When she did calm down, reality kicked in and her mind began to race: where could she hide the body? Blood was now blooming large on the Korean’s clothing; luckily none had stained her own. Grace eased the woman to the floor, removed the badge and pinned it to her own lapel. She then left the cubicle in search of a place to dump the body. Through a door on the wall opposite, she found a narrow void housing drainage and ducting. Praying no one would enter the block, she dragged the Korean from the cubical, careful not to get blood on her clothes, and managed to dump the body inside the void. Nervous tension now worked overtime on her bladder. Not knowing when she would get the next opportunity, she relieved herself in the nearest cubicle, which helped to calm her before she hurried back out, just as two other women entered. Taking a grip on herself, Grace made straight for the doors at the end of the corridor.
28
“Contact! Bearing one-three-zero. Course three-one-five. Speed two-five. Range thirty miles. Translating.”
Captain Kamani and Lieutenant Zaha, in K449’s control room, looked urgently up at the sonar screen displaying the data.
“She’s heading straight for us!” exclaimed the XO, a slight edge to his voice.
“Reduce speed to five knots. Down fifteen. Take her to 600,” Kamani ordered calmly. The seabed below was at 650 feet.
K449 immediately tilted down 15 degrees to the horizontal and headed down.
“Must be American at that speed,” said the captain.
“Obviously not concerned at being heard.”
“Are we paying the penalty for the increase in speed, Lieutenant?”
“Captain – sonar. Translation positive. British Astute-class. Speed and course unchanged.”
Just then the Acoustic Intercept Alarm sounded.
“Captain – sonar. Active hit.”
“Ya Allah!” exclaimed the XO.
It was the captain’s turn to show concern this time. “God will not help us, Lieutenant. We have to help ourselves here,” he said, outwardly calm, but inwardly feeling the fear grip his chest, knowing they had just been pinged by one of the infidel’s latest hunter-killers. “We are paying, Lieutenant. Cut engines, cut engines. Free fall and lay to the bottom – all haste. Rig for silence.” He glanced urgently at the XO. “Just hope we can get there before they release a fish.”
* * *
On board Ambush, Captain Curtis and his second in command, Lieutenant Talbot, waited in the control room for the result of the active scan order. Then shortly:
“Captain – sonar. Faint contact, designate Sierra Three. Submerged. Bearing three-one-five, direct path. Range thirty miles.”
“Captain, aye. I knew it!” exclaimed Curtis. “Confirms earlier hit; proves something’s out there, Bob.”
“A whale maybe? Large shoal of fish?”
“Unlikely at the range,” Curtis replied, grinning. “I hear what you’re saying though.”
The XO smiled; fortunately, his captain had a good sense of humour.
“Captain – sonar. Translation?”
“Captain – sonar. Negative, sir. Contact lost.”
“Captain, aye,” Curtis replied, shaking off yet another disappointment. “Whatever it was has gone to ground or maybe you’re right, Bob, could be purely natural phenomena.” However, instinct told him the sonar signals were more than just coastal noises. He turned to the electronic charts on the bench monitors, followed by the XO, and both men studied maps of the South American eastern seaboard.
A short while later, the captain looked up and said, “I’ve made up my mind; we’ll remain on course, search the contact area and then move progressively up the coastline to latitude 15, north. If that was a sub we’ll nail it eventually, I’m sure.”
“That’s way up out of our search brief, Captain.”
“At our discretion – the orders were specific.” Curtis paused to collect his thoughts. “Tell me, Lieutenant, if you were intending to attack a city in the British Isles or the American eastern seaboard, coming from the South Atlantic, what would be the course you would take?”
“Hug the coastline of either Africa or South America.”
“Mmm…” Curtis murmured softly, allowing a sense of uncertainty to enter his thoughts, then said, more to himself than to his XO, “Whichever way, they would have to cross lat 15, north, somewhere near the Windwards if heading for North America. If Britain is the target, they would come from the African western seaboard, up past the Verde Islands, Canaries and Portugal.”
“Alternatively,” offered the XO, “if the sub is following this coastline, which we suspect it might, they could break off at Recife and head straight up over the narrowest part of the Atlantic towards the Verdes, then to Britain, or if America is the target, and they’re coming from Africa, roughly follow latitude 15 across the Atlantic to reach the Bahamas or the Florida coast.”
“A lot of ‘ifs’ in there, Lieutenant, including mine,” said Curtis, uncertainty taking a firmer grip. What should he do? Although he worried Britain could be the target, his instincts were telling him that America was more likely, simply because it was the most powerful nation in the world and therefore a far more prestigious target for Islamic terrorist aggression.
Captain Curtis stared at the screens surrounding him, his mind calculating as he listened to the subdued noise of the control centre. The gentle hum of machinery and men quietly going about their business for Queen and country somehow soothed his nerves. Finally he decided to gamble and turned to his XO.
“Mr Talbot, we will follow the South American coastline until we reach the Windwards. If nothing transpires before that, we’ll turn for home.”
Then, to the helmsman, “Maintain course and speed. Make your depth 400. Steady as she goes.”
29
Having entered the air-lock, using the commandeered badge, Grace nervously stepped out from the other side into what was undoubtedly a Level 2 area, with a series of changing rooms lining the rear wall. She knew for certain now that beyond these rooms would lie Level 3 and Level 4 – the hot zone. Choosing an unoccupied room marked “Females Only”, she stripped completely and pulled on a sterilized white cotton jumpsuit together with a white surgical cap and a pair of cotton socks laid neatly out on a shelf. The very cleanliness of this area told Grace the North Koreans had as much healthy respect for the lethal viruses they were dealing with as the British, which reassured her of the reliability of the protection she was about to use. She hid the Sig and holster together with the metal container for vials in her discarded clothing and left the cubical.
At the end of the changing area, she stepped into a common shower-like compartment bathed in ultraviolet light and walked out through a door that led into a Level 3 area. The large rectangular room housed space suits hanging on wall hooks, together with other equipment necessary for a Level 4 entry. At the far end, beyond the stainless-steel sliding doors marked with a large biohazard symbol, she knew she would enter directly into the hot zone.
Several people were busily changing in and out of space suits and thankfully ignored her entry. Grace moved over to a quiet corner and selected one of the blue suits that looked about her size; fortunately, none had an owner’s name and all appeared to be in relatively good condition. Nevertheless, she took time to inspect the areas prone to wear – around the buttocks, the armpits, the knees – to make doubly sure no holes were evident. Satisfied, she looked for and found an air regulator, surgical gloves and tape. She slid the gloves on, then, using the tape, proceeded to seal the jumpsuit joints at her wrists and ankles. She finally struggled into the space suit, ignoring the stale odour, before strapping the regulator to her back and making her way somewhat apprehensively towards the ominous doors leading into Level 4. Pressing a wall pad, the doors parted and she entered the air-lock decontamination chamber. The doors slid closed behind her and Grace knew she had now reached the point of no return. Several seconds later, she activated another wall pad opening the inner doors. Weak at the knees, panic welling up almost uncontrollably now, Grace had to summon every ounce of her courage to move forward into the hot zone.