“Forget the town,” he snapped. “We’ll take a sail. At those wharfs, we could find ourselves trapped if things go wrong. If those boats are coal driven, it’ll take time to fire up – time we don’t have. Sail presents less risk.”
A short silence followed, then Chol spoke. “A sail boat without wind could also be a problem if we get stuck out there,” he said, motioning towards the lake.
“Wind is never far away in the mountains,” Bom chimed in. “The wind, even now, is freshening. I doubt it will prove a problem.”
Ryder looked in turn at the others; they agreed with Bom.
“So be it. We’ll rest up here until nightfall, then take one of those boats moored below.”
They found cover amongst the bush, ate some rations and settled down, easing their aching bodies. Bom took the first watch whilst Song and Chol grabbed what sleep they could.
After he’d eaten, Ryder – still yearning for a smoke – sat mulling over what lay ahead. He finally gave away these thoughts and let his mind wander to Grace sitting silently next to him. He was intrigued by her stoicism and wondered out of growing interest what drove her.
“Seymour is not Korean. You married to a Westerner?”
She turned to him, seemingly surprised at the question. “I’m not sure if that is any of your business, Mr Ryder. Why the sudden interest?”
“Mr Ryder,” maybe she was still angry at him for killing the goat herder and the bear cubs. He gave a boyish grin, strands of dark hair falling across his forehead. “No reason. We’re all in this together and what we’re doing here is highly dangerous. I’m just curious to find out what motivated you to volunteer… Also, I’d prefer it if you called me Frank.” He was christened “Francis,” a name he hated and used only when legally required.
She stared into the bush and then, after a short while, quietly said, “No, I’m not married. My parents changed their name by deed poll before I was born. And I did not volunteer. My ethnic background and qualifications precluded any choice really.”
He sympathised. “You born in England?”
“Yes.”
“Parents still alive?”
“My mother is. We live in Oxford. Father died last year from cancer.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be; he had a good, long life; he was a kind and gentle man.” She turned away.
He could see a glint of tears and changed the subject. “How long have you been a military virologist?”
Wiping her eyes gracefully with the palms of her hands, she said, “Since leaving university. I had a fascination for microbes and contagious diseases. The army paid for med school and uni. I felt I owed them. The army gave me the freedom to experiment with the best equipment.”
“Dangerous vocation, dealing with deadly germs day in and day out.”
“Less dangerous than yours. At least we get to control every situation.”
She had a point.
Her look softened, almond pools of liquid brown fixed upon him. “Look, Frank; I’ve not really had a chance to thank you for getting me out of that dreadful place.”
“Hey, forget it. It was not your fault. Besides, we couldn’t leave you to their tender mercies, now could we? Without you checking out any bugs we might find, all this could be for nothing.” He meant it too; no way would he be happy with that responsibility.
“Anyway, I needed to thank you.” Then she changed the subject: “Do you think we’ll find what we are looking for?”
“Your guess is as good as mine. But to be honest I hope we don’t, not because of the risks we have to take to find them, but it could mean the commies may not possess a superbug after all.”
She nodded and stared back into the bush. “I hope it turns out that way. How soon to the search area?”
“Two, three days, depending on the terrain and provided we keep out of trouble. If the wind on the lake is favourable, it could lessen that by a day,” he replied optimistically.
A short silence followed, then she asked, “What makes you do this kind of thing – constantly risking your life? How do you cope with the fear?”
He wanted to say, “Desperation and needing a challenge” to the first part, and to the second: “You don’t. It’s a never-ending battle to conquer fear, especially when there is nothing between you and the abyss.” Instead he said, “All part of the job for the ‘Queen’s shilling’. You must’ve experienced it yourself when entering a ‘hot zone’?”
“True, but only mildly with the knowledge of all the ‘safeguards’. This is the first time for me experiencing fear of the unknown in a hostile environment.”
“You’ll get used to it.” She would have to if they were to succeed.
“You a Londoner, Frank?”
Caught off guard, he shot, “Brixton,” surprising himself. Why did he divulge that? Not many knew where he was from, then again, not many had asked. He preferred to keep that part of his life private; it brought back too many painful memories of the tough life experienced in and around that borough. When his father walked out on him at nine, never to be seen again, and his mother spent most of her time enjoying herself with other men, he virtually had to fend for himself in the drug and alcohol-fuelled violence of life on the streets. “You guessed, no doubt, from the accent?” he grinned. Although he’d lost most of the south London intonation over the years, it was still slightly there.
“Are you married, Frank?”
Was she playing his game? “Eh… No.” He had been, though, to a really nice girl. But the army got in the way. They had both been too young and he had to admit he was somewhat selfish, as most young men were at eighteen. The break-up and divorce had been traumatic; thank God no children were involved.
She gave him a weak smile and silence descended.
It was time to get some sleep. Making themselves as comfortable as possible in the confined area of bush cover, they both eventually succumbed.
As twilight descended, Ryder and his little group broke camp and made their way down the hillside towards the sail boats moored alongside a narrow timber jetty. Under a clear star-studded sky, the single file gingerly negotiated the shale-covered ground. The group was thankful that a moderate wind now prevailed as they eventually made the half-mile distance to the lake shoreline without incident. They could make out huts in the distance, but as far as they could see the area was empty of people. Making their way along the dilapidated jetty, they commandeered the vessel at the end – a very old, fifty-foot long, two-masted, timber-hulled craft that stunk of fish and pitch. On board they quietly set the sails – a large grey, four-cornered lugsail on the front mast and a smaller one on the rear. The deck was completely open with only a small square wheelhouse in the centre capable of holding four people at a time; the rest was littered with nets, tarpaulins and fish boxes. Once they were underway, Bom and Chol took charge, since they had experience in such lugger-style craft.
14
K267 cruised at fifteen knots, 400 feet below the surface of the Indian Ocean, along latitude 35 degrees south, heading westward. In the control room, Captain Denko monitored the gauges and computers around him. He was furious that he had lost K449. He could only assume they had dropped abruptly through a thermocline layer and changed course rapidly, leaving him to guess which course they had taken. One moment they were there, the next K449 had simply vanished. Passive had picked up nothing in the last twenty-four hours and he feared he had guessed wrong. His dilemma: should he continue on into the Atlantic searching or should he return to base? The latter did not appeal to him; therefore he decided to take the risk. It was good they had provisioned well, but the men would now have to go on half-rations to last the extended mission up into the Atlantic and eventually to Murmansk.