Paths of Courage (10 page)

As Ryder and his group drew out into the open waters of the lake, the sails and masts creaking, the wind dropped dramatically and reduced their speed to less than five knots. At that rate he feared it would be daybreak before they reached the top end of the lake. To make matters worse, what little wind they did have was a headwind, making it necessary to tack continuously to gain any sort of headway. Everyone, including Grace, worked hard to get every ounce of speed out of the sails. Ryder prayed the wind would not drop altogether. To be left exposed and unable to move come daylight could prove disastrous.

The hours passed as they slowly beat their way up the wide crescent-shaped lake with no sign of a freshening wind. Eventually light began to percolate over the mountains, silhouetted on the starboard side, throwing a pale orange glow across the still waters. Checking the GPS, together with the map, the group agreed that they were now within four klicks of the intended landing point. If only the wind would freshen, they could be there in less than an hour.

The sun peeked out over the mountain ridge, bathing the whole lake in a soft light, unmasking other sail boats on the water closer to the shore. Through the early morning haze, Ryder studied the boats fishing well away, busily hauling in nets and paying no attention to the lugger in the middle. He swung his binoculars back down the lake and suddenly froze.

“Steamer!”

They all turned and focused on the murky outline not far away in the distance. A dark column of smoke billowed from a tall central funnel.

Was this the result of taking the lugger or just a coincidence? Either way could mean trouble. They were about to find out. “Spread out – look busy. They're either gonna pass close or board,” said Ryder, praying for the former. “Make sure your pistols are handy.”

They moved away to take up vantage points on the deck and tried to look busy. Ryder prepared for the worst.

The steamer kept coming. Eventually the squat, low-sided craft came up parallel to the lugger, with only yards between them. Then, to everyone's relief, it continued on. Ryder waved as they watched the steamer draw away, the lugger bobbing in its wake on the windless lake. The steamer was loaded on deck with logs, but ominously there were also five green-uniformed, armed soldiers lounging against the logs with a man at the wheel in the small cabin, all scrutinizing the fishing boat and occupants as it passed.

But jubilation quickly disappeared when the steamer, now several hundred yards in front, suddenly began to turn and head back. There could be little doubt something had interested them and now they were probably going to board.

The knot in Ryder's stomach tightened, but a cold calmness followed as he firmly gripped the butt of his pistol. “The bastards are going to board. Prepare yourselves.”

The others spread out amongst the pots and nets ready to dive for cover should trouble begin. Their hands gripped pistols hidden beneath their clothes. Grace, in the wheelhouse, nervously clutched the handle of her SIG tucked in a side pocket and waited. She did not want to die, but if it was her time, she would go down fighting.

The steamer approached, slued around and drew up alongside the lugger. A soldier jumped aboard, AK-47 slung over his shoulder, whilst the other soldiers looked on with curiosity. The man turned to Chol, the nearest, and asked to see ID papers. He handed them over and waited, looking calm. The soldier carefully studied the papers, looked him steadily in the eye, then handed them back. He moved to Ryder, who kept his head down when asked to show his papers, praying his disguise would work. He handed them over and confirmed he was the captain when questioned and hoped he would not have to produce proof.

Thankfully the Korean handed the papers back, turned to the wheelhouse and rested his eyes appreciatively on Grace. He looked her up and down for a long moment clearly admiring what he saw and then stepped into the small cabin.

“Papers,” he demanded, holding out a hand.

Grace handed them over. He was uncomfortably close and she could smell his pungent odour. He studied the papers, then said, “I have a cousin who lives in Sinhung. Where are you from in Sinhung?” He was fishing for a slip-up, but, thankfully, Grace had been through the town and had the place well covered from the briefings.

“Chong Road.”

“What district?”

“Second Administration.”

“You work in munitions?”

“No, the chemical factory.”

He seemed satisfied, but Grace could tell he had something else on his mind. She gripped the handle of the pistol in her pocket. Then, without warning, he reached out and fondled her breasts, then pushed her against the cabin wall, groping at the rest of her body. For a few seconds Grace froze until she felt his hands attempting to pull down her trousers. In a panic, she squeezed the trigger of the SIG. A muffled explosion filled the cabin and the soldier slumped to the deck, blood flowing from a hole in his stomach.

In the meantime, Ryder had edged his way from the bow to the wheelhouse, looked in and saw Grace, panic-stricken, backed up against the wall. Quickly entering, he saw the soldier writhing on the deck and reaching for his side holster. Ryder drew his pistol, silencer attached, and shot the man through the head, praying the solid wall at the rear of the wheelhouse prevented anyone on the steamer from seeing or hearing what had just happened.

The soldiers on the steamer shouted for their colleague to come out of the wheelhouse.

Suddenly, at that moment, the wind improved with strong gusts billowing the sails, propelling the lugger forward at such a speed that it took everyone by surprise.

In those vital few seconds, the steamer fell slightly astern. Ryder, knowing there could be no turning back now and with no time to tell the others what had happened, shot out of the wheelhouse, pistol raised and fired at the soldiers by the logs. Song, Bom and Chol, although taken by surprise, did not hesitate to follow suit and the joint fusillade took out all four men on the steamer before they knew what had hit them.

Ryder levelled his pistol as best he could in the bobbing craft at the man frozen with fear in the steamer's wheelhouse, now more than ten yards off the lugger's stern. He let loose almost half a clip before finally, and luckily, dropping him through the shattered wheelhouse screen. The whole episode was over in a matter of seconds.

The sail boat drew swiftly away from the steamer, cutting smoothly through the steel grey waters under a fifteen knot following wind. Ryder entered the wheelhouse, almost stumbling over the dead soldier, as he looked at Grace still in shock against the wall. He took the wheel, steadied the lugger and then turned his attention to a shivering Grace. He said nothing to her, just held her gently, understanding the trauma she had just experienced. Grace broke down and sobbed.

Bom entered the wheelhouse, removed the dead soldier's weapons, two spare ammo clips and two hand grenades; these could come in handy later. He found a weight, secured it to the man's leg and, with the help of Chol, promptly threw him overboard.

“Commie bastards. They think they can take anything they bloody want,” Ryder said, attempting to make light of the situation.

Grace stopped crying and moved away, her senses returning to a more stable state. “Thank you,” she said quietly, brown almond-shaped eyes fixed on Ryder. She half-smiled. “And thank God for bringing the wind at the right time. An omen, perhaps?”

He grinned. “We'll need all the omens we can get, doc… sorry, Grace.” Then, hesitating, he put an arm around her again, pulling her towards him. She buried her head once more into his chest.

Song squeezed into the wheelhouse. “Oops. Sorry.”

Grace broke away and wiped her eyes. Ryder's show of comfort had restored her a little.

“If the fuckers didn't know we were here, they sure will soon once that boat is found adrift with dead men on board.”

“Count on it, Dan,” Ryder shrugged, raising his binoculars to scan the shoreline ahead. “That's why we must get back on dry land – pronto.”

Twenty minutes later they sailed into a small bay chosen as the landing point situated in the left spur, which topped the long crescent-shaped lake. The bay looked deep enough to allow a tie-up right next to the sloping bush hillside, enabling them to disembark without getting wet and to scuttle the boat without too much effort.

Once on shore, Chol and Bom stripped off and sailed the boat naked a little way out into the bay where they took down the sails, removed all the lugger's scuttle cocks and remained until they were certain she would sink, then swam back to where the others waited. Here they dressed and watched as the boat finally slipped quietly beneath the surface, before all struck out heading northwest into the hills on the final leg of the journey towards Pyorha-ri.

Trudging through the thick forest, Ryder could not shrug off the apprehension and worry he felt, knowing that it was more than likely the Koreans would start intensively searching the immediate area to find those who killed the men on the steamer, making their task that much more difficult and their mission less likely to succeed.

K267 crept slowly westward at five knots, 600 feet below the surface. It was almost on the seabed, hugging the southern coastline of the African continent. At this rate of knots, amongst all the noise of commercial shipping lanes above and the turbulent water close to the rocky shoreline, Captain Denko was confident he would enter the Atlantic without detection. K267 was now rounding the Cape of Good Hope, southeast of Cape Town, some fifteen miles off Cape Agulhas, Africa's southernmost point; another twenty-four hours at current speed and they would be into the Atlantic. In this part of the globe he at least need not worry about seabed acoustic monitors registering engine sounds or cavitation, only of hostile subs lurking in the area. If he had to run for it, he knew his sub, having a maximum speed of thirty-five knots, could outrun and dive deeper than any of the American or British subs. The captain moved away from the chart table and sat in the command seat fronting the array of screens and monitors. He felt a little fatigued; tension was beginning to take its toll. Over the last forty-eight hours he had not slept well, taking only catnaps whenever he could, resigning himself to the fact he probably would not get much sleep until they were well into the Atlantic. He planned to look for K449 along the western seaboard of the African continent until reaching the Cape Verde Islands, then head due west, following roughly the line of latitude 15 degrees north, until reaching the Caribbean where he would head northeastwards to the naval yards at Murmansk.

“Captain – sonar. Contact bearing two-eight-nine. Speed twenty knots. Range five miles. Course two-eight-zero. Checking profile.”

Range is called in nautical miles. One nautical mile is equivalent to 1.15 statute miles.

Denko glanced at his XO, then at the bank of screens displaying tracking data of a submarine up ahead.

“Not concerned about being detected then,” said the captain.

“Not at that speed,” replied the XO, Lieutenant Sergio Alexander Nanovich, a slim, boyish-looking man with dark penetrating eyes, sallow skin and taller than his captain.

“Captain – sonar. Profile reading. Los Angeles-class SSN seven-two-zero.”

“Captain, aye. Reduce speed to three knots. Maintain course. Keep her trim.”

“Aye, sir.” The helmsman then repeated the order.

“The American will not hear us in this noise, not at the speed we're going,” said Captain Denko.

“They might if they go active.”

“Possibly,” the captain conceded. “Then we get a positive fix on them too.”

“Captain – sonar. Towed array deployed?”

“Captain – sonar. Negative.”

“Unusual,” voiced the XO. “Too close to land.”

Captain Denko nodded agreement.

“Contact. Bearing one-one-two. Speed eighteen knots. Range five miles.”

“Not another!” the XO exclaimed, concern on his face.

“Course?” shot the captain.

“Two-eight-six,” sonar came back.

“Heading straight for us,” said the XO, even more concerned.

“Captain – sonar. Profile translation,” the captain called calmly.

Seconds later, “Captain – sonar. Seawolf-class. SSN-twenty- one.”

“One ahead and now one on our tail. Obvious they haven't heard us yet. This should be interesting to say the least, Lieutenant,” said the captain.

“Very,” the XO replied, concern on his features.

“Captain – sonar. Designate forward contact: Hostile One; stern contact: Hostile Two.”

“Sonar, aye.”

Both officers then focused on the tracking screens.

“Captain – sonar. Hostile One has reduced speed to ten knots. Range two miles. Course and bearing unchanged. Hostile Two, speed now twelve knots. Range four miles. Course unchanged.”

“She'll be up our arse soon,” said the XO.

Tension was beginning to mount; those in the control room were now fully aware of the danger.

The captain kept his focus on the screens.

“Captain – weapons. Prepare for action, all tubes.”

“Weapons, aye.”

Down in the torpedo room, the SET-73's were readied in the four forward tubes.

Captain Denko contemplated his options. He could make a dash for deeper waters and try to lose himself in the depths and thermoclines; he could stop engines altogether and wait on the seabed until all clear; or he could use the present situation to his own advantage. He discounted the first on the grounds that there could be many more American and British submarines further out and he could easily find himself boxed in with nowhere to go. To lie in wait was feasible, but it could be days, even weeks, before it was safe to move if the two subs close by were anything to go by, indicating that the area was infested with submarines. Starting up the engines again would more than likely alert some sharp sonar operator to their presence amongst all the other shoreline sounds and he could well find himself assailed by more than the two currently snooping about in the vicinity. That left only the third alternative to consider – he turned to the XO.

“Lieutenant, we'll use this situation to our advantage, but it will need cool heads and precision.” He paused to let what he said sink in. “As Hostile One is not deploying a towed array and both subs seem to be unaware of our presence, I intend to slip into the wake of Hostile One, as close as we can get, to lose ourselves in the back scatter.”

“Increasing speed to get into the blind spot will leave us exposed,” replied the XO anxiously.

“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.