The Trust Of The People

by Christopher Read

  Chapter 11 – Monday, October 31st

  The Koschei – 11:13 Local Time; 02:13 UTC

  Valeri Karenin walked slowly from one compartment to another, checking the boat from bow to stern. He made sure he spoke to every crewman, a task made easier by the fact that modern efficiencies had reduced the submarine’s Soviet-era complement from 58 down to just 44. Karenin was proud of each of them, the ageing boat a temperamental blend of old and new, and liable to produce some unexpected problem almost every day. Yet they were still managing to stay ahead of schedule, four thousand kilometres covered at an average speed of almost ten knots, each hour a nervous trip into the unknown as Karenin used every trick he knew to avoid detection.

  The Koschei was the submarine’s new name, something more fitting than its previous irrelevant and uninspiring number. Karenin had chosen the name himself, well aware of the similarities between the mythical Koschei and the submarine. Koschei was invariably portrayed as old and ugly, a predator who terrorised young women with his magic. Known as Koschei the Deathless, he could not be killed by normal means, his soul hidden elsewhere from his body.

  The Koschei was most definitely old and ugly. Built in the early 60’s, the diesel-electric attack submarine had served in the Soviet Union’s Northern Fleet before being decommissioned in 1992. Transferred to the Pacific Fleet, for thirty years it had continued as a training resource, steadily rusting away. Its brothers had been scrapped or sold, but someone in Moscow had decided Russia needed to keep a pair of the Project-633 submarines – if only as a curiosity. Now the Koschei was being given a second chance to complete the job it had originally been built for.

  Karenin felt a certain empathy with the Koschei: he too had been cast aside then offered an opportunity for redemption. Eleven men had died under his command in the Baltic, Karenin a convenient scapegoat for his superiors’ indecision. Removed from command, threatened with a court-martial, then left to kick his heels for a year – it had been a shock when Sukhov had offered him a new command. The ageing 633 had not been quite what Karenin had expected but he had worked hard to repay Sukhov’s trust. It had taken six months to get the submarine fit for the task ahead, where possible modern systems replacing the old. Then it was a week of sonar assessments, various subtle adjustments required to ensure the Koschei’s acoustic signature was within certain crucial limits.

  The brief six-day shake-down cruise in September had gone better than Karenin could have hoped, the hand-picked volunteer crew adapting well to the ancient Soviet systems. Fourteen million U.S. dollars was said to be the total outlay for the refit, little enough when compared to 360 million for the new Kilo-class. Not that Russia had apparently paid a cent, the cost borne by another, Russia merely supplying a defunct submarine, the facilities for its overhaul, and the necessary manpower.

  The most difficult part of the restoration had been the overpowering need for secrecy, the refit at the Zvezda shipyard east of Vladivostok hidden from the West by a mix of trickery and misdirection. Problems had also arisen as a result of the Koschei requiring various unique components for the two diesel-electric engines: long since obsolete, the parts had eventually been acquired from a variety of sources, primarily Bangladesh and Egypt.

  Such information had been for Karenin’s ears only, the Koschei being readied to play a crucial part in the confrontation ahead. The dangers were significant, the rewards – according to Sukhov – incalculable. The question as to whether fourteen million dollars was a bargain price or not would soon be answered, the Koschei ten days out of Vladivostok, the South China Sea a particularly dangerous environment for such an impossible clone.

  Manila, The Philippines – 14:40 Local Time; 06:40 UTC

  Louisa Marcelo stepped down off the stage, her security team creating a narrow corridor for her to pass through the crowd. Only a few thousand diehards remained, yet the atmosphere was still buzzing, the MC working hard to maintain the raucous round of chanting.

  The last few hours had undoubtedly been the high point of her career, Louisa in her element, the massive crowd generous in their appreciation of her campaign. The Government had tried to discourage her, a phone call from the Philippine President early that morning almost pleading for Louisa to tone down her demands: apparently, America was asking for more time to allow diplomacy to work its magic, the White House concerned by the frailty of the stock market and increasing internal woes. Not that Louisa had listened, and her speech two hours earlier was unlikely to have done anything to calm U.S. nerves.

  The world’s media was already giving her latest plan appropriate prominence, some claiming that at its height more than half a million had attended the mass rally in Rizal Park. Enthusiasm for her proposed replay of the Mischief Reef protest was widespread, a score of prominent speakers pledging their support, both personal and financial. It was a scene repeated in cities across the Philippines and Vietnam, upwards of sixty thousand gathering in Hanoi. An online appeal on behalf of Louisa’s campaign had been set up early that morning and in just six hours it had already managed to raise close to a million U.S. dollars.

  Now Louisa’s flotilla of twenty vessels would be replaced by more like two hundred, up to sixty expected to head east from Vietnam, maybe a handful more from Brunei and Malaysia. Louisa had even set a ridiculous target of a thousand ships, leading to the inevitable unkind comparisons with Helen of Troy. Louisa had happily joined in, stating that it certainly wouldn’t be her face that helped launch a thousand ships, more likely her big mouth.

  Louisa had no problem with being just one part of McDowell’s wider scheme. She had only once asked why he was willing to help and what he wanted in return – McDowell had simply shrugged, twisting her question around to ask her whether she was prepared to see China control every island and every sea route to the north and west of Manila.

  McDowell and his associates offered planning, finance, resources, logistics, training and intelligence – basically everything she needed. He would have had her speeches written for her if she’d asked.

  Louisa wanted so much to believe he could truly help, and while she had doubts it had seemed too good an opportunity to ignore, a final chance to halt China’s expansion. Her major concern was the prevarication of America, its commitment to the Filipino people always assumed. It was true that the U.S. had helped the Philippines against Islamist terror groups, but the Mutual Defence treaty signed in 1951 had never really been tested.

  The protest outside Mischief Reef had always been unpredictable, and Louisa was still shocked by China’s over-reaction, expecting a soaking and a few sore heads. Whatever China’s response, retaliation against the Chinese occupiers had always been part of McDowell’s plan, the specific details kept secret.

  Louisa had never heard of Allan Valdez until earlier that morning, and if she’d known beforehand that there was to be a terrorist attack, with people murdered, then she probably would have vetoed the idea. But now everything had changed. Valdez had shown what was possible and it was time to see the real value of America’s commitment. With like-minded activists in Vietnam and the south ignoring their prejudices and rallying to Louisa’s cause, a thousand ships was not so outrageous a target.

  In reality, she would happily settle for a tenth that number. She wanted it to be a peaceful protest but knew that was practically impossible; China had shown how far it was prepared to go and both sides now had too much to lose to back down.

  Well, she planned a surprise or two for the Chinese, unwilling to let them drive her away for a second time. No-one wanted a blood-bath but victory rarely came without a certain sacrifice.

  Yaroslavl Oblast, Russia – 13:50 Local Time; 10:50 UTC

  Markova would have quite liked the old-fashioned method of wall map and pins, it seeming more dramatic than small red markers on a computer screen. Just five of the eight cell phones used, twenty-two markers duly placed, each of the five groups telling its own unique story, the individual separation of the markers varying from just
fifty metres to some sixty kilometres. The various phone calls had all involved long strings of data, the encryption so far proving impossible to break.

  For two of the phones, the identity of the user was again easy enough to confirm from its various – and now more exact – locations: Evgeny Sukhov in the Kremlin, Louisa Marcelo in and around Manila. The third phone moved from Maryland to Virginia: Markova still assumed that was most likely Pat McDowell, although she had no way of being certain.

  The remaining two groupings were impossible to link to a specific person. One consisted of calls to and from Russia’s Pacific Fleet Headquarters at Vladivostok, opening up a range of possibilities, from a lowly Lieutenant to the Fleet Admiral. The second cluster moved here and there, loosely centred on the city of Khabarovsk, with no obvious clue as the person’s identity. The Sukhov-Khabarovsk phone link was the most popular, having been used five times in forty hours, the amount of data flowing back and forth far more significant than with any of the other groupings.

  The call schedule still seemed random even though it obviously wasn’t, and presumably some part of the data string detailed the next time slot. A six character code was always sent first to check the other phone was able to receive, thereby ensuring the main set of data was not left sitting on a server somewhere.

  Each success was greeted with a nod of appreciation from the GRU’s young lieutenant, and the rest of the team now seemed happy to accept Markova as one of their own. Belinsky in particular had been delighted with progress and the previous evening he had pointedly unlocked Markova’s ankle bracelet, compliments of General Morozov. The Lieutenant had even plundered a bottle of champagne from the dacha’s wine cellar to celebrate. While she might not have given Morozov exactly what he was after, they were definitely getting closer.

  With Markova’s new status had come certain benefits, the use of a computer being the main one, albeit with data upload disabled. Now at least she had access to a detailed map, sunset times and weather forecasts, able to reshape her escape plan just in case.

  Not that escape was now the priority it had once been, and the afternoon session was certainly a fairly relaxed affair. There was little the team could do other than be patient while waiting for the next call to be made, the GRU’s satellite network doing all of the hard work. Personally, Markova was keen to pursue a possible connection between the symposium at Wilhelmshaven and Russia’s Pacific Fleet, pushing for the GRU to focus more directly on all calls to and from the Fleet’s two submarine bases.

  Then, without warning, everything changed. The satellite link with GRU Headquarters at Khodynka was abruptly blocked, the back-up options of landline and cell phone merely resulting in a line busy signal.

  Belinsky hovered close to a console, ready to delete all data but unsure whether it was a specific attack against them or something more widespread. Minutes later, the dacha was formally put on lock-down, the GRU guards protecting the perimeter, Belinsky put in charge of the house’s defence. Including the permanent staff, that gave the Lieutenant ten defenders in total, their weapons mostly handguns. It was then sit and wait, everyone hoping not to hear the rattle of gunfire or the squawk of the alarm.

  Markova was similarly concerned, and if the house was about to be attacked, then she wasn’t prepared to wait around and get caught by someone else. She had held fire on her escape plan, wanting to see where the phone intercepts would lead, but again it seemed as if she had dallied for far too long.

  Khodynka, Russia – 15:47 Local Time; 12:47 UTC

  Nikolai reversed into a space on Grizodubovoy Street, the car facing south and allowing him a good view of the GRU’s Moscow Headquarters. He had driven past a minute earlier on his way for a joint delivery and collection, then some sixth-sense had warned him to keep driving – if not a sixth-sense then maybe it had been the two black vans parked further along the road, matching those stationed around the corner.

  Nikolai had immediately reported his concerns to the Lubyanka, but despite being ordered to head straight back, he had remained where he was, idle curiosity proving as difficult to ignore as his various senses. If nothing else, it promised to provide a certain amount of perverse entertainment and give Nikolai something to talk about over a beer or two. He guessed that someone high-up in Military Intelligence was about to be arrested, the President no doubt reacting to the recent street protests; maybe the Khodynka HQ was even deserving of a similar purge to that inflicted upon the Lubyanka.

  The Lubyanka itself had become a nervous amalgam of conflicting loyalties, some rather more open in their support of General Morozov. For the majority of staff, it was all an irrelevancy and they merely followed the orders of their section chief, not knowing – or perhaps even caring – which faction he or she supported. The split in the GRU was far easier to work with: Khodynka loyal to Morozov, the rest of the GRU loyal to Golubeva.

  Although sunset was still an hour away, the Khodynka building was a blaze of light, the northern façade all glass and concrete. Built in 2006, the HQ included the essential extras of shooting range, fitness centre and swimming pool, the total cost close to ten billion roubles. The FSB was definitely the poor relative, the Lubyanka cramped and ageing, a few billion roubles needed just to stop certain parts of it falling down.

  Nikolai’s earpiece abruptly crackled with static, an odd word heard, the rest distorted, and he was about to ask for the message to be repeated when the lights across the road flickered into darkness. Nikolai stared at the building in confusion: if the main power was cut, the HQ had its own back-up supply which should have kicked-in within seconds. Other buildings had lights showing, and the traffic-lights further along the road were still working.

  Nikolai was back on his radio but all he got was more static. Something made him glance right – the rear doors of the two vans were now open, black-suited figures armed with assault rifles bursting out to race across the street and up over the outer fence. High above them, what looked to be muzzle flashes lit up the windows on the building’s upper floors. Within seconds, there was the steady drone of several helicopters and four swept in low from the north to hover above the HQ, a score or more spetsnaz abseiling down onto the flat roof.

  The gunfire intensified, an explosion on the fifth floor blasting out through the double set of windows. The ground units were now moving on past the inner protective fence, rapidly working their way round to the side entrance. This wasn’t just an external attack and the first shots had come from inside the HQ, some faction or general choosing to throw in their lot with Golubeva before it was too late. General Morozov was losing allies by the minute, and his own position looked to be rather more tenuous than even an hour ago.

  The strident wail of a siren split the air and Nikolai took it as his cue to depart, concerned that he was seriously in danger of outstaying his welcome. Not that he quite knew where to go, the Lubyanka certainly not exactly the safe haven it used to be.

  Yaroslavl Oblast, Russia – 16:25 Local Time; 13:25 UTC

  The data centre was now empty apart from Markova and Belinsky, the Russia 24 news channel revealing a more likely reason for the communications’ blackout. Armed troops were once more on Moscow’s streets, apparently heading towards the Kremlin and other government buildings. Live feeds from outside the State Duma and the Russian White House, showed a city rapidly emptying of traffic and bystanders, everyone fearful that the troops’ weapons weren’t just for show.

  It had all the signs of a play for power, possibly a response to the recent protests. Whether it was led by Morozov or against him was unclear and Belinsky’s concern was obvious, the Lieutenant nervously going from one console to another, hoping the systems would miraculously come back online.

  The General’s main power base was at Voronezh, 500 kilometres south of Moscow, home to the 20th Guards Army Group; but if it were his forces in Moscow, then they were more likely to be from the GRU’s spetsnaz brigades. In any event, there was nothing Belinsky could do until the situa
tion was resolved, one way or another.

  Minutes later, the television centre at Ostankino suddenly shut down, all transmissions ceasing. Belinsky instantly switched channels to CNN but their Moscow reporter knew very little, the station merely repeating a video clip of black-uniformed troops taking up positions around the Kremlin. Special Forces definitely but whether Army, Airborne, GRU or National Guard, was proving impossible to determine.

  “What do you intend to do, Major?”

  Markova dragged her attention away from the TV, momentarily surprised by Belinsky’s use of her rank.

  “Do? About what?”

  “This is not General Morozov’s handiwork; we may be a good distance from Moscow but Golubeva would be foolish to leave us alone.”

  Markova shrugged, “Escape, or fight if I have to. It’s not exactly a free choice.”

  Belinsky gave a rueful smile, “None of us have ever fired a weapon in anger; once the attackers get through the perimeter, nervous hands armed with pistols won’t be much of a match against spetsnaz with assault rifles.”

  He placed a cell phone and Glock pistol onto the desk beside him and slid them towards Markova. “You might need these, Major. Unless the spetsnaz risk fording the river, they’ll come in from the north and east. If you can make it to the tree line, you might just stand a chance.”

  “If you fight, they’ll kill you all,” Markova said quietly. “Is it really worth it?”

  “They’ll probably kill us even if we surrender; we all know too much. Personally, I’d rather try and take some of them with me.”

  “I could order you to surrender, or to try and escape.”

  “Then, regretfully, Major, I would have to disobey your orders. As least here we have a small chance – outside we wouldn’t last more than a couple of minutes.”

  Markova nodded her understanding, although she sensed Belinsky was underestimating his own abilities – or perhaps he was just being a good leader. She did agree that if the blackout was at Golubeva’s instigation then it made sense not to leave the data centre untouched, but there was no guarantee it would be today. Unless, of course, the President had learnt of the challenge General Morozov had set them.

  As if on cue, the high-pitched alarm sounded out its warning. Belinsky reacted even faster than Markova, sliding his chair across to a console to begin the data deletion protocol, needing little more than a minute to eradicate everything without any possibility of retrieval.

  Markova’s sole concern was her personal survival and no-one tried to stop her as she raced upstairs to her room. From outside came the sporadic rattle of gunfire, Markova still not certain whether the attackers were actually friend or foe.

  The house was aligned parallel to the Volga, facing north-east away from the river. The view from her window was of a long drive sweeping down through a grassy bank; no sign of masked attackers, just sporadic muzzle flashes away to her left. The GRU guards certainly hadn’t been overwhelmed, so maybe two dozen attackers at most. If it was an FSB rescue mission, then they should have definitely tried something more subtle.

  Markova’s escape plan had assumed she would be able to pick a suitable time and then gain at least an hour’s head start. Now she had maybe a couple of minutes before the spetsnaz smashed down the front door – an easy getaway somehow didn’t seem very likely and previously rejected escape options suddenly leapt to the fore.

  Decision made, she ransacked her hoard, grabbing just a few basic items. After throwing on a thick coat, she thundered back down the stairs, almost crashing into Belinsky.

  “You have five minutes, Major, no more. I wish you luck.” He strode away, gun held ready, looking more determined than apprehensive.

  Markova had no time for indecision or regrets, the sound of gunfire now louder and more insistent. From the back window the manicured lawn and garden area looked peaceful enough, a light frost covering the grass. It was sixty or so metres to the line of trees, then maybe another hundred through a close-knit band of conifers to the river’s edge. The sky was already gaining a red tinge, sunset little more than a half-hour away. And with the overnight forecast a chilly -2°C, her coat was essential if she didn’t want to risk hypothermia – it just wasn’t ideal for a dangerous sprint.

  An elderly man in the uniform of a corporal stood by the back door, Markova doing a double-take to realise the soldier’s usual role was that of gardener. He seemed unsurprised to see her, presumably having been pre-warned by Belinsky.

  The corporal eased open the back door; a brief nod, then he unexpectedly stepped out into the open, facing right, gun held ready.

  Markova took a deep breath then she charged towards the tree line, the corporal losing off two rounds as a distraction.

  Markova had time to worry that the corporal was acting more as an early-warning beacon when she sensed a bullet zip past, a shiver of air lightly touching her face. Moments later there was the gentlest of tugs at the right arm of her coat; then she was in the trees, plunging forward, desperate to get ever deeper.

  She glanced back, but there was no sign of the corporal and she immediately angled north, still heading towards the river. The bullet that had tugged at her coat had made a big tear, but there was no pain and no sign of blood on her sleeve.

  Markova was well aware that she stood little chance of escape, and her body heat would be easy enough to track for well-equipped followers. But maybe they wouldn’t be that bothered about one lone escapee, their priority presumably the house and the computer data.

  It was that vain hope that spurred Markova on. Reaching the river’s edge, she crouched down beside a tree. The sound of gunfire was now intermittent, the attackers work almost done.

  It was getting darker, but that would make things far more difficult for her, Markova now risking a twisted ankle or a tumble down the bank. With Special Forces arrayed against her, she had but one chance – the River Volga. She had once dismissed it as an impossible challenge; hopefully, the attackers would do the same.

  Yet the thought of attempting it terrified her, and she tried to reason out a better, safer, alternative. Maybe the attackers hadn’t been sent by Golubeva, and she should just sit tight until they rescued her. Even if they were the enemy, why not just hide or head north-west…

  From far off, Markova heard a shouted command. Dusk was creeping closer, and if she left it too late, the Volga was definitely a suicide mission. Not that anything was certain: the current didn’t look too bad, but the water temperature could only be a few degrees above freezing, and could she really swim that far?

  She forced her unwilling body down the bank, thinking back to one specific training exercise and what they had all been told: immerse your face slowly to minimise the shock, clothes will trap air and aid buoyancy, thirty minutes maximum before exhaustion leads to unconsciousness….

  Clothes might trap air but she needed them to stay dry. Already shivering, she stripped off: uniform, underwear and shoes placed into a thick plastic sack, along with chocolate, lighter, phone and ID. The resultant bundle was in turn placed into a second sack, air added for buoyancy. With hands turning blue, she tied a length of garden twine around her waist, leaving a good metre before attaching the other end to the plastic sack.

  The coat was too big and she tried to bundle it in such a way that it too would trap air. She was already frozen to the bone and everything was taking far longer than she’d hoped; the gun suddenly became another unexpected problem – too heavy to take but essential for her future survival.

  She let it slide into the river, more concerned by the next few minutes than what might happen in an hour or more. Carefully she edged down into the water, keeping her breathing controlled, not thinking about how far she would need to swim. The ground was still solid beneath her feet, but the cold was like a vice, climbing ever higher, Markova letting out a gasp as the water reached between her legs. Angrily she leant forward, letting her face feel the Volga’s icy embrace.

  She was a capable
swimmer: six hundred yards – a metre a second didn’t seem an unreasonable target. Ten minutes it should take, fifteen at most – well inside the thirty minute limit.

  Markova gave herself a count of ten to acclimatise, feeling her ribcage contract, her pulse rate rise. Then she pushed off towards the far bank, it still visible despite the encroaching darkness.

  It wasn’t as bad as she had feared, and she used a gentle breast stroke to minimise noise, arms and legs feeling constricted because of the cold. Having both plastic sack and coat proved a problem and she finally abandoned the useless coat to the depths.

  Silently, Markova started counting each stroke, promising herself a short break after every hundred, slightly increasing her pace, breathing deeply. The current finally began to drag at her body, pulling her to the right; she didn’t fight it, not bothered where she would reach the other bank, just as long she actually did.

  The loudest noise was her breathing, it becoming more like a set of rapid gasps. Her skin felt like it was burning, the vice now extending to grasp her neck and head, weighing her down, her arms already aching with the strain.

  “Three hundred,” she muttered, not sure whether it was correct or not, worried that she had lost count somewhere. What did it matter? Keep going.

  She started the count again, ignoring muscles that seemed unable to work properly. All she could see was water, and she forced her head up, catching sight of a dark shape that loomed far off – it had to be the western bank.

  She changed rhythm, swapping to a sidestroke, plastic bag still bobbing up beside her. Now with a slight twist of her head, she could see the eastern bank, the current even stronger now, Markova moving far faster sideways than ahead.

  Time was so difficult to judge – five minutes, ten maybe. Was she yet even halfway? She had to be halfway…

  Sensing the panic starting to well up, Markova used her reserves and upped both power and pace, aiming across the current and setting another hundred strokes as a target.

  A hundred came and went; now the target was just a paltry fifty. The current seemed to be less strong, giving her hope, but there was scarcely any light, Markova swimming though a cold black ink of despair, desperate to reach safety. And she was so cold; it was almost all she could think about, her arms and legs moving more slowly, barely responding to her need to keep going.

  The target of fifty seemed unreachable, but at forty she told her body to do forty more: it wasn’t too much to ask – surely Markova could manage a meagre forty.

  Now it was just keep going; no stupid target, kick out with the legs, pull with the arms; kick, kick, kick…

  Her arms were barely moving, and then her left hand hit something hard. Markova tried standing, her knees making solid contact. A last desperate surge of adrenalin and she struggled the last few metres up out of the river and onto the bank, dragging the plastic sack behind her.

  Her body wanted to rest, but if she just lay there she would die. She needed somehow to get dry and warm. Her clothes might still be dry but if she put them on, they’d be frozen solid by morning. Markova didn’t care what alternative covering she used: undergrowth, branches, leaves – anything to provide some insulation against the bitter cold.

  A fire was still too much of risk and it would certainly undo all of her efforts, giving a clear signal to any watchers that she really had managed to achieve the impossible.