The Trust Of The People (Conspiracy Trilogy Book 2)

by Christopher Read

  Karenin chose to try and squeeze the Koschei between the two opposing U.S. units, hoping they would assume he would immediately head south or west. The sub had just two torpedoes left, the aft tubes now the Koschei’s prime defence.

  “Gold-One going to flank speed and turning, Captain; four minutes to first impact. All torpedoes running true.”

  “Ten degrees down-angle; make your depth three hundred metres.” The Koschei creaked and groaned as they moved deeper – despite the submarine’s age it had proved robust, although Karenin had no intention of testing the submarine anywhere near its maximum depth of 500 metres. On the surface, Karenin imagined the panic as the Americans tracked the torpedoes, their standard doctrine the ‘crack the whip’ tactic of high-speed evasive manoeuvres whilst also deploying the Nixie torpedo decoy.

  “Multiple active sonars to the south-east; active sonar also bearing zero-zero-two, range twenty-four kilometres.”

  The Americans were closing the gap, the Koschei still not detected. “Ready countermeasures,” barked Karenin. “Program decoy for six knots; course zero-four-zero.”

  “Two minutes to first impact; five torpedoes still running true.”

  Karenin would settle for a single hit, the use of six torpedoes an outrageous waste of his remaining weapons, but the only way he knew to maximise the possibility of success. With wire-guided torpedoes, he could have at least countered some of the electronic systems and perhaps even bypassed the decoys, but the Yu-4B was an artless bully of a weapon, likely to be easily seduced, fooled or confused.

  “Active sonar! Bearing three-five-three; range estimate ten kilometres… confirm dipping sonar.”

  The helicopter’s dipping sonar was Karenin’s greatest fear: a submarine’s favourite hiding place was below the thermocline layer where it was protected from a surface ship’s hull-mounted sonar; the depth of the thermocline varied but even the present conditions of around 210 metres was well inside the dipping sonar’s maximum depth. Often working in pairs, a helicopter would do several sweeps then move on, sonar buoys dropped as an added deterrent.

  “Launch decoy... Helm, right five degrees rudder; come to course zero-five-five. Ahead slow.” Karenin had no idea which way the helicopter would jump or whether it had a partner; he was working purely on instinct and trusting he made the right decision. The first torpedo should have struck the USS Milius by now, the attack threatening to turn into an abject failure.

  “Second dipping sonar! Bearing two-two-four; range estimate five kilometres.”

  The helicopters were closing in, it still unclear whether they had detected the Koschei. They would keep leapfrogging, the decoy hopefully giving the submarine time enough to escape.

  “Explosion in the water… possible hit! Second explosion, bearing one-eight-four.”

  Karenin gave a relieved smile – whatever else happened, the Koschei had successfully attacked number five on Vladivostok’s target list. Maybe now he had finally made up for past mistakes….

  “High-speed screws!” The sonar chief's voice was tense, fearful. ‘Bearing three-two-zero; range 900 metres; down angle five degrees… Confirm Mark-54 torpedo; designate – Alpha-One.”

  “Launch noisemakers; all-ahead flank!” Karenin was shouting out orders despite knowing he was too late, the American torpedo far too close.

  Strangely, some part of his brain stuck with its training, remaining calm enough to try and work out the probable origin of the attack. The Mark-54 was a lightweight torpedo, and although the sub was well within range of the warships’ anti-submarine rockets, it was most likely dropped by one of the chasing helicopters. The Koschei was being hounded on all sides, vastly outnumbered with nowhere to go. Vladivostok had demanded that there be ‘no smoking gun’: the submarine’s actual origin had to remain secret, with no opportunity for the Americans to display a Russian captain and crew to the eyes of the world – not that surrender had ever been part of Karenin’s philosophy.

  “Alpha-One: estimate one minute to impact, Sir.”

  It was a timely reminder for Karenin to stop thinking and start acting. He ordered his own variation of the American’s crack the whip, the submarine’s rapid manoeuvres designed to create a barrier of acoustic interference.

  Suddenly a high-pitched pulse reverberated softly around the control room, the sonar chief merely confirming what everyone instinctively knew. “Second torpedo! Bearing one-nine-five; twenty seconds to impact.”

  “Right full rudder; maximum bubble, now!”

  The pinging from both of the pursuing torpedoes was now clearly audible, an accelerating double-pulse that could only seal the Koschei’s fate. The rapid diving turn was Karenin’s last desperate hope to avoid destruction and it immediately had a success, creating enough of a maelstrom of bubbles collapsing in on themselves to bewilder the closest torpedo; the Mark-54 followed a noisemaker then slowed, switching back to search mode.

  The Koschei twisted sharply once more but the second torpedo was rather more tenacious than its twin, exploding close to the aft torpedo room. The submarine’s double-hull was shaken and distorted, fracturing in several places.

  In the control room, Karenin was knocked off his feet, crashing into the XO, both tumbling to the deck. The Koschei continued its descent, the downward flight now uncontrolled as sea-water at close to 30 atmospheres erupted into the engine and aft torpedo rooms.

  Karenin’s one thought was survival, no longer concerned as to what some admiral in Vladivostok might want. High-pressure air blasted out into the ballast tanks but it did no good, the Koschei remaining unresponsive. Many of the systems were offline, six decades of being crushed and stretched, battered and abused, finally taking their toll. Welds began to spring apart, the double-hull structure collapsing in on itself, a massive fissure seeming to leap across the outer hull. The stresses were just too much and the Koschei cracked in two, a burst of light from inside creating a golden halo. Karenin was one of the few still alive, able somehow to sense the submarine’s death throes as the Koschei defied its name and plummeted to the sea floor.

  Eastern United States – 15:00 Local Time; 19:00 UTC

  Anderson’s brilliant idea of searching out business permits was turning out to be not quite so brilliant after all. On closer inspection, none of his sixty-one possibilities was that good a match to his ideal and he was forced to re-think, now looking for ones that might at least be feasible.

  By early-afternoon, he had finally reduced the number to a more manageable total of eight. Next it was down to a visible inspection, the fact it was a Saturday possibly an advantage, Anderson perhaps less liable to get in trouble while inspecting the genuine sites. McDowell’s allies were at long last starting to make themselves known, with Dick Thorn presumably just the first of several high-profile figures publicly to declare their anti-Cavanagh sentiments.

  November 5th – Thorn’s attempt to derail Cavanagh’s Administration was more subtle than Guy Fawkes’ bid to blow up James I and potentially far more effective; many in the media were already fanning the flames of animosity, invariably focusing their criticism on the President’s perceived lack of nerve.

  All of which gave a certain sense of urgency to Anderson’s present task. Fortunately, the Toyota’s satnav helped make the convoluted tour of Maryland and Virginia far easier to follow, Anderson trusting that a quick look at each venue or even just a drive-by would help him decide whether something more substantial was required. None of the eight sites were that far from each other, each one inside his 25-mile limit from Leesburg, and if truth be told Anderson wasn’t that certain what he was actually looking for, assuming the combination of his instincts and high security would help reduce the list down to maybe two at most.

  It became a nightmare trip, Anderson wary of every other vehicle, then spending a nervous ten to fifteen minutes surreptitiously peering through a security fence or down past a line of trees. Some binoculars would have been helpful, but they hadn’t been part of the emergency supplies and
Anderson hadn’t wanted to risk buying a pair.

  By the time he’d crossed site number six off his list, Anderson was starting to lose confidence in his theory, the reality proving to be rather different to what a building permit and a look on Google Maps had suggested; although, having come this far it seemed stupid not to see it through, especially as number seven was by far the most promising of the eight.

  Ten miles south of Leesburg, Anderson turned right onto Route 50 towards Aldie and then sharp left, following a single-lane road south as it climbed ever higher, a thick covering of trees to the right, open ground with the occasional copse to his left.

  The target address was announced by a small badly-painted sign, a narrow dirt track winding down to the south-east through a clump of trees. Anderson could see what looked to be at least two buildings, maybe a hundred yards from the main road. There were also two cars and a pair of smart-looking 4x4s parked alongside, but no obvious signs of activity. High security it most definitely wasn’t, the only obvious deterrent a waist-high wooden fence around its perimeter.

  Anderson kept going, choosing not to stop. Accommodation for six or more, plenty of space for an advanced computer facility, and privacy – although not a great match to what he’d originally had in mind, the Aldie site was a definite possibility, and by far the best of a bad bunch. The nearest neighbours were at least a half-mile away and there was room enough to hide a small army behind the buildings. The company name on the building permit had proved unhelpful, an online search merely confirming the company details and that it had been formed less than a year earlier, but it gave no clue as to the precise nature of the business.

  There was certainly enough there of interest for a somewhat closer inspection to become a priority, just not during daylight hours.

  Anderson drove on to number eight on his list, wanting to be absolutely sure he had made the right choice, even though his mind was already made up. Thirty minutes later, he was on his way back to Baltimore, working out how best to peruse the Aldie site, preferably without getting himself killed. He had a gun and thirteen rounds of ammunition, courtesy of McDowell’s associate – not that he had any intention of using them, but it was always best to be prepared.

  Chapter 17 – Sunday, November 6th

  Eastern United States – 00:41 Local Time; 04:41 UTC

  It was only three days from a full moon, Anderson able to work his way without difficulty to the tree line just short of the site’s southern edge. Wooden fence, then three buildings not two, consisting of what looked to be a farmhouse and two ageing wood-built barns. Three of the four vehicles were still there but none of the buildings showed any lights – it certainly looked to be safe enough for a quick check. There were no guards, no insomniac Doberman; he couldn’t even see any cameras, just security lights above the farmhouse and barn doors, presumably activated by movement.

  Anderson’s relief at it being so easy was almost overtaken by a sense of disappointment, and he was now starting to doubt the site had anything at all to do with McDowell. He had assumed the facility might well be on stand-by overnight but this was just too quiet, the total lack of security a concern.

  Yet he persevered, not too sure whether deep down he wanted to be proved right or wrong. Anderson’s main interest lay in the smaller of the two barns, it seeming a better fit to the dimensions of 1440 square feet given in the building permit, with $80,000 estimated for the intriguingly vague ‘internal remodelling’. He could work out a safe route to the barn but it was just unsettling for the site to be so tranquil,

  Anderson clambered over the fence. Gun in hand, he crept towards the rear of the smaller barn: standing some fifty yards from the farmhouse, each of its fixed windows consisted of four small panes, the view inside shielded by vertical blinds; no glimmer of light, no sounds. There seemed only one way to find out what lay beyond and he smashed one of the top panes, the crash of glass far louder than he’d hoped.

  If there was an alarm, then it was silent. Using his gun hand, Anderson pushed the blind to one side, torchlight probing the darkness beyond.

  The expected computer consoles and massive monitor were nowhere to be seen. Instead there was a modern open-plan artist’s studio: display area plus easels, several paintings half-complete, sculptures; even a large tapestry hanging down from a metal trellis and paint-spattered in some modernist style.

  Anderson switched off the torch and leant back against the barn wall, annoyed that he had been so smug as to his own judgement. He had pinned his hopes on the Aldie site and he was now pretty much out of ideas; even the thought of returning empty-handed to the mobile home was fairly depressing in itself.

  Abruptly, a blaze of light shone out from the farmhouse as the front door opened, a tall figure silhouetted in the doorway.

  “I’m armed and I’ll use it if I have to!” shouted an elderly male voice. “We want no trouble.”

  Anderson edged slowly away from the barn, not quite sure where to aim his gun. “Me neither; sorry about the window. I’ll just leave you in peace.” It was a rather pathetic attempt at an apology but Anderson was struggling to know how exactly to react.

  “He’s got a gun, Joe!” screamed a woman from inside the farmhouse. “Shoot him!”

  Anderson made a run for it, managing to vault the fence without getting shot or shooting himself, but losing his torch in the process. Two minutes later, he was in the Toyota, heading south, his early morning jaunt not quite the success he had hoped for.

  * * *

  Flores stood in the barn staring at an abstract painting, trying to stifle a yawn, unhappy that he was the one having to miss out on an extra hour of sleep. Thanks to the end of Daylight Saving Time, he had magically arrived at the Aldie site just before he’d set off from his home, or so his watch had glibly implied, and it was still not yet three in the morning.

  The homeowners were a painter and his sculptor wife, able finally to make the long-vaunted move to the country to have their own studio. Now an armed prowler had tarnished that dream, their comment that the man sounded British automatically forwarding a priority alert to the FBI.

  Flores’ day might be starting earlier than he’d anticipated but he wasn’t the only agent to be losing a good night’s sleep. The FBI was on high alert for terrorist attacks and anti-government protests, the torpedo attack on the USS Milius provoking an angry public and media backlash; to many, the President’s muted response to the sinking of HQ-17 was merely the catalyst for further aggression. The White House had expressed the usual outrage and condemnation, but the standard ‘we will respond proportionately and at a time of our choosing’ hadn’t sounded particularly convincing. The USS Milius was still afloat, at least thirty of her crew killed in the torpedo attack, well over fifty injured. The submarine deemed responsible had reportedly been sunk with all hands, no-one as yet officially blaming the Chinese.

  Flores’ own sleep-deprived problems seemed trivial in comparison, and he watched as an agent tried to get something more out of the husband. It made no sense for the prowler to be Anderson, although the fingerprints on the torch definitely said otherwise. He was obviously looking for something or someone, but quite why an old barn near Aldie had attracted his attention remained a mystery.

  Flores was irritated that the FBI always seemed to be following in Anderson’s footsteps and he decided to formally recommend a change of strategy; Anderson was clearly innocent of Garcia’s murder and he wasn’t the enemy here – that was unquestionably Pat McDowell.

  * * *

  Anderson struggled to reach the phone, momentarily confused by the different call tone. Fortunately, it was a number he instantly recognised, Anderson hoping that Devereau had heard something more from Charlotte.

  “Hi Adam; sorry for the delay, I was half-asleep.”

  “I do apologise,” responded Devereau, heavy on the sarcasm. “Every time someone calls me from that damn country they pick the middle of the bloody night, and you have the gall to whinge when it’s w
ell after breakfast time. And you had another hour to lie in, the Americans as usual doing everything well after everyone else.”

  “It’s not easy being a fugitive,” Anderson said defensively. “Your body clock tends to go haywire.”

  “In which case you’ll be pleased to learn the FBI have taken you off their most wanted list. Charlotte’s been in contact; she’s on her way to Heathrow and the FBI want to talk.”

  “Talk or put me in a cell and throw away the key?”

  “They know you had nothing to do with Garcia. Charlotte’s given me the direct number for a Ray Flores; Charlotte seems to think he’s genuine. Apparently he’s authorised to offer you immunity from prosecution. It’s the only way out of this mess, Mike…”

  Anderson was minded to agree, the stress of looking over his shoulder every few minutes starting to wear him down. He was well aware of his own physical limitations and it was obvious he would have to hand himself in sometime soon and trust that McDowell was exaggerating. Maybe the FBI might even want his help...

  An hour later Anderson was back at the Aldie site, trying to keep well clear of husband and wife while explaining to Flores why it had attracted his interest. Anderson was rather proud of his newly-acquired ID tag and blue windbreaker with FBI in yellow all over it. It probably wasn’t legal for him to wear them, but Flores seemed to be more interested in searching out McDowell than correct FBI protocol. Flores had even been sympathetic to Anderson’s concerns as to a potential FBI mole, and Anderson had quickly realised that fears as to his personal safety were unfounded – at least that was his hope.

  In the light of day, the inside of the barn looked far more impressive than Anderson had first thought and even an area a third the size, properly equipped, would be more than sufficient for McDowell and his team. Anderson now appreciated that he had been far too restrictive with his filtering of the building permits and he must had missed a score or more of sites that would actually be suitable.