The Journey of Kyle Gibbs Box Set

by Wayne Marinovich

  One final time they pressed on, and as dusk turned to darkness, they crossed the border into Ethiopia.

  Chapter 2

  The prison ship, ICARUS III – cell tank C - 2028

  A fresh breeze flicked past the tall, athletic figure of Kyle Gibbs as he eased himself through the half-open cell door and quickly climbed the iron stairs at the furthest wall of the cell block. His lungs expanded as he took a large breath and filled them with fresh virgin air.

  The old rusty metal walkway led up to another locked metal door, where he paused, pressing his ear to the door to listen for the occasional scrape of the prison screws’ boots as the guards patrolled on the other side of the door. Nothing moved.

  A quick look over his shoulder told him that the coast was still clear behind him. No alarm had been raised, only dark silence across the twenty internal prison cells that had been installed in the hull of the ship. He looked down towards the two human forms huddled against the ship’s hull, waiting for his signal. He glanced at his wristwatch. The guard was late. Years of experience as an SAS unit leader had taught him that any plan could go wrong.

  Gibbs tapped the steel door with the crude shank he’d made from a piece of sheet metal. He tapped again and waited. A loud screech shattered the silence as the large corroded door bolts were slid back on the other side of the door. The oppressive heat inside the hull clawed at the skin, and he wiped his brow with his sleeve. Two muffled taps, scarcely audible, came from the outside. Gibbs crouched low and gently pushed the heavy steel door open with his shoulder, as waves of pristine air swept in and washed over him.

  He lifted his right hand and signalled to the two men waiting below. They rose from the shadows and came up the walkway behind him. Without a word, they followed him through the doorway.

  The service passage was dark, grimy and stacked with wooden crates and boxes of tinned goods for the galley. The three figures crept along the passage wall when suddenly the prison ship listed slightly, causing its great hull to creak and groan under the strain of its moorings. They had to pause for a second as a crate slid across in front of them, hitting the floor and shattering the silence. Staying put for a few seconds to wait for movement of any wardens, they moved off until they reached the end of the passage. Gibbs stopped and listened again. He glanced around the corner in either direction. The long dark metal corridor was empty.

  ‘Clear,’ he whispered.

  He glanced across at the stocky frame of Fraser ‘Shredder’ Byrne, his friend and cellmate, who’d moved up beside him and nodded. ‘Two minutes to chaos,’ Gibbs said.

  Shredder smiled and nodded. ‘Make chaos while the sun shines then.’

  ‘Damn, the air smells good up here,’ Malcolm ‘Killey’ Kilfoyle said, coming up alongside them. ‘Give him hell, boss.’

  ‘See you upstairs,’ Gibbs replied and went off to the left.

  He came to a metal staircase and continued slowly up to the prison admin deck above their level. Straight across from him was the door to the infirmary. The faded old sign with the traditional Red Cross insignia on it was the only indication that it was the room where all manner of ailments and wounds of the twelve hundred inmates of the ICARUS were treated.

  Slipping the shank into the left sleeve of his prison overalls, he knocked twice and entered. The room was well lit and had the distinctive hospital smell of disinfectant, mixed with the faint odour of cheap tobacco and sweat. Glass-fronted metal cabinets full of bandages, medicine and other medical supplies lined two of the pale blue walls, with a dirty examination bed against the third.

  ‘You took your bloody time,’ barked a voice from across the room.

  Sitting behind the metal desk at the back of the room was a large overweight man with a shaved head, wearing the standard prison service uniform. He was leaning forward on his elbows with a lit cigarette in his left hand, his right hand flicked through what Gibbs could safely assume was a gay porn magazine.

  ‘I had to be sure that nobody spotted me sneaking out,’ Gibbs replied.

  ‘Who the hell would see you? I organised you safe passage as was agreed,’ Clarke replied. ‘People listen to me on this ship, you know. How many baggies do you want?’

  ‘Four,’ replied Gibbs.

  ‘Four what, Gibbs?’ Clarke said.

  ‘Four bags, boss.’

  ‘My, my, business is booming. I will have to up my prices in the future,’ he said.

  Gibbs stared at the pink scar that ran from the top of the man’s lip to the base of his nose. The scar he had given Clarke a few months earlier.

  Warden Clarke lifted his hand to mask his mouth. ‘I still bloody owe you for this, Gibbs.’

  ‘I made it clear that I wasn’t interested in you. Try it on with me again and the result will be the same,’ Gibbs replied.

  Boss Clarke stared at Gibbs for a little while. ‘What do you want, convict? I have anti-freeze, Capital H and flea powder.’

  ‘Two C H, two flea powder, boss,’ Gibbs said.

  Clarke sorted out four cellophane baggies from the open desk drawer to his left and slid them across the desk to Gibbs. ‘Fifty pounds cash.’

  Gibbs slowly withdrew a wad of notes from his trouser pocket and tossed them on the desk. ‘Better check that, boss, you know us cons.’

  Clarke ripped off the rubber band and fiddled with the notes. Gibbs glanced down to Clarke’s waist at the holstered Glock 17 pistol. The idiot hadn’t holstered it properly, and the small leather retaining strap was unclipped.

  Gibbs’s movements were a blur as he lunged at Clarke, letting the shank slide into his left hand from inside his sleeve. At the same time, he drove a sledgehammer right hook into the meaty face of the startled prison warden, whose lip exploded in a bloody red mess. With a third swift movement, Gibbs slipped the shank up under his chin, applying a little upward pressure.

  ‘Scream or move too quickly, you die. Fart without my permission, you die. You get the picture, fat boy?’

  The bleeding warden looked up at Gibbs with a mixture of panic and hatred.

  Gibbs walked around the desk, keeping the pressure on the thick throat of the prison warden.

  ‘I’ll take these,’ he said, as he relieved the warden of his pistol and two magazines full of rounds. His trained hand judged the weight of the Glock. It was fully loaded. Thirty-four rounds were more than enough.

  A loud shrill alarm rang out through the ship. Gibbs flicked a glance towards the door. Clarke quickly reached up for the shank at his throat and tried to pull it away. Gibbs swung his gun arm and smashed the Glock into Clarke’s temple, with a force that toppled the big man and the chair over onto its side. Gibbs stood motionless over the warden’s unconscious body, adrenaline coursing through his veins.

  After a few deep breaths, he walked over and smashed the glass cabinet doors with the handle of the Glock, reaching in for a few rolls of strong adhesive bandage.

  He taped the warden’s mouth shut then rolled him onto his stomach and hogtied him where he lay. Reaching down and felt Clarke’s pulse, faint but there.

  He crossed to one of the portholes, conscious of the time he’d spent since the alarm had been triggered. Gibbs flicked open the two brass clasps that sealed the porthole and swung open the heavy round window. Cold sea air blasted through, cooling his face.

  Easing his head through the porthole, he glanced up at the guardhouse that had been built as a lookout tower, overlooking the green deck of the old converted supertanker. The rifle barrel sticking out of the window meant that there was a guard on duty. Gibbs pulled himself through the porthole onto the icy wet ladder rungs. Adjacent to the guardhouse was another open porthole, which was his next target.

  Gibbs pulled the Glock pistol out of his belt when he reached the rungs just below the eye line of the guard. He could hear panicked voices blaring out from the man’s radio and smiled.

  In one fluid motion, he pulled himself up, with his gun hand leading the way. The man in the guardhouse paused with a
quizzical look on his face before trying to swing his rifle up to meet Gibbs. Two quick rounds to the chest put paid to any chances of retaliation, and the guard slumped to his knees in the small confines of the tower, draped over his sniper’s rifle.

  Gibbs swung across to the porthole and quickly glanced in. In the dull light of the crew’s cabin, he could see that his men had trapped a group of the wardens in the room. They all stood with their backs facing the porthole, weapons pointing away from him, and aimed at the door on the other side of the cabin. The Glock recoiled in his hand as he fired four warning shots through the porthole into the wood-panelled ceiling, sending splinters down onto the men, who all dived to the floor.

  ‘Drop your weapons,’ Gibbs shouted.

  ‘Don’t shoot. Please don’t kill us,’ one of the men shouted.

  ‘Everyone on your feet,’ Shredder snarled from the doorway where they were hunkered down. The eight prison guards all got to their feet and placed their hands on their heads.

  Gibbs swung in through the open porthole into the dark room. ‘Do what we tell you and no one will get hurt.’

  Shredder, Killey and three others walked in through the opposite doorway.

  ‘Complications?’ Gibbs asked.

  ‘We ran into a little trouble in the stairwell. One of their boys was having a smoke, saw us and tripped the bloody alarm too early. We got him in the end, but these cretins knew something was up and hunkered down in here.’

  ‘Good thing my part of the plan went well. We could have been at this for hours,’ Gibbs said.

  ‘Ain’t that the truth,’ Shredder said.

  ‘Jones, tie them up and collect all their weapons,’ Gibbs said. ‘Killey, take one of their radios and find out if there is any chatter on the line,’ he ordered.

  ‘Aye, sir,’ Killey replied, grabbing one of the handsets and headed towards the main door.

  ‘Shredder, where’s the ship’s chief officer?’ Gibbs said.

  ‘Still, in his quarters. We have a man on the door now,’ he replied.

  ‘Let’s go and talk to him then, we will need his help on the bridge,’ Gibbs said.

  ‘I’ll stay here with this lot and make sure they don’t escape,’ Shredder said.

  ‘Okay then, but don’t stay too long. The boys on the bridge will be a little panicked by now,’ Gibbs said.

  ‘Any news on the radio, Killey?’

  ‘Just got onto their frequency, no major chatter, someone on the bridge is chatting to the prison service on the mainland. It seems the alarm is linked to prison service HQ, so they are aware something is up. They think that someone has gone overboard again. You’ll have more news when I get it, boss,’ Killey replied.

  ‘Good man,’ Gibbs said. ‘Stay here and help Shredder tie these men up. No more bruising than is necessary.’

  ‘Yes, boss, no punching, I promise.’

  Gibbs left the crew’s living quarters and headed down a wooden clad walkway to where he could see Smithy sitting outside a closed door. Smithy nodded his head towards the closed door as Gibbs approached. ‘He is not a happy man.’

  Gibbs smiled. ‘Would you be?’

  Gibbs knocked on the door and walked into the chief officer’s quarters. ‘Good evening, Chief. Sorry to have to take control of your ship like this.’

  A dishevelled grey-haired man looked up from where he was sitting on the edge of his unmade bed and snarled. ‘Just how many of my men have you bastards killed?’

  Gibbs sat down in front of the chief, using the only chair in the cluttered room.

  ‘Chief, we can get through this painlessly if you let us have access to the bridge. We only have one demand…’

  ‘You want to get off this ship,’ interrupted the chief. ‘That’s not going to happen, as I am sure you realise by the bloody alarm, everyone knows what you are up to.’

  ‘Chief, we have been listening to the chatter on the radio, and your paymasters seem to think that it’s just another poor escape attempt by someone going overboard. They probably believe that the snipers will have picked off that person by now, sending all the evidence to the depths.’

  ‘Sonny, there is no way they will let you get off this ship. Those are the cold hard facts. They have by now positioned men along the shore with high-powered rifles trained on this vessel.’

  The two men stared at each other for a few seconds until Gibbs broke the silence. ‘Who said we want to go onshore? It was never a consideration. Why do you think we want to get on the bridge? We want to head out to sea and out of these bleeding waters.’

  The chief burst out laughing. ‘Okay then, sonny. We’ll head out with only one working engine and nearly no fuel on board. Just how far do you think we’ll get, ten, twelve miles? Then what?’

  ‘And you expect me to believe that, do you? We can take the bridge without you, but then I cannot guarantee the safety of your men,’ he said, getting to his feet.

  Gibbs made his way back to the crew’s quarters and ducked through the doorway. The gagged and bound prison guards nervously followed his movements, their eyes filled with fear. Silver duct tape had been used to tie them up, and Gibbs sensed they would all cooperate. The man nearest to the door let out a low moan as the silver tape was ripped from across his mouth.

  ‘Who is the chief engineer of this ship? Point him out to me and don’t dick me around or I’ll fucking throw you overboard,’ Gibbs said.

  ‘The chief engineer is on duty on the bridge tonight. The second engineer is the guy on the end, near the wall.’

  Gibbs nodded and stuck the tape back over the guard’s mouth.

  ‘You the second engineer?’ he asked. The man nodded. Gibbs ripped the tape from his mouth, causing the man to wince with pain.

  ‘How many engines does this tug have and what condition are they in?’ Gibbs asked, taking a seat on the bed opposite the second engineer. He slipped the Glock out from his belt and placed it on the bed next to him.

  ‘The ship was decommissioned a year ago. The Icarus is not meant to go anywhere.’

  ‘I’ll ask you one more time,’ Gibbs said, picking up the Glock. ‘How many engines?’

  ‘Two engines, sir. One is unserviceable, and the other is passed its service date, but it will still run,’ he replied, glancing at the pistol.

  ‘What range of fuel do we have left in the tanks?’ Gibbs asked.

  ‘Ten or twenty nautical miles max, sir,’ he replied.

  ‘Arrrgh…’ someone screamed from the door. Gibbs looked up to see Killey, face red with anger as he left the room.

  Gibbs found Killey halfway down the walkway, both hands up against the wall, taking a few deep breaths. He looked up at Gibbs. ‘Bloody morons, couldn’t even look after this ship.’

  Gibbs stood next to him. ‘Calm down, mate, we have been in worse scrapes than this and have always managed to think of something.’

  ‘Our plan has just gone down with this bleeding ship, and you know it,’ he said.

  ‘That it has. What do we do when the plan gets shot to pieces, we come up with another,’ Gibbs said.

  Killey sighed, forcing a grin. ‘We’d better come up with another plan soon because I’m sure the cavalry will be here soon.’

  Gibbs leant back against the walkway wall and was silent for a while. He reached around to his back pocket and felt the cool metal of the two iron keys that Warden Clarke had given to him a few months before. Keys that had allowed them to leave their cell. He took them out and looked down at them in his hand. ‘Let them come. We can use the crew as leverage to negotiate our position. I was given these two keys to help get us out of here, so someone higher up the food chain, than Clarke, has other plans for us.’

  ‘Yes, boss, but who?’ Killey asked.

  ‘I guess a senior figure in the Billionaires Club needs us back in London for some reason. And that suits me fine. We can now start finding out which one of those buggers was responsible for getting us locked up in the first place. I say we oblige them by getting
out of here.’

  Chapter 3

  Old Canary Wharf, London, England, UK - 2028

  Christina Anderson gazed out over the flooded city of London. It was depressing, cold, and constantly wet. She longed for the warm Californian sun on her face. The weather had not changed much over the two years she’d been stranded in London.

  From her office window on the twenty-eighth floor of the Canary Wharf building, she looked out over the watery ruins of a once global city and felt great sorrow for the people struggling to survive in the newly changed world. The predicted sea level rise had caused most of the planet’s low-lying areas to be flooded, and the daily tidal surge was once again pushing into London. Hundreds of little wooden boats bustled around the flooded streets. Like busy little pond insects.

  Thousands of people embarked on the watery pilgrimage into the city every low tide, scavenging amongst the tidal silt and mud to try and trade whatever they could find. Many queued at the compound gates of the Global Government Collective or GGC, seeking relief, respite and most of all hope from their ravaged world. Her heart sank at the sight of the brutal treatment the demoralised human beings received from the guards trying to maintain a semblance of order.

  ‘Miss Anderson,’ a voice said. ‘Miss Anderson?’

  ‘Yes, what is it?’ she said turning to the door. A young man in a grey GGC uniform was standing in the doorway. She was shocked by the youthful appearance of the private, as he stood to attention. His uniform, although old and a little on the large side, was clean and pressed.

  ‘Ma’am, your presence is required at a meeting with Lord Butler,’ he said.

  ‘Where and when is this meeting to take place?’

  ‘I am to escort you over to the Phoenix building straight away.’

  ‘Now? I thought Lord Butler was out of town.’