The American submarine barrelled across K449’s path only seven miles ahead and three miles out from Cape Pilar in the noisy coastal waters, 400 feet below the surface, seemingly oblivious to the Russian submarine off her starboard bow. K449 continued slowly ahead at the same depth, trusting she was safe in the turbulence of the shoreline currents.
“Captain – sonar. Contact course now two-zero-two. Bearing zero-five-zero. Speed unchanged.”
Kamani and his executive officer together looked up urgently at the tracking screens.
“She’s turned and coming straight at us!” the XO cried.
Captain Kamani remained calm, mind calculating the level of evasive action. The American would be on them in less than fifteen minutes if both vessels maintained their present course and speed. He dared not increase speed for fear of detection, and to stand and fight was out of the question.
He came to a decision, “Stop all engines, lay to the seabed. Prepare for silent ship.”
K449 immediately angled down through the water at 15 degrees to the horizontal gliding silently in free fall until coming to rest on the ocean floor some 600 feet below the surface. Shortly after, as they waited silently on the seabed, the American submarine cruised past, 200 feet overhead; the menacing sound of its propeller turbulence filling the occupants of K449 with dread.
“Captain – sonar. Contact course changed to two-nine-two. Bearing two-eight-zero. Speed unchanged.”
“Captain, aye.”
“Allah be praised, the infidels have not gone active – otherwise we would probably be cooked fish by now,” said Lieutenant Zaha with a forced grin, sweat glistening on his forehead.
The captain ignored the XO’s attempt to ease the tension; his mind was on other things. “This course reversal indicates they are backtracking, which means the mouth of the Strait is being closely patrolled back and forth or possibly in a triangular pattern into the mouth. Either way it is going to be very dangerous now to attempt entry, even at a snail’s pace,” he concluded, disappointment in his voice.
“We have to try,” said the XO, voice taut. “Otherwise, all we have achieved so far will have been a waste of time and our mission for the glory of Islam will be a total failure.”
“Lieutenant, do not think for one moment that I intend to give up because of this setback. We have not come all this way to be stopped by a single American submarine,” shot Kamani, anger now in his words. “We will still go through the Magellan, but not the way we intended.”
The XO looked at his captain in surprise.
The captain turned back to the charts. “Look at this,” he said, anger diminished. He ran a finger down the detailed maritime map covering the southern Chilean coastline with its myriad of big and small islands, inlets and channels, and tapped the end of his finger on a point halfway down the chart. “I have been looking closely since we left the island for an alternative way through just in case. This waterway here, called the Cockburn Channel, provides that alternative. The stretch is deep according to the chart, almost 1,600 feet, narrow I concede, but it connects midway into the Magellan and is a much shorter route. I believe we can navigate safely through into the broader reaches of the Strait here.” He stabbed a finger where the narrow channel met the broader central reaches of the Magellan Strait. “We can be through in less than ten hours at five to six knots.”
“How wide is the channel?”
“The widest entry point is here.” Kamani pointed to the small group of islands at the entrance to the channel. “One thousand feet between this island, Penin, and the one next to it, Brecknock. Once through, the channel broadens out, averaging three to four miles across, as you can see.”
“You are right, Captain. The main channel looks only marginally narrower than the western stretch of the Magellan. Why did we not observe this before?”
“Simply because I had no idea it existed until looking at the collection of quality maritime charts we carry. This whole southern area is one mass of islands, inlets and channels; only a captain familiar with this part of the world would know of its existence.”
The two men lapsed into silence as both poured over the chart, noting all information necessary to negotiate their way through the Cockburn Channel.
Eventually the captain looked up.
“Captain – sonar. What is the position of the American sub?”
“Captain – sonar. Contact bearing three-one-five. Speed twenty-five knots. Range fifteen miles. Course three-two-zero.”
Kamani turned to his XO and said, “She’s heading fast away. Soon the infidel will be well to the north and unlikely to bother us again. It is time to move south. Start engines.” Then to the helmsman, he ordered, “Course one-one-two. Speed ten knots. Make your depth 400.”
“Aye, sir,” then repeated the order.
Shortly, K449 rose slowly up from the sea floor, turned 130 degrees in a wide sweep, and headed south for the Cockburn Channel.
19
Ryder, Bom and Captain Seymour made their way at a steady pace through the rough terrain; the sun rising and penetrating through the conifers and birch cast a pale watery light over the forested landscape. They were now in the second day of combing this remote central mountain region east of Pyorha-ri, but so far all they had encountered was deserted forest. Grace was beginning to feel the strain of the search, engaging muscles she never knew she had. Her thighs and buttocks were starting to ache as never before, as she moved over the undulating, uneven ground. She hoped they would soon find what they were looking for. Chol and Song, searching further to the east, had also found nothing. Although gruelling and strenuous on the body, no stone was left unturned in their search. Fortunately, the weather held. The absence of military activity in the area also helped to reduce everyone’s fears that hunters were searching for them. If today’s search proved unsuccessful, they would have to move on and set up a new grid further west towards Pyorha-ri. Ryder seriously began to worry now. How long could the doc keep this up?
In the late afternoon, under low cloud cover, the group crested a narrow ridge and suddenly froze. Below them, at the bottom of a steep slope, they could see several ragged people milling about in a flat clearing less than forty yards away. A closer look revealed that they were loading logs onto a wagon drawn by two mules. Three uniformed guards stood close by watching, rifles slung over their shoulders, and frequently kicking individuals in the group whenever they stumbled or fell. They watched in horror at the brutality so unexpected in such isolated surroundings. Who were these poor wretches?
After a few minutes, Ryder signalled to continue on, thankful that no dogs were with the guards.
They carefully edged along the rim of the ridge.
Suddenly, Grace tripped on a partly concealed tree root, lost balance and crashed heavily halfway down the slope, alerting those below.
Two guards quickly turned to see what was happening, ran up the slope brandishing rifles and within seconds had reached the struggling Grace.
Reacting swiftly, Ryder and Bom reached for pistols, aimed and fired, instantly killing the two guards on the slope. Bom took out the remaining guard still in the clearing.
Scrambling down the slope, Ryder was relieved to find Grace uninjured and only slightly dazed from the fall. She quickly rallied and followed the other two down to the valley floor.
When they reached the emaciated group, Bom asked the ragged loggers who they were, noting three of the seven were women – two of whom were unable to stand. One of the men spoke frantically, but his accent was a thick, northern dialect. Neither Ryder nor Grace could understand a word he said. Fortunately, Bom did and he turned away looking shaken.