38
“Contact, designate Sierra Nine, bearing three-two-five, direct path. Speed twelve. Range twenty miles. Faint. Translating.”
Captain Curtis shot a glance at his XO and punched the air. Both men then looked intently at the tracking screens.
“Could be one of ours,” said the XO calmly.
The captain did not answer, but waited intently for the contact analysis.
One minute later, “Captain – sonar. Profile reading: Akula-II-class. K267. Course two-nine-four. Signal weak, but constant.”
Both men glanced at each other in astonishment.
“Captain, aye.” Then urgently to the helmsman, “Left standard rudder. Steer three-two-zero. Speed twelve.”
“K267!” exclaimed the XO.
Captain Curtis looked thoughtful, studying the tracking screen. “You thinking what I’m thinking?” he asked.
“Two Russian subs out there? Could this be the one making intermittent contact since the Falklands? If so, where is K449 – if it exists in these waters?”
The captain ignored Talbot’s last remark. “Our orders are clear: disable K449 and K267.”
“The ramifications could be serious, Captain,” offered Talbot, concern in his voice. “Maybe even start a war.”
Curtis knew he was right, but that was a political decision, not his. He elected to confirm the order. “Inform COMSUBOPs,” he shot back. “Tell them we await orders.”
The XO acknowledged and ordered Comms to release the signal buoy and make contact, advising command of the Russian submarine’s class, course and speed together with range and bearing. He then added, “Contact imminent; confirm engage and destroy?”
Meanwhile, HMS Ambush rose to periscope depth, changing course at the same time heading for the Russian Akula that was obliquely crossing her path from right to left at twelve knots, eighteen miles ahead on course two-nine-four. Captain Curtis felt the urge to increase speed, but refrained. He did not want, in any way, to disclose his presence. The Russian had not changed course or speed, suggesting they were unaware of the approaching British warship. Curtis wanted it kept that way.
“Captain – sonar. Contact characteristics unchanged.”
“Captain, aye. Prepare for action.”
Tension mounted in the control room; this was the real thing.
“Captain – weapons. Set range 20,000 yards. Ready tubes one and two in all respects.”
“Weapons, aye,” replied the weapons officer, then instructed his team in the torpedo bay to load Spearfish heavyweight torpedoes into two of the twenty-one-inch bow tubes.
“Captain – weapons. Tracking solution when you have it,” Curtis ordered sharply.
Minutes later,
“Captain – weapons. Tubes one and two ready.”
“Very well. Hold course for tracking solution. Use passive, low speed; go active at 2,000 yards.” Curtis did not want the Russian to be aware of the torpedoes until they were almost upon him.
“Weapons, aye.”
“Captain – sonar. Target bearing three-two-zero. Range 20,000 yards. Speed unchanged.”
“Captain, aye. Stand by tubes one and two. Fire by sonar on my command.”
Tension now was almost palpable; everyone held their breath awaiting the captain’s order to fire. He remained cool, but inwardly impatient for OP’s reply.
“Captain – weapons. Tracking confirmed. Firing solution resolved; computer set.”
To Curtis, it seemed like a lifetime waiting for COMSUBOP’s reply. If it didn’t come soon they would have to break away and try again later, but by that time the Akula would have vanished.
Five minutes later,
“Captain – comms. Signal from COMSUBOP: Engage and destroy Sierra Nine.”
Relief washed over the commander, tinged with excitement at the anticipation of his first kill.
“Captain – weapons. Confirm tracking and firing solution unchanged.”
“Captain – weapons. Tracking and firing solution unchanged.”
“Captain, aye.”
Curtis fixed his gaze on the tracking consul. Then, with an almost overwhelming sense of expectation, mixed with excitement and a little fear, he barked, “Fire One!”
“Number one tube fired.”
“Fire Two!”
“Number two tube fired.”
HMS Ambush quivered as the two self-propelled Spearfish torpedoes, attached to fibre optic cables that fed their homing and trajectory information, sprang from their tubes and raced away in search of the Russian submarine in the cool, blue waters of the mid-western Atlantic.
39
Half a world away, less than a mile out to sea off the North Korean coastline, the British Trident-class submarine’s ESM picked up Ryder’s ‘homer’ signal, its captain somewhat relieved the waiting was over. He then ordered the vessel to the surface and the extract teams to prepare for a beach rescue operation. After more than several days of patrolling this dangerous stretch of coast, the captain and his crew could now return to base. The submarine surfaced and two inflatables were immediately released as twelve members of SAS ‘D’ Squadron scrambled out of forward hatches into the eddying waters on the partially submerged hull. They entered the pitching vessels and headed with all speed towards land on the starboard beam.
* * *
Amidst a blaze of lights, the two North Korean helicopters landed not far away amongst the scrub and bush further inland. Ryder and the others watched with a sinking feeling as thirty or more heavily armed troops disgorged from the fuselages and fanned out towards their position. They looked urgently at one another, adrenaline pumping fiercely. Help would need to arrive soon or all would be lost.
First shots raked the helicopter and surroundings. The small band of men returned fire, immediately downing three of the enemy. Scattered rocks gave good protection. With the ammunition found in the helicopter and with a bit of luck, they should give a good account of themselves until help arrived. No way could they allow themselves to be captured alive. Should it come to it, the last bullets would be for them.
Bullets ricocheted off the rocks like metal rain and Ryder became concerned for Grace in the bush only a few yards away. He and Song quickly moved her closer under the protection of a large boulder.
They held the enemy’s advance, then a cry from Bom – he’d been hit. Song, the nearest, moved to tend to him, but was waved away. The wound was not fatal and Bom carried on, returning fire with one arm limp.
Shortly after, Ryder was thrown to the ground, a bullet gauging the top of his left shoulder, but with effort, he too managed to continue firing. Their plight was now serious. Where the fuck was the cavalry?
Then they heard the distinct, powerful throb of more helicopters approaching from the north, flying low and parallel to the beach. In the situation they were in, they would have little chance of repelling a fresh onslaught. Their assailants were closing in fast.
The time had come.
Ryder rushed over to where Grace lay, looked into her pain-filled eyes, smiled and, without a word, kissed her gently on the forehead, then raised his pistol.
Suddenly, in a blur of activity, black-clad bodies moved in amongst them, took up positions behind the rocks and began to return withering fire at the enemy. For one awful moment, Ryder thought they were being overrun, but quickly realized, to his relief, the cavalry had finally arrived.