The Rule Of The People (Conspiracy Trilogy Book 3)

by Christopher Read

  The woman lapsed into silence, letting what she had said sink in. Chavkin was utterly defenceless, his family threatened, yet he had no idea why. He could be a selfish and stubborn man but few could doubt he doted on his family, his wife his first and only love; sixteen year-old Mark might be difficult, even on occasion defiant, but Chavkin was proud to be his father, proud of what one day he would become. Chavkin would do all that he could to protect them both and he fought to clear the confusion from his brain, not wanting to make a stupid mistake.

  Abruptly the tape over his mouth was wrenched free. Chavkin let out a gasp but made no other sound, not prepared to give the woman the satisfaction of hearing him give vent to the expected outrage and indignation.

  “I’m impressed,” said his captor. “No words of anger, no demand to be released – your family should be proud of you. You have a lovely house, Daniil Aleksandrovich, and a generous plot of land, so please shout and scream if it helps, we both know no-one will hear you.”

  “I want to see my wife and son,” said Chavkin, the words coming out almost as a croak. “I need to know they’re okay.”

  “Not yet; as I said, answer my questions truthfully and no harm will come to you or your family. It’s nothing that difficult and we already know most of what happened at Zvezda, so there is no point in lying; do so and it will go hard for your son and your wife – my associate tends to be over-zealous in such matters.”

  Chavkin was coming to terms with what the woman might want while struggling to work out whether she was FSB or some foreign agency. She spoke with a self-assurance that was difficult to ignore and although tainted by a good few years in Moscow, her accent was from somewhere not too far away. Chavkin still didn’t want to believe his life and those of his family were truly on the line but nor was he willing to take some foolish risk; whatever he ended up saying, there was no guarantee any of them would be left alive to tell the tale. He seemed to be alone in the study with the woman, no proof given that his family were also being held captive or even whether they were still in the house.

  “Let me see my wife and son,” he repeated, more forcefully this time. “Otherwise you get nothing.”

  There was a long pause, Chavkin hearing the study door open, the woman talking quietly to someone else. “Very well,” she said finally, moving to stand behind Chavkin. “See, but that’s all I can offer; don’t try to speak.”

  Chavkin felt a hand on his forehead and suddenly his eyes were uncovered. The study was in semi-darkness, Chavkin facing the open doorway and able to see into the lounge area beyond, the room lights dimmed and casting a dull glow over the two figures taped to a pair of chairs. Both were blindfolded, black tape covering their mouths and they sat with heads bowed, breathing heavily. Chavkin could see no-one else in the room but sensed someone just out of view.

  Strong hands forced Chavkin’s head rigid. “Eyes straight ahead, Daniil Aleksandrovich.”

  He didn’t fight and was just relieved to know his family were alright. His wife lifted her head, reacting to the woman’s words. She tried to speak, her obvious distress affecting Chavkin more than he expected, tears starting to well up.

  Chavkin’s blindfold was replaced, the study door slamming shut an instant later. “They’re safe for now,” reiterated his captor. “All I ask in return is the truth, Daniil Aleksandrovich.”

  “Get on with it then,” spat out Chavkin, his fear slowly being replaced by a mix of anger and bitterness: he had no wish to help his captor but he could see no way of it ending happily unless he did.

  “Let’s start with something very simple,” said the woman pleasantly. “How long have you been Senior Project Director at Zvezda?”

  “Four years,” Chavkin muttered.

  “And that makes you responsible for overseeing all of the major repairs and refits that the shipyard takes on?”

  Chavkin was now certain where all this was leading and despite the chilly atmosphere of the study, the sweat started to drip down his face. “Not every single one; it depends on the type of work involved.”

  “You’re too modest and I know you worked on the recent refit of a submarine. I simply wish to confirm the identity of those who authorised it and precisely what was involved.” The tone was deliberately encouraging, with no hint as to the implicit dangers of such a question.

  “You’re FSB,” Chavkin said, making it a statement of fact. “This is a mistake; check with Moscow, I have always done everything asked of me.”

  It was several seconds before the woman responded, Chavkin sensing her face close to his. “Of course you have, Daniil Aleksandrovich,” she said softly. “We both know it wasn’t a Chinese boat that attacked the Americans but a 633 rebuilt at Zvezda; now Moscow needs someone to blame.”

  Chavkin had his response ready, letting the woman’s words hang for a few brief seconds as though confused by them. “There was no such refit; that class were all decommissioned years ago.”

  “You’re sure of that,” said the woman softly, a dangerous edge to her voice.

  “The only submarine at Zvezda is a damaged Varshavyanka,” Chavkin replied, sounding breathless. “There was a refit to a Paltus-class over the summer but that was completed late October.”

  There was a long pause before the woman spoke. “You disappoint me, Daniil Aleksandrovich. I thought we understood each other; now one of your family will have to suffer the consequences. Your son, I think; I imagine he’ll still be able to walk once they replace the knee. Would you care to watch?”

  Chavkin felt a chill shiver of despair run down his spine, mind numbed by his captor’s words. “It’s the truth! The refit was to a Paltus-877 not a decrepit 633; I have no reason to lie!”

  He felt the draught as the study door was opened once more, the woman again talking to someone, her words indistinct. The blindfold was pulled from his eyes and Chavkin blinked away the tears to see his son sitting upright, struggling against his bonds; beside him knelt a dark-suited figure, handgun hovering above his son’s right knee.

  “I’ll ask again,” said the woman, standing behind him. “I just need you to confirm the hull number. Lie and your son will suffer; then we’ll move on to your wife.”

  Chavkin wanted to protest and argue, to show at least some fight, but not at the expense of his family and he simply couldn’t take the risk that the woman would carry out her threat.

  “Yes, alright, it was a 633!” The panic sounded clearly in his voice, Chavkin regretting his futile attempt at defiance. “Please don’t hurt my family,” he pleaded. “I’ll give you whatever you want.”

  “Hull number?” insisted the woman.

  “C-102.” Chavkin was transfixed by the gun, thankful to hear the woman telling her associate to wait. The blindfold was pulled back down over his eyes, Chavkin trying to shake it aside, desperate to see that his son was safe.

  “No more lies, Daniil Aleksandrovich; next time, I won’t be so forgiving.”

  No secret was worth the mutilation of his son and with the woman prompting him for specific facts, the truth came tumbling out. The decommissioned 633 had spent a full six months being turned into an acoustic replica of a Chinese Ming-class, one of the massive warehouses converted to ensure the American and Chinese satellites had learnt nothing of Zvezda’s covert role. A decoy submarine had been used to explain the additional work, with everyone subject to intense security checks and random searches, even the senior staff.

  Chavkin was quickly growing exhausted, terrified that whatever he said it still wouldn’t be enough to save them. Once the barrier to his resolve had been removed, there seemed little point in holding back. Names, contacts, dates: Chavkin freely revealed all of what he knew but he had no way of sensing how his revelations were being received – no visual clues to help him judge whether his family would be safe.

  “And your only direct contact with Moscow was through Evgeny Sukhov?” His captor seemed determined to drag out every useful fact, uncaring as to Chavkin’s state of mind
.

  “He wanted regular updates, that was all,” Chavkin confirmed, his voice hoarse.

  “Tell me about the crew of the submarine. Were they all regular navy personnel?”

  “I guess so; the crew were kept isolated and, apart from during the shake-down cruise in September, personal contact with anyone from Zvezda was rare. I saw a few of the crew from a distance but that was it.”

  The woman stayed silent, seemingly mulling over everything Chavkin had said. He had lost all track of time, guessing that it was around three in the morning and he was desperate for a piss. His captor had told him to go where he was but Chavkin was determined to hang on for as long as he could, his present predicament already bad enough without him wetting himself.

  “You’ve done well, Daniil Aleksandrovich. It’s unfortunate you lied at the beginning; I fear my associate will expect some form of recompense.”

  “I’ve answered your every question,” said Chavkin desperately. “With nothing held back – what more do you want?”

  “Something… anything… just one final secret to put against the safety of your family; surely that’s not too much to expect?”

  Chavkin let out a sob of despair, “I’ve told you everything I know! All you offer in return is more threats; I can’t even go for a piss.” He knew he was close to collapse, unable even to think straight.

  “Give me what I ask and I promise you and your family will not be harmed. I can’t release you but it won’t take you more than an hour to break free. Think hard, Daniil Aleksandrovich and this can all be over.”

  Chavkin stayed silent, not sure what to believe, daring to hope yet knowing he still had to give the woman something. The strained silence stretched out, office gossip his only recourse.

  “None of us knew the purpose of the refit,” he said softly. “The Navy made sure all the relevant paper records and files were destroyed; a couple of men were caught with a phone and we never saw them again but no-one said anything – the double pay and bonuses were a good enough reason to stay silent.”

  Chavkin was skirting around what he wanted to say but for once the woman seemed to understand the need for patience. He still couldn’t be certain that it would be enough to save his family or even if it would merely seal their fate.

  “Once the refit was complete,” Chavkin continued, “the rumours started. The boat even a new name, Koschei; its captain reputed to be Valeri Karenin.”

  It might be just hearsay but Karenin’s reputation somehow fitted in with the nature of the refit. He had gained a certain notoriety for his actions in the Baltic the previous year and had been publicly censured, the resultant inquiry held behind closed doors. Whether simply inept or a convenient scapegoat, Karenin had been fortunate not to have been court-martialled, demotion and a desk job his eventual punishment.

  Chavkin sensed the woman wasn’t sure whether to believe him, perhaps thinking Valeri Karenin was nothing more than a well-known name to make it sound vaguely credible. But it was all he had left to offer, a possible truth better than merely staying silent.

  “You have done well, Daniil Aleksandrovich.” For once the woman sounded pleased, Chavkin daring to hope that he had done enough.

  “Some may not understand that you had no choice,” she continued. “And a few bruises and a sore head could well be the least of your worries. For the sake of your family, you might be better to forget what has happened here...”

  USS Benfold – 14:40 Local Time; 06:40 UTC

  The Galene was hunting down yet another sonar anomaly, Tanner temporarily abandoning the standard search pattern simply because the trace looked more promising than anything he’d seen so far. For the moment he focused on one specific camera image, the light from the ROV probing along the dark recesses of the sea bed, the depth counter hovering at around 3200 metres. It was inevitably a slow and painstaking task but not especially boring, the search always hinting at the promise of success before bringing Tanner back to reality when it turned out to be something typically mundane.

  Tanner sensed that the Galene was already on borrowed time, the crew of the USS Benfold called to General Quarters just after dawn before settling back to a heightened alert. Commander Vaughn was still left with the problem of two mutually incompatible choices, that of protecting his ship and completing his mission. Once the Galene was deployed, she severely restricted the destroyer’s defensive capabilities, Vaughn given the leeway to abandon the ROV should it be necessary. The fact that China’s research ship, Ocean Two, was keeping station not far from the Benfold was regarded by Washington as a dubious incentive to continue the Galene’s search, the U.S. still working out its options, the identity of the submarine now almost becoming an irrelevance.

  The image on the screen in front of Tanner flickered and a rounded shape slowly emerged out of the gloom. Tanner instantly increased the magnification, something about the image just looking artificial. As the ROV crept closer, the other sensors confirmed his suspicion – definitely metallic, the anomaly gradually becoming more defined.

  Within seconds, Tanner was able to pick out the specifics of the forward torpedo tubes and a straight-edged bow, the Ming-class lacking the teardrop design of modern submarines. Necessity had ensured that Tanner now had a clearer idea as to the complex nature of his task and the possibility that the submarine might be a Russian-built clone had added a significant element of spice to the task in hand.

  Although Tanner was concentrating hard, he sensed a disturbance around him, the flurry of orders more demanding than usual. Abruptly, there was a hand on his shoulder, Commander Vaughn standing close, staring down at the screen.

  “Well done, Mr Tanner,” Vaughn said quietly. “Sadly, I fear we’re a little late.”

  “A couple of hours,” replied Tanner, “and I might have some answers. If the boat’s Russian, we could well find something conclusive fairly quickly.”

  “It’s too risky, I’m afraid. Two more Chinese ships look to be heading our way and we’re too vulnerable with the Galene deployed. If we don’t abort the dive, they’ll know we’ve found something.” Vaughn shrugged, “Maybe they’ll check us out and then go find someone else to harass; in which case, Mr Tanner, you can have your couple of hours… How quickly can you get the Galene aboard?”

  Tanner kept his disappointment to himself, knowing it was pointless arguing. “Ninety minutes; an hour at a push.”

  “As quickly as you can, Mr Tanner.”

  Tanner nodded and with a final glance at the submarine turned the Galene towards the USS Benfold. Coop arrived soon after, control of the ROV transferred to the main unit on the flight deck. The first stage was to pilot the Galene back into its garage: known more formally as the Tether Management System or TMS, the Galene used it as a temporary haven and a protective shell during the launch and recovery phases. The TMS was in turn connected to the winch by six hundred metres of cable and, depending upon the sea state, the retrieval operation tended to be a delicate and occasionally nerve-wracking experience, with damage to the TMS, the winch or even the Benfold always a possibility.

  For now the sea was a flat calm, the air humid and oppressive, a storm forecast for early evening. Tanner could see Ocean Two no more than half-a-mile away, waiting patiently whilst her underwater vehicle carried out its own search. So far, they hadn’t actually trodden on each other’s toes but the Chinese ROV could operate for longer and cover more of the sea bed per hour than the Galene, and Tanner guessed it wouldn’t take more than a few days before the Chinese also found the wreck. If the submarine was Russian then the arrival of more Chinese warships was counter-productive, preventing the U.S. from obtaining the necessary evidence to prove the boat’s origins. Or maybe that was the plan, with China needing to cover-up its own lies.

  The Galene was safely hoisted aboard just outside of Tanner’s sixty minute estimate, the new arrivals – one frigate, one destroyer – taking station between Ocean Two and the Benfold, the South China Sea seeming rather more claustropho
bic than it had been an hour earlier.

  Tanner headed back to the CIC, wanting to re-examine the latest set of data, hoping that there might still be something useful to be found, one of the Galene’s five cameras perhaps picking out something unexpected. In practice that meant almost an hour’s worth of recordings, Tanner scrolling through the sequence of images slowly and meticulously, zooming in on certain areas to compare the results with the U.S. Navy’s database on China’s Ming-class. Everything the Galene recorded – whether thought relevant or not – was automatically passed on to Washington and the Office of Naval Intelligence, the ONI’s experts carrying out their own more detailed analysis. So far the ONI had left Tanner to his own devices but with the discovery of the submarine that would undoubtedly change, specific sectors of the boat likely to be of particular interest.

  Without warning Tanner’s ears were blasted with the pulsing beat of the alarm; even as the loudspeaker called the crew to Battle Stations, the throb of the engines magnified, the Benfold surging ahead in response to some threat.

  Tanner glanced around, not sure whether his presence in the Combat Information Centre was a problem or not, unsure what to do. In the end it seemed best to sit tight and do nothing.

  The Captain’s concern was focused on a pair of approaching J-15 fighters rather than the two Chinese warships, Commander Vaughn having to assume an attack was imminent. China and the U.S. had agreed to suspend air patrols near to areas of potential conflict, and Tanner was starting to worry as to why the Benfold’s lonely vigil was considered the exception, the destroyer now seriously outnumbered.

  Tanner could more or less work out what was happening from the orders given, Vaughn and the Tactical Action Officer prepared for the worst but waiting for the Chinese to make the first aggressive move. Four Hornets from the carrier Gerald Ford would arrive to join the party within minutes, Tanner not the only one unsure what then might happen.

  Even inside the well-insulated capsule of the CIC, Tanner heard the fly-by of the Chinese fighters, the two aircraft choosing to sweep in close overhead and trusting the Benfold not to blow them out of the sky.