The Will Of The People (Conspiracy Trilogy Book 1)

by Christopher Read

  McDowell took the printout without comment and began to scan quickly through it, following Anderson’s lead by keeping up the charade. Anderson waited a few seconds before asking a more pertinent question.

  “Is Martin Rebane about; I was hoping to be able to talk to him?”

  McDowell’s head jerked up, eyes confused, “Martin who?”

  “Rebane; has a house in Boston. I saw his Lamborghini in the car park.” There, it was done – bridges burnt and all pretence finally at an end. If Anderson was wrong and Marty wasn’t Rebane, he could always adopt the usual journalistic strategy of blaming his mistake on information received.

  McDowell studied Anderson closely, then abruptly he stood up. “Just give me a minute, Mr Anderson.”

  Anderson was left alone, unsure whether to feel pleased or perturbed, his guess as to Marty’s identity all-too obviously correct. The seconds dragged by, Anderson’s nervousness growing with every tick of the office clock. Confronting the problem no longer seemed quite so prudent.

  The office door opened and a tall, silver-haired man entered, right-arm extended to shake Anderson warmly by the hand.

  “Martin Rebane, as requested,” Rebane said, seating himself in McDowell’s chair. The body language was relaxed, the smile unconcerned. “Now, how can I help?”

  The accent surprised Anderson: there was the expected American twang but with just a hint of something else. “Pat McDowell seemed confused as to who you were. I’m pleased he remembered.”

  “Pat was just being protective. Erdenheim is naturally keen to ensure its guests’ privacy and most of us have better things to do than speak to wayward journalists.” Rebane gave Anderson a studied look. “Was there something specific you wanted, Mr Anderson?”

  “I was just wondering what an expert in counter-terrorism and former CIA officer is doing at Erdenheim, especially one specialising in Russia. With the present crisis in Moscow, others might also find it of interest.” Anderson kept his tone polite, more curious than accusing. He could have thrown Commander Saunders into the mix, even implied there was some link between the Commander’s death and Erdenheim, but that seemed somewhere between outrageous and downright foolish.

  A flicker of concern crossed Rebane’s face, “And you believe there’s a good story here?”

  “You, Pat McDowell, a dozen other Americans and a couple of Russian speakers with McDowell at the Farriers – it all adds up.”

  “To what exactly?”

  Anderson shrugged, “I’m not sure at the moment but give me twenty-four hours and I might just be able to turn it into something worth selling.”

  Rebane gave Anderson a long hard look, almost as though sizing him up. “I sense you’re jumping to an unfortunate conclusion, Mr Anderson; however, I guess that’s not something that matters too much in your profession, just as long as there’s a money-making headline. At this moment in time, any form of publicity would be unhelpful, particularly if it’s inaccurate and misleading.”

  “Then give me the accurate and un-misleading version,” Anderson responded. “If it’s all totally innocent then you have no reason for concern.”

  Rebane took his time replying, “You put me in a difficult position, Mr Anderson, and it seems I have little choice but to trust your integrity. Just to be clear, anything said from now on is totally off the record and I would be grateful if you would turn off your phone.”

  Anderson didn’t argue, taking out his phone and sliding it the across the table so Rebane could confirm it was switched off. Now things really were getting interesting.

  Satisfied, Rebane continued, “It is a difficult world we live in, Mr Anderson; one where a single terrorist group can hold a city, even a whole country, to ransom. The British Government, like any other, does everything it can to protect key infrastructure from terrorist attack; not just the threat from a bullet or a bomb but the more insidious one that has effectively brought Moscow to its knees.”

  “Cyber-warfare?”

  Rebane nodded, “If you check your facts, Mr Anderson, you will discover that Britain’s Intelligence Services have been involved with the private sector for a decade or more, primarily in the field of cyber-security. Erdenheim is part of that partnership; similarly, your government makes use of my expertise in counter-terrorism on an informal basis. Presently, we are just one several groups studying the recent terrorist attacks in Russia; if we can help stop London grinding to a halt like Moscow then Erdenheim will have earned its keep.”

  “Hence McDowell’s two Russian friends?”

  Rebane gave a half smile, “Russian? Or were they Polish? Perhaps your sources aren’t quite as reliable as you think… When Pat warned me a journalist was sniffing around I thought it best to seek advice; your interest in turn flagged up Adam Devereau and the fact he was involved seemed of concern to your security services.” Rebane gave an amused smile, “Are you and Devereau a threat to national security, Mr Anderson?”

  Anderson just stared at Rebane, totally confused.

  “I assume,” said Rebane, his tone verging on the patronising, “you’re aware Adam Devereau left MI6 under something of a cloud?”

  MI6 – Britain’s foreign intelligence service; there was too much new information here for Anderson to take in and make sense of, Rebane cleverly managing to turn the interview on its head.

  “Pat said you quizzed him about the young man who died in a car crash,” Rebane continued. “And I imagine you assume we might have had a hand in George Saunders’ death. There’s no evil conspiracy here; we’re actually trying to do some good, preferably without the blaze of publicity. I hope you can understand that, Mr Anderson. Erdenheim is hardly GCHQ or the NSA but we do our best; unfortunately, the rapid escalation of the crisis in Moscow has in turn increased the need for a suitable counter and Pat’s already helped out by rescheduling some of his clients. Your Government will of course compensate Erdenheim but I would hate for him to feel the relationship has created yet another problem.”

  Rebane’s co-operative attitude was starting to become unnerving and Anderson belatedly tried to get the conversation back on track. “Why Erdenheim?” he asked testily.

  “Its facilities and Jon Carter’s brilliance make for an impressive combination,” Rebane replied, his tone still one of restrained superiority. “We are also working to refine Carter’s computer simulations for use in anti-terrorist training.”

  “A busy life,” Anderson said, with a trace of sarcasm.

  “A life presently split between the extremes of New York and Graythorp.” Rebane stood up, choosing to bring the discussion to an end. “Our secret is in your hands, Mr Anderson; I wish you luck with it. If you need any more from Erdenheim, I suggest you speak to Pat.”

  USS John Finn

  Young refocused the binoculars and in an instant the quarter-mile gap between the John Finn and the Admiral Golovko become uncomfortably close. He panned across the Russian frigate from bow to stern, pausing to take in the weapons systems while confirming his personal view that the frigate lacked the necessary firepower to fulfil its multi-functional role. Neither ship had a helicopter airborne, both sides apparently choosing not to add a third dimension to what was already a complex dance. A hundred yards aft of the frigate was the Russian corvette Soobrazitelnyy, a smart little vessel determined to help her larger sister thwart the John Finn’s every move.

  Young let the binoculars rest against his chest, thoughts struggling with the problem of how best to follow his orders. The Russian blockade had taken NATO totally by surprise and the diplomats were working overtime to ensure a suitable resolution; that would take time, and until then the dubious honour of testing Russian resolve was duly accorded to the USS John Finn.

  Young had been kept well-informed as to the timeline of the day’s events, it starting at 8 a.m. Moscow Time when Russia had privately informed Poland, the U.S. and the U.N. of the immediate implementation of a naval blockade, together with the closing of the man-made Baltiysk Strait and t
he so-called Friendship Pipeline. Three hours later, in a live TV address, the Russian President had given a vigorous defence of Russia’s actions against Lithuania, detailing the physical evidence linking August 14 with the dacha complex, before then showing a brief pre-recorded statement from Marek Tamm confirming his involvement. Next had come a robust condemnation of Poland, the President claiming Russia had proof of complicity between the Polish authorities and the terrorists of August 14, the location of a second terrorist base revealed. The forty-minute diatribe had ended with the formal announcement as to the implementation of a thirty-kilometre naval and air exclusion zone centred on Gdansk, Russia’s main demand the handing over of August 14’s operatives.

  The three hour delay before the public announcement was seen as a gesture of compromise from Russia, a final opportunity for Poland to act against the alleged terrorists. Yet it was now an opportunity ignored. The news reports gave some indication of Poland’s fury at Russia’s imperious actions, but for the time being the Polish President appeared content to let NATO take the lead. The various commentators seemed confident it was to no-one’s advantage to further escalate the crisis, and mutual restraint was the new buzz-word.

  This wasn’t the first time Moscow had chosen the easy option of blocking the Baltiysk Strait and thus effectively shutting the small Polish port of Elblag, and the Friendship Pipeline was anything but, with regular disputes as to transit fees. Unfortunately, the splitting of the pipeline into the northern route to Poland and Germany, and the southern to Slovakia, Hungary and beyond, occurred once it had left Russia and reached Belarus – so a large part of Eastern Europe was now being starved of oil, not just Poland and the Baltic States.

  Young was far from convinced Russia was keen to follow the concept of mutual restraint, and the three Russian warships en route from the Norwegian Sea were now only a few hours away, having just passed through the bottleneck of Zealand. So far they had been left unhindered, but if Poland had its way that could easily change. Germany might also choose to be difficult, Russia’s actions indirectly threatening a fifth of its oil imports; of course, they might decide to be contrary, and join with certain other European nations such as France and Belarus by applying pressure on Poland instead.

  To Young, it was obvious some form of naval confrontation was almost inevitable, his own orders very specific as to the use of minimum force. Russia had stated that the blockade of the Polish ports of Gdynia, Gdansk and Polnocny was to be total, with no shipping of any kind – merchant or naval – allowed to leave or enter, whatever its flag of origin. Now Young had to challenge that assertion, somehow guiding the John Finn into the naval base at Gdynia without creating an international incident.

  Theoretically, it didn’t appear to be that difficult a task. Although the long finger of the Hel Peninsula severely narrowed the entrance to Gdansk Bay, it was still some thirty kilometres from Hel to a second peninsula – the Vistula Spit, the latter running west-east from Poland to Kaliningrad. The latest intelligence suggested Russia had stationed over thirty vessels along the line of its blockade, ranging from corvettes to destroyers; then there were the Naval Air Defence units operating from Kaliningrad. But with just one ship to guard each kilometre, Russia was relying heavily on her warships’ ability to threaten and bully, with additional resources responding quickly to counter any Captain who wished to be obstinate.

  There could also be as many as four submarines, the unseen threat perhaps more worrying than the physical presence of a surface vessel. Torpedo, missile, 130mm shell, or machine gun round – all would be equally problematic for any merchant ship foolish enough to test the blockade.

  For the John Finn, the most immediate obstacles were the Admiral Golovko and the Soobrazitelnyy, and at least one of the Russian warships had doggedly stayed between the John Finn and the Polish coast, or more specifically the main shipping channel to Gdynia. According to reports, at least two merchant ships had already received a warning shot across their bows, but so far the Russians had been wary of trying such tactics with the John Finn, choosing instead to stick with a more literal meaning of blockade.

  Since receiving his orders, Young had tried guile, deception, bluster, and finally raw speed to get past – each time, the Admiral Golovko and the Soobrazitelnyy had worked together to give Young the stark choice of giving way or colliding with one of them.

  Young thought through each tactic once again, visualising them afresh from the Russians’ point of view. Despite the John Finn’s excellent manoeuvrability, one or other of the smaller Russian vessels was always a little too agile, a little too fast – brute force was about all that was left, and even then he might have to barge his way past both of them.

  The crew had been at General Quarters for several hours already, watertight doors closed, ship in lockdown, prepared to go to that final step to Battle Stations should the need arise. The Russian ships were similarly in a state of high alert, both vessels fully prepared for whatever might come next.

  “Mr Rodriguez,” said Young to the officer of the deck (OOD). “The Golovko will probably continue on her present course and match our speed. Let’s get really friendly – try and keep no more than fifty yards off her starboard beam.”

  Young kept a close eye on the Russian frigate, the John Finn creeping closer until the two ships paralleled each other once more. As expected the Golovko refused to give way, effectively blocking the John Finn from closing in on Gdynia. The Soobrazitelnyy too closed up, ready to block the John Finn if she made a sudden turn.

  “Mr Rodriguez, crowd her some more and we’ll try to force her away.”

  The OOD gave the necessary orders and the John Finn closed in a yard at a time towards the Golovko. The helmsman’s task was made far easier by a calm sea, and the two vessels were now heading towards the same point some four hundred yards ahead. Young was assuming the frigate would turn aside before the two ships collided, but he wasn’t entirely convinced; although six knots was only a slow jog, the U.S. destroyer was twice as heavy as her Russian opponent, and in any clash the Golovko would undoubtedly come off worst.

  The Golovko continued to ignore the John Finn. Young could clearly see the officers on the frigate’s bridge, only one of whom appeared to show any interest in the destroyer. An exasperated Young thumbed the intercom, warning the ships’ crew as to the imminent collision. Seconds later the OOD pressed down on the yellow knob of the collision alarm, the strident triple beep a last despairing warning of intent.

  With neither side prepared to give way, the outcome was inevitable.

  The John Finn hit the frigate just aft of her 130mm gun and with an anguished shriek the destroyer’s bow scraped along the side of the Golovko, the sound overwhelming the repetitive tone of the collision alarm. Young was safely strapped in his commander’s seat, the others on the bridge grabbing hold of anything substantial, but even so a petty officer was knocked off-balance, crashing against the starboard bulkhead. The destroyer’s greater momentum enabled her to shrug off the encounter with the smaller warship, and her course barely altered, the destroyer plunging forward in an explosion of spray. The Admiral Golovko was thrust aside and she rolled sharply to port, a fifteen-foot gap appearing in her starboard guard-rail.

  The two ships bounced apart, but the Golovko immediately wrenched herself to starboard, virtually maintaining her original course abreast of the USS John Finn.

  “Damage-Control, Captain. Damage report ASAP.” Young glanced across at the Golovko and a malicious smile touched his lips as he took in the wide scar running along the frigate’s starboard side, defacing her pennant number. The two ships continued to match course and speed, now running some thirty yards apart.

  “Captain, Damage-Control. A few sore heads, Skipper; otherwise, okay.”

  Young calmed his nerves and gave his opponent a hard stare: although the Admiral Golovko had probably come off worst, she hadn’t yet admitted defeat. Best of three?

  The second clash was virtually a repeat of t
he first, with the Golovko veering just a few degrees but not giving way, and both ships now adding a second set of scars to their paintwork.

  Young finally lost patience, not willing to risk serious damage to either ship – yet his next action might well do just that. “Mr Rodriguez, take us two hundred yards off their starboard beam.” He pressed the intercom, “Combat, Captain. Mr Serelli; prepare to fire a shot across the Golovko’s bow; make it no closer than fifty yards.”

  Seconds later an alarm sounded throughout the ship as the destroyer’s 5-inch gun swivelled around to face the Russian frigate. The gun was radar-aimed and computer-controlled, compensation made for the pitch and roll of the John Finn and movement of the target, even variations in wind strength.

  Young waited, hoping something would happen so as to force him to alter his decision. For a full five minutes he said nothing. Finally, “Combat, Captain. Confirm weapons free; fire when ready.”

  A loud crack from the gun followed almost instantly. The resultant explosion was a good sixty yards from the Golovko, but water still cascaded down upon her deck, momentarily shrouding the frigate in a fine mist. Seconds later, the Soobrazitelnyy followed serenely in her wake.

  The tension on the John Finn’s bridge was palpable, Young having to force his hands to unclench. Again the minutes dragged by.

  Young keyed the intercom, “Combat, Captain. Once again, Mr Serelli; a little closer if you please.”

  The second round was nearer by some twenty yards, yet the Golovko simply coasted through the spray, seemingly impervious to the John Finn’s taunts. Young didn’t dare risk a third shot: any closer and the frigate could easily be hit. The Russians certainly weren’t afraid of playing chicken, and it took guts to sit back and do nothing on the assumption the John Finn wouldn’t actually blow you out of the water.