The Trust Of The People

by Christopher Read

  Chapter 14 – Thursday, November 3rd

  South China Sea –11:17 Local Time; 03:17 UTC

  Louisa Marcelo’s strategy was based in part on the early success of Saturday and the armada was stretched out over some two hundred metres, the long line of vessels trying to keep station as they cruised slowly towards the target of Mischief Reef. The flagship was still the power catamaran, its owner more concerned by public contempt if he pulled out of the protest than fear of further damage.

  Unlike Saturday, one line had become several, with the larger craft to the front. The total number of vessels had also crept up over the one-twenty mark, a handful having voyaged directly to the reef. An emergency medical unit had even been set up on a ship chartered through the online fund, two doctors and seven nurses freely giving of their expertise and time. The weather was still good, although a breeze gusted from the north, the forecast promising rain showers before evening.

  Arrayed against them were just eight Chinese ships: three Coastguard patrol boats backed up by four RHIBs, and in addition something rather more potent. The Chinese frigate dwarfed its companions, the pennant number 563 emblazoned boldly across its bow. Rumour had it that the officer responsible for Mischief Reef’s earlier defence had been replaced, with Beijing apparently ‘disappointed’ as to how the whole matter had been handled. Somehow, the addition of a modern warship to the mix didn’t seem to suggest the new man in charge would be any less confrontational.

  Allan Valdez stood at the bow of a thirty metre dive vessel, watching carefully for an indication of China’s tactics. His cousin Joseph waited in the wheelhouse, their two Vietnamese associates aboard a small multi-purpose ship. Both vessels were in the front of the allied line but on opposite sides of Marcelo, each roughly ten boats away. The two boats had been chartered the previous day and the crews knew nothing of their passengers’ history, the promise of a healthy bonus sufficient to stop them from asking impertinent questions.

  Hovering above the armada were at least four drones, Valdez unsure whether they were for TV or military use, allied or Chinese. Definitely Chinese were the two helicopters flying to the north-west, the Coastguard readying itself for Marcelo’s renewed assault.

  As the two opposing lines moved closer, one of the helicopters headed towards the armada, flying low along the joint Philippine and Vietnamese lines as if assessing their strengths and weaknesses. Reaching the final ship, it traversed back along the front line, the expected verbal warnings sounding out from a loudspeaker.

  Both sides knew it was a pointless gesture, the Chinese merely ensuring that they had followed the appropriate convention. The armada kept moving at a steady six knots, heading directly towards the reef some three kilometres distant.

  The frigate was keeping station a little behind the other Chinese ships, the RHIBs to the front. Valdez couldn’t see how they could stop the armada without deadly force – water cannon and using the ships as battering rams might halt a few but dozens more would still break through.

  The four RHIBs started to buzz around more authoritatively, angling towards the centre of the armada. The patrol boats also edged forward, the helicopters heading towards the outer edges.

  Valdez waited impatiently for Marcelo to react; she left it a few more seconds and then with a wave of her arms signalled the armada’s response. Dozens of laser pens were instantly directed at each helicopter, more at the RHIBs. The effect on the helicopters was minimal, the RHIBs more dramatic. All four were distracted, two turning sharply away.

  The helicopters moved down the front line trailing what looked like white smoke. Valdez instinctively realised what it was, desperately grabbing his bottle of water and splashing it onto his shirt, before clutching the wet cotton to his eyes and mouth, trying to protect himself.

  The taste and smell of the tear-gas hit him first, then the burning sensation attacked his eyes. Valdez’s precautions saved him from the worst effects; what he couldn’t understand was why his ears were suddenly bombarded by a high-pitched screech, his head threatening to explode. He found himself kneeling on the deck, shirt clasped over his face, unable to move, wanting to scream yet barely able to breathe.

  The front line of the allied armada was being attacked by tear gas and sound cannon. Several vessels were effectively no longer under command, crewmen unable to see, others reacting like Valdez and incapable of thinking let alone piloting a boat. Some ships turned to go back, others accelerated, their crews trying to escape the clinging gas cloud and the shrieking inside their heads.

  With the ships so close together and the rest of the armada closing up, collisions were inevitable. A dozen or more clashed together, each in turn adding to the chaos, the discrete and well-organised lines now one single churning mass of confusion.

  It was a close call, but the sheer size of the armada together with the increasing breeze made the difference between disaster and salvation. The two helicopters were proving more effective as delivery vehicles than the RHIBs and patrol boats, but they had very limited supplies of tear gas. The choking clouds would work on a small area for a couple of minutes but then rapidly disperse, drifting south and giving the armada time to recover and reorganise. The sound guns were similarly only effective for a limited time, crews quickly coming up with ways to protect themselves; in response, the operators quickly flipped from one craft to another, picking on exposed individuals in the hope that some of the ships would choose to turn back.

  Valdez forced himself upright, wiping away the tears, his ears still ringing. The dive vessel had continued towards the reef, the captain’s natural instinct to reduce speed rather than to try and turn. The RHIBs appeared to have retreated, leaving it to the patrol boats and their sound cannons to pick off any boat that refused to withdraw.

  But there were just too many for the Chinese to target. The armada had spread out, some boats retreating, others disabled; yet the overwhelming majority had made it through, closing up on the three Coastguard ships and the frigate.

  Valdez almost hoped the water cannon would be next, wanting to wash the clinging tear gas from his body. He judged that less than twenty boats had turned tail or been put out of action, the rest attempting to keep station abreast and behind Marcelo’s catamaran.

  Fifty metres from the three patrol boats the water cannon were finally brought into play, picking on any vessel within range and managing to force some aside. The middle boat focused its full attention on the catamaran, the smaller vessel shrouded in spray, water sloshing down from the bridge. To Valdez, it looked as though it was close to capsizing, a cluster of other boats around it, attempting to somehow protect Marcelo and her crew.

  A helicopter swept in once more, revealing yet another non-lethal weapon in the Chinese armoury, a more powerful version of the armada’s laser pens. The dazzle gun’s role was to temporarily blind its victim, the operator picking out key individuals in order to create the most mayhem. A helicopter wasn’t the best platform but the green laser was still an effective weapon, just not ideal for a large number of potential targets.

  The catamaran somehow made it past the three Coastguard ships as did the dive vessel, Valdez ordering the captain to move closer to Marcelo. The drones had the best view, images sent via satellite to the world’s news media, the armada’s vessels seen swarming past the patrol boats like cavalry flowing around an infantry square.

  Now there was just the frigate. The Coastguard ships were trying to turn back but for once they appeared wary of smashing through the surrounding allied craft.

  There was a puff of smoke from a launcher on the frigate’s deck, Valdez hearing the loud whoosh a brief moment later. He waited, unsure quite what to expect, then there was deafening explosion over his head, Valdez buffeted by the aftershock.

  More blasts, far more powerful than a firework. Valdez didn’t know if it was chaff or something specifically designed as an anti-piracy weapon but it was fairly dramatic. To anyone who had been under fire it was a feeble reminder of the
real thing, but to the civilian crews of the armada it would be a lesson in what might well be next.

  Valdez could actually see Louisa Marcelo standing on the catamaran’s bridge, the boat looking a badly battered version of its former self; no more than two dozen vessels bravely followed Marcelo’s lead, one at least with a TV crew aboard, a single drone hovering high overhead. Mischief Reef was a little over a kilometre away, a dredger and several buildings easily visible.

  The helicopters were now keeping well away, the Chinese RHIBs returning to try and drive off the persistent and the foolish. Two of them headed towards Marcelo, six marines in each boat. The tear gas option seemed to have been abandoned for the time being, Valdez assuming they were going to try and batter the catamaran aside.

  Valdez glanced towards the dive boat’s wheelhouse, gesturing at his cousin. They had been silent observers for far too long – it was time to show that the allied armada did actually have some teeth. The boat’s captain knew what to do and the dive vessel manoeuvred closer to the catamaran, the Vietnamese matching them on the other side.

  Joseph moved to stand beside Valdez, carefully placing a heavy sports-bag down on to the deck. Valdez reached inside to select two small objects, the bag containing anything that might just be useful, from smoke grenades to handguns; it was never his intention to turn it into a suicide mission but nor was he willing to let the Chinese win every battle.

  As one of the RHIBs reached the catamaran’s port side, a marine made a grab for the guard rail, managing to pull himself aboard. A second marine joined him and the two men started to work their way round to the stern, neither looking to be armed with anything other than a handgun.

  The dive vessel thudded into the RHIB. Valdez nodded to Joseph and his cousin pulled the pin from the grenade, before deftly lobbing it into the boat. The captain immediately threw the vessel into reverse, pre-warned that he would have but a few seconds.

  Valdez and Joseph cowered down, fearing that their actions would be misinterpreted – after all, throwing a grenade into a boat half-full of marines wasn’t likely to win you many friends. Except it wasn’t a fragmentation grenade designed to kill and mutilate: this was a stingball, a non-lethal explosive device which ejected scores of small rubber balls. Sometimes referred to as a hornet’s nest, it was used for riot control in prisons and by U.S. SWAT units; Valdez’s hope was that the rubber balls would be traveling fast enough to puncture some of the RHIB’s six inflatable tubes.

  The grenade went off with a loud crack, followed an instant later by cries of pain. Valdez raised his head, smoke momentarily obscuring his view. The stingball had done all he had asked of it: two of the four marines in the boat had been knocked overboard, the others still standing but obviously in shock; a good few of the hard rubber balls had ripped through the RHIB’s inflatable collar and it was already settling lower in the water.

  Valdez gestured towards the dive boat’s wheelhouse wanting the captain to move back in. The disorientation and pain caused by the stingball was supposedly only temporary and the two marines on the catamaran had now reached the bridge. On the opposite side, the two Vietnamese attacked the second RHIB, but having seen – or heard – some of what had happened to their colleagues, the marines’ response was more forceful. Above the cacophony of multiple engines and outraged cries, came the sound of gunfire – three shots.

  Valdez couldn’t see what has happening but he could guess: a shouted command to Joseph and the handguns were ripped from the sports bag, Valdez determined to help Marcelo.

  Others too reacted to the marines’ use of deadly force, and the catamaran became the main focus for the remaining allied boats. As they began to crowd round, a helicopter and patrol boat moved closer, the catamaran like some giant magnet dragging in everything towards it.

  Valdez clambered on board, sensing Joseph was firing at someone or something. He swung himself up onto the bridge deck to see Marcelo struggling with a marine, a second man at the wheel trying to steer the catamaran away from the encircling craft, both marines facing away from Valdez. The catamaran’s captain lay motionless on the deck, blood oozing from a wound near his left eye.

  Valdez stepped forward and smashed the handgun backhanded across the second marine’s head, the man dropping instantly. Marcelo’s assailant turned at the sound, releasing Marcelo and instinctively reaching for his gun.

  Valdez shook his head in admonition and the marine froze, gaze moving slowly up from Valdez’s gun, body tensing for a bullet.

  It was the marine’s lucky day, Valdez ignoring his training in order to show the world the nature of Filipino restraint. Gun held to the marine’s spine, he pushed the man in front of him, the two of them standing looking out at a scene of utter chaos. The catamaran was surrounded by boats on all sides and amidst the babble of noise and confusion people were fighting hand-to-hand, their different clothing the only way to tell friend from foe.

  Abruptly, there was the boom of a far-off foghorn, and in an instant the sound was taken up by other vessels, the air reverberating with discordant cries. Valdez’s ears were blasted with noise as the dive vessel joined in, some people cheering, broad smiles replacing the scowls as the boats began to disengage.

  The Chinese seemed to understand that it was all over, if not knowing quite why. Valdez lowered his gun and gestured at the marine to help his injured compatriot. He looked around, moving from the sight of the two dead Vietnamese to try and find his cousin.

  Joseph lay on the dive vessel’s deck, face down. As Valdez stumbled towards him, terrified that he too had been shot, Joseph struggled to his knees, eyes streaming, the helicopter’s dazzle gun having been used to good effect.

  To the north-west, a wooden fishing boat and a battered utility vessel headed back from the reef, a large Philippine flag draped across the fishing boat’s bow. Minutes earlier, the flag had been held high by a young woman as she stood ankle deep on Mischief Reef, posing for photographs. She had even managed to smile, inwardly terrified that the Chinese troops slipping and splashing their way towards her would arrive before she was safely back on board.

  The armada had successfully landed one person and one flag – for Marcelo, and maybe even Valdez, it was enough for now.

  Eastern United States – 10:25 Local Time; 14:25 UTC

  Charlottesville’s offering of Thomas Jefferson's home had been a relaxed finale to their Wednesday outing and Thursday’s agenda was consequently down to Anderson, the search for McDowell temporarily on hold.

  This time Anderson drove, and for a good part of the forty mile trip to Arlington, his attention was focused rather more than normal on exactly what vehicles were behind them. The previous day both of them had had the same nagging concern that they were being followed, a shared sixth-sense that needed to be fully tested. Anderson assumed it was most likely his usual paranoia, modern technology rather negating the need for something as old-fashioned as a tail, and there was certainly nothing obvious to confirm their fears.

  Arlington National Cemetery proved to be everything he’d expected of it, and so much more, the hours of walking still not revealing all of its secrets. The stunning views somehow added to the poignancy of the whole experience, the changing of the guard such a simple but moving ceremony.

  The journey back to Leesburg was relatively sombre, the mood lightening once they reached the Inn. As Charlotte got ready for dinner, Anderson followed his usual pointless ritual of checking what Charlotte irreverently referred to as ‘the Berlin phone’.

  For the first time since his trip to Germany, there was actually a text: as before, the instructions were minimal, the sender obviously having watched too many B-movies.

  Anderson stared at the message in confusion, wondering what on earth he ought to do next, and how he could explain it all to Charlotte. Virginia was supposed to be a relaxing holiday and in retrospect it had been stupid to bring the phone. Not that it would have made any difference – the Russians obviously knew exactly where Anderson
was and would have doubtless found some other way to contact him.

  For some very odd reason, the thought of meeting a Russian spy in the heart of America was a lot more worrying that meeting one in Berlin. Basically, it was the usual Anderson dilemma – behave like a proper investigative journalist and investigate, or ignore it and let someone else take the risks and get all the credit.

  Whoever the call was from, they seemed quite happy to feed him one clue at a time, and they obviously knew Anderson particularly well, fully aware he could never refuse a challenge.