The Rule Of The People (Conspiracy Trilogy Book 3)

by Christopher Read

  By the time Chad arrived the workshop was secure, the bodies of several Chinese marines a sad illustration of what continued to be a dogged – if pointless – resistance. The SEALs too had suffered losses, Metzger now acting troop commander; gunfire was sporadic, the majority of the defenders holed up in three buildings running along the edge of the lagoon.

  Chad clambered up onto to the workshop’s top tier. Metzger was already there, thoughtfully studying the barracks directly opposite, trying to work out how best to break the deadlock. Set between the two-storey barracks and a reinforced warehouse was the imposing square structure which would eventually become the new headquarters building. Covered with scaffolding, a fixed tower crane was waiting to raise it ever higher, the three buildings soon to be integrated into first phase of the blockhouse complex, each designed to withstand a direct missile attack. Taken together they were proving to be a capable defensive position and the safest method to nullify them was also likely to be most unacceptable, America not yet ready to order a massacre. The Marine Raiders were similarly bogged down and it would take something more to get the defenders to understand that their position was totally hopeless.

  China’s marines had certainly fought bravely but had struggled to mount an effective defence early on, their superiors anticipating an air or cruise-missile attack. The anti-frogmen defences and nets were not yet in place, and China’s mutually supportive defence strategy for its island territories was still several years from completion. It was barely a month since the defenders had been more concerned with an assault from an irate Philippine fisherman or a typhoon, than a close-quarters attack from U.S. Special Forces.

  Chad’s skills might be deadly but the cumulative effect was relatively gradual. A second SEAL sniper was stationed away to Metzger’s right, the defenders now well aware of the risks of a moment’s lack of concentration. A strange silence seemed to have settled over the base, broken only by an occasional deep-throated rumble of an explosion from the airstrip, the forces stationed there similarly putting up a spirited defence.

  Pockmarked and battered, with chunks of concrete blasted away, the barracks was still occupied by at least a dozen defenders, apparently none with heavy weapons; another twenty to thirty occupied the other two buildings. Metzger had thirty fit men to command, the sensible option to simply wait for the second wave or the Raiders to break through.

  Metzger climbed back down to the bottom level, the standard attack plan of a mad dash with plenty of covering fire not yet abandoned. If he could take the barracks then the defenders’ position would be untenable – just one more building and it would all be over.

  It was another five minutes before the silence was abruptly broken by two gunshots barely seconds apart. Chad had fired first, a shadowy shape moving into view beside a window opposite; the second SEAL sniper had matched him, both men confident they had hit their target.

  Metzger instantly seized his chance, ignoring his new responsibilities to lead the charge across the open ground and into the barracks. The enemy response was a torrent of automatic fire, both sides opening up with whatever they had as if to prove a point. The wall beside Chad was peppered with bullets, chunks of concrete and splinters flying everywhere, a cloud of grey smoke and dust almost making him gag. A series of explosions shook the building, the gunfire reaching a crescendo before easing once more to an ominous silence.

  Metzger hadn’t quite abandoned common-sense for glory, his attack on the barracks co-ordinated with a push north from the Marine Raider Regiment. With the barracks now in American hands, the defenders finally accepted the inevitable and Chad watched from a new vantage point as with hands raised high several Chinese marines stumbled from the buildings opposite; no weapons, their uniforms bloodied, some only half-dressed. A handful held onto a colleague for support, stopping to show they were unarmed.

  Chad counted upwards of twenty, each man ordered to his knees and searched before being hauled away. Only then did several U.S. Marines start a thorough search of the area, looking for survivors while wary as to booby traps, it still not certain that all of the Chinese marines had given up the fight.

  Metzger stood alongside the barracks, gun held ready, relieved to have come through it all relatively unscathed. The planners had hoped for the human cost to be acceptable to those back home, Metzger uncertain as to whether that had actually been achieved; nevertheless, America had started to live up to Deangelo’s promise.

  Two Marines crouched at the double doors of the warehouse, waiting for it to be declared safe. Suddenly one of them raised his left hand, a shouted warning coming too late to save his life or any of those close to him. An instant later, two massive explosions tore through the warehouse and the headquarters building, a deadly fireball engulfing the whole of the blockhouse complex.

  Chad was blown backwards, his body bouncing down from one level to the next before crashing to the floor. He felt his right leg crack, left ankle viciously twist. He lay spread-eagled on his back, for some reason ashamed that he had heard himself scream. Yet even as a spasm of pain gripped his body, Chad still understood that he was one of the lucky ones, there no way Metzger could have survived. A second spasm dragged a torrent of abuse from his lips, his back arching, Chad finally sinking into unconsciousness.

  A thousand yards south-east of Mischief Reef, the helicopters carrying the second wave of U.S. Marines bucked slightly as the blast hit them, a rolling black cloud slowly clearing to reveal the devastation ahead. A dozen fires raged around a blackened tear in the western edge of the reef, no building within a hundred yards left unscathed by the ferocity of the explosion.

  Russia – 13:16 Local Time; 10:16 UTC

  Markova stood beside the M4 highway and watched as the armoured column spread out to east and west, forming a rough defensive line facing north. The truce of the past two days might still be holding but clearly visible a kilometre away sat tanks of the 1st Tank Army. Moscow’s city limits lay just a few kilometres further on and the experience was all a little bizarre, the two groups facing off against each other in typical cowboy fashion.

  The unofficial ceasefire might have stopped it from becoming a civil war but Golubeva was far from beaten, enough units staying loyal for the final result to remain uncertain. Perversely, the present confrontation was supposed to be a tentative first step towards a peaceful and permanent solution and it was assumed there would have be some sort of compromise thrashed out, Markova just not sure how either side could trust the other – history certainly proved that Golubeva would stab General Morozov in the back as soon as she had a chance. A year ago General Morozov would have automatically been the military’s preferred candidate but Golubeva had worked hard to build up a power base in the Far East and, if the recent elections were anything to go by, she was definitely the people’s choice; Morozov might be the one person trying to keep Russia out of a war, but few in Russia actually wanted a general to run their daily lives.

  Markova would be nothing more than an interested spectator during the negotiations, her new role as one of the General’s senior aides still giving her far more authority than she had known for a while. The terms of the proposed meeting followed the classic theme: four from each side, no weapons, meet midway. This was purely a face-to-face meeting of military and police representatives, the political complications set aside for the moment.

  There was a rasped instruction from the radio and Morozov’s delegation strode out along the highway. Markova pressed her hand to her earpiece, listening intently as the first words were exchanged; there was no obvious animosity, the tone polite if not exactly relaxed, both sides wanting a quick but binding conclusion. In the days of the Russian Empire, hostages would have been exchanged, the lives of family bartered for a suitable peace; in today’s world that never seemed to be an acceptable option, a handshake or a piece of paper somehow felt to be more acceptable. Most of the eight already knew each other, if not directly then by reputation, the lowest rank that of a lieutenant-colon
el. It was clear that many within the military wanted to remain neutral, the National Guard and Moscow’s police keen not to be dragged into a fight that wasn’t theirs.

  Morozov’s aim was to open up the road into Moscow, strangely confident that the city would rally to his cause. The number and nature of their enemies remained open to debate, the six thousand men of the elite Kremlin Regiment under the direct control of the President but not necessarily totally loyal to Golubeva herself. Four hundred spetsnaz from the SVR (Foreign Intelligence Service) had already been transferred to Moscow to bolster her support; conversely, few doubted that the FSB and GRU (Military Intelligence) would back Morozov if it came to a fight.

  Whilst allowing Morozov free access into the capital was something of a risk for Golubeva, she might well see it as one worth taking, confident that she would be able to finish him off once and for all. If the military-brokered compromise were to fail then a vicious if possibly short-lived civil war would be the inevitable consequence, it likely signalled by a tank battle on the southern outskirts of Moscow.

  The discussions lasted barely forty minutes before a break was ordered, the grey light of a cold afternoon starting to fade into darkness before the specifics as to a possible agreement were finally passed higher up the chain of command.

  It then became a waiting game and it was well after seven when new instructions were passed down the line of men and vehicles. To many, it wasn’t quite the outcome they had expected or indeed wanted, an unorthodox battalion of twelve tanks and just four hundred troops to be allowed to pass through the lines of the 1st Tank Army and into the city.

  General Morozov had no intention of waiting until morning, his forces reorganised, new orders given. Markova duly became one of the four hundred, unsure whether to feel honoured or not, and trusting that they would at least be given the chance to put up a good fight before being annihilated – or maybe she was just being defeatist, no-one quite certain what awaited around the next corner let alone the next day.

  A lone tank led the way, the well-lit highway into Moscow empty of traffic, no police or military in evidence. Other than a few people standing and staring, most Muscovites kept a low profile, the sight of an occasional Russian tricolour interpreted by Markova as a positive sign; even so, the atmosphere was more sinister than welcoming, the cheering crowds of Voronezh now a distant memory.

  The convoy followed the Third Ring before finally turning away from the city centre, heading north-west; the Kremlin might be their eventual target but the suburb of Khodynka was an essential first stop, Morozov needing to gauge the true level of his support and the exact nature of the forces at Golubeva’s disposal.

  The further they travelled, the more people were prepared to watch other than from behind half-closed blinds, a few hundred even willing to wave or clap. That became almost a throng as they approached the headquarters of the GRU, their reception significantly more enthusiastic than elsewhere. The GRU had been a loyal supporter of Morozov and their HQ still showed clear signs of Golubeva’s enmity; scaffolding now surrounded the main building and it was barely three weeks since the top floor had been gutted by fire, twenty killed as the President’s supporters wrested control. Golubeva’s recent appointees had wisely chosen to be elsewhere, her corresponding purge of the FSB ensuring the two agencies were again sharing what they knew – their alliance might be based purely on mutual interest but it had worked well enough once, Markova’s own survival evidence of that.

  Within an hour, the Khodynka complex had been turned into a well-protected enclave, armoured vehicles stationed close to every junction, the soldiers reinforced by GRU and FSB volunteers. The President’s own forces were similarly readying themselves for the expected attack and despite its age the Kremlin remained an impressive fortress, its massive walls and towers standing at the heart of the city for over half a millennium.

  General Morozov might presently have relatively few resources at his disposal, certainly in Moscow, but with Russia’s Military and Security agencies both working on his behalf, Golubeva’s superiority was not quite as impressive as just twenty-four hours earlier. The real test would come tomorrow, Morozov well aware that to delay would change nothing. President Golubeva had risen on the backs of others more able than her – now it was time to see whether she had actually learnt anything from her eighteen months in power.

  Washington, D.C. – 16:49 Local Time; 21:49 UTC

  The President’s routine on the afternoon before Thanksgiving traditionally involved pardoning a turkey or two, the ceremony now postponed because of self-sacrifice of the human kind, a meeting of the President’s inner circle the new priority. The fact its start had been delayed by two hours was a worrying sign, Jensen assuming that the casualty figures were even worse than the earlier reports had suggested. Or was it because China was readying its own form of retribution?

  Information as to the actual capture of Mischief and Subi Reefs had been quick to reach the public domain; not so the precise details as to how it had been achieved and at what cost. Beijing had been similarly reticent in revealing specifics, confirming that U.S. forces had attacked both reefs with the number of casualties reported as being ‘substantial’; it was also implied that the battle for Mischief Reef was not yet over.

  Deangelo left if to Admiral Adams to reveal the truth of what had taken place, the Admiral’s tone one of sombre resignation despite his initial good news.

  “By any measure, the attack on Subi Reef was an unqualified success, the Special Forces able to achieve total surprise. We lost five killed, eighteen injured, four seriously. The losses to the Chinese marines were less than we had anticipated – twenty-six killed; just over a hundred and sixty taken prisoner. The reef is secure, the Ronald Reagan providing air and anti-missile support.”

  Adams was giving them the short version, the bravery of those involved to be discussed later, it not yet the time to praise individuals or apportion blame for any mistakes made that day.

  “At Mischief Reef,” continued Adams, “the initial attack progressed as hoped, but at both the main facility in the west and the airstrip, the defenders were able to regroup, certain buildings proving difficult to clear without the risk of serious losses either to our forces or to the Chinese.”

  There was an unsubtle emphasis on the final phrase, Deangelo for one wanting a quick, emphatic and relatively bloodless victory. In hindsight, maybe achieving all three had always been an impossible ask; certainly they should never have risked U.S. lives once the Chinese marines had established a strong defensive position and the use of the USS Zumwalt’s precision firepower should have been an early option. Adams seriously regretted not arguing more forcefully for that to be the case but the Special Forces’ commanders had been confident they had enough resources at their disposal, the defenders single-mindedness never considered a serious problem.

  Adams continued, “The Chinese marines occupying the headquarters complex and the adjoining buildings had started to set-up a series of booby-traps, some linked together with a single trigger; apparently they ran out of time, one man choosing suicide over a temporary internment. Many of his countrymen were also caught in the blast, the headquarters complex almost completely destroyed. In total, out of the first wave of two hundred and forty men, thirty-nine Marine Raiders and twenty-three SEALs were killed; we have another thirty men seriously injured. The Chinese casualties were even heavier, almost ninety dead.”

  It was worse than Jensen had feared, the President visibly angry at the loss of life. In what seemed a moment of genuine regret, Deangelo accepted the ultimate blame, his unwillingness to countenance heavy Chinese losses the single clear mistake.

  Adams met the inevitable questions with stoic fortitude, no-one doubting the efforts of those who had fought and died that day. What had been a highly successful mission by U.S. Special Forces had been turned into an act of murder by the Chinese themselves, that single event killing twenty-six Special Forces and some twenty Chinese marines, many
of whom had already surrendered.

  The origin of the submarine resting on the sea bed was now definitely an irrelevancy, China and America locked together in a battle neither might have deserved or even wanted. The public reaction to so many sons and fathers lost was impossible to judge, the cost needing to be justified in terms of what had actually been gained. The onus was back on China and the tit-for-tat exchange would have to stop sometime, the carrier strike groups led by the Ronald Reagan and Gerald Ford always potential targets if China so desired.

  The diplomatic channels remained wide open, China offering little, America demanding too much. The mood amongst those around the table was still more belligerent than Jensen had expected, Adams and Thorn making a persuasive argument for hitting China ever harder, wanting the message as to America’s superiority to hit home. The President, however, was proving difficult to convince, the hawks now only just in the majority; Deangelo might not yet believe he had done enough to satisfy his own expectations but he was minded to proceed with caution.

  “To return to the status quo will be seen as a defeat,” reiterated Thorn brusquely. “We either need to remind China as to the nature of a true superpower or accept they can choke off the oil supplies any time they want. We have suffered losses but we have taken back the initiative and should continue to push hard; America needs to break Beijing’s hold both on the Spratly Islands and also the Paracels.”

  Admiral Adams was quick to agree, “We have sufficient forces already in place, Sir. The John Stennis Strike Group will also reach the Philippines early on Monday and if necessary be able to provide immediate air support.”

  Five more days and America could sweep through the Spratly and Paracel Islands, and save the world from Chinese blackmail – but then China could say the same about America. To Jensen, a bloody fight for every single piece of rock was a quick route to a full-blown war. China was rightly concerned that other nations would seek to gain out of any conflict; perhaps not Russia or Taiwan any longer, but South Korea, Japan and even India might just see a one-time opportunity, whatever their protestations of neutrality. And then there was North Korea, their leader’s often arbitrary rhetoric still missing from the equation, no-one willing to guess how they would act from one day to another.