Now it became a simple exercise in data retrieval: the detailed phone records over the past six months for caller and recipient checked to see where they in turn would lead.
Eventually, they identified eight separate numbers where the users seemed keen to keep their identity to themselves. The various calls had been made at irregular times and days with no discernible pattern; to begin with it was less than one call a week per phone, now the frequency was more like one call per day.
For each phone, the various rough locations were plotted, one clearly matching Sukhov’s movements. A second jumped from one country to another: the Philippines, Vietnam, Britain, Germany, but mostly the U.S. – that surely had to be Pat McDowell. The others were slightly less mobile, with three based in Russia.
The Russian locations were all cities east of Moscow: Khabarovsk the Headquarters for the Eastern Military District, Vladivostok the home of Russia’s Pacific Fleet. Finally, there was Nizhny Novgorod, the city a major engineering base and a key centre for IT research.
Quite how it all fitted in with McDowell and Louisa Marcelo wasn’t obvious, the link with Vladivostok presumably related somehow to Hanson’s trip to Wilhelmshaven. If Markova was correct with her guess as to which phone was McDowell’s, then he now seemed to be based somewhere near Washington and thus a puzzling fourteen thousand kilometres from the key events in the South China Sea.
Markova was still annoyed with herself for assuming London had been the terrorists’ target; the South China Sea had long been a powder-keg waiting to explode, but she doubted whether the U.S. and China going to war would benefit anyone – even Russia was likely to lose out in economic terms.
The GRU’s dedicated signal intelligence unit with its 140 satellites was now brought into play. The present locations of the eight phones were unknown, but that would change once the batteries were inserted, it taking just twenty seconds to fix a phone’s position to within a metre.
Markova felt she had done enough to at least earn some more time. Whilst technology had done the job of extracting the data, the processing had needed human input, and Markova and her new team were exhausted.
For the moment, she was out of ideas – if Morozov expected more then he would just have to wait.
Brandon, U.S.A. – 10:20 Local Time; 14:20 UTC
The President was almost embarrassed by the warmth of his reception, Dan Quinn’s wife gladly opening up her home – and her heart – to someone who was basically a stranger and who had been, in one sense at least, an opponent of her husband’s.
For Cavanagh, it was an opportunity to express his personal sorrow for her loss: not because it was expected of him, but because it was something he needed to do. The two Congressmen had died in the service of the United States Government, and it was only right that their sacrifice be recognised.
Quinn had always been a man of high principles, a fierce but fair opponent who had served the Republican Party particularly well. Two children, both married, Quinn would have been a grandfather in a few months. Now the family unit had been forever scarred, the nature of his death difficult for them to come to terms with.
Cavanagh stayed for over an hour. Next on his day’s itinerary was Quinn’s colleague, the younger man also leaving behind a wife and children. Their home was in Lowndes County, a hundred and twenty miles north-east of Brandon, but just a small hop for Marine One. Both funerals were planned for next Tuesday, the President deciding that it would be best not to attend, his respects better served by today’s more personal visit.
It was a short walk from the Quinn’s front door to the waiting car, a small but respectful group of onlookers watching from behind a line of police. At the end of the street stood a much larger crowd together with the media, more police forming a protective barrier. The President’s arrival had not been made public but many had assumed he would turn up at some stage.
The residential street was tree-lined, just wide enough for two cars, the houses well-spaced from each other. The President sensed that a broad smile and a wave might not suit the occasion, but he stopped to speak to some of the onlookers, picking out a young couple with a toddler between them.
Pleasantries were duly exchanged. Cavanagh generally coped well with such public displays; he just needed to keep his wits about him in case of unexpected questions, the media having a habit of picking up on a confused look or an inane comment.
Job done, he turned back. From away to his left came a double-crack, sharp and loud as though very close.
Cavanagh was instantly barged to one side, a large dark-suited figure moving around in front of him. There was a third report, even louder, and he heard a woman scream. Cavanagh stood confused, not quite grasping what was happening; then someone grabbed him across the shoulders and propelled him, knees half-bent, towards the armour-plated safety of his limousine. To either side, chaos ensued, shouts and screams, people fleeing, others crouching down, police and agents with guns drawn trying to pinpoint the danger.
Cavanagh was almost thrown into the car; even as the door was slammed shut, the Presidential limousine accelerated away, the motorcade a disjointed image of its usual well-choreographed formation.
The rush back to Marine One gradually became more organised, but it was only once Cavanagh was seated in the comfort and safety of the helicopter that he finally received a detailed update as to what exactly had taken place. Cavanagh listened in silence, the anger and frustration showing on his face, the memory of those moments still clear in his mind.
The President hadn’t set out to turn the trip to Mississippi into a public relations exercise, but nor had he expected it to become a disaster. Every embarrassing second was now on the internet, the most powerful man in the world cowering down in fear of Halloween firecrackers.
The fact the Secret Service and a score of bystanders had also reacted as though it were gunshots apparently meant very little. In fact Cavanagh was simply the latest of a select group of presidents whose security detail had assumed a firecracker was the real thing – including Gerald Ford in ’76 and Iran’s Ahmadinejad in 2010.
By the time he returned to Washington, the investigation into the day’s events had turned into something more complex. The key YouTube clip had the President centre-frame, the steadiness of the camera phone unexpected when all around people were panicking; it was almost as though the firecrackers were expected. The cameraman had long since disappeared, the YouTube account bogus, but at least the person responsible for Cavanagh’s humiliation was now in police custody. The fact it was a sixty year-old man, and not a couple of youngsters, made it more suspicious, the number of incidents involving government figures beginning to form an ominous pattern.
Paul Jensen had noted as much in his latest White House briefing, and it was becoming increasingly likely that McDowell – or someone working on his behalf – was responsible for the murder of the two Congressmen. Quite how that related to McDowell’s enterprise in the South China Sea remained unknown, but between them Louisa Marcelo and China had managed to stir up a hornets’ nest of resentment and over-reaction. Additional protests were now planned for Hanoi and Manila on the Monday, the dramatic images from Mischief Reef shocking the world – two killed; almost twenty injured.
To make matters worse, Taiwan had sent a small naval force south to the Spratly Islands. Taiwan’s occupation in 1956 of Taiping Island, the largest in the Spratly group, was often considered by its close neighbours merely as an extension of mainland China’s control. South Korea had wisely chosen to re-assert its neutrality, strong economic links with China and an uncomfortable relationship with Japan, ensuring Seoul trod a very careful line.
Overall, Cavanagh felt it was turning into a nightmare scenario, with allies at each other’s throats while courting conflict with China. The Vice-President had been co-opted to help shore up the Secretary of State’s diplomacy, and would soon be heading off to Hanoi; however, each day seemed to reveal some new provocation.
For now, Cavanag
h neither supported nor condemned, persevering with the impossible and trying to mediate. It was a policy which satisfied no-one, neither at home nor abroad. Then there was North Korea and Japan, Cavanagh fearful lest he reignite the war of words between them. The situation further south had resulted in a slight modification to the naval exercise which had so provoked North Korea’s ire: it would still go ahead, but with fewer U.S ships, a detachment of four vessels led by the USS Milius diverted to show the flag in the South China Sea. Cavanagh’s many critics had immediately condemned the redeployment as another example of the President’s willingness to cave in under pressure, ignoring the fact that Cavanagh was actually strengthening America’s presence elsewhere.
Jensen had even suggested that the present chaos in the South China Sea might have always been McDowell’s intention, a strategy to force the United States and China towards war. McDowell himself was proving to be an able tactician and he would be foolish to quit now, China’s unwillingness to compromise likely to reveal the inadequacy of America’s response.
Cavanagh could well understand why others considered his reaction to China as ‘lacklustre’, but he wanted to give diplomacy every chance to succeed, unwilling to risk American lives with some foolish or ill-conceived act. Yet the pressure on the Administration was mounting, with many of Cavanagh’s once-loyal supporters starting to lose patience, frustrated by his apparent inability to influence events.
Today’s debacle in Brandon could only make matters worse – the President needed some good news, and quickly.
Chapter 10 – Sunday, October 30th
Woody Island – 00:40 Local Time; Saturday 16:40 UTC
The scattering of lights from the airport buildings guided them forward, four of them paddling with a well-practiced rhythm towards their landing point on the eastern edge. Despite the name, it was barely an island and its resource of wood – palm and coconut – was decreasing rapidly. The name came from the Vietnamese, the Chinese picking an even more optimistic title – Island of Eternal Prosperity.
The largest of the Paracel group, Woody Island was barely bigger than two square kilometres, the landscape ravaged to make way for an ever expanding list of man-made structures, the most obvious a three kilometre long runway reaching out to the north-east. In sixty-five years the population had gone from zero to two thousand, almost all of them military personnel, the island a lonely outpost some 300 kilometres from the Chinese mainland.
A naval victory over South Vietnam in ’74 had allowed China to gobble up the remaining Paracel Islands, the dispute moving inexorably south to the Spratly group. As frustrations grew, countries had slowly started to take sides, Malaysia and China forming a working relationship, the Philippines and Vietnam recently agreeing a joint strategy. Other nations were now ready to interfere, seeking to gain some advantage – Cambodia, India, Japan… A dozen countries, each vying to outfox the other, their naval patrols driving away the unwanted, with even small fishing boats regarded as a threat – it was an unstable mix of suspicion and desire, everyone awaiting China’s next move.
Valdez wasn’t prepared to wait. China had the power to bully its way into controlling everything it desired, and its insidious advance from one half-submerged rock to another could not go unchallenged. Attacking the Chinese where they felt secure was risky, but the message would also be far more dramatic. Marcelo had bravely shifted people’s attention back to the South China Sea; now it was up to Valdez to ensure they were rewarded with a suitable spectacle, even if it was via a fifteen-minute video on the internet.
Of the other five men seated in the Zodiac inflatable, three – like Valdez – were from the Philippines; the other two were Vietnamese, all of them equally committed to the difficulties ahead. Six months of training and they finally had a chance to prove their worth, Valdez determined not to back down or fail.
The captain of the Anaconda had taken them as close as he had dared, the main shipping lane from Hong Kong to Malaysia passing some 60 kilometres to the north-west of the island. Then it was two mind-numbing hours in the Zodiac, its twin engines driving them forward at a steady twenty knots, before muscle power took over for the final stretch, Valdez trusting in the darkness to protect them from prying eyes, if not land-based radar. Naval patrols should have been a concern, except both boats were reportedly laid up with minor mechanical problems – quite how McDowell knew that, he hadn’t said.
An eight-hundred metre concrete causeway linked Woody Island to its even smaller neighbour, the latter saddled with the equally uninspiring title of Rocky Island. Here lay Valdez’s biggest threat, specifically a long-range surface-search radar and signals intelligence system. The Rocky Island complex was linked via satellite to the main communications network on the Chinese mainland, a fact which – according to McDowell – was also its main weakness.
Blind faith was not something Valdez approved of but on this one occasion he had little choice, and McDowell had assured him that the Zodiac would remain hidden from Chinese radar – not undetected, merely ‘hidden’. The timing and direction of the Zodiac’s approach just needed to be within certain limits, and McDowell had confirmed everything prior to them leaving the Anaconda. Valdez had long since given up trying to find out how McDowell could achieve the impossible, assuming it was due to a healthy combination of money and influence. McDowell certainly appeared to have plenty of both, Valdez and his men never wanting for anything.
There was barely any moon, the sea state relatively smooth – ideal conditions for this first phase. The group had timed their landing to be just after midnight, with their departure planned for 04:00 at the latest, well before dawn. A tropical storm was predicted to arrive at about the same time, making their escape more difficult and significantly restricting the Zodiac’s top speed of well over forty knots.
The nearest friendly base was in Vietnam, 440 kilometres due west. With the extra fuel the Zodiac carried, the Vietnamese coastline was theoretically in range, although re-joining the Anaconda was their first option. The cargo ship would have already turned west, cruising sedately towards the Vietnamese port of Da Nang. If all went to plan, they should arrive back on board sometime around midday.
So far, it was going as well as anyone could have hoped. The eastern coastline of Woody Island was mostly clear of buildings, with the airstrip the first artificial structure past the outer fringe of palm trees. Their most distant target was no more than a flat 700 metres away, the four hour window offering a relatively relaxed schedule.
The Zodiac grounded on soft sand and the six men stumbled out into the surf, dragging the inflatable onto the shore. Valdez spoke quickly, confident that their well-practiced drill would overcome the obvious nerves. It took just a few minutes to unload the equipment, several more to check that all was well. Whilst two men remained with the Zodiac, the other four moved towards the treeline, splitting into two separate groups, one Vietnamese one Filipino.
Dressed all in black, each with heavy back-pack and assault rifle, they could have been from any country’s Special Forces. The two Vietnamese had served in their military as conscripts, and Valdez was the only full-time professional soldier, having spent ten of his eighteen years in the Philippine Army as an officer in the elite First Scout Ranger Regiment. He was more used to fighting guerrillas and terrorists than being one, but for once maybe that gave him something of an advantage.
The young man beside him was in fact a relative, some third or fourth cousin, neither of them could work out which. Joseph he liked to be called, not Joe, at twenty-one a young man full of ideals and prepared to play his part. He might not have the experience of Valdez but he had worked hard to make his cousin feel proud, putting in the extra hours without complaint or obvious resentment.
Valdez’s main target was the helicopter hanger, while the Vietnamese pairing had been entrusted with the desalination plant – an essential resource for an island with no supply of fresh water. Army patrols were part of Woody Island’s normal routine, a state o
f permanent alert felt appropriate so far from home. Yet the island had never been attacked, its guns and missile batteries never used in anger. The Chinese had recognised that it was important to combat complacency and the army units based on the island were rotated regularly, but after a few weeks it became a boring and pointless drill. McDowell had even provided Valdez with satellite images showing where the army patrols lingered for a smoke and a piss.
Valdez’s tactics were hardly complex: there was plenty of cover; night-vision goggles gave an early warning on any potential problems, the explosives primed by simply tapping in a code. The airport site was protected by a security fence to the west together with regular armed patrols, typically a four-man team. The only building showing any light was the control tower at the south-western corner; further north stood the three aircraft hangers, dark and imposing.
Valdez needed to wait less than ten minutes before he located a patrol, watching the soldiers closely as they strolled past some seventy metres distant. He left it another minute, before moving quickly to the rear of the helicopter hanger. No security lights, no cameras – after all, the whole island was essentially one big military base.
The padlock on the double door was snapped with ease, Valdez slipping inside while Joseph kept watch.
The building’s interior was eerily silent, no sign of human activity. Five minutes later, Valdez was back with Joseph, the pair moving warily towards the next target. Joseph’s secondary role was that of cameraman, every event recorded to be later uploaded onto the internet. A team of six couldn’t really hope to put much of Woody Island out of commission; this was far more about proving that China wasn’t the invulnerable superpower its neighbours feared, unable even to defend a major outpost from six amateurs.
The Trust Of The People (Conspiracy Trilogy Book 2) Page 12