The Will Of The People (Conspiracy Trilogy Book 1) (17 page)

“Poland has
neglected its navy: it has no large warships and five outdated
submarines. Yet there are of course obvious dangers. Their main
naval base is at Gdynia-Oksywie, with a second flotilla at
Świnoujście on the border with Germany. However, a show of force,
with vessels stationed near the entrance to Gdansk Bay and thus
some thirty kilometres from Poland’s naval base, would be unlikely
to provoke an immediate military response. Personally, that is a
risk I am prepared to take, and naval units from our Baltic Fleet
can be in position within hours.

“The blockade would also bring into sharp focus the
terrorists’ training camp, itself barely forty kilometres from
Gdansk. Perhaps
August
14
’s choice of name, and its reference to
the strike at the Gdansk shipyards in 1980, is rather more
significant than has been suggested. Although they have recruited
from across Eastern Europe, the Polish link becomes stronger every
day. We might even be looking at their main centre of operations
and not some second-tier training camp.”

The President paused, and the map display opened out
slightly, a red icon appearing in the Baltic Sea midway between
Poland and the Swedish island of Gotland. “The USS
John Finn
is an
unfortunate complication and we can only guess as to how the United
States and NATO would react to such a blockade; active diplomacy
would ensure Sweden and Finland remain neutral.

“Once started, it would be fatal to withdraw our ships
without achieving at least some of our aims. It’s imperative to
avoid further escalation, but if necessary, we must be prepared to
order the military to respond appropriately to any additional
deployment of NATO naval forces. We have photographic evidence that
at least two Americans, both ex-Marine Corps, are working
with
August 14
in
Gdansk and there can be little doubt the West is indirectly
supporting the terrorists. Despite the risks, there is no viable
alternative if we truly wish to defeat
August 14
quickly and
effectively.”

The President waited patiently for comments. The discussion
began slowly at first, but gradually became more heated as the
inner cabinet argued the relative merits of what the President
proposed. Grebeshkov said little, understanding the need to bully
Poland into acting against
August
14
, but appalled as to the means
suggested. Having been brave enough to voice his opposition to the
Prime Minister’s plans, he wondered whether he would be brave
enough to argue against the President.

When the vote
came well over an hour later, agreement was unanimous. To ensure
Russia’s Baltic Fleet had sufficient resources and time to refine
its strategy, implementation was delayed by 48 hours, the President
confident that his demonstration of Russian might would quickly
force Poland to act in turn against the terrorists.

Even as
Grebeshkov arrived at his Lubyanka office after a hurried and very
late lunch, a new problem added to the dangers of what the
President proposed. Having only appeared on the internet some three
hours earlier, a video clip had quickly gone viral. The title
implied the footage had been taken by the Lithuanian authorities,
it supposedly showing the inside of one of the terrorist dacha’s in
Lithuania, and Grebeshkov watched fascinated as the scene unfolded.
He assumed the video was a fake, and he paused it repeatedly,
looking for obvious mistakes and inconsistencies.

The opening
shot was of a smoke-blackened room, with three unmade beds, a pile
of clothes scattered across the floor. The camera moved to an
adjoining room, set out like an office, focusing on open desk
drawers crammed with document wallets in various colours. Seemingly
at random, the unknown cameraman pulled out a selection, spreading
their contents across the desktop. The image sharpened to reveal
U.S. Field Manuals for the Stinger missile, the M203 grenade
launcher and the Claymore antipersonnel mine. Another drawer: this
time instructions in English on sabotage techniques together with
detailed photos; then more photographs, one clearly showing Eglitis
and Baranovskiy talking to a third man, a caption identifying him
as a serving officer in the U.S. Marines. And so it went on: yet
more photographs, diagrams and maps, including a detailed plan of
Moscow’s second international airport at Sheremetyevo, Russian rail
and coach timetables...

Taken together, there was a clear – if overworked – message:
these were definitely the terrorists from
August 14
and they had help from the
West, specifically the United States.

Grebeshkov was
confused by the amateurish nature of the film, but somehow that
almost made it more believable. Logic told him no-one would be
convinced by such convenient evidence but in the present heady
atmosphere logic was all-too often absent, and the film could only
stir up more animosity on Moscow’s streets.

It certainly wasn’t clear to Grebeshkov who had most to gain
from such a parody: Russia perhaps, or possibly
August 14
. And such a film could
only embarrass the Lithuanian authorities, giving the lie to their
drug-trafficking tale. It might even be as simple as a teenage
Steven Spielberg turning his home into a Lithuanian dacha but
whoever it was, and whatever their reasons, the U.S. embassy had
just been made into a prime target for Moscow’s anger.

The destroyer’s dimly-lit Combat Information Centre (CIC) was
filled to over-capacity, the air-conditioning working overtime to
maintain the optimum temperature. Young sat in his elevated chair
next to the Tactical Action Officer, keeping a wary eye on the
dozens of consoles and their operators – some twenty men and women
working together to protect the
John
Finn
from every conceivable threat. Most
of Young’s interest centred on one of the two large tactical
displays, its brightly-coloured symbols providing a real-time
projection of all potential targets, with every sensor aboard
the
John Finn
straining itself to capture what electronic intelligence it
could.

Two miles to the south, the Russian frigate
Admiral Golovko
shadowed
the
John Finn’s
every move, maintaining a respectful distance while seemingly
unconcerned by the
Finn’s
superiority. Both vessels were of a similar age,
the Russian warship having been commissioned slightly earlier than
the
John Finn
in
2013, but there the similarity ended. In terms of displacement
the
John Finn
was
twice the
Golovko’s
size, carried two helicopters against the
Golovko’
s one, and packed a far
bigger punch.

The
Golovko
wasn’t the only chaperone, her duties shared with at least
two other Russian vessels, varying from one of the new
Gremyashchy-class corvettes to an elderly destroyer. The
John Finn
ignored them
all, Young trying not to be intimidated by their presence, and keen
to show the calibre of the U.S. Navy.

The
Admiral Golovko
had recently transferred from Russia’s Northern
Fleet, a strategic redeployment which had more to do with the
ageing nature of many of Russia’s ships, than any terrorist threat.
However, since the early hours of the morning three more Russian
surface vessels had abandoned a training exercise in the Norwegian
Sea to head at speed towards the Baltic. With their estimated time
of arrival late Monday, NATO had yet to respond, the USS
John Finn
, backed by
naval resources from Northern Europe, presumably felt to be
sufficient to curb any further Russian aggression against
Lithuania. In any case, the West’s leaders now seemed happy to
treat the
spetsnaz
attack as a very minor incident, and were working hard to
reduce tensions. There was even the promise of a full investigation
into the exact nature of the dacha complex. To Young, it seemed a
poor way to protect an ally, simply turn the other cheek while
almost admitting it was your own fault.

The Russian
public were similarly unimpressed but for very different reasons.
The internet clip of the dacha complex had brought thousands more
out on to Moscow’s streets, irate protesters gathering in the city
centre to condemn those seen as supporting the terrorists.
Initially, the demonstrators’ focus had been primarily
anti-government, but it had quickly shifted to become
anti-American, Moscow’s police having to use tear-gas and
water-cannon to quell yet another violent confrontation, this time
outside the U.S. embassy west of the Kremlin. The fact that the
video could easily be fake seemed of little concern to the
thousands trying to fight their way through to the embassy,
America’s guilt never doubted, the truth merely an irrelevant
complication.

Such matters would normally pass the USS
John Finn
quietly by, but
August 14
had poured
salt into a dozen open wounds, pushing an angry Russia ever closer
towards confrontation with Eastern Europe. On both sides, decades
of suspicion and mistrust made compromise increasingly
unlikely.

Nabiyev’s luxury apartment was a twenty minute drive from the
Lubyanka, the exclusive suburbs to the north-west of the city
offering a relaxed and protected environment for its wealthy
residents. As always, Nabiyev ignored the convenience of the lift,
taking the main stairs two at-a-time and refusing to give in to the
protests from his aching muscles. It was his earliest return home
for over a week, and he was looking forward to an early night,
preferably with the TV replaced by the low-tech option of a good
book. For once, both
August 14
and the FSB could take a back seat to the more
basic needs of rest and recuperation.

The entrance
hallway was in semi-darkness, the small lamp beside the front door
casting its gentle glow past the open sitting-room door into the
space beyond. Nabiyev gave a long sigh of contentment and strode
into the living room, hand automatically reaching for the light
switch; even as the light chased the shadows away, he belatedly
noticed the two seated figures waiting silently. Confusion and lack
of sleep slowed his reactions and Nabiyev simply froze, brain
struggling to work out what to do next.

Almost as one
the two figures stood up, the shorter taking a step forward.
Nabiyev recognised first the uniform and then its owner: there was
no mistaking Grebeshkov’s favoured henchwoman, and he had seen her
face on a dozen reports, almost invariably with a positive comment
or recommendation. Curiously, he felt no fear, the constant threat
of discovery draining him of even the most elementary of
emotions.

“Captain
Markova,” Nabiyev said coldly. “This is an unexpected surprise; I
wasn’t aware you had an open invitation to make yourself at home.”
He heard footsteps behind him, and Nabiyev stood unresisting as
strong hands patted him down for a weapon. “You’d better have good
cause, Captain; this is a serious mistake.” Nabiyev kept his body
rigid, unblinking eyes watching a half-smile slowly spread across
Markova’s face.

“I’m sorry,
Colonel, but I must ask that you accompany us back to the
Lubyanka.”

“Am I under
arrest?”

“If that
should be necessary, Sir.” Markova gave a curt nod, and the man
behind Nabiyev grasped his left arm, twisting him around and
guiding him back towards the front door.

There was
little doubt in Nabiyev’s mind that it was likely to be a one-way
journey. He wondered whether to bluff it out in the hope Grebeshkov
was just guessing, but it was too much of a risk. He was marched
along the corridor, the other two following close behind. Ahead and
to the left were the double doors of the two central lifts; to the
right the wide stairs down to the building’s front entrance. His
thoughts raced ahead, Nabiyev following through in his mind the
next few seconds, desperately searching for the right opportunity
to make his escape.

A metre from
the stairs, Nabiyev suddenly twisted his left heel to stamp
viciously down on his escort’s ankle. As the man stumbled, Nabiyev
wrested his arm free, charging down the stairway, then with
reckless abandon he vaulted over the stair-rail and down onto the
flight below. It was a fall of several metres, and he felt bones in
his right foot crack as he landed off-balance close to the
second-floor landing.

A bullet
shattering the wooden rail close to his hand hurried him down the
final flight. Nabiyev’s every action was now based purely on
instinct, but the futility of his response was already taking its
toll, his despair neutralising the effect of the adrenalin.

An elderly
couple hovered nervously beside the building’s front entrance,
bewildered eyes following Nabiyev as he elbowed his way past. A
second bullet drew a strangled cry from the woman’s lips, a crimson
line lancing down her arm from shoulder to elbow. Nabiyev wrenched
open the entrance door, stumbling his way out into the open. Heel
first, he staggered down the front steps, his broken foot twisting
away from the pain. Abruptly Nabiyev lurched to the left, pressing
his body tight against the grey blocks of the building’s front
wall. As the first of Markova’s men raced down the steps, Nabiyev
reached across, both hands grabbing the man’s gun arm and yanking
him round. A vicious downward jerk and the arm snapped at the
elbow, the man falling forwards, his shriek of agony cut short as
Nabiyev’s knee caught him full in the face. The man’s gun clattered
to the ground; off-balance, Nabiyev flung himself towards it.