The Will Of The People (Conspiracy Trilogy Book 1) (36 page)

The TV news was a depressing reminder of
August 14
, Gdansk now an unlikely
destination. The attack on the USS
John
Finn
had attracted worldwide condemnation
and Russia’s new Government could have simply chosen to admit
nothing, but instead they had mounted a robust defence of their
actions, blaming the West for ignoring the well-defined exclusion
zone and foolishly risking the lives of their own personnel. In
response, NATO had argued and denounced, its Secretary General
warning Russia for what seemed the hundredth time. No other vessels
had attempted to run the blockade, with most merchant ships
choosing to divert to ports in or near Germany. The theory
that
August 14
was American by birth also appeared to be gathering public
acceptance, the CIA perhaps once again overstepping the boundary
between inspiration and misjudgement. The official line from the
White House was to ridicule such rumours, but it wouldn’t be the
first time a U.S. President had lied to the World – and not even
the American people trusted the CIA.

Anderson’s
musings were distracted by a sudden change in the background noise,
something unusual adding to the constant deep throb from the engine
– first a series of heavy thuds, followed soon after by the clatter
of footsteps reverberating along the deck. He listened intently,
and within seconds there were several dull pops. He tried to
interpret them as something other than gunshots, but failed.
Playing safe, Anderson turned and flicked on the bedside light,
shaking Charlotte awake.

“Something’s
happening,” he said urgently. “Best get dressed, just in case.”

Charlotte
looked as though she wanted to argue, then she gave a nod of
confirmation, flinging the duvet aside. Anderson grabbed some
clothes and forced himself into them. From outside the cabin there
were raised voices, the actual words indistinct, then a loud crash
as something heavy smashed down on the cabin lock. A brief moment
later the door was thrown open.

A black-suited
figure stepped warily across the threshold, night-vision goggles
sat awkwardly atop his head, submachine gun moving quickly from
Anderson across to Charlotte, then back again.

Anderson stood
with arms half raised, unsure as to whether they were about to be
rescued or murdered. The gunman spoke rapidly in Russian, then
awaited a response, his gun still aimed at Anderson’s midriff.

Eventually it
was Anderson who offered the standard if rather feeble reply.
“British, we’re British...”

* * *

Charlotte sat huddled in a corner of the helicopter’s cabin
and stared out across the blue-black surface of the Baltic Sea,
trying to relax and not show any of the others how frightened she
felt. Anderson sat beside her, eyes closed, but certainly not
asleep, the deafening roar from the rotor blades ensuring that was
impossible. Captain Koval was the third passenger from the
Princess Eloise
, the
remainder of the crew remaining aboard with their captors, their
fate unknown.

Frightened she might be, but it was nothing when compared to
the mind-numbing terror of being winched skywards from the heaving
semi-dark and rain-spattered deck of the
Eloise
. Exactly where the helicopter
had come from and where it was now going, she had no idea; the
position of the early-morning sun suggested they were heading east,
hardly surprising considering they were in a Russian helicopter.
Three of their black-suited rescuers sat opposite, along with one
member of the flight crew, Charlotte feeling distinctly
uncomfortable under their gaze.

Koval and Anderson had been handcuffed together, but
Charlotte had been left with both hands free. Quite how the Russian
authorities would regard the two of them, without even a passport
to prove who they were, was unclear – terrorists or spies at worst,
idiotic tourists at best. Charlotte had been taken aside and
quizzed with a few standard questions, such as name and why she was
aboard the
Princess
Eloise
, but she sensed her inquisitor
wasn’t that interested in her actual answers, merely going through
the motions while awaiting their next mode of transport.

It was now
almost two hours since their enforced flight had begun, and
Charlotte was regretting her earlier refusal of a chocolate bar,
her fear that she might start throwing up proving unfounded. She
had even managed a few sips of water without feeling queasy. It
perhaps wasn’t all that wise to keep looking out of the side window
but it was far better that than catching the eye of one of the
Russians. If they responded with a smile, should she smile back or
glare at them? Her education seemed to have missed out on how to
deal with a nation’s Special Forces, especially when you weren’t
sure whether they were friend or foe.

Far below and
away to her right, was the first in a line of warships, each vessel
a slim grey finger against the darker shadow of the sea. Russian,
American or even British, there was no obvious clue, the ships too
far away to see any flag. Charlotte assumed they were Russian, part
of the naval force mustered for the blockade of Gdansk. She counted
five vessels, each spaced out from the other by a mile or more,
plying their way in an endless patrol of the gulf.

For some odd
reason, Charlotte’s thoughts moved on to her mother, wondering how
her holiday was faring. Jessica should be back home on Wednesday
and Charlotte was slightly more optimistic that she too might
eventually make it back to England, hopefully still in one
piece.

Charlotte’s
musings were distracted by Anderson shifting position, his eyes
still firmly shut, brow furrowed as though in pain. Charlotte
glanced again at the warships below. Far beyond the nearest vessel
and further to her right, Charlotte suddenly noticed a curious
bright light crossing the waves, a silver arrow heading at speed
directly towards the warship. For a brief moment she thought it
might be a reflection from the cabin window, then she saw a second
light chasing after the first, two fiery streaks standing out
against the opaque surface of the Baltic.

Charlotte’s
brain tried to ignore the thought processes that told her they were
actually missiles, a fact immediately confirmed as an alarm
screeched out from the helicopter cockpit, the pilot shouting out
his own warning. A heartbeat later the warship herself reacted, a
pair of missiles launching to meet the threat. The helicopter
banked suddenly and Charlotte had to grab for support; as they
levelled out, her gaze was drawn back towards the warship, watching
fascinated as a hail of gunfire burst from the vessel. An instant
later there was a massive explosion, then a second, the ship
shrouded in smoke and flame.

Charlotte held
her breath, assuming that the attack was in response to the deaths
aboard the American destroyer, but still wanting the Russian ship
to survive. The vessel slid into view, seemingly undamaged,
sweeping round to port to head east. Charlotte did a quick
double-take, realising that the missiles had come from the west,
inside the exclusion zone, rather than from one of the NATO
warships cruising impotently to the north.

With the
Russian vessel escaping apparently unscathed, there was a raucous
cheer from the Russian sitting opposite Charlotte, his compatriots
immediately joining in his celebration.

Anderson
grabbed Charlotte’s arm. “What’s happening?” he asked loudly,
looking disoriented.

“World War
Three,” Charlotte shouted unhelpfully. “And we’re right in the
middle of it.”

Rebane sat in McDowell’s small office, blinds drawn, the
mellow tones of piano and saxophone on the CD helping to relax him
as he reviewed
August 14’s
concluding moves. The initiative was now firmly
with the secessionist cause and Rebane’s team were focusing a good
part of their attention on misinformation so as delay the
authorities’ response. Civil discontent was still spreading,
gaining its own momentum as early successes revealed how brittle
the Russian Federation actually was.

The coup d’état had been an inevitable consequence of
Rebane’s strategy, but it too should soon succumb to the constant
pressure for change, with the military unable to contain the
breadth and diversity of nationalist fervour. Rebane just needed to
ensure that there was no let-up in the demands made upon the coup’s
leaders, and when their own survival was at risk then Moscow too
would crumble. Rebane had always hammered home the need for
August 14
to be
versatile, able to adjust its strategy to cope with each new set of
circumstances. He still couldn’t quite believe how well everything
had gone, Erdenheim’s ability to shape events surpassing virtually
everyone’s expectations.

Many so-called
experts derided the computer as no more than a data-analysis
device, failing to believe it had even a minor role in a nation’s
armoury. To them, power resided in a more physical manifestation,
such as a missile, a jet fighter or a warship. Yet Rebane and
Carter had melded the tools of instant communication and
cyber-terrorism to create a weapon able to torment and disrupt,
dozens of diverse targets attacked simultaneously, often without
anyone being aware until well after the event. And through social
media the public itself could be manipulated – almost programmed –
into becoming an unwitting fifth column.

Eglitis might have begun
August
14
’s campaign with an act of old-fashioned
terror, but their prime weapon was the more imaginative one
conceived by people like Rebane. Erdenheim had cost little more
than a single cruise missile, its software the same, but together
they packed a much more effective punch, far greater than a hundred
such weapons.

Exaggeration born of arrogance?
Perhaps it was; but the evidence was all too clear, examples
of Erdenheim’s achievements stretching from Kaliningrad to
Vladivostok. Total success in Russia was agonisingly close and with
it complete justification as to Rebane’s confidence and belief. The
new Government would no doubt try to fight on, but once enough of
the nationalist groups had gained control, then Moscow’s authority
would be lost forever.

A ‘Statement
of Intent’ had been released by the National Committee for
Democratic Unity, perhaps in the hope of encouraging a patriotic
upsurge of support. One particular sentence seemed to exemplify how
out of touch the Committee was, its hopes for the future ignoring
the reality of today’s Russia: ‘With courage and steadfastness, we
will create a nation once again vying for the title of superpower,
a nation united together in a desire for peace through strength,
with no place for the criminals and terrorists promising a futile
independence’.

Brave words,
but that’s all they were, and Rebane was confident the Committee
lacked the military might – and the military unity – to fix
Russia’s decline. Russia’s army was undermanned, with morale
remaining low due to poor conditions and lack of investment. Why
risk your life fighting for an un-elected committee based a
thousand miles from your home, especially when your first language
was something other than Russian and the enemy were your own
compatriots?

NATO could
still prove to be a unifying element, a second common enemy that
might yet alter the outcome. Nevertheless, Rebane felt in control,
Erdenheim always ready to react to any new difficulty or
complication. There were still a few loose ends to tidy up, and in
a day or so, Anderson and Charlotte Saunders would be involved in a
tragic accident, most likely a car crash. There would doubtless be
some reaction – even accusations – from Jessica Saunders, but
Rebane wasn’t overly concerned. He could even afford to think ahead
to a holiday and the next challenge, a book perhaps.

As to what came next for Erdenheim was unclear, and
apparently some future arrangement for the Management Centre had
been agreed between McDowell and Erdenheim’s investors. Both
McDowell and Rebane were set for a hefty bonus, everyone delighted
with how much had been achieved with such a relatively frugal
outlay. Thirty million dollars had been his original estimate, and
he hadn’t been that far out; the number of personnel had also been
minimal – slightly more than a hundred and fifty actively involved
with
August 14
,
their training, and of course Erdenheim.

Although the
investors had insisted on maintaining their anonymity, Rebane had
had regular face-to-face discussions with their intermediary,
Klaudia Woroniecki. Every few months they would meet – usually at a
neutral venue near to her home city of Warsaw – to review progress
and assess future needs, both financial and human. Her one visit to
Erdenheim had apparently been on impulse, a wish to show off the
Management Centre to an influential ally. Quite why McDowell had
felt the need to treat his special guests to the dubious charms of
a traditional Lincolnshire pub had never been answered; Rebane
suspected it was probably at Klaudia’s instigation, knowing at
first-hand how impulsive she could be.

Rebane and Woroniecki’s shared profession had brought the two
of them into regular contact for some twenty years, and Klaudia was
well qualified to play the dual role of confidante and go-between.
Friends, yes; lovers, once, many years ago; now co-conspirators
–
August 14
had
managed to add a new and challenging dimension to their long-term
relationship.