The Will Of The People (Conspiracy Trilogy Book 1) (35 page)

With uncustomary electronic wisdom the torpedo pressed on
with its pursuit, bypassing the second ultra-fast
Shkval
and ignoring both
decoys.

When Karenin
found himself mentally counting out the interval between each new
sonar pulse, he knew it was time for their final desperate act.

“Launch
noisemakers.” He paused, waiting until there was a nod of
confirmation from Alenikov, “Maximum bubble; make your depth
eight-five metres.”

The
Gepard
angled steeply down to sea bed. Astern, a swarm of
unsophisticated and outdated noisemakers battered the sea with a
cacophony of sound, doing all they could to distract and confuse
the American torpedo.

“Conn, Sonar.
Alpha-One slowing; returning to search pattern.”

The
Gepard
levelled off, heading slowly east to deeper water and
relative safety. Karenin looked around at the young faces of his
attack team, noting with pride the lack of fear in their eyes –
anxiety and concern, yes, but not fear. Together they had won their
first true battle, and there was a good chance it wouldn’t be their
last.

The
John Finn
was badly crippled, taking in water, her engine room flooded,
fires threatening to complete the torpedo’s work. There was never
any thought of abandoning ship: the watertight doors were holding
and the three separate fires were being contained. Without
propulsion the destroyer started to drift slowly to the south, the
auxiliary thrusters eventually driving her forward at a
painfully-slow four knots. HMS
Portland
patrolled around the
John Finn
like a
protective nursemaid, a helicopter from each vessel providing an
additional form of defence. The
Alopochen
had wisely chosen to turn
back and abandon her blockade-busting attempt, even though she had
been just eleven miles short of her objective.

Young sat on
the bridge, trying to deal with each new crisis, anger and
self-reproach unwelcome but constant companions. Various drugs were
also not helping him to think particularly clearly, but at least
the pain from his shoulder and arm had subsided. Despite bandages
covering half his face and his right arm strapped across his chest,
he was still better off than many – ten of his crew were dead, at
least another twenty badly injured, several with severe burns. The
destroyer’s second Seahawk had been kept busy ferrying the
seriously injured to Gdansk, an essential infringement of the
no-fly zone and rather more blatant than its partner’s earlier ASW
patrol.

Gdynia was the nearest port and that was where the
John Finn
duly headed –
fuck the Russians and their blockade. The attack on the
John Finn
was without
justification, despite some illegal pretence of an exclusion zone.
As yet, NATO had made no comment on the atrocity, but Young was
confident the United States would not ignore the
John Finn’s
pain. In a
few hours, a day at most, America would surely respond in
kind.

It was proving
to be a frustrating afternoon, Grebeshkov growing angrier by the
hour, his blood pressure reaching worrying levels as his transfer
back to Moscow was thwarted by something as basic as the lack of
transport, and for some unclear reason there were no vehicles at
the dacha. The dacha’s secure phone line was his preferred link to
the outside world, but Grebeshkov’s attempts to contact first the
Lubyanka, then Irina Golubeva, proved futile with every one of his
calls meeting a similar fate – a double ring, then the line went
dead. Cell phones proved equally useless, calls to anywhere in
central Moscow merely producing a repetitive ‘service not
available’ message.

By early
evening Grebeshkov was resigned to spending another night at
Barvikha. Whatever the news reports might suggest, the authority
that came with his new role was far from obvious, and while Markova
could no doubt commandeer a vehicle or two, they could easily be
turned back at one of the many roadblocks, or even become another
target for some over-zealous soldier.

Grebeshkov
could feel the paranoia starting to invade his every thought, his
mind struggling to understand the real reason for such enforced
isolation. A mixture of persistence and obstinacy ensured he
finally managed to get through to Arkady Valentin, the latter
having just returned home. Valentin’s friendly greeting helped put
Grebeshkov at his ease, the younger man promising to arrange
transport together with an appropriate military escort for early
the following morning. They talked together for another fifty
minutes, Valentin emphasising that the coup was a coalition of
like-minded patriots, all of them angered by the Government’s
failings and impatient to return the nation to something
approaching stability. Grebeshkov’s inclusion had been seen as
essential for its success, Valentin readily apologising for their
high-handed manner in assuming he would be supportive.

Grebeshkov
well knew he had little choice but to endorse the coup’s aims and
the need for change, and he had been correct in his suspicion that
Golubeva had acted as the main go-between, tentative discussions
ongoing for well over a month. Valentin was keen to argue that to
have done nothing would have led to a breakup of the Russian
Federation and some form of political or military coup had become
inevitable; he also claimed there was no actual leader, with each
of the five having an equal say, their individual areas of
expertise ensuring that together they offered a coherent whole, one
with the determination to push through change and create a more
robust and unified Russia.

Grebeshkov was
sceptical at best, unsure whether Valentin was being naïve or
merely optimistic. While the news outlets similarly hedged their
bets, social media sites were far more enthusiastic, an online
survey suggesting that some eighty percent of Russians supported
the aims of the coup, although slightly less than half agreed with
the means. Moscow’s streets remained quiet, the curfew just about
holding, many people still coming to terms with the dramatic events
of earlier that day.

August 14
was now concentrating its
cyber-attacks and insidious rhetoric on other Russian cities,
primarily Kaliningrad, St. Petersburg, and Novosibirsk in
south-west Siberia. The secessionists had gained full control of
Yakutsk, and were on the offensive in a dozen other cities.
Elements within Dagestan and Tatarstan had formally – if with
unclear authority – declared independence from Moscow, mirroring
the declarations made by various ex-Soviet states in ‘89. Fearful
that other republics would follow their lead, Valentin and Morozov
were working together to mobilise support, hoping to ensure a loyal
military presence in every major Russian city. Across Russia, the
police and National Guard had made hundreds of arrests, temporary
prison camps having to be set up to cope.

The situation
in the Baltic was seen as a test the coup’s leaders could not fail
– to withdraw would reveal weakness when strength was the only
virtue that could save Russia. The West needed to be seen to back
off first; until then it would be folly to abandon the naval
blockade, despite the fear of military escalation and further
conflict with NATO.

Whilst the
Gepard’s
action against the USS
John Finn
was considered an
unfortunate over-reaction, in public the Committee was unrepentant.
In a TV interview due to be shown late that evening, Cherenkov
would argue that the
Gepard’s
attack was totally justified; conversely,
Poland’s obvious and continued support of
August 14
was a baseless outrage by
a government determined to drive Russia into war. Such warlike
posturing would be countered appropriately, Cherenkov threatening
to use all necessary means to stop Polish aggression.

Grebeshkov ended the call with a sense of foreboding, knowing
that somehow he had to reach Moscow. As yet, NATO’s reaction to the
attack on the USS
John Finn
was restricted to mere words but that wouldn’t
last, a vicious cycle of mutual retribution the likely next step.
Cherenkov’s aggressive instincts needed to be countered and that
required face-to-face discussions, not some erratic video-link.
Grebeshkov was confident that he could persuade Valentin and
Morozov to support him, maybe even Golubeva as well, and a
four-to-one vote would help prove unity of purpose, something
essential if the coup were to have any chance of
success.

Once Markova was duly briefed, the secure phone line was
successfully used a dozen more times, Grebeshkov calling in a
variety of favours and using his perceived authority to persuade
and cajole. It was time for Grebeshkov to take the initiative,
rather than simply reacting to the demands of others. If
Russia
was
to
have a coup d’état, then it should at least be one he truly
believed in.

Anderson
wandered his way blindly to the bathroom, turning on the bathroom
light then squeezing through the half-open door so as to not waken
Charlotte. It was a toss-up between ibuprofen for his ribs and
aspirin for his eyes, or maybe even both. The bruises were still
fairly spectacular but starting to fade, and he opted just for the
aspirin. The vision problems had resurfaced the previous day,
although a little different to before, his eyes seeming to have a
life of their own and wanting to look anywhere but straight ahead.
Anderson assumed it was stress-related, maybe even some weird
migraine, and aspirin seemed to be the sensible choice, thinning
the blood prior to the next stage of a stroke or heart attack.

Strangely
Anderson didn’t feel particularly stressed, and under different
circumstances it would have been a fairly relaxing break. Captain
Koval had been true to his word and their regular visits to the
bridge helped split up the day; then there was the TV and a large
library of DVDs. Charlotte had asked on the Friday for something to
read and to her surprise an ageing Kindle had duly arrived – no
network connection but with over five hundred books already stored
on it. Twenty minutes later, half-a-dozen board games had been
thrust into Anderson’s arms. Charlotte’s competitive streak had
immediately surfaced, the Kindle thrown aside as she challenged
Anderson first to Scrabble, then Monopoly. Anderson had been in his
element, ignoring the quiet voice urging him to tread carefully,
and despite the random influence of letters and dice, he had
convincingly won both games. To her credit, Charlotte had taken
defeat gracefully, only glaring at Anderson in angry silence for
rather less than the anticipated half-hour.

Despite such
distractions, every waking moment was invariably clouded by the
fear of what lay ahead, and Anderson’s relationship with Charlotte
wasn’t quite as it had been. Intimacy was more gentle than
passionate, and there seemed to be a barrier between them, made up
of unspoken feelings of guilt mixed in with a good helping of
regret. Even though it was far was too late for such thoughts,
Anderson simply couldn’t ignore his own arrogance in assuming the
danger was imagined or exaggerated, and he was determined to do
what he could to make amends. Unfortunately, there seemed little
chance of that: Koval was deaf to inducements, and whenever they
left their cabin, an armed and uncommunicative escort kept a
vigilant eye on their every move. Their escort was always the same
man, Charlotte nicknaming him Lurch, even though the comparison to
the Munster’s butler was minimal – five foot six and of broad
build, his gloomy demeanour was always a depressing start to each
new day.

Koval had refused to talk about what would happen to them
once they reached Poland, but however Anderson viewed the various
possibilities, none seemed particularly healthy. Charlotte and he
knew too much, and their Baltic cruise was merely delaying the
inevitable. Anderson was prepared to do whatever it took to regain
their freedom, he was just hoping for the right opportunity,
something that would give them at least a fifty-fifty chance.
Charlotte worked out some new escape plan every few hours, before
then explaining to Anderson in great detail why they were all far
too risky. If she had hoped he would dismiss her concerns, or
suggest brilliant improvements, then she had been sadly mistaken,
Anderson well aware that the
Princess
Eloise
was proving to be a particularly
effective prison.

Anderson
stepped back into the main cabin, feeling his way in the dark to
his bed, the green LED of the smoke detector his only guide. His
watch showed it was just after four, and it would be another four
hours or so before their standard wake-up call of a double rap on
the cabin door, Lurch typically returning within the half-hour with
two well-stocked breakfast trays.

Anderson lay on the bed, brain too busy with a torrent of
thoughts to allow him to sleep. The opportunity to escape was
always likely to be elusive, but the promise of a solid surface
under their feet seemed to offer far more chance of success than
the cold watery expanse of the Baltic. Despite the unknowns,
Anderson was convinced it was better to wait until they had
embarked from the
Eloise
– wherever that might actually be.