The Will Of The People (Conspiracy Trilogy Book 1) (37 page)

The one aspect that still intrigued Rebane had as much to do
with his own naiveté as any concerns about the identity of his
employers. Once others had put their faith in him, Rebane had not
bothered to question their motives, focusing all of his efforts
into the evolution of Erdenheim and
August
14
. Was it arrogance or mere convenience
that had made him assume he was working for some East European
coalition? Why not Chinese, or Chechen? It was even possible that
he was helping a conspiracy of Russian generals, his strategy by
default creating the perfect environment for a military coup. The
name August 14 had been suggested to him, but that by itself meant
nothing.

It was at such
times that you learnt a lot about yourself, and it had come as
something of a shock to Rebane to discover that whatever the
motives or nationality of his sponsors, then he didn’t particularly
care. The torment of his youth and the need for revenge were
suddenly and strangely irrelevant. It was enough that whoever they
were, whatever their reasons, they had given him the opportunity to
prove that one man – albeit with a modicum of help – could bring
down a former superpower.

With a sigh of
contentment, Rebane stood up and switched off the CD. It was only
then that he realised the building seemed unnaturally quiet, no
voices, none of the usual background sounds from the floor
above.

He walked out
into the entrance foyer and strode up the stairs. The multiple
screens in the computer centre still silently displayed their
various data-streams and news feeds, but such crucial information
was being ignored, the lone figure of McDowell sitting beside one
of the consoles, drinking a beer.

Rebane was
merely confused, “Where’s Carter?”

“Gone,”
McDowell said pleasantly. “Along with some of the others.”

“Gone? Gone
where?” Rebane asked, still not understanding.

“East Midlands
Airport mostly. A couple weren’t happy to leave, so I granted them
their wish; sadly, they’re in no fit state to join us.”

Rebane stood
as if transfixed, gaze wandering slowly across the main monitor
screen then back to McDowell. “You killed them,” he said
finally.

“That’s right,
Marty. Erdenheim is now officially off-line. In a short while it
will also be obliterated from existence.” He gave a sad frown, “I
will miss it, but orders are orders, and it’s not for the likes of
me to judge what is best.”

Rebane glared
angrily at the American, someone he had once thought was a friend,
“Whose orders? Klaudia Woroniecki? We’re so close to total success,
it’s foolish to end it now! A few more days, a week at most; that’s
all we need!”

“Sadly, your
agenda and that of our employers has never quite matched. They
appreciate what you’ve done but it’s time to move on.” McDowell
reached beside him to grasp a snub-nosed Beretta, pointing the
pistol lazily at Rebane. “Sorry, Marty; it’s nothing personal.”

Rebane stood
silent, the shock of what McDowell was about to do slowly
registering. Even then, he almost managed to convince himself it
was some sort of sick McDowell joke until reality prompted the
survival instinct to kick in, his body readying itself to fight or
flee.

Rebane was
barely halfway to McDowell when the first bullet exploded into his
chest, joined an instant later by a second. He collapsed to the
floor, a final anguished cry frozen forever on his lips.

* * *

McDowell mentally went through his checklist for one final
time, knowing the importance of his ten minute video and the
computer evidence. The multitude of computer simulations and
hacking tools had been downloaded over the course of the afternoon,
thus ensuring he had the most up-to-date versions and in any case
Carter was still on the payroll, presently awaiting a flight to
Portugal. The surviving members of Rebane’s team had seen at
first-hand the penalty for ignoring McDowell’s instructions, and
were similarly on their way to destinations unknown. It was hardly
in their own interests to reveal what they knew about Erdenheim
and
August 14
.
Not that it would matter anyway: to them, Rebane
was August 14
and that
version of the truth would do for now. And without Rebane, without
Erdenheim,
August 14
was effectively without leadership, intelligence or even its
most effective weapon.

The video was
a simple and convenient means to show what Erdenheim represented,
the camera’s focus being almost entirely on the computer centre and
its range of resources. The three bodies would also help explain
that such information hadn’t come easily. McDowell played back the
video twice, looking for any reflected images or errors that might
reveal who was behind the camera. He appreciated such precautions
were probably unnecessary, and the recipients of all his hard work
would doubtless carry out their own more thorough checks, but he
prided himself on getting things right – after all, that was the
prime reason he was being paid so handsomely.

It was late
afternoon by the time McDowell left the Management Centre, his
seven month tenure finally at an end. He deliberately chose not to
look back, Erdenheim being relegated to some previous existence,
the memories filed away without the need or even the desire to
reminisce.

McDowell’s car
had just turned onto the Graythorp road heading north, when the
first explosion shattered the silence, the windows of Erdenheim’s
upper floor bursting outwards, a smoky halo rising up from the
roof. Three seconds later, a second more massive explosion tore
through the ground floor, the building shivering in anguish as
flames and smoke quickly hid it from view.

The
Gepard
angled gently upwards, passing through thirty metres. The
time slot for their regular call to Fleet HQ was almost over,
Karenin delaying the moment for as long as he dared. Each new
report was now made on the assumption it would end with Karenin’s
immediate recall to St. Petersburg, followed eventually by some
formal reprimand for over-stepping his authority in attacking
the
John Finn
.
Not that he had any regrets, and he would say as much at his
court-martial. Perhaps he was being overly pessimistic, and so far
there had been no official comment on his actions, neither
condemnation nor praise; however, his superiors had now had well
over a day to determine their response, and political necessity
would surely influence Karenin’s fate.

The crew of the
Gepard
had informally expressed their opinion on the
matter, and the attack on the USS
John
Finn
had seemingly met with almost
universal approval: basically, the Americans only had themselves to
blame for trying to beat the blockade, and Karenin had had little
choice. The crew’s brush with death was somehow reflected in the
way each man went about his duties, a subtle mix of self-belief and
pride endorsing their every action.

“Conn, Sonar.
Faint contact; bearing zero-five-two. Signal too distorted for
classification; probable submarine – designate Wolf-One. Range and
course unknown.”

“Ahead slow; steady on course zero-two-zero.” Karenin was
content to watch and wait. One disadvantage of a nuclear submarine
was that coolant needed to be pumped continuously to keep the
reactor from overheating. The
Gepard
’s designers had done much to
subdue such unwanted sounds, but it was impossible to deaden them
altogether, and Karenin was not so foolish as to assume the other
boat was unaware of the
Gepard’s
presence.

The contact was elusive; like the
Gepard
it might simply be curious,
or it might be out for revenge. Karenin changed course every few
minutes, guessing as to what the other boat would do, trying to
keep the initiative. The
Gepard
crept slowly north, Karenin trusting that their
target would edge his way to the west and the edge of the exclusion
zone.

Despite the potential for unwanted noise, he felt it prudent
to add two more
Shkval
-3s to the pair already loaded into the torpedo tubes; a
moment’s reflection, then he also ordered the loading of two
Type-53s. To remove a torpedo from a tube and re-position it on the
rack ready for future use was far more complex than just simply
reversing the loading process; consequently, loading was normally
left until the last possible moment. That was fine for the vast
space of the Atlantic where a potential target might be picked up
tens of kilometres distant, but in the cramped confines of the
Baltic such protocols were best ignored.

“Conn, Sonar. Wolf-One identified as a Virginia-class,
USS
Minnesota
.
Now bearing one-two-one; range 8700 metres; speed six knots; course
two-four-five; re-designating contact by name.”

Karenin kept his face impassive but this wasn’t quite what he
wanted to hear. The
Gepard
was close to presenting its stern to the enemy,
the noise from the submarine’s own propeller threatening to blank
out all other sounds. The presence of the
Minnesota
just fourteen kilometres
from the start of the exclusion zone appeared at best provocative,
and at worst the prelude to an attack.

“Right five
degrees rudder;” Karenin ordered. “Come to course
one-three-zero.”

The
Gepard
and USS
Minnesota
jockeyed for position like a pair of lumbering
and half-blind gladiators. Karenin knew the Virginia-class to be a
more than capable attack submarine, and the
Gepard
would need to exercise
extreme caution against such an adversary. The atmosphere in the
control room was one of subdued confidence, the crew relishing
their previous double success of torpedo attack and subsequent
evasion.

“Conn, Sonar.
Minnesota
now bearing one-two-six; drifting two-six-four;
range 7300 metres; contact fading.”

The
Gepard
too slowed, drifting idly as Karenin waited for the Americans
to strike or flee. With the USS
Minnesota
outside the exclusion
zone, Karenin had no authority to attack, but full authority to do
whatever was necessary to defend the
Gepard
. Seven kilometres was
uncomfortably close, the American submarine an unwelcome stranger
encroaching upon the
Gepard’
s personal space. Close they
might be, but neither boat could now hear the other, systems
straining to catch a single unnecessary sound.

The tension became like an unbearable itch: time was on
Karenin’s side, the
Minnesota
with the ever present threat from the Russian
surface ships and ASW helicopters. Cocooned inside the
Gepard’s
steel hull, the
normal rules of life and death no longer seemed to apply, and
Karenin was living almost entirely off nervous energy, barely able
to sleep, yet still managing to stay one step ahead of the United
States Navy.

After some
forty minutes it was Karenin who finally lost patience. “Ahead dead
slow; steady on course one-four-five.”

The
Minnesota’s
response took less than a minute. “Sonar contact; bearing
one-zero-six...
Tubes
flooding!
”

“
All a
head
one-third!
”

“High-speed screws; multiple contacts.” The sonar chief’s
voice was tense, apprehensive. “Bearing one-zero-five; range 4700
metres; up angle five degrees. Confirm three Mark-48 torpedoes;
designate – Alpha-One, Two, and Three.
Minnesota
: similar bearing, range
estimate 4800.”

Karenin’s
brain seemed to seize up, his mind struggling to understand how the
Americans could have crept so close; he had only a few seconds to
react, certainly no time for anything subtle.

“Left five degrees rudder; come to course one-zero-five; five
degrees down angle.” He chose to drive the
Gepard
directly at the oncoming
torpedoes, providing them with the smallest target profile. “Tubes
one through four – match present bearing and shoot!”

“Tubes one
through four,” Alenikov confirmed, “automatic search on
one-zero-five. Outer doors open...”

The
Gepard
gave a gentle series of shudders as the four torpedoes were
launched, and Karenin immediately rapped out new orders. “All ahead
full!” Tubes five and six: set solution for the
Minnesota
, automatic presets. Reload
tubes one through four with
Shkval-
3s.”

Judging by their previous spar with the American torpedoes,
the
Shkval
was
only fifty percent effective – not an encouraging record with three
enemy torpedoes to combat. With submarine and torpedoes now closing
together at a combined speed of over 150 kilometres per hour, the
slightest error or electronic misjudgement could yet prove
the
Gepard’
s
salvation.

“Alpha-One has
locked on,” the sonar chief announced. “Range 3100 metres and
closing.”

Karenin glanced
across at Alenikov.