The Rule Of The People (Conspiracy Trilogy Book 3)

by Christopher Read

  Markova waved everyone to a halt while she studied the way ahead, the edge of a building offering some protection. Diagonally across the street was one of several buildings which together formed the State Library; a couple of snipers hidden there could wreak havoc, able to cover an attack from virtually any direction. To simply bypass it would save time but it was a significant risk, Markova quick to realise she had little choice.

  Using a whole platoon was probably overkill but Markova played safe, watching as the attackers gradually worked their way into the library buildings from the south and west. Markova tried to stay patient, not expecting miracles, just wanting the rooms facing Vozdvizhenka Street to be cleared first.

  It was a good fifteen minutes before she heard the first shots. This wasn’t just one or two snipers, the Library occupied by at least a dozen men, maybe as many as twenty. The attack was quickly becoming bogged down with booby-traps a constant fear, the number of casualties steadily mounting.

  Markova accepted the inevitable and sent in a second platoon, a third moving cautiously along Vozdvizhenka Street in support. Abruptly a machine-gun opened up, men and women scattering to take whatever cover they could as bullets whizzed past, ricocheting from walls and the road surface. There was a second and more sustained burst of gunfire, the flicker of muzzle-flashes coming from a tall corner building close to the Kutafya Tower, several more guns blazing from the third-floor windows of the State Library.

  Markova spoke rapidly into her body mic, trying to target every problem, her immediate priority the machine-gun. Within seconds their sole APC moved out from a nearby side-street, its 30mm cannon raking across the Library windows before quickly turning towards the corner building, a line of tracers gradually climbing ever higher.

  The APC was dallying too long, Markova’s orders ignored as its commander tried to prove his worth, no thought given as to other dangers. There was the crackle of return fire and moments later a dull thump as the T-90 tank revealed its power. The APC seemed to give an angry shudder then it simply disintegrated, a lethal spray of jagged metal flying through the air, the sound of the explosion drowning out the screams of the wounded and the dying.

  Markova knew she should pull everyone back and regroup but that too was a risk. A choking cloud of dirty-grey dust was swirling along the street and, driven by adrenalin, she raced forward, thudding into the protection of a doorway before barging her way inside, the door not even locked; half-a-dozen others were quick to join her, anywhere safer than the killing zone of Vozdvizhenka Street.

  The sign inside was a warning that Markova had made a serious mistake, the building just one of many properties run by the Kremlin for the privileged few, and she stood uncertainly, momentarily struggling to understand why the woman standing beside the reception desk was all dressed in white.

  In fact it was a lavishly equipped medical centre, the staff already getting ready to receive the wounded, no indication given that it mattered which side they were on. In anticipation of an attack, the few patients staying overnight had been moved hours earlier to the rear of the building and Markova’s section was quick to occupy the third floor, trying to provide cover for those struggling to survive out on the street.

  For the time being the State Library became the unit’s only priority, well over a hundred men and women working to flush out the defenders, one treacherous room at a time. From the first shots to the last, it took them close to two hours, a handful of Golubeva’s men managing to make their escape; many more did not, each brief but intense firefight a bloody example as to the tenacity of both sides.

  A form of relative quiet returned, broken only by the cries of those no-one could help. The unit’s casualties were as bad as Markova had feared, fifteen dead, close to forty injured. The rest of General Morozov’s units were similarly struggling to make headway, three tanks lost with nothing to show for it. Every separate attack was meeting stiff resistance, Golubeva’s forces with time enough to prepare and plan.

  For Markova’s unit, the Trinity Gate had now become their sole objective, at least for the first day. The T-90 tank still sat immobile on the pedestrian square outside the Kutafya Tower: armed with a 125mm cannon and two machine-guns, it was a brute of a tank, its laminated front armour impervious to Markova’s only anti-tank weapon, the RPG-32. General Morozov’s increasingly inadequate arsenal lacked even the basics of a single attack helicopter and his own tanks were obviously needed elsewhere, it down to Markova to find a suitable way forward.

  The RPG-32 was purely a point-and-shoot system, simple to use, and under the right circumstances its HEAT (High-Explosive Anti-Tank) rockets were relatively effective. The T-90’s armour thinned out from front to rear, and while the side skirts and hull were vulnerable, the tank was already immobile by choice. The armour thickness protecting the turret sides was close to the limit of the rocket’s abilities but unless Markova could find a way to get behind the tank, it was their only option; even then, one chance might be all they got before the tank’s semi-automated systems blasted them into the next world. To delay and wait for night would in all likelihood not make the task any easier, night-vision goggles a relatively scarce item in Morozov’s armoury but sadly not the Kremlin’s.

  The right flank of the T-90 was protected by the corner building; on the left was the Manege, a historic oblong building used as an exhibition hall – occupied by at least twenty defenders, it was also overlooked by the corner building. By default, the latter had become the key to any further advance, Markova accepting there was no quick and easy solution.

  The corner building was part of a group built in the 1840s and later extended; Ho Chi Minh had even been one of several communist activists renting office space there in the 1920s. It was now part of the State Library’s publishing arm and any attempt to approach it from the Alexander Garden would bring the attackers into direct line of sight of the tank’s machine-guns and Trinity Tower. It would be the same for the Manege, the defenders ensuring that virtually every attempt to break through could be hit from at least two directions.

  The corner building still wasn’t invulnerable and Markova chose to approach it from the south, leading a squad of twenty-four through the network of other buildings and past an inner courtyard. It was a slow and nerve-wracking task even though there was no opposition; in fact, no sign of anyone at all, the only loud sounds that of a lock snapping.

  It took close to an hour to reach their initial target, a suite of offices belonging to the Russian Academy of Sciences. Across a small paved area stood the corner building, its ground-floor windows dark and inviting, no hint of any movement inside, the only light that shining down from the upper floors.

  Markova checked to ensure the other units were ready: suppressing fire from the State Library and an assault on the Manege would hopefully be enough of a diversion to give Markova’s squad a chance – whether the Manege in turn became something more productive was at their officer’s discretion, Markova trusting that he wouldn’t risk everything in a foolish grab for glory.

  Abruptly the street outside erupted into gunfire, those in the State Library unwilling to wait any longer. With Markova leading the way, the squad raced across to the far building, windows smashed as they fought to get inside; six of the squad had a different target in mind, breaking into the rear of the adjoining building, next to the Kremlin Ticket Office.

  Markova found herself in a small office; outside was a narrow corridor and far too many doors, the layout not making it easy to work out which way to go. The ground floor seemed unoccupied, the steady crackle of automatic weapons from the floors above encouraging them to move ever higher, the machine-gun Markova’s prime concern.

  The building was a warren of rooms and offices, the squad having to work by sound and instinct, there no time to clear it floor by floor. It quickly turned into a series of minor skirmishes, not quite hand-to-hand, a grenade often needed to clear the way forward. Markova was close to losing track of what was happening around her, u
nsure even what floor she was on, always trying to work her way towards the insistent clatter of the machine-gun. It was all taking far too long to neutralise the building and she was increasingly worried as to what was taking place in the street outside, certain now that – despite their orders – the rest of the unit was moving forward in support. Markova’s own attack was slowly losing impetus, the squad reduced to half its number, ammunition running low.

  On the second floor of the adjoining building, the six-man section had managed to work their way unnoticed to the front. Two of the six each carried an anti-tank launcher, only one of them having ever fired something similar before. The resultant back-blast meant it was ill-advised to use the launcher in confined spaces but better that than outside in full view of the T-90 tank.

  It sat some fifty metres away, not quite side-on. One shot each, maybe two, that was the very best they could hope for, the chance of a kill perhaps fifty-fifty.

  The tank commander’s concentration was focused more on the dangers he could actually see than those hidden away to his left and the T-90 abandoned its static vigil to edge forward, the tank’s two machine-guns first targeting the attack on the Manege. Job done, the tank pivoted around to the left, the State Library coming into view; the Library buildings had previously been sacrosanct, now each and every threat would meet the same explosive response, necessity having no place for sentiment.

  To those waiting on the second floor, it was the ideal move, placing the turret almost perfectly side-on. The first operator needed no further encouragement, the rocket striking the base of the turret, a bright flash of light followed on instantly by a disappointing puff of smoke. The second operator wasn’t quite ready and he raced to follow suit, the rocket deflecting off the rounded turret. Not that the operator saw any of this, the effects of the back-blast magnified by the small office in which he stood, he and one of his comrades killed instantly.

  The tank was hurt but not out of action, the turret turning, the remotely controlled machine-gun peppering the building, no specific target yet identified. That changed instantly when the third rocket was fired, it hitting close to the rear of the turret and punching its way through.

  The sound of the explosion reached those still fighting on the top floor of the corner building, windows shattering in sympathy. It didn’t quite signify the end of the battle for the Kutafya Tower but the eventual outcome was no longer in doubt. The remaining defenders were outnumbered four-to-one, the corner building the first to fall, the T-90 tank still wreathed in smoke and flame.

  By the time darkness fell just after four o’clock, the Manege was also under Markova’s control, the gates of the Kutafya Tower open and inviting. The cost in human lives had been severe with another twenty dead to be added to Markova’s conscience. Her unit had fought together for just seven brutal hours, their strength already reduced by some forty percent, Markova not even sure they had the will to continue for a second day.

  And that would certainly be necessary. General Morozov’s tanks were still fighting a war of attrition with Golubeva’s forces, each waiting for the other to admit defeat. Morozov’s favoured status was inevitably starting to fade and if the stalemate continued for too long, more of the military would begin to take sides, President Golubeva perhaps the sensible option.

  Washington, D.C. – 09:44 Local Time; 14:44 UTC

  Anderson was back again in the National Mall, unsure whether the lack of an FBI tail meant they realised he was getting nowhere fast or he had simply outlived his usefulness; having done all the leg work to give them Nash and Oscar, it seemed ungrateful just to let him loose, and not even a single word of thanks.

  The morning was cold and frosty, a good sprinkling of snow expected for the weekend. With camera in hand, Anderson was effectively just one of hundreds of tourists in the Mall, most looking to find the perfect picture to send to those back home, the soft autumn light bathing everything in a welcoming glow. Yet Anderson was also trying to earn his keep, trusting that the newspapers would be rather more appreciative than the FBI of his take on recent events; if necessary, he was happy to tone down his opinion as to the threat Congress faced, prepared to make only a vague reference to members potentially being denied access to the Capitol.

  Despite the losses at Mischief Reef, a snap poll showed that the public were generally supportive of the President’s response. China’s own attack against Vietnam remained fresh in people’s minds and it was obvious that China couldn’t be stopped without lives being put at risk. It was a view the Pentagon was keen to promote, the Press Secretary at pains to confirm that it was clearly a victory: two fortified islands defended by some four hundred and sixty elite marines defeated with the loss of sixty-seven men – every such sacrifice was regrettable but America had a duty to help her allies. Television pictures revealed the ferocity of some of the fighting and the scenes from Mischief Reef were particularly grim, with buildings flattened and the dock area a smoking ruin, two fire-blackened hulks lying alongside. Beijing had finally admitted that both reefs had been captured, their own estimate of Chinese dead and injured much lower than the U.S. reports. According to Beijing, the number of marines guarding the two reefs totalled just under three hundred and, despite being outnumbered some three-to-one by the Americans, had put up a brave fight to defend China’s ‘sovereign territory’.

  The various U.S. military experts tended to be more dispassionate in their views than the Pentagon’s Press Secretary, the pros and cons duly analysed, America’s strategy more often than not regarded as sound. Similarly, Deangelo’s nomination of Thorn might have set Congress alight but the broadsheets had been more balanced as to Thorn’s strengths of late, the needs of the moment definitely requiring a strong hand at the Pentagon. Opinions were far more divided as to the President’s selection of Jack Shepard as Vice-President and the political analysts were still arguing as to whether it was a brilliant move or a potential disaster.

  The peace march was due to start at eleven, the organisers anticipating that North Korea’s statement of intent would help double the numbers and people were already spilling out from the Lincoln Memorial’s east plaza and onto the frost-covered grass. The essentials of giant screen and public-address system had been in place since early morning and after the usual round of speeches, it would be a banner-waving march across the Potomac and then on to the Pentagon.

  With Mayor Henry due to speak at the other end of the Mall around noon, the police were again high-profile, ready to act to keep the two sides apart should it be necessary. Many of those who had camped out in the National Mall for over a fortnight were already packing up to leave, perhaps hoping to ensure they got home in good time to cook the celebration turkey. For the time being the tourists were in the majority and it looked as if Henry wouldn’t need much more than a soap box and a loud voice to make himself heard. Whether anything that happened in the National Mall or outside the walls of the Pentagon would be enough to persuade the hardliners that it was time to act was still to be seen. The forced suspension of Congress was a clear first step, tomorrow the last chance until December to guarantee most members would be in one spot.

  Or would they prefer Congress to be in recess? With the country’s Senators and Representatives safely away from the Capitol Building, there was obviously less chance of anyone influential getting hurt, it perhaps considered important not to start by accidently shooting a Senator or two. Deangelo or Thorn: Commander-in-Chief or unofficial Second-in-Command – which one would be prepared to risk everything and order the military into Washington?

  There was just one thing about it that worried Anderson, the evidence falling into place a little too readily. Every individual component had been spelled out in almost perfect detail: means, motive and opportunity – it was all there. Carter, Nash, Oscar and Anderson: knowingly or otherwise, each had played their part, the FBI no doubt happily following-on every step of the way.

  Anderson guessed the computer IP address obtained via the Harvard sit
e would lead straight back to Terrill and maybe someone there had actually read up on Nash and Oscar – Anderson just wasn’t sure whether it was that relevant. In any case, it still seemed too basic a clue, especially when it was second-nature for Carter to hide his tracks. It could so easily be a deliberate false trail and Carter might simply have adjusted the IP address and date once he’d reached Panama.

  Even if the FBI – or indeed Jensen – thought the same, it would have been foolish not to have improved security in and around the Capitol Building. In which case, what ulterior motive did McDowell actually have in mind?

  Carter wouldn’t do anything without McDowell’s say-so, which could definitely make it all smoke and mirrors, the authorities’ attention drawn away from what McDowell really had planned. It would certainly be typical McDowell – but so would a subtle act of betrayal. Maybe he had good reason to be disloyal; vengeance for Yang or Ritter perhaps, or a belated sense of patriotism?

  Anderson stood staring up at the Capitol Building, his eureka moment not as helpful as he would have liked; basically, he was back to the drawing board, gut feeling and guesswork all he had left. McDowell, Deangelo, Thorn, Henry and Kovak – some or all of them were still part of it, of that he was sure.

  By eleven o’clock there were upwards of fifty thousand people near to the Lincoln Memorial, plus hundreds of police and media, Anderson watching from the grass bank as various speakers did their best to stir up the crowd. With placards in hand, they soon set off towards the Pentagon, the route lined by yet more police. Throughout it all the atmosphere was fairly good-natured and the more militant groups at the opposite end of the Mall kept their distance, no-one apparently wanting to provoke a confrontation. Anderson took the obligatory photos and asked pertinent questions, and many of those he spoke to were not so much anti-war as worried that the fight had more to do with oil supplies to Japan and South Korea than sticking-up for the Philippines.