Jensen knew he sounded pompous but the message was far more important than its delivery. The evidence to back up his theory could be read in any paper and seen on any news channel; it was just surprising the media hadn’t already recognised the signs – or maybe they couldn’t believe it either.
Thorn was the first to respond. “A coup,” he said, carefully choosing his words, “doesn’t just happen because a certain set of conditions have been satisfied. It needs people with power – military or political – to have the ambition to risk everything. Golubeva and her clique got lucky a year ago, but the United States is hardly Russia; we have a strong democratic tradition and an inbred hatred for dictators.”
“The risks are obviously significant,” Jensen responded, “but then so are the rewards. America thrives on ambition and it would be unwise for us to sit back and do nothing.”
Cavanagh held up his hand to stop Thorn from some angry retort, He didn’t want to get bogged down in philosophical arguments, far more concerned by the reality of what Jensen was suggesting. “Military or political, Paul? And is this just conjecture, or do you have something more substantial to back it up? A few names would at least give us an idea of what we’re up against and how seriously to take it.”
Jensen shook his head, “There’s no definitive evidence to support my premise, other than this perfect storm of events. And I’m afraid I can’t even give you a single name, far less a choice.” He was beginning to feel uncomfortable: he couldn’t guarantee that a potential coup leader wasn’t sitting across the table from him, and he was also questioning the loyalty of the hundreds of thousands of men and women in America’s military, almost a slap in the face to Admiral Adams.
President Cavanagh recognised Jensen’s concerns, even though he wasn’t convinced by them. Their discussions continued, Jensen working hard to persuade the inner cabinet that his fears had merit and shouldn’t simply be ignored. The obvious next step would be for Jensen to widen his investigation to include senior Members of Congress and America’s military – a move Cavanagh refused point-blank to sanction. The President had no wish to be judged by his peers as a paranoid tyrant who trusted no-one but himself, and he still believed that McDowell was merely a diversion, Russia’s real plans yet to be revealed.
Cavanagh was minded to do nothing and wait to see if Jensen could bring him something more persuasive. Once the Midterm elections were over he could always act more robustly, but until then he had no wish to polygraph every potential opponent, whether real or imaginary.
* * *
Kristen Ulrich read through her report for the third time, changing the odd word, still concerned that it wasn’t perfect. At just under two thousand words, she felt it was detailed enough without being too unwieldy, and she had been careful to reference everything where possible. To get it right was important to Kristen, as with everything she did – only this time, there was far more than professional pride at stake.
America’s voting system had long been in crisis, the methods used differing from one state – even one community – to another. States had toyed with various alternatives, security and cost invariably restricting their choices, with some abandoned after just a year. Touchscreen, Optical Scanning or the standby of Hand Counted – there was no common consensus as to which was best, with numerous reports criticising the security of all three techniques. Every election there were problems with miscounted votes, the machines no better than the human option, some even swapping votes from Democrat to Republican and vice-versa, the all-encompassing ‘calibration error’ being the usual excuse. With signs advising voters to check the security seals in case they’d been tampered with, it was hardly surprising that people regularly disputed the accuracy of votes cast; even faith in America’s two-party system was close to an all-time low, it seen as a restrictive and unfair form of true democracy.
Many of the electronic voting machines were now twenty years old, spare parts difficult to get, money too short to make the change to newer technology. When President Cavanagh had turned up to vote in Boston, two of the machines at his polling station had already been taken out of service, and without the option of early voting, the system would have collapsed a decade ago.
Los Angeles County was a good case in point: their decrepit ink-based system for its five million voters used technology from the 1960’s and had been due to be replaced by a touchscreen alternative years ago, but with tens of millions spent, the new system was still only available in two-thirds of LA’s 5000 precincts, its reliability already in dispute. Despite the many security concerns, the county had also moved towards more online voting – a decision that was now under review following a recent study which indicated that at least 15% of such votes were fraudulent.
The first part of Kristen’s report was basic background information, the second section likely to be far more controversial. Containing a detailed analysis of reports from hundreds of election officials, it revealed the catastrophic nature of the voting crisis. Antiquated machines, inaccurate counts, bogus and illegal registrations, genuine voters barred. Overall, the report revealed fraud on a massive scale, with the Democratic Party missing out on thousands of votes in certain counties. Kristen was even able to show that almost a fifth of Congress’ Republicans would have most likely lost to their Democratic opponent.
Some of it was actually true; most of it was a clever fiction, although having a significant basis in fact. Every reference cited was genuine, every example easily verified. However, it would take time for the lies and exaggerations to emerge, the data and reports skilfully manipulated to illustrate McDowell’s very specific version of the truth.
Finally satisfied, Kristen cast a casual glance down the list of recipients: media, politicians, civil rights groups – even the Organization for Security and Cooperation in Europe, its monitoring of America’s elections invariably provoking controversy and resentment in at least one U.S. state.
Similar reports had generally been ignored or belittled in the past. This time Kristen was confident that such an inadequate response simply wouldn’t happen – not when the report’s author was K. Ulrich, Assistant Attorney General for Civil Rights, and your office in the United States Department of Justice was just a few hundred yards from the White House.
Chapter 14 – Thursday, November 3rd
South China Sea –11:17 Local Time; 03:17 UTC
Louisa Marcelo’s strategy was based in part on the early success of Saturday and the armada was stretched out over some two hundred metres, the long line of vessels trying to keep station as they cruised slowly towards the target of Mischief Reef. The flagship was still the power catamaran, its owner more concerned by public contempt if he pulled out of the protest than fear of further damage.
Unlike Saturday, one line had become several, with the larger craft to the front. The total number of vessels had also crept up over the one-twenty mark, a handful having voyaged directly to the reef. An emergency medical unit had even been set up on a ship chartered through the online fund, two doctors and seven nurses freely giving of their expertise and time. The weather was still good, although a breeze gusted from the north, the forecast promising rain showers before evening.
Arrayed against them were just eight Chinese ships: three Coastguard patrol boats backed up by four RHIBs, and in addition something rather more potent. The Chinese frigate dwarfed its companions, the pennant number 563 emblazoned boldly across its bow. Rumour had it that the officer responsible for Mischief Reef’s earlier defence had been replaced, with Beijing apparently ‘disappointed’ as to how the whole matter had been handled. Somehow, the addition of a modern warship to the mix hardly seemed to suggest the new man in charge would be any less confrontational.
Allan Valdez stood at the bow of a thirty metre dive vessel, watching carefully for an indication of China’s tactics. His cousin Joseph waited in the wheelhouse, their two Vietnamese associates aboard a small multi-purpose ship. Both vessels were in the front of the allied li
ne but on opposite sides of Marcelo, each roughly ten boats away. The two boats had been chartered the previous day and the crews knew nothing of their passengers’ history, the promise of a healthy bonus sufficient to stop them from asking impertinent questions.
Hovering above the armada were at least three drones, Valdez unsure whether they were for TV or military use, allied or Chinese. Definitely Chinese were the two helicopters flying to the north-west, the Coastguard readying itself for Marcelo’s renewed assault.
As the two opposing lines moved closer, one of the helicopters headed towards the armada, flying low along the joint Philippine and Vietnamese lines as if assessing their strengths and weaknesses. Reaching the final ship, it traversed back along the front line, the expected verbal warnings sounding out from a loudspeaker.
Both sides knew it was a pointless gesture, the Chinese merely ensuring that they had followed the appropriate convention. The armada kept moving at a steady six knots, heading directly towards the reef some three kilometres distant.
The frigate was keeping station a little behind the other Chinese ships, the RHIBs to the front. Valdez couldn’t see how they could stop the armada without deadly force – water cannon and using the ships as battering rams might halt a few but dozens more would still break through.
The four RHIBs started to buzz around more authoritatively, angling towards the centre of the armada. The patrol boats also edged forward, the helicopters heading towards the outer edges.
Valdez waited impatiently for Marcelo to react; she left it a few more seconds and then with a wave of her arms signalled the armada’s response. Dozens of laser pens were instantly directed at each helicopter, more at the RHIBs. The effect on the helicopters was minimal, the RHIBs more dramatic. All four were distracted, two turning sharply away.
The helicopters moved down the front line trailing what looked like white smoke. Valdez instinctively realised what it was, desperately grabbing his bottle of water and splashing it onto his shirt, before clutching the wet cotton to his eyes and mouth, trying to protect himself.
The taste and smell of the tear-gas hit him first, then the burning sensation attacked his eyes. Valdez’s precautions saved him from the worst effects; what he couldn’t understand was why his ears were suddenly bombarded by a high-pitched screech, his head threatening to explode. He found himself kneeling on the deck, shirt clasped over his face, unable to move, wanting to scream yet barely able to breathe.
The front line of the allied armada was being attacked by tear gas and sound cannon. Several vessels were effectively no longer under command, crewmen unable to see, others reacting like Valdez and incapable of thinking let alone piloting a boat. Some ships turned to go back, others accelerated, their crews trying to escape the clinging gas cloud and the shrieking inside their heads.
With the ships so close together and the rest of the armada closing up, collisions were inevitable. A dozen or more clashed together, each in turn adding to the chaos, the discrete and well-organised lines now one single churning mass of confusion.
It was a close call, but the sheer size of the armada together with the increasing breeze made the difference between disaster and salvation. The two helicopters were proving more effective as delivery vehicles than the RHIBs and patrol boats, but they had very limited supplies of tear gas. The choking clouds would work on a small area for a couple of minutes but then rapidly disperse, drifting south and giving the armada time to recover and reorganise. The sound guns were similarly only effective for a limited time, crews quickly coming up with ways to protect themselves; in response, the operators quickly flipped from one craft to another, picking on exposed individuals in the hope that some of the ships would choose to turn back.
Valdez forced himself upright, wiping away the tears, his ears still ringing. The dive vessel had continued towards the reef, the captain’s natural instinct to reduce speed rather than to try and turn. The RHIBs appeared to have retreated, leaving it to the patrol boats and their sound cannons to pick off any boat that refused to withdraw.
But there were just too many for the Chinese to target. The armada had spread out, some boats retreating, others disabled; yet the overwhelming majority had made it through, closing up on the three Coastguard ships and the frigate.
Valdez almost hoped the water cannon would be next, wanting to wash the clinging tear gas from his body. He judged that less than twenty boats had turned tail or been put out of action, the rest attempting to keep station abreast and behind Marcelo’s catamaran.
Fifty metres from the three patrol boats the water cannon were finally brought into play, picking on any vessel within range and managing to force some aside. The middle boat focused its full attention on the catamaran, the smaller vessel shrouded in spray, water sloshing down from the bridge. To Valdez, it looked as though it was close to capsizing, a cluster of other boats around it, attempting to somehow protect Marcelo and her crew.
A helicopter swept in once more, revealing yet another non-lethal weapon in the Chinese armoury, a more powerful version of the armada’s laser pens. The dazzle gun’s role was to temporarily blind its victim, the operator picking out key individuals in order to create the most mayhem. A helicopter wasn’t the best platform but the green laser was still an effective weapon, just not ideal for a large number of potential targets.
The catamaran somehow made it past the three Coastguard ships as did the dive vessel, Valdez ordering the captain to move closer to Marcelo. The drones’ view showed the individual battles, the armada’s vessels swarming past the patrol boats like cavalry flowing around an infantry square.
Now there was just the frigate. The Coastguard ships were trying to turn back but for once they appeared wary of smashing through the surrounding allied craft.
There was a puff of smoke from a launcher on the frigate’s deck, Valdez hearing the loud whoosh a brief moment later. He waited, unsure quite what to expect, then there was deafening explosion over his head, Valdez buffeted by the aftershock.
More blasts, far more powerful than a firework. Valdez didn’t know if it was chaff or something specifically designed as an anti-piracy weapon but it was fairly dramatic. To anyone who had been under fire it was a feeble reminder of the real thing, but to the civilian crews of the armada it would be a lesson in what might well be next.
Valdez could actually see Louisa Marcelo standing on the catamaran’s bridge, the boat looking a badly battered version of its former self. The armada too was losing some of its gloss, with two dozen vessels at most now following Marcelo’s lead. At least one had a TV crew aboard, a single drone hovering overhead.
Mischief Reef was a little over a kilometre away, a dredger and several low buildings easily visible. It might still be a few years from completion as a fully functional military base, but the size of the occupying force increased year on year, China’s grip on the surrounding islands tightening.
The helicopters were now keeping well away, the Chinese RHIBs returning to try and drive off the persistent and the foolish. Two of them headed towards Marcelo, six marines in each boat. The tear gas option seemed to have been abandoned for the time being, Valdez assuming they were going to try and batter the catamaran aside.
Valdez glanced towards the dive boat’s wheelhouse, gesturing at his cousin. They had been silent observers for far too long – it was time to show that the allied armada did actually have some teeth. The boat’s captain knew what to do and the dive vessel manoeuvred closer to the catamaran, the Vietnamese matching them on the other side.
Joseph moved to stand beside Valdez, carefully placing a heavy sports-bag down on to the deck. Valdez reached inside to select two small objects, the bag containing anything that might just be useful, from smoke grenades to handguns; it was never his intention to turn it into a suicide mission, but nor was he willing to let the Chinese win every battle.
As one of the RHIBs reached the catamaran’s port side, a marine made a grab for the guard rail, managing to pull himsel
f aboard. A second marine joined him and the two men started to work their way round to the stern, neither looking to be armed with anything other than a handgun.
The dive vessel thudded into the RHIB. Valdez nodded to Joseph and his cousin pulled the pin from the grenade, before deftly lobbing it into the boat. The captain immediately threw the vessel into reverse, pre-warned that he would have but a few seconds.
Valdez and Joseph cowered down, fearing that their actions would be misinterpreted – after all, throwing a grenade into a boat half-full of marines wasn’t likely to win you many friends. Except it wasn’t a fragmentation grenade designed to kill and mutilate: this was a stingball, a non-lethal explosive device which ejected scores of small rubber balls. Sometimes referred to as a hornet’s nest, it was used for riot control in prisons and by U.S. SWAT units; Valdez’s hope was that the rubber balls would be traveling fast enough to puncture some of the RHIB’s six inflatable tubes.
The grenade went off with a loud crack, followed an instant later by cries of pain. Valdez raised his head, smoke momentarily obscuring his view. The stingball had done all he had asked of it: two of the four marines in the boat had been knocked overboard, the others still standing but obviously in shock; a good few of the hard rubber balls had ripped through the RHIB’s inflatable collar and it was already settling lower in the water.
Valdez gestured towards the dive boat’s wheelhouse wanting the captain to move back in. The disorientation and pain caused by the stingball was supposedly only temporary and the two marines on the catamaran had now reached the bridge. On the opposite side, the two Vietnamese attacked the second RHIB, but having seen – or heard – some of what had happened to their colleagues, the marines’ response was more forceful. Above the cacophony of multiple engines and outraged cries, came the sound of gunfire – three shots.
The Trust Of The People (Conspiracy Trilogy Book 2) Page 18
