The Will Of The People (Conspiracy Trilogy Book 1)

by Christopher Read

  “Upload parameters modified,” Carter announced. “Transmission now staggered over a thirty hour period... Just waiting for your go-ahead, Marty.”

  Rebane nodded his understanding, eyes still focused on the pattern of data. Is Russia’s Government fragile enough, he wondered? The military would soon make their move, and Rebane could either accelerate that time, or simply wait for it to happen. His worry as always was the need to maintain the pressure, to ensure that the authorities never knew when or where the next assault would happen, or even from what source. The cyber-attacks had to be constantly re-routed to avoid their origin being traced, but the greater their daily exposure the greater the likelihood Erdenheim would be revealed. In addition encrypted instructions were now being sent direct to August 14’s agents, Moscow’s mobile phone and internet block ensuring the need to use the far riskier landline option.

  An expectant hush settled over the computer room, the others readying themselves for the surge of data the next stage would bring. All of them had been involved with Rebane for at least six months, their reputation known by him for far longer. Well over twenty had helped in some way, often as not working from home with just a few days spent at Erdenheim; the majority were American, the rest from Eastern Europe.

  The eventual team of nine had been chosen in typical Erdenheim fashion by a dispassionate review of strengths and weaknesses, combined with an analysis of what they could contribute to the team as a whole. Other than Carter, only two had any expertise in programming; the rest had been picked for their understanding of terrorism or civil disobedience. Whilst most were not as anti-Russian as Rebane, each member of his team was committed to the challenge of breaking Russia apart, relishing the once in a lifetime opportunity to put their academic theories into practice. For all of them, monetary reward was of secondary importance, their prime motive entirely one of personal fulfilment, with a totally selfish disregard as to the human cost. In that respect, they were not that dissimilar to Rebane.

  Rebane looked across at Carter and gave the briefest of nods. There was really only one way to find out if all this time, effort and money had actually been worthwhile.

  * * *

  The first reports were broadcast by the American news channels, and it was a good forty minutes before Russian TV started to show live pictures from Yakutsk, the capital of Russia’s Sakha Republic. The camera image was of Government House, its windows smashed, smoke blackening the upper floors; scores of armed insurgents celebrated in the street outside, the Russian Tricolour in flames at their feet. The voice-over condemned the mob violence and unrest that had led to the storming of the building, blaming terrorist elements linked to August 14. Western TV news offered a different perspective, the protests seen more as a popular uprising against the Government in Moscow.

  Hundreds of ethnic Yakuts had already joined the insurrection, although the fighting was now generally confined to west of the city centre and further north around the airport. Troops from the Eastern Military District were thought to be in transit, but for the time being the city was in the hands of the nationalists.

  Rebane watched with a smile of satisfaction, gaze moving from one TV picture to another to see which news channel would be first with the next of August 14’s targets. In fact it was a close call between CNN and Sky, both showing the same video clip, purporting to be of Ulan-Ude, a thousand miles south-west of Yakutsk and near to the Mongolian border. A dozen bodies lay in an unnamed square, the camera pulling back across bullet-ridden vehicles to show riot police firing live rounds at some unknown enemy hidden in the buildings opposite.

  It was as much as Rebane could presently hope for: Ulan-Ude, the capital of the Republic of Buryatia, was probably a lost cause, the ethnic Buryats forming barely a third of the population. With Yakutsk the mix was more even, and despite the forced immigration of the Soviet era, less than half its people were ethnic Russians. And this was just the beginning; over the next twenty-four hours more of Russia’s republics would follow the Asian lead. Bashkortostan, Chechnya, Chuvashia, Dagestan, Ingushetia, Kabardino-Balkar, North Ossetia and Tatarstan – in all of these, ethnic Russians were the minority. All had secessionist movements of differing influence, but with August 14’s leadership there was now a real opportunity for change, for true freedom from the Russian yoke. Only then, could Eastern Europe relax, the fear which had pervaded millions of lives for countless generations finally put to rest.

  Even many native Russians were fed up with the authority of Moscow, and several regions including Kaliningrad, Karelia and Siberia actively sought some form of sovereignty. Not that the Government in Moscow took such wishes particularly seriously. Of more concern to Moscow was the fact that a large number of Russians considered themselves Siberian rather than Russian – something China and now August 14 was keen to encourage.

  By 8 p.m. Moscow Time, the capital’s central squares were swarming with protestors, upwards of a hundred thousand according to some estimates. The placards again told of conflicting loyalties, the numbers evenly split between those supporting the Government and those demanding an end to the State of Emergency with its authoritarian suppression of human rights.

  The security forces were vastly out-numbered. Their options seemed limited to the extremes of massacring the innocent with the guilty, or reverting once more to the feeble strategy of watch and wait. When two opposing groups of protestors clashed, the police intervened with tear gas and batons instead of firearms, and for the time being the two sides settled down to an uneasy and unspoken truce. By some process of diffusion, the majority of Government supporters made their base Red Square, while a confused mix of nationalists, immigrants and liberals set up camp a kilometre to the east in Arbat Square.

  As the evening progressed, reports trickled in from across Russia, telling of the unrest spreading inexorably from one republic to another, it primarily affecting the larger cities. In some areas, the numbers were relatively small and the protests petered out or were quickly broken up by the police, but in the Caucasus, the security forces came under armed attack, with several government buildings fire-bombed or ransacked. The latter success spurred those in Arbat Square to burst forth and march towards the Kremlin. The police worked hard to stop them, but organised elements moved through the side streets, running battles drawing in more or more protestors from both sides.

  By midnight, sporadic gun battles raged across the city centre – it was far from something as dramatic as civil war, but such an outcome appeared to be getting ever closer.

  Chapter 16 – Saturday, May 22nd

  Barvikha, Russia

  Just one more day and Grebeshkov’s exile would finally be ended. His frustration seemed to grow by the hour and he was desperate to return to the mayhem that was Moscow. Armed conflict seemed to be the norm in several of Russia’s cities, with half-a-dozen regional capitals now under secessionist control. In Moscow the news channels were being starved of information, their reporters arrested or cameras confiscated, websites hacked. And with the phone networks blocked once more, even the social media option was proving an unproductive news resource.

  Grebeshkov sat in his usual chair, laptop on his knee, reading through the latest FSB reports relating to August 14. They were the usual mix, with the speculative and the unhelpful forming an unfortunate majority. Of academic interest were the follow-up results from the many cell phones that had been recovered, their pre-coded contact names and associated phone numbers matching phones found either at Eglitis’ house or Nabiyev’s apartment. Only one phone – number fourteen as labelled by Nabiyev – could not be matched to a recovered smartphone. Whether the holder of the matching phone was important, or even still alive, was unclear.

  Similarly, the satellite navigation records from Nabiyev’s Mercedes had belatedly offered some clue as to his links with Eglitis. In the month prior to his death, he had visited four different tourist attractions, all well away from the city-centre, a trawl of CCTV records showing that on each occas
ion he had stayed for some forty minutes. Subsequent image-matching had revealed an aged Eglitis invariably close at hand, arriving and leaving within a few minutes of Nabiyev. It was all now completely irrelevant, and yet another report to hide away so as to protect the FSB’s reputation.

  The final report managed to be the longest and most complex, unusual in that it had been passed on directly to Grebeshkov from Valentin’s SVR. Concentration wavering, Grebeshkov turned down the volume on the TV, leaving it set on Russia-24. Now he could give his full attention to a tangled web of guesswork and data analysis produced by one of the Foreign Intelligence Service’s more promising investigators, a man named Reunkov.

  On his own initiative and in his own time, Reunkov had in turn followed up a standard SVR report focusing on the family, friends and associates of known August 14 terrorists. Reunkov had noted that in an unusual number of cases there was a link to the United Kingdom, specifically to the town of Boston. Such links weren’t unusual, Warsaw for example producing several hundred similar hits – yet Boston was intriguing, the proportion of hits for its population putting it on a level with a city such as Poland’s Katowice, and far more than London or Birmingham.

  Curious as to whether the Boston link really was significant, Reunkov had looked deeper. Boston had a very high East-European immigrant population of around fifteen percent according to a recent report; it was also a port, its vessels voyaging to northern Europe and the Baltic. Reunkov had stubbornly persisted, and more in hope than expectation had followed the trail of merchant vessels leaving from Boston, as well as the ports of Lowestoft, King’s Lynn, Grimsby and Immingham.

  The route of every vessel had been examined, the dates compared. Of the many ships plying between England’s east coast and the Baltic, only one came close to matching Reunkov’s specific criteria, with virtually all of the vessel’s ports of call on the FSB’s terrorist checklist: Gdansk, Klaipėda in Lithuania, Riga, Tallinn, and finally St. Petersburg. The Princess Eloise was a slow but convenient carrier of various types of cargo, and in Reunkov’s judgement the likely means by which a good portion of August 14’s supplies – and possibly even some terrorists – reached Eastern Europe or entered Russia.

  Grebeshkov read through the report a second time, now understanding more clearly Reunkov’s arguments and conclusions. If only they had used the investigator’s skills earlier, they might have prevented the debacle of Lithuania, certainly the disaster of Poland. Valentin’s SVR was now looking deeper into the Boston connection, seeing where and to whom it might lead.

  Grebeshkov’s musings were cut short as he heard his wife’s voice, and he looked up to see her staring at the TV screen. He glanced towards it, surprised to see an outdated scene of parading troops. He turned the volume up to be met with martial music, the stirring sound sending a clear and worrying message to Grebeshkov – the military had finally lost patience with their political masters.

  After some forty minutes of archival footage, some dating back to the Soviet-era, the TV picture changed to show one of Russian television’s more senior news announcers, the man reading from a hand-held script. Speaking with dignified restraint, the announcer explained that a five member National Committee for Democratic Unity had taken over the mantle of government; martial law was now in place, the Committee determined to use all necessary means to restore order to Russia’s streets. New legislative elections were promised before the end of the year, but there was no mention as to the President’s fate or present whereabouts.

  Grebeshkov’s thoughts were already working through the coup leaders’ likely identities, ticking off in his mind each person’s role and status before their name was revealed. The leader could be any of them, even two or more pushing each other in the hope of mutual reward.

  First, the figurehead, someone with authority, probably a politician to give the coup a semblance of legality.

  On the TV screen, the first photograph appeared, together with a list of the man’s achievements and previous positions of responsibility. “Alexander Cherenkov”, revealed the announcer.

  Grebeshkov gave a smile of self-congratulation, pleased to have guessed correctly. Cherenkov fitted Grebeshkov’s profile perfectly: experienced and respected, he was the speaker of parliament’s lower house, the State Duma, and would doubtless prove a popular choice.

  Second, the military man, someone to ensure the support of the army.

  “General Igor Morozov, Commander of the 20th Army Group.” Again a satisfied smile from Grebeshkov: capable and well-respected, Morozov was more moderate than many of his military colleagues and not someone who would be willing to risk lives without good cause.

  Third, the power broker, the manipulator to persuade and cajole, while acting as the leader’s spokesperson.

  “Irina Golubeva, National Security Advisor.” No surprise there, thought Grebeshkov complacently.

  Fourth, a person with real talent, someone able to get to grips with Russia’s problems and come up with solutions.

  “Arkady Valentin, Director of the SVR.” Grebeshkov’s surprise turned quickly to one of understanding, Valentin with enough drive and common-sense to at least stand a chance of bringing order out of chaos.

  Fifth, the wild card, probably someone with influence, either with the media or the people.

  “Colonel-General Dmitry Grebeshkov...” Grebeshkov stared open-mouthed as his own image on the TV. By his own expert analysis, he was obviously a man with influence; not only that, he’d unknowingly been promoted from a one-star general to three stars. Idly, he wondered if Eglitis had actually shot him with a third bullet and amnesia should be added to his increasing list of medical problems. Golubeva’s questions of Thursday now made better sense, Grebeshkov’s own responses seen as some sort of endorsement as to the wisdom for the coup d’état.

  The TV picture changed to central Moscow, showing tanks and paratroops taking up positions in Red Square and the surrounding streets, although it was unclear whether the pictures were live. There was no sign of protestors or armed dissidents, just a few hundred curious bystanders, watching in silence as the military regained control of Moscow.

  Grebeshkov flicked through the news channels for another fifteen minutes, before struggling to his feet. The sooner he got back to Moscow the better – only then would he know how close to reality the TV version actually was.

  K-335 Gepard

  Temperature variations, changes in salinity, pressure differences, even the presence of micro-organisms – just some of the factors affecting the way sound propagates through sea-water. Regions are created where sonar signals never reach the surface; conversely some sounds will travel for hundreds of kilometres. Such peculiar effects are commonplace, and in the underwater equivalent of a mirage, the sound waves curve round in a series of loops or convergence zones. In ideal conditions, a sound can be detected several convergence zones from the source, even though it might be tens of kilometres distant; yet a vessel would only need to be a few kilometres from the edge of a zone to be relatively safe – although the ship might then be detected by the sound travelling directly or by bottom bounce. Then there was the thermocline at around a hundred metres depth, where the sea temperature drops most rapidly; this acts as an invisible blanket, generally blocking any sound waves. Thus a submarine below the thermocline will be unaware of any surface vessels, and in turn unheard by them, but still susceptible to a helicopter’s dipping sonar.

  The science worked well for the Atlantic, but the unique characteristics of the Baltic ensured the rule-book could be thrown away. The small area involved meant that convergence zone propagation was frequently irrelevant, and sound signals often underwent multiple reflections from the shallow sea floor; even the use of magnetic anomaly detectors was made ineffective by significant iron-ore deposits. The thermocline was also complex: in May it could be as little as thirty metres in some parts, up to a hundred metres elsewhere, but the Bay of Gdansk’s maximum depth was only 113 metres. It all made for a
confused game of hide and seek, where hunter and hunted could change roles at a moment’s notice.

  The Gepard zigzagged slowly to the north-east, keeping close to the exclusion zone and its protective line of Russian warships while ignoring the large number of spurious echoes. However, one particular signal was persistent and relatively loud, the source edging its way steadily to the west.

  Karenin plugged in a set of headphones, trying to ignore the background irregularities whilst concentrating instead on a subtle vibration, almost a double heartbeat. The sonar display showed a shifting pattern of thin vertical lines – like a complex bar code – with a thicker solid line moving slowly across the screen from left to right.

  “Two, or is it three surface contacts?” he suggested tentatively. “In convoy?”

  The sonar chief nodded his agreement, “Three contacts all very close together; bearing zero-one-two; range twelve kilometres. The convoy’s speed is less than eight knots, heading almost due west. The Admiral Golovko is moving to intercept but is still about fifteen minutes away; bearing three-five-two.”

  “Three NATO ships?”

  “The signals are interfering with each other, so it’s hard to be sure. Probably an American destroyer and a frigate; the third is most likely a large merchant ship. There’s also an intermittent signal from an active sonar; similar bearing; range thirty-plus kilometres; frequency consistent with that of an AQS-22 dipping-sonar.”

  “Very well; designate unknown surface targets as Gold-One, Two and Three. Let me know as soon as you can confirm their identity.”

  Karenin stepped back into the attack centre and weighed up his options. The intermittent signal would be an American ASW helicopter and under normal circumstances that would be a serious concern, but the Baltic was truly a law unto itself. It took time for even an experienced sonar operator to become acclimatised to the Baltic’s peculiarities, able to consistently pick out a real contact from the myriad of false echoes. Computers lacked the subtlety provided by pure gut-instinct, and the Gepard had worked the Baltic for months, the Americans for only a few days.