Lieutenant Nanovich again nodded, resigning himself to the toughest and most dangerous part of the search that lay beyond the Trench.
Captain Denko ordered the helmsman to take K267 down to 600 feet and increase speed slightly to ten knots. The increase would get them back to the motherland quicker and he deemed the speed relatively safe in this almost five-mile deep stretch of water where he could lose himself in the thermoclines should it become necessary. Ocean temperatures varied with depth; a marked change occurred anywhere between 100 and 4,000 feet, dividing the warmer surface water from the colder depths. This can frustrate sonar signals; sound originating on one side of the thermocline tended to get bent, or refracted, off the layers thus providing protection from passive sonar detection. The captain was confident he could go deeper and faster than any American submarine currently in service, if such action needed to be taken.
35
Ryder heard firing ahead and feared the worst, knowing Bom and Chol would be following the same route he and Song had taken. Within a short time, both reached a small clearing and were surprised to come across a bug-like helicopter squatting in the middle. Cautiously they circled the craft, keeping hidden on the wooded periphery. Ryder wanted to continue on and find the others, but he was acutely aware this helicopter could well be the ticket out.
“Can you fly this baby?” he whispered, knowing Song had flown helicopters before.
“Yeah, flew a few in Afghanistan. It’s an Mi-8 Hip-C, Russian assault helo, powered by two 1270Kw Isotov engines, max speed 160mph. Fuel tanks give it a range of around 450 miles. She looks fairly old.”
“The Russians have no qualms selling outdated aircraft to anyone who wants to buy,” Ryder whispered, Song’s insubordination forgotten.
“No guards. Can we take her?”
“Need a closer look,” said Ryder, pointing to the large passenger door on the side just behind the cockpit.
Song understood and acknowledged. Both men returned the way they had come until they were immediately to the rear of the aircraft. After making sure no one was at the tree line, they made a dash for the helicopter, praying anyone inside was not looking in the rear-view mirrors.
Within seconds, they covered the thirty yards to the craft and slunk beneath the port side; silenced pistols cocked and ready. Arriving at the door, they listened for several seconds, hearing voices.
Nodding to each other, both men emerged swiftly from under the helicopter, rose up to the open doorway not knowing what to expect, saw two heads in the cockpit seats and leapt through the door. They swept the fuselage with pistols; thankfully nobody was in the rear.
Upfront, the pilot and co-pilot turned, expecting to see their comrades. Realizing instantly that something was amiss, they reached for guns. Ryder and Song simultaneously fired, sending both men slumping over the controls, neat holes in each temple.
“Fire her up and I’ll go get the others,” Ryder snapped, worrying the soldiers he had seen on the ridge may not be that far behind. He quickly surveyed the inside of the chopper, noting boxes of ammunition and several AKs in racks before he sprang from the helicopter and made his way swiftly towards the sound of gunfire.
Song dragged the two men to the rear before strapping himself into the pilot’s seat. He checked the controls. Thankfully the aircraft was equipped with night-flying instruments, including sophisticated terrain following radar – a little out-of-date, but good enough. On the downside, the fuel was low. Would it be enough to get them back to the beach, which he estimated to be some eighty klicks or more?
36
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.