Chapter 11 – Monday, May 17th
Graythorp, England
Anderson was baulked at the very first hurdle, Erdenheim’s security gates remaining closed as he approached. Frustrated, he pressed the intercom, worrying he might well have to settle for option two and try to catch Rebane – if it were him – at his Boston home later that day.
“Hello, can I help?” It was a male voice, English accent, so definitely not McDowell.
Anderson looked into the baleful eye of the security camera and gave what he hoped was a winning smile. “My name’s Michael Anderson; I was hoping to speak to Pat McDowell about a feature I’ve written on the Management Centre. I visited Erdenheim last Wednesday and I’m sure Pat would want to see the results.”
“Do you have you an appointment?”
“I’m afraid not, but I’ll only be a minute.”
“One moment, please.”
It was only just past nine o’clock and Anderson now worried that he would simply be told McDowell wasn’t there and to email the feature. The wait turned into a full minute, then abruptly the two gates separated, the way ahead open and inviting. Anderson edged slowly forward, a twinge of doubt starting to creep in as the gates slid shut behind him.
The car park had its usual mix of vehicles, although fewer in number than previously; one notable addition was a sleek white Lamborghini, the car’s beautiful lines bringing an admiring glance from Anderson. He parked alongside, gathering up the Erdenheim printout before striding confidently up to the main entrance and through the door.
“Mr Anderson, welcome again.” McDowell was his normal smiling self, directing Anderson into his small office. Anderson duly followed, noting the absence of a receptionist; in fact the whole building seemed somewhat quieter than his last visit.
“How’s business?” Anderson asked idly. “You seem a little lacking in guests.”
“Oh, most are on a visit; different group to when you were here last but we’re virtually full.”
Anderson didn’t question the lie. He sat down opposite McDowell and passed across the printout. “I just wanted to check you were happy with your part of the feature before I pass it along to the Boston Standard; as I said before, you’re welcome to use the photos in any future publicity and I’ll email you the best ones with a copy of the final version.”
McDowell took the printout without comment and began to scan quickly through it, following Anderson’s lead by keeping up the charade. Anderson waited a few seconds before asking a more pertinent question.
“Is Martin Rebane about; I was hoping to be able to talk to him?”
McDowell’s head jerked up, eyes confused, “Martin who?”
“Rebane; has a house in Boston. I saw his Lamborghini in the car park.” There, it was done – bridges burnt and all pretence finally at an end. If Anderson was wrong and Marty wasn’t Rebane, he could always adopt the usual journalistic strategy of blaming his mistake on information received.
McDowell studied Anderson closely, then abruptly he stood up. “Just give me a minute, Mr Anderson.”
Anderson was left alone, unsure whether to feel pleased or perturbed, his guess as to Marty’s identity all-too obviously correct. The seconds dragged by, Anderson’s nervousness growing with every tick of the office clock. Confronting the problem no longer seemed quite so prudent.
The office door opened and a tall, silver-haired man entered, right-arm extended to shake Anderson warmly by the hand.
“Martin Rebane, as requested,” Rebane said, seating himself in McDowell’s chair. The body language was relaxed, the smile unconcerned. “Now, how can I help?”
The accent surprised Anderson: there was the expected American twang but with just a hint of something else. “Pat McDowell seemed confused as to who you were. I’m pleased he remembered.”
“Pat was just being protective. Erdenheim is naturally keen to ensure its guests’ privacy and most of us have better things to do than speak to wayward journalists.” Rebane gave Anderson a studied look. “Was there something specific you wanted, Mr Anderson?”
“I was just wondering what an expert in counter-terrorism and former CIA officer is doing at Erdenheim, especially one specialising in Russia. With the present crisis in Moscow, others might also find it of interest.” Anderson kept his tone polite, more curious than accusing. He could have thrown Commander Saunders into the mix, even implied there was some link between the Commander’s death and Erdenheim, but that seemed somewhere between outrageous and downright foolish.
A flicker of concern crossed Rebane’s face, “And you believe there’s a good story here?”
“You, Pat McDowell, a dozen other Americans and a couple of Russian speakers with McDowell at the Farriers – it all adds up.”
“To what exactly?”
Anderson shrugged, “I’m not sure at the moment but give me twenty-four hours and I might just be able to turn it into something worth selling.”
Rebane gave Anderson a long hard look, almost as though sizing him up. “I sense you’re jumping to an unfortunate conclusion, Mr Anderson; however, I guess that’s not something that matters too much in your profession, just as long as there’s a money-making headline. At this moment in time, any form of publicity would be unhelpful, particularly if it’s inaccurate and misleading.”
“Then give me the accurate and un-misleading version,” Anderson responded. “If it’s all totally innocent then you have no reason for concern.”
Rebane took his time replying, “You put me in a difficult position, Mr Anderson, and it seems I have little choice but to trust your integrity. Just to be clear, anything said from now on is totally off the record and I would be grateful if you would turn off your phone.”
Anderson didn’t argue, taking out his phone and sliding it the across the table so Rebane could confirm it was switched off. Now things really were getting interesting.
Satisfied, Rebane continued, “It is a difficult world we live in, Mr Anderson; one where a single terrorist group can hold a city, even a whole country, to ransom. The British Government, like any other, does everything it can to protect key infrastructure from terrorist attack; not just the threat from a bullet or a bomb but the more insidious one that has effectively brought Moscow to its knees.”
“Cyber-warfare?”
Rebane nodded, “If you check your facts, Mr Anderson, you will discover that Britain’s Intelligence Services have been involved with the private sector for a decade or more, primarily in the field of cyber-security. Erdenheim is part of that partnership; similarly, your government makes use of my expertise in counter-terrorism on an informal basis. Presently, we are just one several groups studying the recent terrorist attacks in Russia; if we can help stop London grinding to a halt like Moscow then Erdenheim will have earned its keep.”
“Hence McDowell’s two Russian friends?”
Rebane gave a half smile, “Russian? Or were they Polish? Perhaps your sources aren’t quite as reliable as you think… When Pat warned me a journalist was sniffing around I thought it best to seek advice; your interest in turn flagged up Adam Devereau and the fact he was involved seemed of concern to your security services.” Rebane gave an amused smile, “Are you and Devereau a threat to national security, Mr Anderson?”
Anderson just stared at Rebane, totally confused.
“I assume,” said Rebane, his tone verging on the patronising, “you’re aware Adam Devereau left MI6 under something of a cloud?”
MI6 – Britain’s foreign intelligence service; there was too much new information here for Anderson to take in and make sense of, Rebane cleverly managing to turn the interview on its head.
“Pat said you quizzed him about the young man who died in a car crash,” Rebane continued. “And I imagine you assume we might have had a hand in George Saunders’ death. There’s no evil conspiracy here; we’re actually trying to do some good, preferably without the blaze of publicity. I hope you can understand that, Mr Anderson. Erde
nheim is hardly GCHQ or the NSA but we do our best; unfortunately, the rapid escalation of the crisis in Moscow has in turn increased the need for a suitable counter and Pat’s already helped out by rescheduling some of his clients. Your Government will of course compensate Erdenheim but I would hate for him to feel the relationship has created yet another problem.”
Rebane’s co-operative attitude was starting to become unnerving and Anderson belatedly tried to get the conversation back on track. “Why Erdenheim?” he asked testily.
“Its facilities and Jon Carter’s brilliance make for an impressive combination,” Rebane replied, his tone still one of restrained superiority. “We are also working to refine Carter’s computer simulations for use in anti-terrorist training.”
“A busy life,” Anderson said, with a trace of sarcasm.
“A life presently split between the extremes of New York and Graythorp.” Rebane stood up, choosing to bring the discussion to an end. “Our secret is in your hands, Mr Anderson; I wish you luck with it. If you need any more from Erdenheim, I suggest you speak to Pat.”
USS John Finn
Young refocused the binoculars and in an instant the quarter-mile gap between the John Finn and the Admiral Golovko become uncomfortably close. He panned across the Russian frigate from bow to stern, pausing to take in the weapons systems while confirming his personal view that the frigate lacked the necessary firepower to fulfil its multi-functional role. Neither ship had a helicopter airborne, both sides apparently choosing not to add a third dimension to what was already a complex dance. A hundred yards aft of the frigate was the Russian corvette Soobrazitelnyy, a smart little vessel determined to help her larger sister thwart the John Finn’s every move.
Young let the binoculars rest against his chest, thoughts struggling with the problem of how best to follow his orders. The Russian blockade had taken NATO totally by surprise and the diplomats were working overtime to ensure a suitable resolution; that would take time, and until then the dubious honour of testing Russian resolve was duly accorded to the USS John Finn.
Young had been kept well-informed as to the timeline of the day’s events, it starting at 8 a.m. Moscow Time when Russia had privately informed Poland, the U.S. and the U.N. of the immediate implementation of a naval blockade, together with the closing of the man-made Baltiysk Strait and the so-called Friendship Pipeline. Three hours later, in a live TV address, the Russian President had given a vigorous defence of Russia’s actions against Lithuania, detailing the physical evidence linking August 14 with the dacha complex, before then showing a brief pre-recorded statement from Marek Tamm confirming his involvement. Next had come a robust condemnation of Poland, the President claiming Russia had proof of complicity between the Polish authorities and the terrorists of August 14, the location of a second terrorist base revealed. The forty-minute diatribe had ended with the formal announcement as to the implementation of a thirty-kilometre naval and air exclusion zone centred on Gdansk, Russia’s main demand the handing over of August 14’s operatives.
The three hour delay before the public announcement was seen as a gesture of compromise from Russia, a final opportunity for Poland to act against the alleged terrorists. Yet it was now an opportunity ignored. The news reports gave some indication of Poland’s fury at Russia’s imperious actions, but for the time being the Polish President appeared content to let NATO take the lead. The various commentators seemed confident it was to no-one’s advantage to further escalate the crisis, and mutual restraint was the new buzz-word.
This wasn’t the first time Moscow had chosen the easy option of blocking the Baltiysk Strait and thus effectively shutting the small Polish port of Elblag, and the Friendship Pipeline was anything but, with regular disputes as to transit fees. Unfortunately, the splitting of the pipeline into the northern route to Poland and Germany, and the southern to Slovakia, Hungary and beyond, occurred once it had left Russia and reached Belarus – so a large part of Eastern Europe was now being starved of oil, not just Poland and the Baltic States.
Young was far from convinced Russia was keen to follow the concept of mutual restraint, and the three Russian warships en route from the Norwegian Sea were now only a few hours away, having just passed through the bottleneck of Zealand. So far they had been left unhindered, but if Poland had its way that could easily change. Germany might also choose to be difficult, Russia’s actions indirectly threatening a fifth of its oil imports; of course, they might decide to be contrary, and join with certain other European nations such as France and Belarus by applying pressure on Poland instead.
To Young, it was obvious some form of naval confrontation was almost inevitable, his own orders very specific as to the use of minimum force. Russia had stated that the blockade of the Polish ports of Gdynia, Gdansk and Polnocny was to be total, with no shipping of any kind – merchant or naval – allowed to leave or enter, whatever its flag of origin. Now Young had to challenge that assertion, somehow guiding the John Finn into the naval base at Gdynia without creating an international incident.
Theoretically, it didn’t appear to be that difficult a task. Although the long finger of the Hel Peninsula severely narrowed the entrance to Gdansk Bay, it was still some thirty kilometres from Hel to a second peninsula – the Vistula Spit, the latter running west-east from Poland to Kaliningrad. The latest intelligence suggested Russia had stationed over thirty vessels along the line of its blockade, ranging from corvettes to destroyers; then there were the Naval Air Defence units operating from Kaliningrad. But with just one ship to guard each kilometre, Russia was relying heavily on her warships’ ability to threaten and bully, with additional resources responding quickly to counter any Captain who wished to be obstinate.
There could also be as many as four submarines, the unseen threat perhaps more worrying than the physical presence of a surface vessel. Torpedo, missile, 130mm shell, or machine gun round – all would be equally problematic for any merchant ship foolish enough to test the blockade.
For the John Finn, the most immediate obstacles were the Admiral Golovko and the Soobrazitelnyy, and at least one of the Russian warships had doggedly stayed between the John Finn and the Polish coast, or more specifically the main shipping channel to Gdynia. According to reports, at least two merchant ships had already received a warning shot across their bows, but so far the Russians had been wary of trying such tactics with the John Finn, choosing instead to stick with a more literal meaning of blockade.
Since receiving his orders, Young had tried guile, deception, bluster, and finally raw speed to get past – each time, the Admiral Golovko and the Soobrazitelnyy had worked together to give Young the stark choice of giving way or colliding with one of them.
Young thought through each tactic once again, visualising them afresh from the Russians’ point of view. Despite the John Finn’s excellent manoeuvrability, one or other of the smaller Russian vessels was always a little too agile, a little too fast – brute force was about all that was left, and even then he might have to barge his way past both of them.
The crew had been at General Quarters for several hours already, watertight doors closed, ship in lockdown, prepared to go to that final step to Battle Stations should the need arise. The Russian ships were similarly in a state of high alert, both vessels fully prepared for whatever might come next.
“Mr Rodriguez,” said Young to the officer of the deck (OOD). “The Golovko will probably continue on her present course and match our speed. Let’s get really friendly – try and keep no more than fifty yards off her starboard beam.”
Young kept a close eye on the Russian frigate, the John Finn creeping closer until the two ships paralleled each other once more. As expected the Golovko refused to give way, effectively blocking the John Finn from closing in on Gdynia. The Soobrazitelnyy too closed up, ready to block the John Finn if she made a sudden turn.
“Mr Rodriguez, crowd her some more and we’ll try to force her away.”
The OOD gave the necessary
orders and the John Finn closed in a yard at a time towards the Golovko. The helmsman’s task was made far easier by a calm sea, and the two vessels were now heading towards the same point some four hundred yards ahead. Young was assuming the frigate would turn aside before the two ships collided, but he wasn’t entirely convinced; although six knots was only a slow jog, the U.S. destroyer was twice as heavy as her Russian opponent, and in any clash the Golovko would undoubtedly come off worst.
The Golovko continued to ignore the John Finn. Young could clearly see the officers on the frigate’s bridge, only one of whom appeared to show any interest in the destroyer. An exasperated Young thumbed the intercom, warning the ships’ crew as to the imminent collision. Seconds later the OOD pressed down on the yellow knob of the collision alarm, the strident triple beep a last despairing warning of intent.
With neither side prepared to give way, the outcome was inevitable.
The John Finn hit the frigate just aft of her 130mm gun and with an anguished shriek the destroyer’s bow scraped along the side of the Golovko, the sound overwhelming the repetitive tone of the collision alarm. Young was safely strapped in his commander’s seat, the others on the bridge grabbing hold of anything substantial, but even so a petty officer was knocked off-balance, crashing against the starboard bulkhead. The destroyer’s greater momentum enabled her to shrug off the encounter with the smaller warship, and her course barely altered, the destroyer plunging forward in an explosion of spray. The Admiral Golovko was thrust aside and she rolled sharply to port, a fifteen-foot gap appearing in her starboard guard-rail.
The two ships bounced apart, but the Golovko immediately wrenched herself to starboard, virtually maintaining her original course abreast of the USS John Finn.
“Damage-Control, Captain. Damage report ASAP.” Young glanced across at the Golovko and a malicious smile touched his lips as he took in the wide scar running along the frigate’s starboard side, defacing her pennant number. The two ships continued to match course and speed, now running some thirty yards apart.
“Captain, Damage-Control. A few sore heads, Skipper; otherwise, okay.”
Young calmed his nerves and gave his opponent a hard stare: although the Admiral Golovko had probably come off worst, she hadn’t yet admitted defeat. Best of three?
The second clash was virtually a repeat of the first, with the Golovko veering just a few degrees but not giving way, and both ships now adding a second set of scars to their paintwork.
Young finally lost patience, not willing to risk serious damage to either ship – yet his next action might well do just that. “Mr Rodriguez, take us two hundred yards off their starboard beam.” He pressed the intercom, “Combat, Captain. Mr Serelli; prepare to fire a shot across the Golovko’s bow; make it no closer than fifty yards.”
Seconds later an alarm sounded throughout the ship as the destroyer’s 5-inch gun swivelled around to face the Russian frigate. The gun was radar-aimed and computer-controlled, compensation made for the pitch and roll of the John Finn and movement of the target, even variations in wind strength.
Young waited, hoping something would happen so as to force him to alter his decision. For a full five minutes he said nothing. Finally, “Combat, Captain. Confirm weapons free; fire when ready.”
A loud crack from the gun followed almost instantly. The resultant explosion was a good sixty yards from the Golovko, but water still cascaded down upon her deck, momentarily shrouding the frigate in a fine mist. Seconds later, the Soobrazitelnyy followed serenely in her wake.
The tension on the John Finn’s bridge was palpable, Young having to force his hands to unclench. Again the minutes dragged by.
Young keyed the intercom, “Combat, Captain. Once again, Mr Serelli; a little closer if you please.”
The second round was nearer by some twenty yards, yet the Golovko simply coasted through the spray, seemingly impervious to the John Finn’s taunts. Young didn’t dare risk a third shot: any closer and the frigate could easily be hit. The Russians certainly weren’t afraid of playing chicken, and it took guts to sit back and do nothing on the assumption the John Finn wouldn’t actually blow you out of the water.
“Mr Rodriguez, steer course zero-one-zero; we’ll give ourselves a bit of space and review our options.” Young was running out of ideas. If he didn’t come up with something soon, there were no guarantees the Polish navy would be quite so accommodating. And it didn’t feel right to be retreating from an enemy just half your size... Perhaps a short break would give him sudden inspiration.
The gap between the John Finn and the two Russian ships slowly increased, Young watching in frustration as the Russians cruised sedately on, no doubt congratulating each other on a job well done.
“Bridge, Sonar. Passive contact: bearing two-five-five; range approximately 7000 yards; possible submarine, confidence level high; designate – Sierra-One. Too much interference to confirm class or identity.”
The atmosphere on the bridge changed instantly from subdued anticipation to one of confusion. A new voice interrupted, “Bridge, Combat. No friendly subs anticipated this grid-area; contact potentially hostile.”
Young felt new rivulets of sweat run their way down under his collar. If the contact was indeed a submarine then he wasn’t so sure it was hostile, it potentially one of Poland’s ageing diesel-electric boats. The Golovko’s reaction to being sandwiched between a U.S. destroyer and a Polish submarine would be unpredictable, it hardly likely to be one of passive acceptance.
Young’s fears were quickly realised. “Bridge, Combat,” said an excited voice, “The Russians have gone to Battle Stations; both ships.”
Young made an instant decision, “I have the Conn. All engines ahead flank! Left full rudder; come to course two-seven-five!”
The orders were repeated and the engines throbbed as the John Finn surged forward, pulling sharply to port, her new course aiming her directly at the Golovko. By putting the U.S. ship into close contact with the two Russian vessels, Young was hoping the submarine’s captain would think twice before doing anything stupid.
“Battle Stations, Sir?” the OOD enquired, more calmly than he looked.
Young shook his head, “We’re trying to help the Golovko, not sink her. If we go to Battle Stations, the Russians might well assume we’re attacking. That’s quite possibly a Polish sub out there and if we’re not careful someone is going to start a shooting war.” Young sounded far more confident about the identity of the submarine than he felt, but if it was Russian, then the Golovko’s reaction made no sense.
“Bridge, Sonar. Sierra-One: bearing two-six-eight, range 6600 yards, speed six knots; course zero-two-two, target class and identity still unknown.”
The John Finn accelerated directly towards the Russian frigate, now some four hundred yards away. The Golovko had also speeded up, trying to distance herself from the perceived threat. The Soobrazitelnyy swept round in a sharp turn, accepting the challenge and angling west towards the submarine, trying to protect the Golovko.
“Combat, Captain. Keep those sub reports coming.” Young should ideally be in the CIC but he felt happier on the Bridge, somehow better able to judge the Golovko’s intentions. And there was always the danger that she could still interpret the John Finn’s actions as an attack. Using the bow-mounted active sonar might give the sub something to think about and perhaps convince the Russians that the John Finn was as confused as they were – or it might just make matters worse, forcing the sub to react.
“Bridge, Combat. Sierra-One: target lost; there’s too much noise, Sir.”
Young couldn’t blame anyone; with the increase in speed the sonar team would be hard pressed to hear anything other than the John Finn’s engines – that’s why he should have had a helo scouring the sea with sonobuoys and active sonar. To a casual observer, the John Finn was an impressive sight, the destroyer now at full speed with her wake churning astern, turning slightly to starboard in order to keep her bow aimed at the Golovko. The situa
tion was changing rapidly, both Russian warships obviously fearful of the submarine’s intent.
The John Finn continued its dash directly at the Golovko, the Russian frigate in turn slowly pulling herself round to starboard towards the American warship. Young gave a smile of satisfaction, thankful the Russian captain had followed his lead; a torpedo attack was just as likely to hit the John Finn as the Golovko and a precarious form of mutual protection was now in place.
But not for long. Young tried to work through what each of the other captains were thinking: the Golovko was distracted from her prime task, out of position and at present unable to obstruct the John Finn; the Soobrazitelnyy too had other concerns. Assuming the Russian ships weren’t in the mood to fire on the John Finn, then Young’s single worry was the unidentified submarine. And knowingly or not, the sub had already played its part.
“Left standard rudder,” Young ordered. “Come to course two-seven-zero; maintain full speed.” If the submarine’s sonar operators were doing their job, they would soon be reporting that the John Finn was now past the two Russian ships and heading at speed towards Gdynia. If the submarine was Polish, surely that would be enough to encourage the boat to withdraw. If not – well, that particular scenario still didn’t make any sense.
The macabre dance continued, the Golovko belatedly sweeping around to try and head off the John Finn. The Soobrazitelnyy seemed confused as to what to do, and then she too swung back towards the destroyer, abandoning her race to counter the submarine.
Young mentally crossed his fingers: if no-one pressed a button marked ‘Fire’ whether it be in Polish or Russian, then the John Finn was finally about to satisfy her orders. Five more minutes and he might even give a smug smile of self-satisfaction.
Lincolnshire, England
“What led Rebane to mention Adam Devereau?” Charlotte asked curiously. “And he didn’t need to tell you Adam used to work for MI6.” She hadn’t anticipated Anderson turning up at the agency with a welcome mid-morning coffee in hand determined to distract her, and she was in two minds as to how to deal with him. “Maybe he was just testing you?”
Anderson hadn’t seen it that way at the time, but he now wondered whether Charlotte might not be right. He tried to recall the exact words, realising that perhaps the conversation’s sudden lurch onto Devereau was a bit forced.
“Testing me? On what?”
“As to whether you’re aware of Adam’s past connection with MI6.” Now totally unable to concentrate on work, Charlotte decided the easiest option was to give Anderson and coffee her full attention; it was either that or tell him to bugger off.
“Well, it was nice someone told me,” Anderson responded, sounding slightly indignant.
“Mum wasn’t sure how relevant it was,” Charlotte said, becoming defensive. “And I was forbidden to mention it. In any case, you can hardly complain when you forgot to mention that Marty was Martin Rebane. I thought this was joint effort, not every man for himself.”
“I wasn’t certain,” Anderson said, sounding only a little contrite. “I was making a lot of it up as I went along and obviously should have asked much more, especially about Erdenheim. When Rebane threw in Devereau and MI6, it just confused me.”
“It doesn’t take much,” Charlotte said, avoiding his eye whilst sipping her drink.
“I’ll ignore that. Rebane was definitely telling the truth about private companies helping out with cyber security; so it’s all plausible. He just seems unnecessarily eager to keep everything secret – surely Erdenheim would get more kudos from publicising its government links.”
“You would have thought so,” agreed Charlotte. “Yuri and Lara – so not Russian after all?”
“Maybe, maybe not; we somehow need to tease out the facts from the story Rebane’s concocted. And at the moment, I haven’t a clue how to do that.”
“You said Rebane’s accent was unusual and his actual country of birth might be a useful start. Hang on a sec...” Charlotte put down her coffee to deal with the office phone, switching instantly back to estate agent mode.
While waiting, Anderson tried a surname search, wondering if Rebane might actually be Russian-born.
“Rebane’s Estonian,” he announced, once Charlotte had ended her call. “Not definite, but likely. His surname means fox apparently and it’s about as common there as Walker is in the UK. In which case, shouldn’t he be helping August 14 rather than trying to stop them?”
Charlotte gave him an angry look, “You can’t condemn everyone from Eastern Europe just because of a few extremists.”
“Just a vague thought,” Anderson said undeterred. “Thanks for the advice, I’ll go and see who else I can annoy...”