The Rule Of The People (Conspiracy Trilogy Book 3)

by Christopher Read

  It was well after twelve by the time Gene Henry stepped up onto a hastily-built platform to address those gathered close to 3rd Street. Pro-war, pro-Thorn, anti-Congress – those standing in front of the Capitol Building had a variety of reasons as to why they were there, but if there was one common factor it was their sense of frustration with the members who sat in the building opposite. The number of protestors had swelled significantly since earlier but at around five thousand it was still less than some might have hoped for. What also came across clearly to Anderson was the crowd’s willingness to praise Deangelo: two weeks in and the President’s approval rating had risen to the dizzy heights of 83% – not bad for a virtual unknown.

  Although not as good a speaker as Dick Thorn, Henry’s words were emotive and seemingly from the heart, praising those who had camped out in the Mall for their understanding in bringing the protest to an end. He quickly chose to make specific reference to Dick Thorn, extolling what he had done for his country and could do as Secretary of Defence. The political stalemate in Congress and the apparent reluctance of many of its members to publicly support Deangelo was condemned, Henry moving on to express his own very personal approval of America’s actions in the South China Sea and the bravery of those continually risking their lives. He skilfully managed to avoid repeating what he’d said during his last diatribe but was still able to imply Congress was blind and incompetent, happy to leave Thorn out in the cold because of an unfair prejudice. The protest might formally be coming to an end but Mayor Henry seemed quite happy to twist the knife.

  The crowd applauded enthusiastically, Henry adding in the hope that the people of America would stand united with the Philippines and fully committed to the fight for freedom, the authoritarian and expansionist ideals of China’s Politburo needing to be resisted.

  Even Anderson applauded this time, a little ashamed that America and the Philippines were now pretty much left to fight alone. Naval units from Australia had recently moved into position south of the Spratly Islands but that would change little; Japan, South Korea and Taiwan still seemed content to sit uncomfortably on the fence, the threat from North Korea a worrying escalation. But then the reasons for China and the U.S. to be close to war were far more complex than just an argument over a few pieces of rock, Thorn for one not quite the innocent Henry portrayed him.

  The crowd started to disperse, workers already moving amongst the remains of the tented city. Anderson headed back to the Holiday Inn deep in thought, needing to look with fresh eyes at everything that had happened, pre-conceptions put to one side. Inspiration was always an unpredictable beast and eventually he would come up with something clever; hopefully, sooner rather than later.

  * * *

  The meal was the first proper Thanksgiving spread Anderson had ever had: squash soup, turkey and cornbread, a dozen different vegetables – he was already well overfed but it seemed churlish not to move on to the pecan pie. The family tradition of eating the Thanksgiving meal sharp at 3 p.m. had not helped his digestive struggles, Anderson making do with just one helping of pie and no pumpkin cake. He had actually made the number around the table an uneven nine, but both Ray and Rachel Flores had been insistent he join them, no excuse accepted.

  Anderson had felt awkward at first, taking his lead from Rachel Flores, the consequences of her ordeal at McDowell’s hands well hidden. A welcome hug and kiss had seemed a generous recognition of Anderson’ minor role in her release, especially as he was still feeling guilty that somehow it was his fault, in part at least. By some unspoken and mutual consent, the topic of conversation stayed well clear of U.S. problems, briefly settling on Russia and the news that the Kremlin was under siege. Anderson had idly wondered whether Markova might be part of it somehow, not even certain whether she was still alive; under the circumstances, it seemed best to keep his word to the FSB and he made no mention of his involvement in the previous year’s events, unsure how much Flores might actually know.

  Rachel Flores was a considerate if overworked hostess, well aware that Anderson had an ulterior motive for accepting their offer of dinner. By six-thirty there was just the three of them left, Rachel happy to leave the two men alone to discuss strategy.

  Anderson was conscious that Flores might well prefer to move on from the problem of McDowell or even be annoyed that Anderson had kept Carter’s revelation to himself, but that was certainly not the case; Flores just needed convincing there was something actually worth pursuing. Anderson’s dubious logic involving a shut-down – or not – of Congress was at best speculative, there no single persuasive piece of evidence to prove it either way.

  From Anderson’s perspective, Flores was an important ally, someone with the right connections and the understanding to help work out what if anything came next, it still taking an hour of argument to get him thinking along the same lines as Anderson.

  “I get that the threat to Congress could be real or exaggerated,” Flores confirmed, trying to make it sound positive rather than patronising. “And the fact it was McDowell not Carter who gave you Nash – I’m just not sure I agree as to why.”

  “Let’s just go back a few weeks,” said Anderson, still uncertain in his own mind as to how the various aspects fitted together. “McDowell spent months helping put someone more hard-line than Cavanagh into power, someone willing to risk a war with China, Yang and his friends prepared to bankroll it all. Plan A was for Russia to then attack from the north; America, the Philippines and Vietnam squeezing China from the south. If there was a plan B, then this isn’t it and Deangelo is now facing a much more difficult challenge. So far he’s done what people seem to want and the way things are going, there’s little reason for him to worry about Congress not backing him over China, at least for a while. There’s no advantage to Deangelo of a coup and McDowell could simply be trying to divert our attention. The question is, from what?”

  Flores still didn’t see it that way, “If Congress isn’t a target then giving us Nash just seems pointless. The Capitol’s now crawling with extra security – how does that help McDowell or anyone else?”

  “Maybe the extra security’s essential for some reason,” said Anderson with a shrug, desperately trying to think of something sensible. “Perhaps it’s a bizarre way of actually getting someone inside the Capitol.”

  “To do what exactly?”

  “No idea; blow it up if Thorn gets his way...”

  “You’re certain McDowell’s not just following orders?” offered Flores. “And deliberately trying to sabotage a very specific threat to Congress? Maybe the murder of Yang persuaded his friends it was time to cut and run?”

  “Then do that; why even bother giving us Nash?”

  “Revenge, spite, temper – who knows?” said Flores, exasperated. “You can’t be certain it’s a McDowell trick. Perhaps he’s even trying to be helpful?”

  “So Pat McDowell’s suddenly developed a conscience – that would be a first.”

  Flores persevered, not yet willing to let a good idea be so easily dismissed. “There’s no guarantee Congress won’t make life difficult for Deangelo over China, especially if Russia ends up a potential ally. And nominating Thorn was always going to be controversial – being able to forget Congress just makes everything easier. For someone like Thorn, that could be as a good a reason as any to bring in the 82nd Airborne.”

  “That was true a month ago but not now; Deangelo gets nothing from a coup except a lot of angry people thirsting for his blood – he’d be worse off than Cavanagh…”

  The discussion was getting heated, it not yet an argument, both of them hoping for some sudden insight that would convince the other.

  “Let’s assume you’re right about Deangelo,” said Flores graciously, a better idea finally taking shape. “It’s different for Thorn; he and his friends are continuing to push two clear messages: China is the enemy and Congress is corrupt – for them, neutralising Congress still makes good sense. To Deangelo, a takeover has become high risk for minimal
gain, and if he wants out he either convinces the others to abandon or he makes sure an attack on Congress can’t possibly succeed. One casual comment from Carter is about all it takes – job done.”

  Anderson realised it made as much sense as anything else they had and maybe Flores had a point. “Thorn’s still a problem,” he said slowly. “He’s risked his career to help Deangelo and he might not even end up as Secretary of Defence. Nor can he guarantee the Democratic presidential nomination in the future. If it all now falls flat, he’s lost everything; Thorn can’t just sit back and do nothing. Or is Deangelo that much of a friend?”

  “Colleagues but hardly friends,” responded Flores thoughtfully. “There’s nothing to suggest they socialise outside of work; very different backgrounds and interests. It’s different with Thorn and Henry; they first met some fifteen years ago, good friends for at least the last ten.”

  Anderson was impressed, “It sounds like you’ve been doing some homework.”

  “Just picked up a few things along the way,” said Flores with a smile.

  Anderson was just wary of automatically assuming Deangelo would be the one wanting out. “Let’s not forget Henry; this would have all been far more difficult without him. As Mayor, he lent his support to the protests in the Mall, his friendship with Kovak ensuring the D.C. Police backed him up. Deangelo wins the biggest prize and even Thorn gets a sniff at a Cabinet job, but for Mayor Gene Henry there’s nothing more than ‘thanks’ and a whole lot of aggro from the FBI. Even his standing in the Democratic Party has been tainted by his association with Thorn… I assume there’s nothing to suggest Henry missed out when Deangelo became president? A promise made but unfulfilled?”

  “Not that I’m aware of,” Flores replied. “D.C. thrives on rumours but there’s been nothing. Maybe Ritter’s murder was more of a falling out than simply tidying up a loose end.”

  G-man and journalist, they might well be out of their depth in understanding the subtle nuance of D.C. politics but they were doing their best. All Anderson wanted was to link everything together in one neat and logical package, the unexpected combination of Bourbon and pumpkin cake hopefully helping it along. There were far too many unknowns to work out a clear way forward, Anderson unable even to sort out the guilty from those who merely gained by default.

  “Deangelo knows Congress would do everything it could to block Thorn,” said Anderson, rethinking it through, “but he still nominated him. He’s tried swinging the vote but that could easily fail. Either Deangelo was convinced he could control the vote or he’s always had something else in mind…”

  “The hacked emails,” Flores interrupted. “Publicly Deangelo’s pushing Thorn’s confirmation but maybe he wanted to make sure the Senate would never agree; the emails haven’t just stirred up public opinion they’ve re-ignited party divisions.”

  “So you’re suggesting he’s also using McDowell to sabotage Thorn’s chances?” He’s doing a pretty good job of that himself, I’m not sure he needs anyone else’s help.”

  “It’s insurance, I guess…” Flores reached for the bourbon, needing another dose of inspiration. “But then that makes no real sense: if both Thorn and Shepard fail to get confirmed, Deangelo’s lost a lot of credibility.”

  “Basically,” said Anderson with a resigned shake of his head, “we’re still going round in circles. If it wasn’t for Thorn, Congress might just be willing to compromise on Shepard. Maybe we need to forget Henry and Kovak; this is really about Thorn and Deangelo. They might have started out with a common aim in mind but circumstances change.”

  Flores stuck with the concept of a falling out, Thorn’s views always seeming more extreme than anything Deangelo had ever professed. “When you read what Thorn has said over the years, he’s consistently warned as to the threat from China. Deangelo stood on the steps of Congress to promise that America would be a good friend and a fierce enemy – Dick Thorn’s not the type of man to let him forget a single word of that very public commitment. The way things are going, Deangelo could easily seek a compromise with China that Thorn finds unacceptable and, as you said earlier, from his perspective everything will have been for nothing. Deangelo is then treading on very thin ice, never quite knowing what Thorn might say or do... Look at how he stabbed Cavanagh in the back.”

  Flores lapsed into silence but Anderson was already one step ahead, “So you think McDowell’s real target might actually be Dick Thorn?” It came across as a question but was virtually a statement, Anderson already warming to it as more than just another vague theory.

  “Kill Thorn and a good part of Deangelo’s problems will simply melt away,” said Flores with a shrug of resignation. “One well-aimed shot from Lavergne is all it takes.”

  Anderson slowly nodded in agreement. If Deangelo or Henry had got cold feet then McDowell and his friends would be an effective panacea, Congress saved and Thorn finally dealt with. Maybe the earlier shooting in the Mall hadn’t just been for effect, Thorn far luckier than Anderson had ever anticipated.

  The fact he and Flores could sit having a friendly drink while discussing a man’s potential murder was a sad reflection as their present state of mind, yet necessary if they were to work out a way forward. Their twist on McDowell’s role might be nothing more than a paranoid fantasy but still worth pursuing, if only to be proved wrong. And despite everything, it had a perverse logic which well-matched the conspiracy’s past endeavours...

  Chapter 15 – Friday, November 25th

  USS Benfold – 11:45 Local Time; 03:45 UTC

  Tanner swore softly under his breath, cursing everyone and everything as he sought to repair the damage to the Galene. The tether was basically a fibre optic cable and easy enough to replace, but its physical connections to the ROV and the TMS had been damaged as the Galene had been wrenched backwards. Several circuits had also been fried, the snake camera wrecked, two of the ten thrusters out of action.

  With Ocean Two and the Sea Dragon jealously guarding their prey, Tanner had expected to be shipped back to Singapore, the search abandoned; that had initially been the plan but within twenty four hours it had all changed, the Galene with a new and unexpected role. She might not exactly be ideal for the assignment but she was all that was presently available, Tanner’s bonus climbing steadily by the hour.

  Once spare parts had been flown in by helicopter, Tanner and his team had begun the painstaking task of making the Galene operational, having to strip the main console and cannibalise certain components. The weather had been foul, a typhoon passing across the Philippines before moving north. Tanner was tired and irritable, the Galene’s systems proving equally temperamental, the first dive planned for later that day.

  Tanner knew he needed a break before he made things worse and he clambered back down onto the deck, telling the others to give it thirty minutes. For once there was blue sky overhead and Tanner grabbed a Coke, staring out at the line of breakers in the far distance; that was all he could see of the reef, there never more than a thin strip of sand visible even at low tide. Known as Hardy Reef, or Halfway Reef in Chinese, the relevant charts were incomplete and often inaccurate, the Benfold very wary of getting too close; even the fishing boats from China and the Philippines tended to give it a wide berth.

  Tanner turned away and took in the rest of the warships stationed away to the west. Most impressive was the USS Zumwalt, her sharply angled clean-cut design looking alien compared to the other two vessels; even her hull number of 1000 somehow added an unreal touch. She was an able guardian but also a potential target and there had been three alerts already that morning; Tanner and his team had worked on regardless, Commander Vaughn well aware that the Galene’s operational status was a priority.

  The Gerald Ford Strike Group had similarly suffered an uncomfortable few hours, a missile attack from the Chinese coast abruptly aborted well before it broached the carrier’s exclusion zone. Closer to the Spratly Islands, the threat was more from China’s submarines, the protective screen of helicop
ters and warships around the USS Ronald Reagan responding to several potential incursions, anything coming closer than a hundred nautical miles liable to be attacked without warning.

  A viable supercarrier-busting missile and elusive Kilo-class submarines – China might have the means but perhaps not yet the will. That at least was Tanner’s slightly-prejudiced hope, the USS Benfold likely to be put in harm’s way should Beijing decide to test the Zumwalt’s oft-repeated claim of ‘improved survivability’.

  Moscow – 11:28 Local Time; 08:28 UTC

  Markova had managed to grab no more than an hours’ sleep, the surrounding streets once again echoing to the sound of gunfire, looters and those seeking vengeance taking full advantage. The police were slowly starting to exert some control, justice handed out without the need for any trial, and the wail of a police siren had become less intrusive as dawn had approached. Daylight had also brought reinforcements and Markova’s unit was almost back up to full strength, the Kremlin Arsenal next on her target list.

  The snow was coming down in a driving blizzard, almost horizontal, and Markova was struggling to see more than a few yards ahead. It was perhaps the best the attackers could have hoped for but the morning had already cost them dear, the assault across Alexander Garden resulting in another forty dead and injured, the shattered remains of the two gates protecting Trinity Tower a visible testament to their struggle to break through into the Kremlin.

  From the direction of Red Square, the chatter of automatic weapons was now virtually continuous; General Morozov’s forces were closing in one remorseless metre at a time, a second unit sweeping around to the south to attack the Borovitsky Gate, its target the President’s official – if purely ceremonial – residence of the Grand Kremlin Palace. It was a final throw of the dice, Morozov well knowing that his men were close to exhaustion.

  A gesture from Markova and two squads chased across the cobblestone courtyard, one heading for the glass and concrete of the Palace of Congresses, the other for the Kremlin Arsenal directly opposite, both buildings revealing the scars of the Kremlin Regiment’s earlier battle. It was no more than twenty-five metres to the relative safety of a stone wall or a slab of concrete, everyone nervously awaiting the inevitable torrent of gunfire… yet there was nothing.