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.
16
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.