The Trust Of The People (Conspiracy Trilogy Book 2)

by Christopher Read

  Strangely, he didn’t even know what official cargo the Anaconda carried. But then, he didn’t actually care. Valdez glanced again at the moon, his thoughts moving a thousand kilometres to the south, praying that those carrying out the next part of McDowell’s grand strategy would do their duty: timing was the key and by now they should be no more than a few kilometres from their target, a bullet in the back far more of a worry than something as trivial as sea-sickness.

  * * *

  Sea-sickness was certainly not the two men’s prime concern, and the sea swell for them was far less than that affecting the Anaconda. Thirty-five kilometres, at night, past Chinese and Filipino patrols – father and son had already done the hard part, yet both of them were now starting to have second thoughts, neither voicing their fears, worried in case the other did actually feel the same.

  Ram knew it was entirely his decision whether to continue or not, and while his son might argue and sulk, Roberto certainly wouldn’t ever disobey. That almost made it harder, Ram wanting to do what was right for his son, wanting to give him a better start in life than he had ever had. Five thousand U.S. dollars they’d been promised – more than two years’ wages for just one day’s effort and Ram would have been stupid to have turned it down.

  Their new satellite phone had been the down-payment, it making night-time navigation relatively simple, and their utilitarian pump-boat had proved ideal for the task, the recycled engine powerful enough without being too noisy. Ram cared little for politics; that was until it affected his living as a fisherman. Sixteen year-old Roberto was definitely the more politically informed of the two, just about understanding the complex feud that so upset his father.

  China’s territorial claim over the thousands of islands and reefs of the South China Sea was based on an unclear history and ancient maps. Vast oil, gas and mineral resources were the ultimate reward, two Chinese drilling rigs already doing exploratory testing prior to something more permanent. China’s neighbours were equally determined to grab their own share of any future wealth. Brunei, Indonesia, Malaysia, the Philippines, Taiwan, Vietnam – all of them disputed each other’s and China’s claims, with small islands and barely visible reefs argued over and then occupied.

  Father and son lived on one of the largest of the Spratly Islands. Thitu most people called it, although to Ram it was always Pagasa – ‘Hope’. Ram had taken his family there in 2002, one of a hundred civilians whose living costs were still being subsidised by the Philippine government. The island was also home to a similar number of Philippine marines, Manila keen to make Thitu into an effective military base but not yet prepared to spend the millions of dollars actually required.

  Five of the seven rival countries now had a permanent presence somewhere within the Spratly group, varying from a small island to a half-submerged rock, each government fearful of letting someone else set foot upon what they vehemently argued was rightfully theirs. China regarded the vast area as a core interest comparable to Tibet or Taiwan, and with a third of the world's shipping traversing through its waters, the United States automatically became yet another important player.

  It was no environment to bring up a family, Ram fearful every time he saw a Chinese aircraft or boat, their patrols becoming more frequent, their arrogance more insulting. Which made what he was about to do seem far more than just an act of betrayal, despite the promise that it was in the Philippines’ best interests. He and Roberto had argued about it too much already, his son convinced it was the right thing to do, Ram terrified should their secret ever be revealed.

  Abruptly Roberto raised him arm and pointed ahead, Ram staring through the moonlit night to try and pick out the coral bank that was their destination. The sound of the breakers was a better guide, a thin ridge of sand now visible. Lankiam Cay was its official title, a rocky outcrop battered by wind and waves, of no use to anyone except as a territorial marker.

  It took another hour before their task was done, the photographs uploaded via the satellite phone as instructed. The sky was starting to lighten as they left, the makeshift structure with its large Chinese flag rather more impressive than Ram had anticipated.

  * * *

  Thirteen kilometres to the south-west lay Loaita Island, another Philippine outpost with a permanent if small complement of marines. Lankiam Cay came under their jurisdiction, regular checks made as to the coral bank’s status via Loaita’s observation tower and the occasional visit.

  That was the theory – in practice, little notice was taken of Lankiam, the boredom and isolation of their temporary home encouraging the marines to seek more worthwhile pursuits: snorkelling, gambling, sleeping.

  The only officer was busy fishing when the first radio call came in from the mainland just before noon. By the time a second message demanded action some forty minutes later, six armed marines were already on their way to reclaim the bank for the Philippines.

  By then it was far too late, the images shared worldwide. A plane from the Philippine mainland with a TV crew aboard had long since been and gone, their pictures confirmation that it was no computer-generated lie, and even as the marines beached on the coral bank, a helicopter hovered offshore, this time with the markings of China’s Coastguard.

  Whilst it was more an embarrassment than anything else, the Chinese media made the most of their neighbours’ humiliation, one TV news reporter commenting that if that was an illustration of the Philippines’ level of readiness, then maybe China should plant more than just a flag the next time.

  For Louisa Marcelo and her supporters it was the perfect stimulus, the calls to her office regarding the peace armada trebling in just one hour.

  Marshwick, England – 10:13 Local Time; 09:13 UTC

  Anderson had known it was pointless arguing, consoling himself with the thought that combining business and pleasure was actually an excellent idea. It was also true what Charlotte had said: when it came to holidays, she tended to organise everything. If there were any subsequent financial discrepancies, they were invariably resolved amicably, and money was not something they ever argued about. With luck, he might well be able to squeeze something out of The Washington Post, their meeting confirmed for the Tuesday morning.

  Charlotte obviously had other plans, and deepest Virginia would definitely be a trip into the unknown. New York was a favourite destination for Anderson, and as a commercial pilot he had travelled to a score of U.S cities, including Virginia Beach. The small community of McDowell didn’t quite seem to have the same allure, but Anderson was content to give it a go, happy to try and gain a few brownie points.

  If anything worried him about the trip, it was the simplicity of Pat McDowell’s Virginia message. As with Markova’s package and Berlin, Anderson felt he was being manipulated. McDowell was almost placing a big pin on a map and saying ‘Here I am’, and it just couldn’t be that simple. Gabriel’s information had seemed genuine, but Anderson was starting to have serious doubts about everything that had happened in the last week.

  If Charlotte had similar doubts then she was keeping them to herself, and packing for Washington was already well in hand. The British Airways flight was booked for the Monday morning, landing at Dulles. Anderson had no idea where they were staying and he sensed Charlotte was regretting her impetuosity, her stubborn streak meaning she couldn’t just back down. In that respect, they were both very similar.

  The U.S. was undergoing a similar crisis of confidence, the Dow fluctuating wildly with the latest turmoil in the South China Sea adding to nervous trading. The other world markets were following suit, the Nikkei and Hang Seng suffering more than most. Other U.S. economic news was similarly depressing, an article in The Wall Street Journal emphasising the hidden flaws in the Administration’s economic policy; then there was the drop in home sales and a predicted rise in unemployment. November looked like it was going to be a tricky month, the Democrats suddenly apprehensive about the Midterm elections on the 8th.

  Secretary of State Thorn was once more
on the move: from Tokyo he had moved on to Taipei; now, instead of returning to Washington, he was heading on to Beijing, America quickly reacting to the Philippines’ discomfiture over the incident on Lankiam Cay. Japan’s disagreement with North Korea was still on hold, the five-day naval exercise with the United States due to go ahead as planned on November 1st.

  Consequently there was nothing new in the media about Paige Hanson, her murder overtaken by events elsewhere. Overall, there was a lot for a journalist to get his teeth into but not when he was several thousand miles away from the action. Anderson’s interest in Markova’s report was waning and in a week he hadn’t actually achieved anything worthwhile: algorithms, acoustic signatures, submarine updates – it was all just too confusing.

  Annoyed and frustrated, Anderson decided to make one final attempt to put the problem of Hanson and Wilhelmshaven finally to bed – he just needed someone rather more knowledgeable, preferably an expert who could translate submarine-speak into plain English.

  * * *

  The study looked to be a well-ordered refuge, the rear wall one large book-case, the shelves overburdened with books and files. The Professor sat at his desk, looking relaxed, obviously well used to the intricacies of a video link. Anderson would have preferred to visit the man in person, and Cambridge wasn’t that far away, but Roche had been unwilling to waste yet more of his Friday.

  A professor of physics, author of several dozen books and publications, Callum Roche was an internationally renowned expert in submarine acoustics. So far he had been very helpful, only once referring to algorithms, and with enough experience of journalists to be able to talk down to them without appearing to be patronising.

  Anderson’s pretext of a future article on anti-submarine warfare was accepted without question, his first priority to ensure that he had a reasonable understanding of the factors affecting a sub’s acoustic signature, and how any upgrades would be likely to alter it.

  It was only when Anderson gave Roche the hypothetical scenario of terrorists having access to a submarine database that the professor’s slightly superior air turned to one of puzzlement.

  “You mean by hacking into the database? That’s not likely; security nowadays is extreme. And what would be the point?”

  “I just wondered whether you might have some idea as to the point – assuming such a thing were ever to happen? Maybe, rather than hacking into the database, what if the terrorists had somehow acquired an inside source.”

  Roche stared at Anderson, the computer screen flickering as though in sympathy. “I can’t think of any sensible reason why such a database would be of any interest.” He rubbed his chin reflectively, “I find it helps with these hypothetical questions to give the insider a name. How about Paige Hanson – it has a particularly nice ring to it.”

  Anderson had to work hard to control his surprise: Roche was either very perceptive or someone had already asked his opinion. “Paige Hanson sounds good,” he said after a brief pause. “So you’re saying that if Hanson had a copy of the submarine database, it would be pretty useless.”

  “I imagine so. If Hanson happened to work for the U.S. Office of Naval Intelligence then she would certainly have had access to it. The database is there to identify submarines – what would terrorists do with that information? China or Russia might quite like to compare it with their own database, but I doubt it’s a high priority.”

  “And if this Hanson attended a symposium looking at recent submarine upgrades and whether the relevant algorithms are still valid – why would that be of interest to her?”

  Roche paused, looking thoughtful. “A good question, Mr Anderson. It would obviously give her a heads-up as to future changes to the database, but I don’t know why that would be of any use…” He gave a broad smile, “I checked your profile after you phoned up; you’re a bit of an expert yourself it seems – August 14, so I understand.”

  “Not an expert, just someone who knows a little more than most.” Anderson decided to move on, keen to eliminate various other possibilities. “Could a decoy be programmed to fool a warship’s sonar? Make the ship think it’s tracking a submarine?”

  “Such decoys exist; the more complex ones produce a similar acoustic signal to the parent submarine but a good sonar operator can still tell the difference. They’re mostly used to distract torpedoes away from their intended target rather than trying to fool the sophisticated array on a warship.”

  “What about somehow altering an actual submarine’s acoustic signal so that it appears to be a friendly?” Anderson was quite taken by his idea of some mythical submarine marauding its way through the South China Sea while pretending to be what it was not.

  Roche slowly shook his head, “Submarines are complex animals; minor differences can have significant effects on an acoustic signature, even within subs of the same class.” He hesitated momentarily, “What submarines might have been discussed at this purely hypothetical symposium?”

  Anderson checked the list he’d made after his visit to Berlin, reading out the details.

  “No pennant numbers,” Roche said, frowning. “That makes it a little more difficult. Forget the Shang-class: it’s a nuclear attack sub and the design is unique to China. The same for the Yuan-class: it’s supposedly based on a Russian Kilo but it’s not that close a match.

  “The Ming is a Chinese export of the original Russian Romeo design; North Korea has about twenty boats left in service, Bangladesh and Egypt three more. Russia decommissioned their boats decades ago; China still has a handful left but not for much longer. I guess you could adapt a Chinese Ming to match one from North Korea, or indeed vice-versa; although I can’t imagine why China would want to. North Korea might see some advantage in doing so – assuming they really wanted to start a war.”

  Roche mulled over the remaining option. “That just leaves the Kilo-class itself. India, Vietnam and Indonesia also operate Russian-built Kilos. Maybe a Kilo could be modified to approximate the signal from another sub of the same design. Such modifications would surely be well beyond any terrorist group; you’d need a Kilo to start with and some serious cash, not to mention a shipyard. That puts it more in the league of one of the aforementioned nations.”

  Anderson hadn’t given up just yet, “What if Hanson was working for the Russians – that would give you a Kilo-class submarine.”

  Roche looked more puzzled than surprised at Anderson’s suggestion, perhaps getting used to Anderson’s offbeat ideas. “That makes no sense. The Russians sold the Kilos to those countries – they would have a far better idea of their acoustic signature than any Western database. If Hanson was working for the Vietnamese, for example, that would be more logical – maybe alter one of their Kilo-class to make the U.S. Navy think it’s Russian. It still seems a little far-fetched to me.”

  It was nothing more than Anderson had expected, his clever ideas shot to pieces, his naïve assumptions shown to be foolish. Maybe the database was irrelevant and Hanson was after something else… or maybe Anderson was simply out of his depth.

  Time now to move on and leave the complexities of Wilhelmshaven to the experts. A couple of days and Anderson would be driving through the heart of Virginia, studiously avoiding any irate black bears whilst trying not to breathe too hard. For the time being, that was more than enough to worry about.

  Eastern United States – 14:45 Local Time; 18:45 UTC

  McDowell sat and studied the various computer displays, trying to make sure he was fully up-to-date with the progress of each specific thread. His interest was instantly drawn to one particular segment, it showing an internet video, the clip uploaded just an hour earlier but already generating a healthy number of hits; the corresponding audio had just been broadcast on talk radio, the hit count accelerating even as McDowell watched.

  The video showed one of California’s two Senators verbally abusing a hotel maid, the two women face to face, the Senator literally spitting with rage. What had upset her wasn’t clear, but the language
used was exceedingly colourful, the Senator’s right arm raised high, almost as if to slap the maid.

  McDowell gave a thin smile: it had taken several thousand man hours to get just one thirty-second clip of a Senator misbehaving – not a particularly good return when compared with the relatively high outlay. Still, they hadn’t known quite what to expect when they’d started and the clip was enough to maintain the momentum from earlier stories. Since the beginning of October, there had been a steady trickle of minor political scandals, some genuine, some based on innuendo or rumour. Apart from the standard drug and call girl revelations, there were the more sellable ones such as an angry mistress, a sextortion scam, or an obscene email sent in error. Thanks to an influential associate within The Wall Street Journal, the stories often received a higher profile than might normally be the case, the profusion of incidents in turn creating its own headline.

  Surveys regularly illustrated the public’s distrust of politicians and the political system, the two-party status quo too rigid to allow for much variation and differing opinions. The disillusioned were now being given a regular dose of evidence to reinforce their complaints, the Establishment invariably unwilling or too slow to mount an effective defence.

  McDowell’s occasional residence for the past five months had once been a farmhouse, the improved facilities and systems a result of lessons learnt from August 14’s British base. The state-of-the-art computer facilities required far fewer operatives than in the UK but were no less sophisticated, the room dominated by the curved bank of computer consoles and the massive monitor above. The latter was able to show any number of separate displays, although there were presently just eighteen on show, covering the latest from relevant areas of interest: TV news and business reports, live satellite images, projected Midterm election turnout and results – even the weather in the Spratly Islands.