Paths of Courage (20 page)

“Contact, designate, Sierra Ten. Submerged, bearing three-four-five. Range forty-five miles. Faint. Awaiting translation.”

Both Captain Curtis and his XO looked up sharply from their consuls in
Ambush's
control centre.

“Captain, aye. Maintain and hold track. Resolve ambiguity,” Curtis shot back.

“The Akula again?” Talbot asked.

“Doubt it; too far away.”

Seconds later, “Captain – sonar. Translation confirmed; Delta III. Speed twelve knots. Range and bearing unchanged.”

The two men stared incredulously at one another; Curtis's excitement grew; his perseverance had paid off. Talbot was surprised and feeling a little guilty for doubting his captain.

“Yessss!” hissed Curtis. “At last!”

“You were right all along, Mike. Well done!”

“She's playing a risky game barrelling along at twelve knots; something's not right. You just don't do that speed in hostile waters, especially a Delta.” Curtis glanced at the tracking screens, then back at Talbot. “Advise COMSUBOP we've located K449 and will be engaging. It's clear from her course she's heading northwest up the Bahama chain. If we fail to nail her, Command will make sure the Americans are in line to finish the job.”

“Including the Akula?”

“My guess: yes. The Russians would want to vindicate themselves from selling the sub to terrorists. However, we must remain vigilant. I suspect the powers that be do not trust them; it could well be the Akula they sold and not the Delta.”

“Well, Mike – we now have two hostiles out there in that case, so we'd better go get'em.”

Captain Curtis smiled tensely at Talbot, then ordered the helm to increase speed from ten to fifteen knots and a course change that would bring them up behind K449. At fifteen knots, HMS
Ambush's
advanced propulsion system, anechoic hull coatings and isolated deck structures gave her a very low acoustic signature, which even at that speed made the warship difficult for sonar to detect. When within fifteen nautical miles of the target, Curtis would strike.

The three submarines left the Puerto Rico Trench and made their way up past the Navidad Bank in a northwesterly direction in 13,000 feet of water. They were all at the same depth of around 400 feet. In the leading submarine, K449, Asad Kamani, the captain; Ali bin Rashid, the al-Qaeda negotiator; Lieutenant Hamid Zaha, K449's XO; and Captain Javad Moradi of the
Maru Blue
were holding an emergency meeting in the submarine's wardroom, totally unaware of the other two submarines following and closing for the kill.

“…That concludes the latest situation,” finished the captain, grim-faced. “In simple terms the coolant pump has begun to deteriorate much faster than was first anticipated, which means now we are faced with the very real prospect of not reaching the launch point.”

Silence filled the small room as the other three men absorbed what the captain had said. Rashid and Moradi were visibly shocked.

Rashid broke the silence. “The question then, Captain: are we to take a chance and continue on to the original launch area or do we select another target much closer?”

“It is another 1,000 miles to the coordinates; I am concerned we will struggle to make it, not to mention the 500-mile return journey to the rendezvous. If the pump fails completely, we are doomed.”

“Then a new target it must be,” said the al-Qaeda negotiator firmly. “Placing the warhead anywhere on the mainland will have to serve.”

“To hit Washington would have been perfect, but not necessary. Anywhere on land and the virus will spread like wildfire. The infidel does not have an antidote; within six months, Western culture will be on its knees and no longer a threat to Islamic world power,” answered Kamani strongly. This was his destiny and he would not fail. Allah would reward him handsomely for his part in making this victory over the infidel happen.

“A pity many of our people will die too as the virus will inevitably spread to other continents,” said Moradi.

“It is a necessary sacrifice,” replied Rashid. “We cannot vaccinate the entire Muslim world, but we already have stock piles and will eventually have enough to cover at least fifty percent in the populated areas – even more, depending on how fast the Koreans can keep on supplying the vaccine.”

“Which is the closest city?” Moradi asked.

“Miami, about 750 miles west of our current position,” answered Zaha.

“Not the same as hitting the infidel's capital – the seat of power and evil,” Moradi came back.

“We will have to live with that,” Rashid replied. “What is the size of the population?”

“Around half a million,” Kamani replied. “Miami would make an excellent alternative. I propose we release the missile near the rendezvous point west of Great Abaco, then scuttle the sub and board the Libyan freighter.”

“Will the freighter be there?” asked Moradi anxiously.

“She will be by the time we reach Abaco,” Kamani answered.

“Abaco is 500 miles away; we may not even reach it,” said Zaha.

“We have no choice; we must not fail,” shot Rashid, looking a little angrily at the XO. He glanced at the map spread out over the table. “Miami is only 200 miles from Abaco, at that distance the missile is unlikely to be intercepted, and once the warhead releases the pods over the city, we will have, at the very least, successfully completed our mission for Allah. I agree with Captain Kamani's proposal.”

Zaha and Moradi nodded in agreement too.

“Good, then that is settled,” said Kamani. “Lieutenant, recalibrate the missile-tracking coordinates for an Abaco shot at Miami and keep them progressively updated. We may have to release at any time.”

The XO acknowledged and stood to leave just as the intercom buzzed. He answered and turned to the others.

“Captain, sonar reports hostile contact bearing zero-nine-zero, range fifteen miles, waiting translation.”

The three men sitting at the table glanced urgently at one another before Captain Kamani stood up and quickly left the wardroom with his XO.

By the time they reached K449's control centre, the translation came through.

“Akula II-class, K267, nuclear,” repeated Kamani calmly, careful to hide his fear and disbelief.

“This far down in the Atlantic and so close? How did they know we were here?”

“Send a Russian to catch a Russian,” replied the captain with a tense half-smile. “She's here to stop us, remove the guilt for selling this boat to the Koreans and possibly to placate the Americans.”

“But we are not Russians.”

“They don't know that. To them this is a Delta III with a Russian crew. What they do know is everything about this boat and what she's capable of.”

“Captain – sonar. Contact range now twelve miles. Bearing zero-nine-five.”

The captain turned to the helm, adrenaline rising. “Reduce speed to seven. Maintain zig-zag course.”

He now regretted and cursed himself, for ordering an increase in speed initially. The Russian may well have heard them. He prayed not, but if they had, he could expect an attack at any moment. His worries increased ten-fold, too; where was the British sub? Could any American submarines and surface ships in the area have also heard them? In which case, an onslaught of attacks could soon be on the way. Seven knots and a zig-zag course, however, would make it difficult for passive sonar to lock on, but he feared the infidels. If they were close, they would go active to pinpoint his position. In that event, only the effective use of countermeasures, or Allah himself, would save them.

“Lieutenant, inform weapons NOW to prepare for attack. Recalibrate the target and have the missile ready for imminent launch.”

Captain Curtis and his XO looked intently at the tracking screens in
Ambush's
control room. They were now sixteen miles astern of K449, just 400 feet below the surface.

“Captain – sonar. Sierra Ten, speed change to seven knots. Course unchanged.”

“Captain, aye.”

“You think she's heard us?” Talbot asked.

“Maybe; in fact more than likely,” Curtis replied, voice giving away the tension he felt. “If she reduces any further, we could lose her.” He paused, seemingly deep in thought, then, “We'll take her now. Prepare for snap shot. Ready tubes one and two in all respects,” he ordered.

“Captain – sonar. Sierra Nine contact. Bearing three-one-five. Range ten miles. Analyzing.”

Both men glanced at one another, eyebrows raised.

“Captain, aye.” Then to WPO, “Stand down snap shot,” Curtis barked.

“The Akula!” exclaimed the XO, unable to hide his astonishment.

A strained smile creased the captain's features. “We'll get her this time.” He scanned the surrounding monitor screens for several seconds, then turned back to Talbot. “I intend to take them both at once, within twenty seconds of one another. The less warning the better. Captain – sonar, I have assumed this is a direct-path contact.”

“Captain – sonar, confirmed.”

“Reduce speed to ten knots, maintain course,” he shot. Then to the weapons officer, “
Spearfish –
prepare all tubes in all respects. Take Sierra Nine with tubes one and two and Sierra Ten with three and four. Adopt a slow speed passive approach; go active on both at 1,500 yards.”

“Weapons, aye.”

The weapons officer prepared to launch the torpedoes around 12 degrees off the intercept course towards the targets to cover a 180-degree search sector in front of
Ambush.
The torpedo seeker head would see and lock onto a target within this sector range. As the
Spearfish
closed in on the targets, their electronic guidance system would determine the optimum moment for detonation of the warheads on or near the hulls of the Russian submarines if countermeasure tactics were ineffective. Once the torpedoes were on their way,
Ambush
would run for cover as fast as possible in the case that one, or both, of the Russians managed to launch torpedoes in response.

Tension notably mounted as the crew prepared to attack the two submarines converging up ahead. The captain and his XO remained cool despite this being the first attempt by a British submarine to take out two enemy submarines simultaneously since World War II.

Sonar reported both contacts remained firm; they were holding course with no change to characteristics.

“Obviously both don't know we're here,” said Talbot.

“Let us hope it stays that way,” Curtis replied, turning to tracking monitors. “Captain – weapons. Tracking solution when you have it,” Curtis called, not taking his eyes away from the screens.

“Captain – sonar. Sierra Nine bearing three-one-zero. Sierra Ten bearing two-nine-five. Frequency good, aural firm. No change.”

“Captain – weapons. Tracking-fire solution complete.”

“Captain, aye. Stand by all tubes. Remain steady on course three-zero-zero,” ordered Curtis, voice calm and clear.

“Captain – sonar. Bearings good. No change.”

Tension ran high.

Seconds later, the captain ordered, “Fire One!”

“Number one tube fired.”

“Fire Two!”

“Number two tube fired.”

“Fire Three!”

“Number three tube fired.”

“Fire Four!”

“Number four tube fired.”

Ambush
quivered for the second time in twenty-four hours as each of the four
Spearfish
left the tubes and angled out at a speed of more than sixty knots into the blue waters in search of the two Russian submarines.

*

K267 was now within ten miles of K449. In the control room, Captain Denko, together with his XO, waited tensely for the firing solution to be resolved before he could release two USET-80 torpedoes at the rogue Russian submarine. He remained unemotional at destroying one of the motherland's own warships; all he and his crew wanted now was to get this unfortunate episode over with and return home.

Suddenly, “Inbound torpedoes!” screamed the sonar operator. “Bearing one-three-five! Range 2,000 yards!”

Stunned, Denko reacted instantly, cursing himself for allowing too much focus on his prey and not enough on the other dangers lurking in these hostile waters. Would he now have to pay? Real fear seared his mind.

“DIVE! DIVE! FLANK SPEED!” he screamed at the helmsman, then at weapons, “LAUNCH DECOYS, NOW! NOW!”

But it was too late. The dreadful pinging sound that filled the ears of everyone in the control room told them the incoming torpedoes had turned active and they were now all about to die unless the noisemakers could deflect.

The high-pitched whine of the propellers of both torpedoes quickly grew into a howl. Then an almighty screech, seconds before the control room bulkhead imploded and vaporized all those within.

This screech was the last thing Denko and his crew heard before the HMS
Ambush's
two
Spearfish
heavy torpedoes slammed into the side of K267, breaking her almost into two pieces, sending the mortally wounded Russian submarine and all its occupants spiralling down to oblivion on the ocean floor.

*

In the dim light of the control room, minutes before the British torpedoes struck the Akula, K449's captain watched the tracking screens anxiously, still praying silently to Allah that the Russian had not heard them. His concern was deepening at the thought of the deteriorating coolant pump, the nearness of the Russian submarine, and the omnipresence of the British sub, who must be out there somewhere. Captain Kamani had brought them so close to the infidel's lair after many perilous days under the oceans, but for the first time he truly felt uneasy and began to have some serious misgivings that the mission could possibly fail. This was no time for self-doubt and he tried hard to shrug it off, but to no avail.

Lieutenant Zaha broke the captain's concerns. “Sir, coordinates for the new target have been recalibrated and the missile is now ready for immediate launch.”

“Thank you, Lieutenant,” the captain replied quietly, turning his thoughts to the thirty-five ton, fourteen-foot long R-29R
Stingray
ballistic missile sitting menacingly in its casing with a warhead carrying a cargo of deadly refrigerated viruses – which, when released over American soil, would cause such devastation to the infidel that they would no longer be a threat to the Islamic world. Praise to Allah!

“Torpedoes – inbound! Bearing zero-nine-zero! Range 3,000 yards!”

Kamani spun to the helmsman, panic welling inside;
the Russian sons-of-bitches!

“Take her DOWN! DOWN! Full speed! Maximum angle!” he all but screamed. Then to weapons, “Release decoys! DECOYS NOW!” he ordered, with little attempt to stay calm.

The crew at their stations were taut for action, reacting immediately to the captain's commands.

“Torpedoes, 2,000 yards and closing!” shouted the sonar operator, fear now clearly showing.

The captain looked desperately at his XO, who just stared back in sheer panic and disbelief.

Instinct told Captain Kamani all was about to be lost; soon the torpedoes would go active and if the decoys failed, that would be the end of the Islamic dream. He came to a decision; a decision he believed might well be his last.

There was no time for protocol – he had to rely on the computers last firing solution – as long as the missile landed somewhere on American soil it would not matter.
Ya Allah.

“STAND BY MISSILE – FIRE NOW! REPEAT, FIRE NOW!”

Seconds later, the pinging sound of the incoming torpedoes' active sonar filled the control room, creating an avalanche of unbridled fear.

K449 shuddered as the
Stingray
left its casing, surged up through the depths inside its protective bubble in a cloud of flame thirty miles due south of Grand Turk Island. The missile jettisoned its post-launch vehicle 200 feet above the water and soared up into the night sky on an unswerving high trajectory toward Miami, 700 miles away to the northwest.

At the precise moment the
Stingray
broke the dark, rolling Atlantic waters, HMS
Ambush's
two torpedoes slammed into K449, blasting two giant holes in the hull, one just below the sail; the other in the engine room towards the rear. Water poured through the gaping openings and the pressure dropped instantly. A fireball sucked up all the oxygen, followed seconds later by the sea surging into the boat's ripped sides, crushing everything in its path. The control room was destroyed immediately. Turbines in the engine room were thrown from their mountings with such force that they penetrated the hull on the opposite side, signalling the end of the Russian submarine and for all those who manned her.

K449 died in a cascade of tortured metal and surging water, large chunks of her superstructure spiralling in the strong currents as she plunged to the seabed some 6,000 feet below.

*

“Jesus fucking Christ! They've launched a missile!” shouted
Ambush's
sonar operator.

Captain Curtis looked on helplessly at the tracking screens.

Seconds later, sonar reported hits on the two Russians. The captain's emotions raced: jubilant at a successful action; sadness that some form of devastation was about to be unleashed upon America; and frustration that there was nothing he could do about it.

The crew was stunned into silence, contemplating the enormity of what they had just done in killing so many submariners like themselves. Most felt sick at the thought; for all of them this represented their first kills experienced in the service of Her Majesty's Navy. Had Armageddon finally begun?

“Nuclear?” Talbot asked, almost in a whisper.

“Does it matter? Nuke or bio, the damage is done,” Curtis replied, stunned.

“Miami?”

“I guess; it's the nearest. Anyway, there's nothing more we can do. It's now up to the boys up top.”

Captain Curtis and his crew listened silently to sonar emitting the terrible echoes of the two dying submarines, an ear-shattering cacophony of tortured metal and roaring water as both vessels broke up on their way down to the bottom of the ocean. For Curtis, it was the first time he had been responsible for the deaths of so many men. It pricked his conscience and heightened his sadness at the horrible fate he had dished out to fellow submariners. However, he had carried out his duty and would have no hesitation in doing the same again if he had to. He turned to his XO.

“Mr Talbot, inform COMSUBOP we have engaged and destroyed K449 shortly after she released a missile, and we have also engaged and destroyed the Russian Akula. Inform them too, we are returning to base forthwith.” Then to the helmsman, “Full ahead. Steer three-three-seven. Depth 600.” After a short pause, he looked again at his XO. “Lieutenant, you have the conn.”