“We have been fortunate that the British sub has not located us. Your tactics, Captain, have worked well so far,” said Rashid, pleased with Kamani’s skill and tenacity. He had been wrong about the captain; this man was truly committed and focused.
“Pray to Allah they continue,” Kamani replied. “If the infidel thought we were here, the seas around us would be crawling with warships of all kinds. We can expect to encounter patrolling subs and surface ships the closer we get to the target. From now on we cannot avoid deeper water; we will need to be extremely careful.”
“How long now before releasing the payload?” Rashid asked.
“Six days if all goes well.”
“And if something happens before that?” questioned Captain Moradi.
“The Stingray is primed and ready for launch any time. We are now already within range of the target.”
A moment’s silence passed before Kamani spoke. “We follow the trench west keeping at a depth of around 700 feet at a speed of seven to ten knots until we reach here.” He placed the tip of his finger on lat20N, long68W, just east of the Navidad Bank, the southernmost stretch of shallow water before reaching the Caicos Islands and Bahama chain. “From this point we make our way northwest up the Atlantic side of the Bahamas to San Salvador Island, then head directly north to the release point.” He paused. “We soon will be in very dangerous waters close to the infidel’s lair. Stealth will be our only ally. If we are to achieve the glory of Allah, we must run silent and we must run deep.”
33
Ryder and Song, some two klicks in front of the others, heard the throb of a helicopter and dived for cover on the tree-lined ridge, just before it flew low over and on down into the narrow wooded valley they had just crossed. Once the craft was out of sight, both emerged, then froze. Less than half a klick away on the slope below, lines of troops were crossing open parts of the forest heading up towards them.
“Holy shit!” exclaimed Song, fear momentarily etched on his features.
“Just what we bloody needed,” said Ryder, forcing himself not to panic.
“Too many to take on,” said Song. “Follow this ridge; maybe they’re not looking further to the east.”
“This is the most direct route southeast. Carrying the doc, the others will come this way,” spat Ryder, scanning the valley. “We’ll be lucky to break through those lines…” He stopped short. “Oh, shit – dogs.” He pointed down the valley. “One sniff and we’re history, Dan. We have to warn the others. We must go back.”
“What’s the fucking point in that?” Song shot back defiantly. “This vaccine is more important. Why the fuck throw it all away after what we’ve been through?” Then, as if realizing what he had just blurted out, he said, in a more conciliatory tone, “Lots of people could die without this vaccine.”
Surprised at the Korean’s outburst, and angry at the insubordination, Ryder wanted to deck him, but instead quickly reconsidered the options. It was obvious they stood little to no chance of breaking through the oncoming lines. They could follow the ridge eastwards in the hope that the next valley was clear. If they got back quick enough to warn the others, they could perhaps detour inland towards the west and turn eastwards later when safe or he could go it alone. He was torn between duty and concern for the others. He made his choice.
“I’ll go back. You carry on. Follow this ridge eastwards into the next valley.”
“Too late,” Song said, pointing east over Ryder’s shoulder.
Troops were moving towards them along the ridge. Ryder’s heart sank. “Fuck! Swarming everywhere.” A tremor of fear and uncertainty engulfed him, but he quickly rallied. “No choice now, we’ll both have to go back.”
The Korean shrugged and both men hurriedly left the ridge, moving silently down amongst the thick foliage, heading back along the valley to find the others.
* * *
Chol heard the throb of helicopter motors first before he and Bom gently placed the stretcher under a bush and craned their necks to try and spot the aircraft through the trees.
Then they saw it: a Russian Mi-8. It swept low over the treetops, circled above and landed in a clearing not far from where they hid. From the grey and brown camouflaged helicopter a dozen soldiers, with two Alsatian dogs, spilled from the side and fanned out into the trees heading their way. Both men looked at one another determinedly – two against twelve was not good odds. Bom placed Grace’s pistol in her hand without a word; the way he looked at her and gently patted her arm said it all. Grace understood and smiled weakly. Taking up a position not far from the stretcher he watched and waited, his Sig P226 and AK- 47 poised and ready.
The soldiers approached, weaving through the trees, dogs straining at the leash. They came closer and closer. The dogs had to be taken out first. When a clear shot at the nearest oncoming dog and its handler presented itself, Bom quickly took aim with the P226 and fired two rounds. The first at the dog, the second at the man – both fell instantly. From the corner of his eye he saw the other dog and its handler go down too; Chol was thinking the same. Ten left. Before the remaining soldiers realized what had happened, another four died, leaving only six. Both men were grateful the odds had evened up a little. With the element of surprise now gone, the stunned soldiers dived for cover and began to frantically spray the bush and trees around with machine-gun fire. Bom stayed close to Grace; this could be the end of the road.
34
The Russian Akula-II-class attack submarine, K267, arrived at the Puerto Rico Trench, 100 nautical miles northeast of Barbuda on latitude 19.22N, longitude 61W, after a long, slow crossing of the North Atlantic from the African continent. Entering the Trench 400 feet below the surface at a speed of seven knots, she maintained a due westerly course, which would take her to the western end of the Trench. Here her commander, Captain Vasily Denko, planned to change course northwestwards, to follow the Bahama chain of islands in the hope that his quarry, K449, would be doing the same if she too were in these waters.
“Not even a sniff of K449. Are we chasing an illusion, Captain?” asked Sergio Nanovich, the XO, as he and Denko stood studying charts in the control room.
“Grosky does not command, I just know it. We’re dealing with someone else,” snapped the captain, nerves a little frayed after searching halfway around the world for the Russian rogue submarine. “Our orders are to find K449 and destroy it. We will carry out those orders to the best of our ability. If a strike is intended on America’s eastern seaboard, the sub has to be somewhere in this area if coming from the south. We will find it.”
“Vasily, my friend, I wish I had your faith. I still believe they went north to attack the American Battle Group off the Azores.”
“Maybe, but it’s too late now to turn back. Have no fear, Sergio, the decision was mine.”
“The men are growing restless; short rations are beginning to tell. We have to think of returning home, and soon.”
“And we shall. If K449 is not in this part of the Atlantic, we will stay close to the American mainland, go through the Newfoundland Basin, head for Greenland, then home under the polar cap. All being well, we should make it in less than five weeks.” The captain removed the peaked cap he always wore in the control room and wiped the sweat from his forehead, and placed it firmly back on his head.
The XO nodded; he trusted his captain explicitly. However, he was unconvinced they would make it back in that time, but said nothing.
“Once through the Trench, we will be very vulnerable for the rest of the way up to Newfoundland. We will have to be vigilant at all times.” The captain reflected on past patrols in the Atlantic, particularly along America’s eastern seaboard, and the dread that had been slowly mounting began to increase once again at the thought of going so close to the American mainland.