The Journey of Kyle Gibbs Box Set

by Wayne Marinovich

  ‘Um. Is there something we should know, boss?’ Shredder asked Gibbs as he rejoined the group.

  ‘All in good time, mate,’ Gibbs replied, patting him on the shoulder.

  • • •

  The four-truck convoy made its way out of the bustling, and surprisingly modern, streets of Windhoek and out into the hazy Namibian wilderness. The landscape changed quickly as they left the leafy oasis of Windhoek and drove north onto the Central Plateau of Namibia. The first three hours to the town of Otjiwarongo were comfortable driving with the black-tarred B1 motorway snaking through the scrub and arable landscape. JP had already managed to get a fair amount of their general supplies in neighbouring South Africa, but they’d still need other items like gas canisters, water and fresh meat.

  ‘Do you think ten days’ worth of supplies will be enough for the job?’ JP asked as they sat up front in the truck cab.

  ‘Yeah, should be more than enough,’ Gibbs said.

  ‘Just remember we’re picking up the 32 Battalion boys along the way, and they do like their meat and beer.’

  ‘Ah yes, Os Terríveis,’ Gibbs said. ‘They do love a good fight and feast.’

  ‘You’ve heard the Portuguese name for them. The Angolans called them the Terrible Ones after thousands of their soldiers were ruthlessly killed and mutilated by so few from the battalion. They still command much respect even though they’ve long been disbanded. Great group of warriors.’

  ‘Let’s hope that they bring their A-game to the refinery. I’m looking forward to fighting alongside them.’

  JP chuckled and lit up a cigarette. ‘Don’t worry, their lust for Angolan blood will never die.’

  A few hours later, once they’d loaded the supplies and made the acquaintance of the new recruits in the desert town of Otjiwarongo, they pushed up to the bush town of Tsumeb where they would spend the night camping. The Angolan border was only a short four-hour drive north of that.

  • • •

  A big zebra stallion raced ahead of the convoy with his six mares and three foals following at close quarters. Gathering pace, they kicked up more and more of the fine white desert sand, which blew across the road in front of the trucks like a ghostly dust curtain. Gibbs marvelled at the grace with which the zebra ran, perfectly evolved to survive in the barren landscape.

  ‘How far to the border, JP?’ Gibbs asked.

  ‘About an hour to the checkpoint, but we turn off twenty minutes before that,’ JP said, looking across to Gibbs. ‘The detour will add an extra hour, but it limits the chances of being seen as we cross.’

  ‘You said we wouldn’t have any problems at the border post,’ Gibbs said.

  ‘Two of the 32 Battalion boys are not happy about going into the country through that particular checkpoint. Apparently, they caused a lot of havoc on their last operation in Angola and would rather cross under the radar,’ JP said.

  ‘Fair enough,’ Gibbs said. ‘But what are the chances of impromptu roadblocks on the side roads?’

  ‘Not on this side of the border, but on the Angolan side, we’ll run into two or three. I have a stash of one-dollar bills, sweets, pencils and notebooks ready to trade our way through them.’

  The convoy crossed the dusty riverbed that served as the border, fifteen kilometres west of the main national border crossing, and they started the five-hour journey north to Lubango. Gibbs was asleep with his boots up on the dashboard when a loud clattering noise from below the floorboards of the cab woke him up. He looked across at JP, who smashed his hand down on the steering wheel and swore out loud, slamming his foot on the brakes.

  JP jumped down from the truck cab and crawled around underneath the truck in the dust like a lizard. More foul language filtered up through the floorboards. It was a few minutes before he reappeared all covered in sweat and red dust. ‘The bloody U-bolts are stuffed. One is sheared right off, and the other one is barely holding the leaf springs in place.’

  ‘Fucking old rust bucket!’ Gibbs said. ‘How long to fix it?’

  ‘It should take an hour or two. I can do a makeshift job until we get to Lubango where one of the bush mechanics can weld it,’ JP said, wiping his filthy hands on his pants. ‘They were brand new U-bolts. What did I tell you, Africa can break anything.’

  The team helped JP pirate spare parts from the other three trucks, then left him to fix the broken suspension. Gibbs stood leaning against the back of the truck, chewing on a handful of the locally dried apricots, the sweetness helping to ease his mood. A huge billowing cloud of dust grew larger behind a vehicle as it approached them. It was coming in at speed. For five long minutes, he waited and watched as a banged-up, white Land Rover Defender approached them.

  Its wheel bearings screeched in protest as it passed by, and he noticed one of the back doors was missing. The grim stares of the occupants caused his stomach to tense, the fighting instinct within setting off danger signals in his head. He stepped into the dust as the vehicle slowly drove past and stopped a few hundred meters further up the road, turning across the road to block their path. Gibbs watched as three athletically built Africans exited the vehicle and started slowly walking towards them. ‘Heads up, JP. We’ve got company.’

  The three figures approached cautiously. Two of the three men carried pistols, and a third had a large machete in his hand.

  ‘JP, go and see what they want. We’ll cover you from the trucks.’

  ‘Killey, Shredder, cover JP. If those men so much as raise their weapons, take them out,’ Gibbs whispered to his men sitting in the back of the truck.

  • • •

  JP reached the three men and discussions began with local civil greetings and handshakes. They enquired what he had in the trucks and where they were headed.

  ‘We’re heading to Luanda to sell or trade those trucks for scrap metal then hopefully buy locally carved souvenirs and take them back to Namibia,’ JP said.

  The tall leader of the group, a dark-skinned Angolan with numerous scarification marks across his right cheek and neck leading down into the collar of his white business shirt, looked JP up and down. He then slowly walked around the tall South African, trying to intimidate him. ‘You are foreign traders in my country and now need to pay my road tax.’

  ‘We don’t have cash on us, buddy, but I can give you pencils and notebooks for your children.’

  ‘You are lying to me. Give me your money, or there will be trouble.’

  ‘We don’t have any.’

  ‘Don’t take me for a fool, friend, I know you have dollars for diesel,’ the tall man said, emphasising his point by shaking the old Beretta revolver in JP’s face.

  A small puff of crimson spurted over the man’s colleagues. Both looked stunned as their leader collapsed at their feet, and before they could raise their weapons, a second one dropped, clutching at his chest, his machete dropping to the ground.

  The third man jumped forward and grabbed a startled JP, swinging his arm around his throat. The man’s old Beretta 9mm pistol dug into JP’s temple, causing him to wince in pain.

  ‘Tell them to stop,’ the man shouted. ‘Tell them to stop and get out of the truck, or you will die!’

  JP shouted across to the truck and Gibbs appeared from around the back of it. He walked quickly towards them with a Glock pistol down by his side, and his other hand raised, a wad of dollar bills waving in the wind. A fourth man emerged from the open door of the Land Rover, his hands clutching a hand grenade. He cowered behind the spare wheel that was bolted to the back door, watching the scene in front of him.

  Gibbs spoke to the man holding JP hostage. ‘Friend, let’s calm down for a minute. Here’s all the money we have on us so let’s make a swap. The money in return for my friend,’ he said, holding the cash out towards the man.

  The hostage taker’s eyes gleamed at the currency, and he slipped his hands away from JP’s throat. As he reached for the cash, his head snapped back as a bullet from Killey’s sniper rifle entered just above his eye a
nd blew a hole out the back of his head. He fell where he stood.

  ‘Down, JP,’ Gibbs said as he noticed the driver from the Land Rover come out from his hiding place. The man screamed in anger, pulling the pin of the grenade and launched into a throw, but before he could release the grenade, Gibbs fired twice into his shoulder and chest, dropping him to his knees, the grenade rolling under the vehicle beside him.

  ‘Grenade,’ Gibbs shouted and pushed JP to the ground next to him.

  The explosion ripped through the quiet savannah air with the sound of tearing metal deafening them where they lay. Bits of burning debris landed all around the two men, which kept them lying in the dust for a few more seconds before JP slowly stood up. He looked aghast at the bodies around him then looked back at the burning Land Rover, a black plume of smoke spiralling upwards on the gentle breeze.

  JP shook his head, furious with Gibbs. ‘What the fuck? I was busy negotiating with them and was close to making a deal for our safe passage. Now we have a huge plume of smoke for all to see.’

  ‘When the guy raised that revolver, I took them as a threat to our lives and the mission,’ Gibbs said.

  ‘This is Africa. Roadblocks like this happen all the bloody time. I could have negotiated our way through painlessly and would have saved us the bother of burying them. What’s more, they were from Lobito, so I could have got up-to-date intelligence from them,’ JP said.

  ‘It’s done now,’ Gibbs said. ‘Let’s get moving.’

  ‘There’ll be no moving as I have U-bolts to repair. You’d better get busy burying the bodies,’ JP said, walking off.

  A few helpers came forward to drag the bodies to the side of the road and cover them with stones and old dead shrubbery that they could find in the barren landscape. They were now behind schedule.

  • • •

  The cool breeze blew off the icy Benquela current which flowed down the west coast of Africa and was a refreshing treat for the labouring men. The hundred and twenty large wooden crates had to be unloaded from the rickety fishing trawler that was moored just offshore. Most of the backbreaking work was being done by a long line of local volunteers who lined up from the boat, up the sandy beach and onto the road near the waiting trucks. One man sang a mournful song with the others chiming in for the chorus. Gibbs marvelled at the harmonisation that came so naturally to the people of Africa.

  Shredder stood next to Gibbs, a smile on his face. ‘Man, that is one haunting sound.’

  ‘I know it gives me goose bumps every time I hear them sing.’

  ’JP, the singing won’t attract any attention, will it?’ Shredder said.

  ‘We should be fine here. Many of these little trawlers moor up here to offload their catch for the local villagers. They sing all the time so it shouldn’t draw any unwanted attention,’ JP said.

  ‘Make sure that those men don’t drop any of the crates and spill guns and ammunition all over the beach. The bush telegraph would light up all the way to Luanda. Imagine it, a group of white men unloading weapons and supplies on a deserted beach. That’s not something the Angolan authorities would ignore, and the mission would fail before even starting,’ Gibbs said.

  ‘Sure thing, boss.’

  ‘So, have you stopped sulking yet, big man?’ Gibbs asked.

  ‘Of course. I just forgot you’re still the trigger-happy arse we all love to hate,’ JP said, with a big grin on his face.

  ‘Move on before I shoot you too.’

  ‘You’ll miss me too much. Who will spoon you to sleep each night?’

  ‘Shut up, you arse. You keep going on about Africa breaking things, so run along and make sure our weapons don’t get broken.’

  Chapter 16

  Unilever House, Central London, UK - 2019

  ‘What do you mean, you have mercenary teams stationed in Angola?’ Lady Rosemary Winterton raged, her high-pitched voice filling the room. ‘What are they doing there and more importantly, who the bloody hell sanctioned their deployment?’

  ‘That would be me, Lady Winterton,’ the large figure of Mason Waterfield replied.

  ‘It’s quite alright, Mason. There’s no need to cover for me on this occasion,’ John Mountford said, turning towards the woman. ‘I organised the teams in Angola.’

  Lady Winterton threw down her pen on the table in disgust. ‘Good Lord, John, do you even have the slightest comprehension of what you’ve done? We’ve tolerated you being reckless and foolish in the past, but this stunt is just plain mutinous. You have ruined our global reputations with this random idiotic act.’

  ‘Please refrain from snapping at me like I’m a little barnyard dog, Lady Winterton. You know full well that we’ve been in contact with different factions throughout Africa. In fact, I have it on good authority that you have been speaking to the revolutionary group Unita in Angola. Are you going to deny that?’ John said.

  Lady Winterton looked shocked. Her eyes showing concern as they darted across to the only man who could have possibly betrayed her. ‘M…Mason?’ she stuttered, staring at him.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen, let’s take a step back at this point to look at the wider picture. Think about the original mandate that we all drew up a few years ago,’ Mason said. ‘It’s true that Lady Winterton and I have been in discussion with João Baptista from the New Unita movement in Angola as a means of keeping a clear and open line of negotiation. This is nothing new. You’re all in contact with your designated regional leaders, both on government and opposition levels.’

  ‘Yes, but we haven’t mobilised military teams into action in our areas,’ the member from the Asian region said.

  ‘That is true, Dr Watanabe, but your regions in Asia are more agreeable to dialogue and negotiation. Africa is still very suspicious of any dialogue with Europe and the USA since their respective market crashes,’ Mason said.

  Lady Winterton shook her head. ‘But what of our envoys in Luanda who are currently in negotiations with the Manual Abilo government? We’ve worked extremely hard to get Mr Abilo to discuss the prospect of sharing resources with other African governments in the region. We now stand to lose months of hard work and effort.’

  ‘Rosemary, I asked John to mobilise teams from here, and from within Southern Africa, to be on standby in case the negotiations fail,’ Mason said. ‘And based on reports which are coming out of Luanda in the last day or two, it seems unlikely that a favourable diplomatic agreement will be reached which will result into policy made by the Abilo parliament going forward.’

  ‘So, we have mercenaries waiting to strong-arm their way into Angola if the negotiations fail?’ Lady Winterton said, her voice shaking with anger. ‘Do we get a say in whether this military action is the best course of action or not?’

  The portly shape of Lord Butler stood up from his usual seated position at the side of the room and walked over to stand behind Lady Winterton’s chair. ‘I happen to agree with Mason and John on this, Rosemary, we are not the United Nations and have been guilty recently of overanalysing topics. We’re all aware of the dire state of the planet’s resources, and we must lead the way in centralising control of what is left, by any means necessary.’

  ‘Thank you, Lord Butler,’ Mason said.

  Lord Butler turned to Mason. ‘Don’t think for one minute that I am condoning your and John’s clandestine actions here. You should not have proceeded with any military actions without this group’s approval.’

  ‘Yes, sir. We will table a motion for future use of military actions and take a vote on it at the next meeting.’

  ‘Good. I take it that we are covered against any reprisals if the military intervention fails? I don’t want this coming back to haunt the Club.’

  ‘Lord Butler, I do believe we have enough men between us and the mercenaries who would take the fall if things go sour. We’ve worked hard to keep the Club’s name out of this. There are plans in place to point the Angolan government in the wrong direction if the operation fails.’

  • •
•

  Mason walked away from the other members in the hall to an abandoned office where he sat down on the edge of a dusty metal desk and looked around at all the scattered office documents that were strewn across the floor. He dialled a number from memory. ‘Gibbs, it’s Mason here.’

  ‘Hello, Mason, how are things? I wasn’t expecting a call from you at this point in the operation,’ Gibbs replied.

  ‘This is the last time you and I will discuss this mission. Are you able to talk freely?’

  ‘Yes. A few of my men are with me but can be trusted.’

  ‘Are you and your team in position in Lobito yet?’

  ‘Yes, sir. Everything is going according to plan here. We have just set up camp and have already undertaken a few recon trips to the refinery and surrounding area. All we need now is the date and time of the assault. Will the strike order come from you directly?’

  ‘That’s good work. You’ll get the call on this phone from David Kirkwood once the rebel leader is prepped and in position with his men, then you will attack. We are trying to close out negotiations with the Abilo government, and are not sure exactly how long that will take, so sit tight.’

  ‘Roger that,’ Gibbs said. ‘We’re ready and eager to go.’

  • • •

  ‘So now that Unita’s rebel leader, João Baptista, is aware of exactly how much oil the Abilo government is sitting on, will he not simply hoard it and sever all ties with us once we’ve placed him in power? Will this military action not simply transition him into power without the exorbitant cost of an election campaign?’ Lord Butler asked from his place on the couch.

  ‘Not to mention the twenty-million-pound sweetener that we transferred into his overseas bank account to get him to the negotiation table,’ Lady Winterton said.

  Mason was leaning on the lectern at the head of the table, his large frame resting on his hands. ‘We know in the past many such attempts to manipulate African leaders would have been met with fierce opposition. Fortunately, as you all know, João Baptista is an incredibly pragmatic man, educated in America, and has always been an advocate of the pro-climate change lobby. He understands the importance of pooling all our resources.’