Paths of Courage (18 page)

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.”

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.

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.

“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.