If just one neighbouring government took note and acted appropriately, others would surely follow. China would doubtless respond with unsophisticated aggression, perhaps picking on some innocent target to vent its anger; any over-reaction by the Chinese could only help push allies closer together and possibly even force President’s Cavanagh’s hand.
Valdez paused beside the security fence, beckoning Joseph down beside him. A hundred metres ahead was a second four-man patrol, the soldiers talking loudly together while walking along the narrow road. Apart from their assault rifles, Valdez and Joseph also carried silenced Heckler & Koch pistols; four targets were two more than Valdez was comfortable with, and he squeezed himself down into the dirt, unwilling to risk the mission by some rash and unnecessary act.
It was a tense ten minutes before they could relax, the soldiers passing by just twenty metres away without even a glance in their direction. Valdez gave Joseph a congratulatory pat on the back, then cautiously led the way south-west towards the control tower. 01:46 – well on schedule, and no sign that the second team had met with any problems. Valdez’s sole concern was that the weather was starting to deteriorate, far earlier than predicted, rain lashing down, the wind strengthening.
The control tower had two guards, neither man aware of Valdez as he shot them both. They had now stepped over an invisible line of conduct – no longer merely a protest, now a brutal act of terrorism. Even though night flights were rare, there was still three staff on duty in the control tower itself. Again Valdez killed them all, Joseph waiting at the bottom of the stairs for his return.
Valdez moved more quickly now, unsure as to how long it would take before the lack of response from the Control Tower was noticed. The explosives were standard C-4, the triple-function detonator a more subtle addition. Ideally, Valdez would set the charges off in a planned sequence via a single phone-message; however, anyone approaching closer than two metres to a charge would instantly set them all off. And if no phone signal arrived, the explosives would automatically detonate at 05:10.
Job done, they crossed the runway further north, keeping well clear of any patrols and moving rapidly back towards the Zodiac. They were the first to arrive, the Zodiac’s two guardians managing to look relaxed and unconcerned. 03:16 – no reason to worry just yet.
The minutes ticked by, Valdez resisting to urge to break radio silence. The wind was now ripping through the trees, the rain battering away at their bodies and pooling in the sand around their feet. The storm was likely to blow itself out in another hour, but it was a double-edged sword, hiding them from the Chinese but making their escape more precarious.
Eventually, two familiar rain-soaked figures appeared through the darkness. 03:38 – Valdez gave a relieved smile of welcome, strangely concerned that everything was going far too smoothly.
They pushed and paddled the bucking Zodiac out into the surf, the twin outboards starting first time and thrusting them forward. The Zodiac was less than a year old, well able to cope with a range of sea conditions, the 753 model the military standard for the world’s Special Forces. Only the best was McDowell’s motto, and so far he had always delivered.
After fifteen minutes, they turned west, increasing speed. Valdez peered through the darkness towards the island, still able to pick out the glimmer of lights. He turned on his satellite phone, checked the signal, before selecting the first number from the contact list. An eight digit code, then he pressed ‘Send’.
The first explosion was barely a glow in the night sky, the second far more spectacular, a golden cascade that was joined soon after by two more. In total there were eight separate explosions, a satisfying one-hundred percent success rate.
The Chinese long-radar should remain ineffective for another hour, Woody Island’s small helicopter fleet hopefully for far longer. Helicopters, Control Tower, Desalination Plant, Radio Mast – it was a start. Now it was Marcelo’s turn once more.
Marshwick, England – 09:28 Local Time; 09:28 UTC
The attack on Woody Island was slow to permeate through to the Western media, the large time difference probably not helping, but that all changed once the terrorists’ video had gone viral. Despite the extra hour in bed thanks to the end of British Summer Time, Anderson was still late up, and he ate breakfast while trawling through the news channels, keen to keep up-to-date, sensing that the terrorist attack was another integral part of McDowell’s strategy.
The identities of those involved were kept secret, the video showing selected exerts from the night-time trek and a grainy long-distance view of the resultant explosions. China had at first denied any such attack but within an hour, reality finally prevailed, a senior official revealing that six Chinese civilians had been murdered, the island’s desalination plant and two helicopters suffering minor damage. The number of terrorists was said to be between ten and twelve, not six as the video claimed. Although not given as a fact or even an accusation, the official hinted that the assailants were most likely Philippine Special Forces.
In turn, Manila had denied all knowledge of the attack, blaming the Chinese for their illegal occupation of Woody Island and so provoking a response. Whist they sympathised for any loss of life, they argued that all those on the island were military and not non-combatants. There was no attempt to speculate where the attackers might be from.
Vietnam followed the Philippine line, Anderson mentally reducing the long-winded statement from Hanoi down to a single sentence: ‘the Chinese were lying and it was all their fault anyway’. Russia too was unexpectedly critical of China, perversely then offering to mediate.
Crowds were already voicing their approval of the attack in Manila and Hanoi, whilst in Taiwan’s capital Taipei a group several hundred strong stood in silent support outside the Manila Economic and Cultural Office.
Despite several more of China’s neighbours verbally allying themselves against their larger adversary, others such as Malaysia waited to see how the spat would play out. The United States persevered with its more balanced stance, condemning the attack while trusting that China wouldn’t over-react.
To Anderson, it seemed a forlorn hope. Even without McDowell’s continued interference, the momentum was firmly with the hawks, the United States needing to show some leadership – only time would tell whether President Cavanagh really was the man to deal with the crisis.
Chapter 11 – Monday, October 31st
The Koschei – 11:13 Local Time; 02:13 UTC
Valeri Karenin walked slowly from one compartment to another, checking the boat from bow to stern. He made sure he spoke to every crewman, a task made easier by the fact that modern efficiencies had reduced the submarine’s Soviet-era complement from 58 down to just 44. Karenin was proud of each of them, the ageing boat a temperamental blend of old and new, and liable to produce some unexpected problem almost every day. Yet they were still managing to stay ahead of schedule, four thousand kilometres covered at an average speed of almost ten knots, each hour a nervous trip into the unknown as Karenin used every trick he knew to avoid detection.
The Koschei was the submarine’s new name, something more fitting than its previous irrelevant and uninspiring number. Karenin had chosen the name himself, well aware of the similarities between the mythical Koschei and the submarine. Koschei was invariably portrayed as old and ugly, a predator who terrorised young women with his magic. Known as Koschei the Deathless, he could not be killed by normal means, his soul hidden elsewhere from his body.
The Koschei was most definitely old and ugly. Built in the early 60’s, the diesel-electric attack submarine had served in the Soviet Union’s Northern Fleet before being decommissioned in 1992. Transferred to the Pacific Fleet, for thirty years it had continued as a training resource, steadily rusting away. Its brothers had been scrapped or sold, but someone in Moscow had decided Russia needed to keep a pair of the Project-633 submarines – if only as a curiosity. Now the Koschei was being given a second chance to complete the job it had originally been built
for.
Karenin felt a certain empathy with the Koschei: he too had been cast aside then offered an opportunity for redemption. Eleven men had died under his command in the Baltic, Karenin a convenient scapegoat for his superiors’ indecision. Removed from command, threatened with a court-martial, then left to kick his heels for a year – it had been a shock when Sukhov had offered him a new command. The ageing 633 had not been quite what Karenin had expected but he had worked hard to repay Sukhov’s trust. It had taken six months to get the submarine fit for the task ahead, where possible modern systems replacing the old. Then it was a week of sonar assessments, various subtle adjustments required to ensure the Koschei’s acoustic signature was within certain crucial limits.
The brief six-day shake-down cruise in September had gone better than Karenin could have hoped, the hand-picked volunteer crew adapting well to the ancient Soviet systems. Fourteen million U.S. dollars was said to be the total outlay for the refit, little enough when compared to 360 million for the new Kilo-class. Not that Russia had apparently paid a cent, the cost borne by another, Russia merely supplying a defunct submarine, the facilities for its overhaul, and the necessary manpower.
The most difficult part of the restoration had been the overpowering need for secrecy, the refit at the Zvezda shipyard east of Vladivostok hidden from the West by a mix of trickery and misdirection. Problems had also arisen as a result of the Koschei requiring various unique components for the two diesel-electric engines: long since obsolete, the parts had eventually been acquired from a variety of sources, primarily Bangladesh and Egypt.
Such information had been for Karenin’s ears only, the Koschei being readied to play a crucial part in the confrontation ahead. The dangers were significant, the rewards – according to Sukhov – incalculable. The question as to whether fourteen million dollars was a bargain price or not would soon be answered, the Koschei ten days out of Vladivostok, the South China Sea a particularly dangerous environment for such an impossible clone.
Manila, The Philippines – 14:40 Local Time; 06:40 UTC
Louisa Marcelo stepped down off the stage, her security team creating a narrow corridor for her to pass through the crowd. Only a few thousand diehards remained, yet the atmosphere was still buzzing, the MC working hard to maintain the raucous round of chanting.
The last few hours had undoubtedly been the high point of her career, Louisa in her element, the massive crowd generous in their appreciation of her campaign. The Government had tried to discourage her, a phone call from the Philippine President early that morning almost pleading for Louisa to tone down her demands: apparently, America was asking for more time to allow diplomacy to work its magic, the White House concerned by the frailty of the stock market and increasing internal woes. Not that Louisa had listened, and her speech two hours earlier was unlikely to have done anything to calm U.S. nerves.
The world’s media was already giving her latest plan appropriate prominence, some claiming that at its height more than half a million had attended the mass rally in Rizal Park. Enthusiasm for her proposed replay of the Mischief Reef protest was widespread, a score of prominent speakers pledging their support, both personal and financial. It was a scene repeated in cities across the Philippines and Vietnam, upwards of sixty thousand gathering in Hanoi. An online appeal on behalf of Louisa’s campaign had been set up early that morning and in just six hours it had already managed to raise close to a million U.S. dollars.
Now Louisa’s flotilla of twenty vessels would be replaced by more like two hundred, up to sixty expected to head east from Vietnam, maybe a handful more from Brunei and Malaysia. Louisa had even set a ridiculous target of a thousand ships, leading to the inevitable unkind comparisons with Helen of Troy. Louisa had happily joined in, stating that it certainly wouldn’t be her face that helped launch a thousand ships, more likely her big mouth.
Louisa had no problem with being just one part of McDowell’s wider scheme. She had only once asked why he was willing to help and what he wanted in return – McDowell had simply shrugged, twisting her question around to ask her whether she was prepared to see China control every island and every sea route to the north and west of Manila.
McDowell and his associates offered planning, finance, resources, logistics, training and intelligence – basically everything she needed. He would have had her speeches written for her if she’d asked.
Louisa wanted so much to believe he could truly help, and while she had doubts it had seemed too good an opportunity to ignore, a final chance to halt China’s expansion. Her major concern was the prevarication of America, its commitment to the Filipino people always assumed. It was true that the U.S. had helped the Philippines against Islamist terror groups, but the Mutual Defence treaty signed in 1951 had never really been tested.
The protest outside Mischief Reef had always been unpredictable, and Louisa was still shocked by China’s over-reaction, expecting a soaking and a few sore heads. Whatever China’s response, retaliation against the Chinese occupiers had always been part of McDowell’s plan, the specific details kept secret.
Louisa had never heard of Allan Valdez until earlier that morning, and if she’d known beforehand that there was to be a terrorist attack, with people murdered, then she probably would have vetoed the idea. But now everything had changed. Valdez had shown what was possible and it was time to see the real value of America’s commitment. With like-minded activists in Vietnam and the south ignoring their prejudices and rallying to Louisa’s cause, a thousand ships was not so outrageous a target.
In reality, she would happily settle for a tenth that number. She wanted it to be a peaceful protest but knew that was practically impossible; China had shown how far it was prepared to go and both sides now had too much to lose to back down.
Well, she planned a surprise or two for the Chinese, unwilling to let them drive her away for a second time. No-one wanted a blood-bath but victory rarely came without a certain sacrifice.
Yaroslavl Oblast, Russia – 13:50 Local Time; 10:50 UTC
Markova would have quite liked the old-fashioned method of wall map and pins, it seeming more dramatic than small red markers on a computer screen.
Just five of the eight cell phones used, twenty-two markers duly placed, each of the five groups telling its own unique story, the individual separation of the markers varying from just fifty metres to some sixty kilometres. The various phone calls had all involved long strings of data, the encryption so far proving impossible to break.
For two of the phones, the identity of the user was again easy enough to confirm from its various – and now more exact – locations: Evgeny Sukhov in the Kremlin, Louisa Marcelo in and around Manila. The third phone moved from Maryland to Virginia: Markova still assumed that was most likely Pat McDowell, although she had no way of being certain.
The remaining two groupings were impossible to link to a specific person. One consisted of calls to and from Russia’s Pacific Fleet Headquarters at Vladivostok, opening up a range of possibilities, from a lowly Lieutenant to the Fleet Admiral. The second cluster moved here and there, loosely centred on the city of Khabarovsk, with no obvious clue as the person’s identity. The Sukhov-Khabarovsk phone link was the most popular, having been used five times in forty hours, the amount of data flowing back and forth far more significant than with any of the other groupings.
The call schedule still seemed random even though it obviously wasn’t, and presumably some part of the data string detailed the next time slot. A six character code was always sent first to check the other phone was able to receive, thereby ensuring the main set of data was not left sitting on a server somewhere.
Each success was greeted with a nod of appreciation from the GRU’s young lieutenant, and the rest of the team now seemed happy to accept Markova as one of their own. Belinsky in particular had been delighted with progress and the previous evening he had pointedly unlocked Markova’s ankle bracelet, compliments of General Morozov. The Lieutenant had even p
lundered a bottle of champagne from the dacha’s wine cellar to celebrate. While she might not have given Morozov exactly what he was after, they were definitely getting closer.
With Markova’s new status had come certain benefits, the use of a computer being the main one, albeit with data upload disabled. Now at least she had access to a detailed map, sunset times and weather forecasts, able to reshape her escape plan just in case.
Not that escape was now the priority it had once been, and the afternoon session was certainly a fairly relaxed affair. There was little the team could do other than be patient while waiting for the next call to be made, the GRU’s satellite network doing all of the hard work. Personally, Markova was keen to pursue a possible connection between the symposium at Wilhelmshaven and Russia’s Pacific Fleet, pushing for the GRU to focus more directly on all calls to and from the Fleet’s two submarine bases.
Then, without warning, everything changed. The satellite link with GRU Headquarters at Khodynka was abruptly blocked, the back-up options of landline and cell phone merely resulting in a line busy signal.
Belinsky hovered close to a console, ready to delete all data but unsure whether it was a specific attack against them or something more widespread. Minutes later, the dacha was formally put on lock-down, the GRU guards protecting the perimeter, Belinsky put in charge of the house’s defence. Including the permanent staff, that gave the Lieutenant ten defenders in total, their weapons mostly handguns. It was then sit and wait, everyone hoping not to hear the rattle of gunfire or the squawk of the alarm.
Markova was similarly concerned, and if the house was about to be attacked, then she wasn’t prepared to wait around and get caught by someone else. She had held fire on her escape plan, wanting to see where the phone intercepts would lead, but again it seemed as if she had dallied for far too long.
The Trust Of The People (Conspiracy Trilogy Book 2) Page 13