The Will Of The People (Conspiracy Trilogy Book 1)

by Christopher Read

  Anderson’s musings were distracted by a sudden change in the background noise, something unusual adding to the constant deep throb from the engine – first a series of heavy thuds, followed soon after by the clatter of footsteps reverberating along the deck. He listened intently, and within seconds there were several dull pops. He tried to interpret them as something other than gunshots, but failed. Playing safe, Anderson turned and flicked on the bedside light, shaking Charlotte awake.

  “Something’s happening,” he said urgently. “Best get dressed, just in case.”

  Charlotte looked as though she wanted to argue, then she gave a nod of confirmation, flinging the duvet aside. Anderson grabbed some clothes and forced himself into them. From outside the cabin there were raised voices, the actual words indistinct, then a loud crash as something heavy smashed down on the cabin lock. A brief moment later the door was thrown open.

  A black-suited figure stepped warily across the threshold, night-vision goggles sat awkwardly atop his head, submachine gun moving quickly from Anderson across to Charlotte, then back again.

  Anderson stood with arms half raised, unsure as to whether they were about to be rescued or murdered. The gunman spoke rapidly in Russian, then awaited a response, his gun still aimed at Anderson’s midriff.

  Eventually it was Anderson who offered the standard if rather feeble reply. “British, we’re British...”

  * * *

  Charlotte sat huddled in a corner of the helicopter’s cabin and stared out across the blue-black surface of the Baltic Sea, trying to relax and not show any of the others how frightened she felt. Anderson sat beside her, eyes closed, but certainly not asleep, the deafening roar from the rotor blades ensuring that was impossible. Captain Koval was the third passenger from the Princess Eloise, the remainder of the crew remaining aboard with their captors, their fate unknown.

  Frightened she might be, but it was nothing when compared to the mind-numbing terror of being winched skywards from the heaving semi-dark and rain-spattered deck of the Eloise. Exactly where the helicopter had come from and where it was now going, she had no idea; the position of the early-morning sun suggested they were heading east, hardly surprising considering they were in a Russian helicopter. Three of their black-suited rescuers sat opposite, along with one member of the flight crew, Charlotte feeling distinctly uncomfortable under their gaze.

  Koval and Anderson had been handcuffed together, but Charlotte had been left with both hands free. Quite how the Russian authorities would regard the two of them, without even a passport to prove who they were, was unclear – terrorists or spies at worst, idiotic tourists at best. Charlotte had been taken aside and quizzed with a few standard questions, such as name and why she was aboard the Princess Eloise, but she sensed her inquisitor wasn’t that interested in her actual answers, merely going through the motions while awaiting their next mode of transport.

  It was now almost two hours since their enforced flight had begun, and Charlotte was regretting her earlier refusal of a chocolate bar, her fear that she might start throwing up proving unfounded. She had even managed a few sips of water without feeling queasy. It perhaps wasn’t all that wise to keep looking out of the side window but it was far better that than catching the eye of one of the Russians. If they responded with a smile, should she smile back or glare at them? Her education seemed to have missed out on how to deal with a nation’s Special Forces, especially when you weren’t sure whether they were friend or foe.

  Far below and away to her right, was the first in a line of warships, each vessel a slim grey finger against the darker shadow of the sea. Russian, American or even British, there was no obvious clue, the ships too far away to see any flag. Charlotte assumed they were Russian, part of the naval force mustered for the blockade of Gdansk. She counted five vessels, each spaced out from the other by a mile or more, plying their way in an endless patrol of the gulf.

  For some odd reason, Charlotte’s thoughts moved on to her mother, wondering how her holiday was faring. Jessica should be back home on Wednesday and Charlotte was slightly more optimistic that she too might eventually make it back to England, hopefully still in one piece.

  Charlotte’s musings were distracted by Anderson shifting position, his eyes still firmly shut, brow furrowed as though in pain. Charlotte glanced again at the warships below. Far beyond the nearest vessel and further to her right, Charlotte suddenly noticed a curious bright light crossing the waves, a silver arrow heading at speed directly towards the warship. For a brief moment she thought it might be a reflection from the cabin window, then she saw a second light chasing after the first, two fiery streaks standing out against the opaque surface of the Baltic.

  Charlotte’s brain tried to ignore the thought processes that told her they were actually missiles, a fact immediately confirmed as an alarm screeched out from the helicopter cockpit, the pilot shouting out his own warning. A heartbeat later the warship herself reacted, a pair of missiles launching to meet the threat. The helicopter banked suddenly and Charlotte had to grab for support; as they levelled out, her gaze was drawn back towards the warship, watching fascinated as a hail of gunfire burst from the vessel. An instant later there was a massive explosion, then a second, the ship shrouded in smoke and flame.

  Charlotte held her breath, assuming that the attack was in response to the deaths aboard the American destroyer, but still wanting the Russian ship to survive. The vessel slid into view, seemingly undamaged, sweeping round to port to head east. Charlotte did a quick double-take, realising that the missiles had come from the west, inside the exclusion zone, rather than from one of the NATO warships cruising impotently to the north.

  With the Russian vessel escaping apparently unscathed, there was a raucous cheer from the Russian sitting opposite Charlotte, his compatriots immediately joining in his celebration.

  Anderson grabbed Charlotte’s arm. “What’s happening?” he asked loudly, looking disoriented.

  “World War Three,” Charlotte shouted unhelpfully. “And we’re right in the middle of it.”

  Graythorp, England

  Rebane sat in McDowell’s small office, blinds drawn, the mellow tones of piano and saxophone on the CD helping to relax him as he reviewed August 14’s concluding moves. The initiative was now firmly with the secessionist cause and Rebane’s team were focusing a good part of their attention on misinformation so as delay the authorities’ response. Civil discontent was still spreading, gaining its own momentum as early successes revealed how brittle the Russian Federation actually was.

  The coup d’état had been an inevitable consequence of Rebane’s strategy, but it too should soon succumb to the constant pressure for change, with the military unable to contain the breadth and diversity of nationalist fervour. Rebane just needed to ensure that there was no let-up in the demands made upon the coup’s leaders, and when their own survival was at risk then Moscow too would crumble. Rebane had always hammered home the need for August 14 to be versatile, able to adjust its strategy to cope with each new set of circumstances. He still couldn’t quite believe how well everything had gone, Erdenheim’s ability to shape events surpassing virtually everyone’s expectations.

  Many so-called experts derided the computer as no more than a data-analysis device, failing to believe it had even a minor role in a nation’s armoury. To them, power resided in a more physical manifestation, such as a missile, a jet fighter or a warship. Yet Rebane and Carter had melded the tools of instant communication and cyber-terrorism to create a weapon able to torment and disrupt, dozens of diverse targets attacked simultaneously, often without anyone being aware until well after the event. And through social media the public itself could be manipulated – almost programmed – into becoming an unwitting fifth column.

  Eglitis might have begun August 14’s campaign with an act of old-fashioned terror, but their prime weapon was the more imaginative one conceived by people like Rebane. Erdenheim had cost little more than a single cruise missile, its soft
ware the same, but together they packed a much more effective punch, far greater than a hundred such weapons.

  Exaggeration born of arrogance? Perhaps it was; but the evidence was all too clear, examples of Erdenheim’s achievements stretching from Kaliningrad to Vladivostok. Total success in Russia was agonisingly close and with it complete justification as to Rebane’s confidence and belief. The new Government would no doubt try to fight on, but once enough of the nationalist groups had gained control, then Moscow’s authority would be lost forever.

  A ‘Statement of Intent’ had been released by the National Committee for Democratic Unity, perhaps in the hope of encouraging a patriotic upsurge of support. One particular sentence seemed to exemplify how out of touch the Committee was, its hopes for the future ignoring the reality of today’s Russia: ‘With courage and steadfastness, we will create a nation once again vying for the title of superpower, a nation united together in a desire for peace through strength, with no place for the criminals and terrorists promising a futile independence’.

  Brave words, but that’s all they were, and Rebane was confident the Committee lacked the military might – and the military unity – to fix Russia’s decline. Russia’s army was undermanned, with morale remaining low due to poor conditions and lack of investment. Why risk your life fighting for an un-elected committee based a thousand miles from your home, especially when your first language was something other than Russian and the enemy were your own compatriots?

  NATO could still prove to be a unifying element, a second common enemy that might yet alter the outcome. Nevertheless, Rebane felt in control, Erdenheim always ready to react to any new difficulty or complication. There were still a few loose ends to tidy up, and in a day or so, Anderson and Charlotte Saunders would be involved in a tragic accident, most likely a car crash. There would doubtless be some reaction – even accusations – from Jessica Saunders, but Rebane wasn’t overly concerned. He could even afford to think ahead to a holiday and the next challenge, a book perhaps.

  As to what came next for Erdenheim was unclear, and apparently some future arrangement for the Management Centre had been agreed between McDowell and Erdenheim’s investors. Both McDowell and Rebane were set for a hefty bonus, everyone delighted with how much had been achieved with such a relatively frugal outlay. Thirty million dollars had been his original estimate, and he hadn’t been that far out; the number of personnel had also been minimal – slightly more than a hundred and fifty actively involved with August 14, their training, and of course Erdenheim.

  Although the investors had insisted on maintaining their anonymity, Rebane had had regular face-to-face discussions with their intermediary, Klaudia Woroniecki. Every few months they would meet – usually at a neutral venue near to her home city of Warsaw – to review progress and assess future needs, both financial and human. Her one visit to Erdenheim had apparently been on impulse, a wish to show off the Management Centre to an influential ally. Quite why McDowell had felt the need to treat his special guests to the dubious charms of a traditional Lincolnshire pub had never been answered; Rebane suspected it was probably at Klaudia’s instigation, knowing at first-hand how impulsive she could be.

  Rebane and Woroniecki’s shared profession had brought the two of them into regular contact for some twenty years, and Klaudia was well qualified to play the dual role of confidante and go-between. Friends, yes; lovers, once, many years ago; now co-conspirators – August 14 had managed to add a new and challenging dimension to their long-term relationship.

  The one aspect that still intrigued Rebane had as much to do with his own naiveté as any concerns about the identity of his employers. Once others had put their faith in him, Rebane had not bothered to question their motives, focusing all of his efforts into the evolution of Erdenheim and August 14. Was it arrogance or mere convenience that had made him assume he was working for some East European coalition? Why not Chinese, or Chechen? It was even possible that he was helping a conspiracy of Russian generals, his strategy by default creating the perfect environment for a military coup. The name August 14 had been suggested to him, but that by itself meant nothing.

  It was at such times that you learnt a lot about yourself, and it had come as something of a shock to Rebane to discover that whatever the motives or nationality of his sponsors, then he didn’t particularly care. The torment of his youth and the need for revenge were suddenly and strangely irrelevant. It was enough that whoever they were, whatever their reasons, they had given him the opportunity to prove that one man – albeit with a modicum of help – could bring down a former superpower.

  With a sigh of contentment, Rebane stood up and switched off the CD. It was only then that he realised the building seemed unnaturally quiet, no voices, none of the usual background sounds from the floor above.

  He walked out into the entrance foyer and strode up the stairs. The multiple screens in the computer centre still silently displayed their various data-streams and news feeds, but such crucial information was being ignored, the lone figure of McDowell sitting beside one of the consoles, drinking a beer.

  Rebane was merely confused, “Where’s Carter?”

  “Gone,” McDowell said pleasantly. “Along with some of the others.”

  “Gone? Gone where?” Rebane asked, still not understanding.

  “East Midlands Airport mostly. A couple weren’t happy to leave, so I granted them their wish; sadly, they’re in no fit state to join us.”

  Rebane stood as if transfixed, gaze wandering slowly across the main monitor screen then back to McDowell. “You killed them,” he said finally.

  “That’s right, Marty. Erdenheim is now officially off-line. In a short while it will also be obliterated from existence.” He gave a sad frown, “I will miss it, but orders are orders, and it’s not for the likes of me to judge what is best.”

  Rebane glared angrily at the American, someone he had once thought was a friend, “Whose orders? Klaudia Woroniecki? We’re so close to total success, it’s foolish to end it now! A few more days, a week at most; that’s all we need!”

  “Sadly, your agenda and that of our employers has never quite matched. They appreciate what you’ve done but it’s time to move on.” McDowell reached beside him to grasp a snub-nosed Beretta, pointing the pistol lazily at Rebane. “Sorry, Marty; it’s nothing personal.”

  Rebane stood silent, the shock of what McDowell was about to do slowly registering. Even then, he almost managed to convince himself it was some sort of sick McDowell joke until reality prompted the survival instinct to kick in, his body readying itself to fight or flee.

  Rebane was barely halfway to McDowell when the first bullet exploded into his chest, joined an instant later by a second. He collapsed to the floor, a final anguished cry frozen forever on his lips.

  * * *

  McDowell mentally went through his checklist for one final time, knowing the importance of his ten minute video and the computer evidence. The multitude of computer simulations and hacking tools had been downloaded over the course of the afternoon, thus ensuring he had the most up-to-date versions and in any case Carter was still on the payroll, presently awaiting a flight to Portugal. The surviving members of Rebane’s team had seen at first-hand the penalty for ignoring McDowell’s instructions, and were similarly on their way to destinations unknown. It was hardly in their own interests to reveal what they knew about Erdenheim and August 14. Not that it would matter anyway: to them, Rebane was August 14 and that version of the truth would do for now. And without Rebane, without Erdenheim, August 14 was effectively without leadership, intelligence or even its most effective weapon.

  The video was a simple and convenient means to show what Erdenheim represented, the camera’s focus being almost entirely on the computer centre and its range of resources. The three bodies would also help explain that such information hadn’t come easily. McDowell played back the video twice, looking for any reflected images or errors that might reveal who was behind the camera. He a
ppreciated such precautions were probably unnecessary, and the recipients of all his hard work would doubtless carry out their own more thorough checks, but he prided himself on getting things right – after all, that was the prime reason he was being paid so handsomely.

  It was late afternoon by the time McDowell left the Management Centre, his seven month tenure finally at an end. He deliberately chose not to look back, Erdenheim being relegated to some previous existence, the memories filed away without the need or even the desire to reminisce.

  McDowell’s car had just turned onto the Graythorp road heading north, when the first explosion shattered the silence, the windows of Erdenheim’s upper floor bursting outwards, a smoky halo rising up from the roof. Three seconds later, a second more massive explosion tore through the ground floor, the building shivering in anguish as flames and smoke quickly hid it from view.

  K-335 Gepard

  The Gepard angled gently upwards, passing through thirty metres. The time slot for their regular call to Fleet HQ was almost over, Karenin delaying the moment for as long as he dared. Each new report was now made on the assumption it would end with Karenin’s immediate recall to St. Petersburg, followed eventually by some formal reprimand for over-stepping his authority in attacking the John Finn. Not that he had any regrets, and he would say as much at his court-martial. Perhaps he was being overly pessimistic, and so far there had been no official comment on his actions, neither condemnation nor praise; however, his superiors had now had well over a day to determine their response, and political necessity would surely influence Karenin’s fate.