The Trust Of The People

by Christopher Read

  Chapter 9 – Saturday, October 29th

  South China Sea – 14:25 Local Time; 06:25 UTC

  It was another beautiful afternoon, with a gentle breeze and not too hot; the forecast was for much of the same over the next few days, and typhoon activity generally decreased rapidly once September had passed.

  Louisa Marcelo glanced back at the assorted armada streaming behind, silently urging them all forward. To call them an armada seemed slightly generous, the eighteen vessels more a flotilla than even a fleet. Ranging from ageing wooden fishing boats and modern dive vessels to a luxury yacht and a twenty-five metre power catamaran, it was a confusing collection of craft, their intent a peaceful if slightly disorganised protest.

  Louisa was also hardly the classic choice for the leader of anything naval: before today the smallest boat she’d ever been on was a large ferry, she was obviously the wrong sex and she couldn’t swim – although even she had to admit her ample proportions might possibly assist in terms of buoyancy. Her flagship was the power catamaran, its owner a good friend and supporter, somewhat foolishly prepared to risk the luxurious vessel and her crew to Louisa’s tender mercies.

  Louisa had even managed to acquire a naval-looking hat, although she felt the overall image was spoilt by a life-jacket adding yet more bulk to her upper body. The one advantage was that no-one could fail to miss her and despite the radio option, she far preferred to pass on her instructions to the rest of the flotilla via lots of arm waving and the occasional shout.

  Not that the Chinese Coastguard seemed keen to let them proceed any further, two patrol boats closing in to block off the way ahead, water cannon ready. With their distinctive red, white and blue striped livery and ‘China Coast Guard’ emblazoned in English across the side, the vessels were an imposing threat. They’d also had plenty of time to plan their response, details of the flotilla headlining the TV news since early that morning.

  Five kilometres to the north-west lay Mischief Reef, one of over 750 rocky outcrops and coral reefs which formed the Spratly Islands. Made up of a ring of jagged rock with a central lagoon roughly six kilometres wide, it was occupied by some two hundred Chinese marines, part of the creeping invasion which had seen underwater reefs turned into military bases, the massive Tian Jing Hao just one of several dredgers sucking up tonnes of rock and sand to create a legitimate island, enclosed soon after by a concrete sea wall. Mischief Reef was high-up on China’s transformation list, part of a ten-year billion-dollar commitment to create a series of military bases in Manila’s backyard.

  The nearest land mass was the Philippine island province of Palawan, 240 kilometres – 130 nautical miles – to the east. Many of the reefs were thus well inside the 200 nautical mile Exclusive Economic Zone guaranteed under the United Nations Convention on the Law of the Sea; China was a thousand kilometres to the north-west, a two day journey away by boat. However, the Philippines’ claim over the islands was based on far more than just a single premise, the complex arguments going back and forth to the United Nations for some seventy years.

  To date, the number of fatalities due to the ongoing feud had been relatively low, the region more used to hearing the sound of fishing boats clashing than the rattle of gunfire. Attempts to resolve the various disputes had invariably met with failure, an agreed Code of Conduct quickly ignored. In 2012, despite a deal brokered by the United States, the Chinese had simply annexed the Scarborough Shoal west of Manila. America’s weakness in allowing Russia to steal large chunks of Ukraine had merely acted as a spur to further Chinese ambition, its stranglehold on the South China Sea growing year on year.

  Soon it would be too late, China’s control impossible to subvert. Louisa’s hope of provoking the Chinese into something foolish was a dangerous strategy, but like many in the Philippines she was desperate. If she had to risk getting soaked or sustaining the odd bruise, then so be it, and what better place than the aptly named Mischief Reef, even if it was named after a German sailor.

  Louisa and her allies had encouraged, cajoled and pleaded, hoping to get half-a-dozen boats to join her, maybe even the bonus of a TV crew. Thanks mainly to China’s recent taunts, over thirty vessels had turned up, several of dubious seaworthiness, Louisa able to pick and choose, eventually opting for the robust and the agile. Aboard were close to a hundred and fifty civilians, including the world’s media and a heady mix of Filipino politicians and celebrities. As they had set off from Manila on the Friday, she had again been close to tears, proud of all those that had volunteered to help, proud of herself.

  The fact that it hadn’t actually been the Chinese who had planted the flag on Lankiam Cay was something Louisa was very happy to ignore. She had always had concerns as to that part of the overall strategy, and had insisted that an alternative be put in place just in case. In retrospect, perhaps she should have had more faith in McDowell’s judgement, and Ram and his son had fully deserved their reward, the five thousand dollars in cash awaiting them when they next visited Manila.

  Louisa’s musings were cut short as one of the Chinese boats sounded its fog horn, stirring her into activity. She started to wave both arms, the flotilla beginning to spread out, forming a haphazard line almost two hundred metres wide, the catamaran at its centre.

  From the second Chinese boat, a loudspeaker blared, a man’s voice ordering them from the area. The demand was repeated, the two Coastguard boats sweeping around, no more than a hundred metres distant. Alongside them cruised three RHIBs (Rigid-Hulled Inflatable Boats), which to Louisa’s eyes looked a good bit larger than the more common Zodiacs.

  The Philippine line edged forward, overwhelming superiority in numbers their sole advantage. Virtually every allied boat had someone with a camera, every action of the Chinese recorded. Although it could be argued that the flotilla was asking for trouble, the Chinese faced a publicity nightmare, better able to cope with a terrorist attack than a protest by unarmed civilians.

  With a throaty whoosh, a stream of high-pressure sea water raced out towards the leading vessels. Instantly the Philippine line split apart, each boat increasing speed and turning aside in a pre-arranged pattern.

  The Chinese RHIBs merely tried brute force, picking out the smaller allied boats and ramming them from the side, often too light to be effective. The patrol boats attempted to stop the larger vessels but they had also set themselves an impossible task, the numbers just too great; some were still forced aside, at least two people knocked overboard, their screams and cries piercing through the sounds of water cannon and engines. The catamaran was twenty-five metres of elegant power but not ideal for battling a water cannon, Louisa soaked, eyes stinging. It was fifteen minutes of complete chaos, the Chinese Coastguard eventually having to accept defeat and turning to head back at speed towards Mischief Reef. A ragged cheer immediately sounded out from the flotilla, horns and klaxons joining in the celebration, Louisa even managing to raise a smile.

  It was time to take stock and work out what next, Louisa checking with each captain as to how they had fared. There were a couple of broken bones, many more minor injuries, and four boats were damaged enough to be sent home with a suitable nursemaid. The remainder were unanimous in their desire to continue.

  Five vessels down – Louisa was angered by the brutal tactics of the Chinese but delighted with her flotilla’s resilience. Round two might yet be a little trickier.

  The Philippine line reformed, moving once more towards the reef. This time the Chinese looked to be more determined, the twin machine guns on both patrol boats manned, the marines aboard the RHIBs also now openly showing their weapons. From away to the north, a helicopter raced towards them, flying low.

  Louisa had no intention of stopping now. Everyone had been told to turn back whenever they wanted, no judgement made, but she and the crew of the catamaran were determined to push as hard as they could. The Philippine military had few aircraft, fewer warships and only one submarine – a fair fight just wasn’t possible. However, there was m
ore than one way to stand up to the Chinese, the media more than willing to play their part.

  The two Chinese patrol boats were now no more than a hundred metres away, Mischief Reef barely two kilometres further on. Above the wind came the unmistakable sound of the helicopter, Louisa following it as it flew over the Chinese boats to hover above the catamaran, a pair of soldiers armed with automatic weapons staring down at them from the open cabin door.

  The patrol boat’s loudspeaker repeated its warning, the posturing of helicopter and patrol boats sending a more forceful message than previously.

  Louisa spoke quickly to the catamaran’s captain, asking what he wanted to do. The man shrugged, letting Louisa make the final decision.

  A nod of affirmation and the catamaran surged forward, leading the gaggle of ships closer towards the reef. The throbbing from the helicopter increased in intensity, then suddenly there was the rattle of gunfire, the water’s surface ahead of the catamaran shattered by a leaping dance of splashes.

  Louisa closed her eyes, trusting that the cameras were still recording, trusting to God to see her through the next minutes. The catamaran stayed on course.

  There was more gunfire from the helicopter, creeping ever closer. One of the patrol boats also opened fire, looking to be aiming high. Louisa glanced left and right, the line of craft now thinned out to less than half, five brave or foolish captains following her lead.

  The gunfire seemed to intensify, Louisa almost sensing the air around her buzzing with danger. Away to her left, the wheelhouse of a fishing trawler seemed to explode, the boat giving a momentous upward lurch before plunging back down. Above the tumult, she could hear someone screaming and the tortured shriek of wood on metal.

  Abruptly a line of splinters were chipped from the catamaran’s deck and with a deafening crack the bridge window shattered. Louisa cowered down; a shouted warning from the captain and the catamaran started to turn, more bullets smashing into the bulkhead behind her.

  The explosion of noise suddenly ceased. Louisa waited a few seconds, and then slowly raised her head, terrified as to what would be revealed.

  The sea was still a churning swirl of ships, the protest line now a confused mess as the vessels turned back as best they could. The fishing trawler looked to be crippled, another boat alongside and trying to help. At least two more vessels had sustained damage, Louisa fearful of looking too close, knowing that people had died that day.

  If she had pushed too hard, then that was on her conscience – but it was the Chinese that had pulled the trigger. However long it took, whatever the personal cost, she would not let them forget.

  Yaroslavl Oblast, Russia – 15:33 Local Time; 12:33 UTC

  Markova might not quite have the breakthrough she needed, but she felt it was close, with some sixteen million voice calls and texts filtered down to just over four hundred.

  For Sukhov’s two visits to London, the phone checks of the cell towers surrounding Bray had in turn highlighted thirty-four non-UK locations worthy of further investigation. They weren’t quite hotspots of activity, more like a series of clusters, Markova artificially setting a minimum of five calls per cluster – 374 calls in total. Outside of the clusters, there were just 43 other calls made to various locations within the Russian Federation.

  All of these 417 calls were then analysed in detail, where possible each caller and recipient identified with a name, address and profession. While some might relate to a husband sexting his mistress or a director in search of a business deal, there looked to be several which had potential. In a few cases, the pairings could be instantly discarded, the mundane nature of the calls obvious from the data. However, the majority had to be assessed more rigorously, the backgrounds of those concerned examined in detail.

  It all took time: a name and an address by itself meant very little, and Markova was keen to search out any falsified details or the phone that was registered to a ghost company. There were several ways to hide personal information but not the basic phone data, even if it was just a SIM-card reference and a financial transaction which led absolutely nowhere. Whatever tricks were tried, the GRU had long-since found a solution, Russia determined to keep a close eye on its many enemies.

  In the end, the team’s painstaking trawl of data proved to be a frustrating and often fruitless exercise, with every one of the cluster calls eventually discounted. The calls specific to the Russian Federation proved to be more intriguing, all but two duly checked and discarded. The final pair were to the same number, the timings matching Sukhov’s presence in Bray; of equal importance was the fact that the caller’s phone account was in the name of a ghost company supposedly based in Warsaw, the recipient similarly using false details.

  Now it became a simple exercise in data retrieval: the detailed phone records over the past six months for caller and recipient checked to see where they in turn would lead.

  Eventually, they identified eight separate numbers where the users seemed keen to keep their identity to themselves. The various calls had been made at irregular times and days with no discernible pattern; to begin with it was less than one call a week per phone, now the frequency was more like one call per day.

  For each phone, the various rough locations were plotted, one clearly matching Sukhov’s movements. A second jumped from one country to another: the Philippines, Vietnam, Britain, Germany, but mostly the U.S. – that surely had to be Pat McDowell. The others were slightly less mobile, with three based in Russia.

  The Russian locations were all cities east of Moscow: Khabarovsk the Headquarters for the Eastern Military District, Vladivostok the home of Russia’s Pacific Fleet. Finally, there was Nizhny Novgorod, the city a major engineering base and a key centre for IT research.

  Quite how it all fitted in with McDowell and Louisa Marcelo wasn’t obvious, the link with Vladivostok presumably related somehow to Hanson’s trip to Wilhelmshaven. If Markova was correct with her guess as to which phone was McDowell’s, then he now seemed to be based somewhere near Washington and thus a puzzling fourteen thousand kilometres from the key events in the South China Sea.

  Markova was still annoyed with herself for assuming London had been the terrorists’ target; the South China Sea had long been a powder-keg waiting to explode, but she doubted whether the U.S. and China going to war would benefit anyone – even Russia was likely to lose out in economic terms.

  The GRU’s dedicated signal intelligence unit with its 140 satellites was now brought into play. The present locations of the eight phones were unknown, but that would change once the batteries were inserted, it taking just twenty seconds to fix a phone’s position to within a metre.

  Markova felt she had done enough to at least earn some more time. Whilst technology had done the job of extracting the data, the processing had needed human input, and Markova and her new team were exhausted.

  For the moment, she was out of ideas – if Morozov expected more then he would just have to wait.

  Brandon, U.S.A. – 10:20 Local Time; 14:20 UTC

  The President was almost embarrassed by the warmth of his reception, Dan Quinn’s wife gladly opening up her home – and her heart – to someone who was basically a stranger and who had been, in one sense at least, an opponent of her husband’s.

  For Cavanagh, it was an opportunity to express his personal sorrow for her loss: not because it was expected of him, but because it was something he needed to do. The two Congressmen had died in the service of the United States Government, and it was only right that their sacrifice be recognised.

  Quinn had always been a man of high principles, a fierce but fair opponent who had served the Republican Party particularly well. Two children, both married, Quinn would have been a grandfather in a few months. Now the family unit had been forever scarred, the nature of his death difficult for them to come to terms with.

  Cavanagh stayed for over an hour. Next on his day’s itinerary was Quinn’s colleague, the younger man also leaving behind a wife and chi
ldren. Their home was in Lowndes County, a hundred and twenty miles north-east of Brandon, but just a small hop for Marine One. Both funerals were planned for next Tuesday, the President deciding that it would be best not to attend, his respects better served by today’s more personal visit.

  It was a short walk from the Quinn’s front door to the waiting car, a small but respectful group of onlookers watching from behind a line of police. At the end of the street stood a much larger crowd together with the media, more police forming a protective barrier. The President’s arrival had not been made public but many had assumed he would turn up at some stage.

  The residential street was tree-lined, just wide enough for two cars, the houses well-spaced from each other. The President sensed that a broad smile and a wave might not suit the occasion, but he stopped to speak to some of the onlookers, picking out a young couple with a toddler between them.

  Pleasantries were duly exchanged. Cavanagh generally coped well with such public displays; he just needed to keep his wits about him in case of unexpected questions, the media having a habit of picking up on a confused look or an inane comment.

  Job done, he turned back. From away to his left came a double-crack, sharp and loud as though very close.

  Cavanagh was instantly barged to one side, a large dark-suited figure moving around in front of him. There was a third report, even louder, and he heard a woman scream. Cavanagh stood confused, not quite grasping what was happening; then someone grabbed him across the shoulders and propelled him, knees half-bent, towards the armour-plated safety of his limousine. To either side, chaos ensued, shouts and screams, people fleeing, others crouching down, police and agents with guns drawn trying to pinpoint the danger.

  Cavanagh was almost thrown into the car; even as the door was slammed shut, the Presidential limousine accelerated away, the motorcade a disjointed image of its usual well-choreographed formation.

  The rush back to Marine One gradually became more organised, but it was only once Cavanagh was seated in the comfort and safety of the helicopter that he finally received a detailed update as to what exactly had taken place. Cavanagh listened in silence, the anger and frustration showing on his face, the memory of those moments still clear in his mind.

  The President hadn’t set out to turn the trip to Mississippi into a public relations exercise, but nor had he expected it to become a disaster. Every embarrassing second was now on the internet, the most powerful man in the world cowering down in fear of Halloween firecrackers.

  The fact the Secret Service and a score of bystanders had also reacted as though it were gunshots apparently meant very little. In fact Cavanagh was simply the latest of a select group of presidents whose security detail had assumed a firecracker was the real thing – including Gerald Ford in ’76 and Iran’s Ahmadinejad in 2010.

  By the time he returned to Washington, the investigation into the day’s events had turned into something more complex. The key YouTube clip had the President centre-frame, the steadiness of the camera phone unexpected when all around people were panicking; it was almost as though the firecrackers had been anticipated. The cameraman had long since disappeared, the YouTube account bogus, but at least the person responsible for Cavanagh’s humiliation was now in police custody. The fact it was a sixty year-old man, and not a couple of youngsters, made it more suspicious, the number of incidents involving government figures beginning to form an ominous pattern.

  Paul Jensen had noted as much in his latest White House briefing, and it was becoming increasingly likely that McDowell – or someone working on his behalf – was responsible for the murder of the two Congressmen. Quite how that related to McDowell’s enterprise in the South China Sea remained unknown, but between them Louisa Marcelo and China had managed to stir up a hornets’ nest of resentment and over-reaction. Additional protests were now planned for Hanoi and Manila on the Monday, the dramatic images from Mischief Reef shocking the world – two killed; almost twenty injured.

  To make matters worse, Taiwan had sent a small naval force south to the Spratly Islands. Taiwan’s occupation in 1956 of Taiping Island, the largest in the Spratly group, was often considered by its close neighbours merely as an extension of mainland China’s control. South Korea had wisely chosen to re-assert its neutrality, strong economic links with China and an uncomfortable relationship with Japan, ensuring Seoul trod a very careful line.

  Overall, Cavanagh felt it was turning into a nightmare scenario, with allies at each other’s throats while courting conflict with China. The Vice-President had been co-opted to help shore up the Secretary of State’s diplomacy, and would soon be heading off to Hanoi; however, each day seemed to reveal some new provocation.

  For now, Cavanagh neither supported nor condemned, persevering with the impossible and trying to mediate. It was a policy which satisfied no-one, neither at home nor abroad. Then there was North Korea and Japan, Cavanagh fearful lest he reignite the war of words between them. The situation further south had resulted in a slight modification to the naval exercise which had so provoked North Korea’s ire: it would still go ahead, but with fewer U.S. ships, a detachment of four vessels led by the USS Milius diverted to show the flag in the South China Sea. Cavanagh’s many critics had immediately condemned the redeployment as another example of the President’s willingness to cave in under pressure, ignoring the fact that Cavanagh was actually strengthening America’s presence elsewhere.

  Jensen had even suggested that the present chaos in the South China Sea might have always been McDowell’s intention, a strategy to force the United States and China towards war. McDowell himself was proving to be an able tactician and he would be foolish to quit now, China’s unwillingness to compromise likely to reveal the inadequacy of America’s response.

  Cavanagh could well understand why others considered his reaction to China as ‘lacklustre’, but he wanted to give diplomacy every chance to succeed, unwilling to risk American lives with some foolish or ill-conceived act. Yet the pressure on the Administration was mounting, with many of Cavanagh’s once-loyal supporters starting to lose patience, frustrated by his apparent inability to influence events.

  Today’s debacle in Brandon could only make matters worse – the President needed some good news, and quickly.