“Not if it’s done gradually and, as I said, with precision. Both subs are following one another; their courses are almost identical. Once we get into line and in behind Hostile One, we will merge as one on Hostile Two’s sonar.”
“When will we break away?”
“When it’s safe to do so or should the American turn and head for deeper water. Whatever happens, we must stay close inshore.”
“Very well, Captain,” said the XO, his adrenaline surging.
Captain Denko ordered the helmsman to adjust course to come in line with that of the American submarine and to increase speed sufficiently to catch up with Hostile One in a slow and precise manner, finishing, “Keep a tight line astern and keep as close as you can get in the wake. Our lives will depend on it.”
For the next two hours, K267 inched its way into Hostile One’s wake without incident and then sat there in 400 feet of water following the unsuspecting American submarine along the African coastline at speeds varying between fifteen to twenty knots. Hostile Two trailed some four miles astern, with only his fellow countryman up front showing on the sonar screens.
Twenty-four hours later, Hostile One suddenly veered west into deeper water, followed by Hostile Two; K267 maintained her course, reducing speed to less than five knots in the protection of the noisy African shoreline off Cape Columbine, a hundred miles north of Cape Town. The two American submarines gathered speed as they penetrated the wider ocean, unaware that they had been instrumental in assisting the Russian submarine to enter into the Atlantic undetected.
17
After eight hours of almost non-stop trekking at a steady pace, Ryder led his exhausted band into a shallow scrub-filled hollow surrounded by trees. Darkness fell in the small, narrow valley more than twenty klicks from the lake. Since the morning, they had traversed undulating tree and scrub-covered terrain, broken by steep valleys, ravines and narrow ridges. There was no sign of human presence, apart from a small convoy of army vehicles seen travelling along a dirt road just north of the lake. This reinforced the fear that they were being hunted and the hunters may well know the direction they were taking. If correct, their mission would now be doubly dangerous; extra vigilance was now imperative.
They quickly settled into the hollow and formed a makeshift brush shelter amongst the tangled scrub. Ryder insisted on no fire; rations were to be eaten cold. Fortunately, the good weather held and the summer temperatures meant that they would not freeze during the night. With Chol on first watch, the rest bunched together, unable to sleep until the adrenaline began to subside.
Ryder looked over at the captain; Grace had kept up well. He could see her exhaustion and felt sorry for her. He could not deny the spunk of the lady.
“You okay?” he asked with genuine concern.
She attempted a smile. “I ache all over and my feet feel like lead,” she said wearily, running her fingers through matted hair. “Believe me, a shower and a good night’s sleep would go down very well.”
“No shower, but go for the sleep. We’ll rest up at least until early morning.”
Grace managed a grin. “Thanks, boss.”
They finished eating in silence and then, one by one, exhausted bodies succumbed to sleep.
Night passed without a hitch and they awoke refreshed to the sound of a dawn chorus as the sun rose in a clear sky. After a quick breakfast of dried meat and water, Ryder checked the GPS and confirmed what he and the rest had suspected: they were now on the southern fringe of the search area. Today, the search pattern would begin. The sixteen-klick square grid, predefined on the map and subdivided into smaller eight-klick square grids, would be systematically searched grid by grid.
“Okay, it’s confirmed; we’re on the southeastern fringe of the search box so we start as of now,” he declared with a sense of relief. Now they could get on with what they had come to do.
As planned, they split into two groups – one with Song and Chol, the other Ryder, Bom and Seymour. He wanted to keep an eye on the doc himself. If something happened to her, it would put the whole operation in serious jeopardy. Separate searching covered more area in less time and should something happen to take one group out, it was possible the other could carry on. At the end of each day, the two groups would meet at prearranged coordinates within the search grid to share and act on what they had found.
Shortly after all signs of their presence in the hollow were removed, Ryder gave the order to move out. Both groups promptly headed away in opposite directions along the valley and up into the tree-lined hills.
Bom went up alongside Ryder. “That convoy we saw back there, boss; not a good sign.”
“Maybe an exercise of some sort? Seen nothing since,” he said, hiding concern. It did reinforce his worry that the commies were more than likely hunting them. Their vulnerability weighed heavily.
“If it’s us they’re looking for, Frank, a convoy that size in this wilderness would suggest they know which direction we’re heading,” Bom pressed, outwardly calm, but Ryder could sense his nervousness.
“They don’t know who we are or why we’re here; that gives us an advantage to stay one step ahead unless they get lucky,” he said, more to reassure himself than Bom. “Stay extra alert.”
They lapsed into silence and moved in single file into the trees. The mountain air felt fresh and clean, and Ryder, although apprehensive, felt a strong feeling of anticipation knowing they had now begun the search in earnest.
18
In the control room of K449, Captain Kamani looked up from the chart table and turned to his XO.
“Another hour and we will enter the Strait. Cape Pilar is ten miles on bearing zero-six-four.” He swung to the helmsman. “Maintain present course. Reduce speed to seven knots. Make your depth 400 feet.”
After twelve uneventful days slicing eastward through the cold depths of the southeast Pacific Basin from Heard Island, K449 had all but reached her destination. Following latitude 60 degrees south along the Pacific Antarctic Ridge at a maximum speed of twenty-five knots and at a constant depth of 600 feet, the Strait of Magellan lay not far ahead to the northeast. He had not worried much about detection in the remote southern waters, on a course that had taken them part-way near and almost parallel to the Antarctic continent’s coastline. However, when they were within 200 miles of Drake Passage, he’d altered course to head northeast directly towards the Strait, reducing speed to ten knots in case American submarines had ventured well west of the Passage. During the long journey, both he and his crew had used the time to hone up on skills necessary to run the sleek, black warship competently and with a high degree of confidence.
“Captain – sonar. Contact bearing zero-four-five. Course one-two-five. Range eight miles. Speed twenty-five knots.”
“At the entrance to the Strait!” shot the XO.
“Profile translation,” called Captain Kamani, voice calm.
Seconds later, “Los Angeles-class, SSN seven-two-three.”
“She will hear us if we go through,” the XO said anxiously.
“Reduce speed to four knots. Maintain course,” ordered the captain. “The Americans are taking no chances patrolling this far up from Drake Passage and seem not to care who hears.”
“Obviously, at that speed. Thanks to Allah, she is travelling fast enough to hear. What now?”
“Maintain present course and speed on into the Strait. I am confident she will not hear us this close in.”
“Unless she switches to active.”
“Then we must rely on Allah to protect us,” said Captain Kamani abruptly, returning to his charts.