that fed their homing and trajectory information, sprang from their tubes and raced away in search of the Russian submarine in the cool, blue waters of the mid-western Atlantic.
39
Half a world away, less than a mile out to sea off the North Korean coastline, the British Trident-class submarine’s ESM picked up Ryder’s ‘homer’ signal, its captain somewhat relieved the waiting was over. He then ordered the vessel to the surface and the extract teams to prepare for a beach rescue operation. After more than several days of patrolling this dangerous stretch of coast, the captain and his crew could now return to base. The submarine surfaced and two inflatables were immediately released as twelve members of SAS ‘D’ Squadron scrambled out of forward hatches into the eddying waters on the partially submerged hull. They entered the pitching vessels and headed with all speed towards land on the starboard beam.
*
Amidst a blaze of lights, the two North Korean helicopters landed not far away amongst the scrub and bush further inland. Ryder and the others watched with a sinking feeling as thirty or more heavily armed troops disgorged from the fuselages and fanned out towards their position. They looked urgently at one another, adrenaline pumping fiercely. Help would need to arrive soon or all would be lost.
First shots raked the helicopter and surroundings. The small band of men returned fire, immediately downing three of the enemy. Scattered rocks gave good protection. With the ammunition found in the helicopter and with a bit of luck, they should give a good account of themselves until help arrived. No way could they allow themselves to be captured alive. Should it come to it, the last bullets would be for them.
Bullets ricocheted off the rocks like metal rain and Ryder became concerned for Grace in the bush only a few
yards away. He and Song quickly moved her closer under the protection of a large boulder.
They held the enemy’s advance, then a cry from Bom – he’d been hit. Song, the nearest, moved to tend to him, but was waved away. The wound was not fatal and Bom carried on, returning fire with one arm limp.
Shortly after, Ryder was thrown to the ground, a bullet gauging the top of his left shoulder, but with effort, he too managed to continue firing. Their plight was now serious. Where the fuck was the cavalry?
Then they heard the distinct, powerful throb of more helicopters approaching from the north, flying low and parallel to the beach. In the situation they were in, they would have little chance of repelling a fresh onslaught. Their assailants were closing in fast.
The time had come.
Ryder rushed over to where Grace lay, looked into her pain-filled eyes, smiled and, without a word, kissed her gently on the forehead, then raised his pistol.
Suddenly, in a blur of activity, black-clad bodies moved in amongst them, took up positions behind the rocks and began to return withering fire at the enemy. For one awful moment, Ryder thought they were being overrun, but quickly realized, to his relief, the cavalry had finally arrived.
Hurriedly, they were helped down the beach to the waiting boats – two SAS carrying Grace on the stretcher; another two carrying weapons and packs. The rest of the twelve commandos fought a holding action.
Once in the boat, Grace was made as comfortable as possible whilst Ryder and the others slumped alongside. The rear guard was then ordered to retreat.
Shortly, the remaining SAS team came hurriedly down the beach, still firing while splashing through the water’s edge without loss. Throwing in all the gear, they rolled over the gunnels and into the boats, continuing to fire up the beach as they headed fast out to sea.
Minutes later, three helicopters flew from the darkened land mass, veered seawards and gave chase. They closed fast, their powerful searchlights skimming the waves. Very soon, the two boats would be within range of their machine guns.
From the submarine bridge, the captain ordered the weapons officer to release missiles at the oncoming aircraft. One minute later, as shells and tracers began to churn up the sea around the incoming boats, three UGM-84 Block 1C Harpoon missiles with warheads containing 488 pounds of Destex high explosives left their casings and flew up into the night sky. Each steadied as the small turbojet engines kicked in, then flew straight towards their targets. Their seekers were now firmly locked onto the targets. Seconds later, the night sky erupted with three large orange fireballs scattering wreckage into the sea. Overkill, but the missiles had done their job.
The two inflatables arrived safely alongside the submarine. Ryder and his team were hurriedly taken on board, together with the boats. Once all were in, the hatches were closed and the warship slid silently beneath the waves to head back to the American base at Pusan. Operation Blue Suit had come to an end.
40
K267 sliced silently 600 feet below the surface of the water over the Puerto Rico Trench.
“Torpedoes!” cried the sonar operator. “Two inbound, bearing one-three-five. Range 3,000 yards.”
Captain Denko and his XO looked up in shock from the chart table.
“DIVE! DIVE! DIVE! Full speed! Angle twenty!” Denko screamed at the helm. Then to the weapons officer, “Launch noisemakers!”
“Aye, aye, sir. Launching now!”
Seconds later, “Launch decoys!”
“Aye, aye, sir. Launching mobile decoys now!”
Hissing and hollow thumps signalled the ejection of the two countermeasures.
Denko and his crew prayed that the decoys would work or a layer would deflect before the approaching torpedoes inevitably acquired them and changed to active sonar, creating the dreadful pinging sound, which told the occupants they had only a short time to live. In less than two minutes, they would know if they were to live or die.
K267 angled down 20 degrees to the horizontal; salt water flooding the forward ballasts as she gathered momentum, releasing MG-74 noisemakers, MT-70 sonar interceptors and bubble generators as she went, desperately seeking a thermocline that would deflect and confuse the torpedoes’ guidance systems.
“650… 700… 750… 800 feet,” called the diving officer.
The high-pitched whine of the incoming torpedoes could now be clearly heard resonating through the hull. The sound grew louder as the torpedoes rapidly approached.
Two explosions shook the Russian submarine and for one awful moment Denko thought they had been hit, but it soon became evident the decoys had done their job. It had been a close call. Denko could not believe their luck; the torpedoes had come so near. But who the hell had released them?
“900… 950… 1,000 feet.”
The submarine began to creak.
“Level off. Maintain 1,000. Make your speed five. Zig-zag holding course,” he ordered, following standard procedure to avoid sonar taking a positive fix. “Prepare for action. Ready all tubes.”
The atmosphere was extremely tense throughout the submarine as the crew waited for another attack.
“Looks like we’ve lost them,” said the XO ten minutes later, still very shaken. “Americans?” he then questioned.
“Has to be,” Denko replied, adrenaline still pumping effectively. “The British and French have no need to attack in these waters. Count out K449; her presence has to remain secret if she is to accomplish her mission. Stealth, Sergio, is her only ally. Now the Americans know we are here; the risk of being tracked down before we can locate K449 has increased ten-fold. From now on, we need to be continuously looking over our shoulders.” Then, nodding his head, “Sergio, we must thank the almighty that the decoys worked.”
The XO gave a cynical half-smile. “More likely we should give thanks to the technos who put our safety first despite the cutbacks demanded by those who know nothing of the risks we take.”
Captain Denko smiled too, still nodding, and then surveyed the control room. He was highly relieved, knowing next time they may not be so lucky. “Stand down action stations. Bring her to 800 feet. Steer standard zig-zag pattern on course two-nine-zero. Speed five.”
41
“Captain – sonar. Minor bursts. Strike negative. Contact Sierra Nine lost.”
“Captain, aye.”
“Hit decoys. She’s gone deep – got away,” said Ambush’s XO.
Captain Curtis turned away from the data screens, hardly able to conceal his disappointment, and looked at his XO. “Fuck! How could we miss? Those fish went active at 2,000.”
“Diving sharply from 700 shortly after we released indicates her sonar latched on before that. At that depth, she could’ve gone through layers, deflecting the homing signal and we know the Akula IIs have acoustic countermeasures almost as good as ours.”
Curtis acknowledged the XO was right, but that didn’t take away the disappointment of failure. It would be harder to track the Russian now she knew they were on her tail. If they were to ignore her and concentrate on finding the Delta, which Curtis was convinced was in this part of the Atlantic, he would perhaps do so at his peril: a) because she just might be the rogue sub they were all looking for; and b) she could attack his sub when least expected. Maybe it could even be a sub sent to track down and destroy the Russian rogue. He now had two Russian submarines to contend with.
“Inform COMSUBOP of our action and that we will stay searching the area until further orders.” He turned to the helmsman and ordered, “Steer course two-nine-five. Speed ten. Make your depth 600.” He desperately wanted to pick up the Russian Akula again or maybe even the elusive Delta III.
42
Alternating above and below the thermocline layers at between 400 and 700 feet on a zig-zag course, K449 made her way slowly along the southern edge of the Puerto Rico Trench, steering gradually northwest. Forty-eight hours later, she had reached the northwestern end of the Trench. Another twelve hours and she would be at the southern reaches of th
e Bahama string of islands, less than 900 nautical miles from where she intended to release the missile. Rigged for silence and cruising at seven knots, 400 feet below the surface with her keel almost five miles above the floor of the Puerto Rico Trench, K449 heard the underwater explosions.
“What do you make of that, Captain?” asked his XO.
“Too faint to be positive – could be anything. My guess: torpedoes or maybe depth charges.”
“Range and bearing puts them thirty nautical miles to the northeast. Too close for comfort.”
“Could be Americans conducting exercises. Unless subs other than American are out there, I would suggest likely.”
“We are being hunted, Lieutenant. All noise has to be treated with suspicion. Other subs could be out there looking for us, even the Russians. Any sub as close as this to the infidel’s homeland would be a target under the circumstances; shoot now, question later would be the American position.”
The XO nodded.
A knock on the wardroom door.
“Enter.”
It was the officer in charge of the nuclear reactors. He saluted Captain Kamani and the XO with a worried look. “Captain, we are experiencing minor problems with one of the two VM-4 reactors driving the steam turbines.”
“What kind of problems?” snapped Kamani.
“The main coolant pump to the reactor in the primary circuit compartment has shown a slight reduction in velocity of water flow-through. In the secondary circuit compartment, small intermittent surges from the steam generator have slowed operation of the throttle valve into the main turbine.” Then, almost apologetically, he followed with, “We do not have a replacement pump and we cannot shut down steam flow to repair the throttle without serious loss of power for a number of days. No guarantee could be given that repairs would be successful, even if we could. If not corrected, it could become a serious problem.”
Paths of Courage Page 19