‘We still have a job to do here, Gregori, regardless of Bravo team’s position. The sun is nearly up, and we need to get moving,’ Ton replied.
‘I agree,’ the Russian replied, and barked out an order to the waiting frogmen.
Raising their tanks and buoyancy compensators over their heads, they slipped them on and buckled all the straps. Grabbing their black assignment bags they moved into position at the back of the boat. Ton stood beside Gregori and nodded to him. Slipping their masks down, they placed the regulator mouthpieces into their mouths and did a final breath test. With an 'OK' sign to show they were ready, one by one they took a long stride off the back of the boat into the dark depths.
The group descended into the silence in a plume of silver bubbles as they equalised to the increasing pressure. On cue, they flicked on their waterproof spotlights. Gregori led the way down with a receiver in his hand that he waved from side to side, monitoring a pulsing green light that indicated the direction they had to swim in.
Long, slow kicks of their fins helped them drift down into the strong tide before six algae and seaweed encrusted gas pipes became visible in the murky beams of light. Their target loomed into view like an ancient sunken monument of Atlantis, and the working pairs fanned out across the length of the designated target area. Packs of explosives were hastily removed from their black bags and the charges laid along the thirty-metre section of the pipe. Seeing the agreed two quick flashes from their torches, Ton had the confirmation he was waiting for, all the charges were successfully laid. He cracked two luminescent underwater flares and dropped them. All the men activated their timers.
With the clock ticking, the group of divers ascended in a blizzard of bubbles, their legs driving them upwards as quickly as they dared. Gregori suddenly grabbed Ton by the arm and gestured for him to look directly above them. Against the background of the orange morning sky, Ton could make out the darkened hull of another much larger vessel circling their boat, the hum of the propellers barely audible. He could see the intermittent spitting of yellow muzzle flashes as gunfight erupted above them. The occasional bubble stream whizzed downward as the bullets sheared through the water.
Ton stopped ascending and waited for all the men to reach him at a depth of four metres. He signalled for the pairs of men to move off in different directions in an attempt to outflank the attacking vessel. The taste of bile from the exertion of swimming into the tide for so long stung his throat. A gut feeling told him the mission was compromised.
The stiff westerly breeze would disguise their bubbles that reached the surface but not all of them. Armed with only 9mm pistols, it was up to his men on board their boat to act as cover for them until they were able to engage the enemy fully.
Ton’s head broke the surface, and his heart sank at the sight of two more enemy vessels circling. One of his men was on his knees on the bow of their boat, firing at one of the attacking craft. Ton watched as the man doubled over when a bullet slammed into him, and he slumped forward over the side of the boat, his arm hanging down into the water, moving eerily as the boat rocked from side to side.
A salvo of bullets flicked up the churned water all around Ton’s head, and he looked to his left to see two figures standing on the back of a nearby gunboat, their automatic weapons trained on him. Kneeling between them was Walter Nigge, the boat pilot and his nephew, his hands placed on his head with a look of terror on his face. More weapons were suddenly trained on him as he trod water. I could only get off a few rounds before they kill me, but then what would happen to Walter? Ton raised both hands out of the water to surrender. They were outmanned and outgunned.
The large stealth boat circled around the battle scene picking up a few remaining survivors, and Ton was one of four captives kneeling on the rubber deck. He knew from their equipment, clothing and demeanour that their captors, who were all dressed in black, were from some Special Forces unit. They all had black scarves pulled up to cover their faces and communicated in short, sharp sentences, giving no other information away.
Two of the masked soldiers dragged another body out of the water onto the back of the boat behind him and checked through all the man’s pockets and pouches on his BC. One of the soldiers turned around to the man who stood nearest to Ton and with a thick Scottish accent said, ‘Look like mercs to me, boss.’
The man in charge just nodded and replied, ‘Take any relevant documents and toss the bodies overboard.’
His radio suddenly squawked into life. ‘Alpha one, we have traces of explosives here, spare detonators and timing devices. Copy over.’
The leader walked over to Walter Nigge and dragged him up off his knees. ‘So, your boys have been quite busy down there, have they?’
The petrified young man flashed a beseeching glance over at Ton for a second. ‘I am just the boat pilot, I don’t know anything.’
Ton's heart sank as the masked man caught the fleeting look from the young man. He looked across, his dark brown eyes studying the kneeling man’s reactions for a few seconds. Ton didn’t break his gaze and watched the tall man withdraw his hunting knife from its belt cover and press the black blade to the young man’s throat. ‘Give me the coordinates to where you laid the charges and I won’t slit his throat then throw you overboard after his body.’
Ton glared up at him then looked forward.
The tall man in black reached up and pulled the scarf down. ‘My name is Gibbs, and I will be responsible for your interrogation for the foreseeable future, so start talking and I will be easier on the boy here.’
A few seconds later Gibbs took a step back and smashed the handle of his knife against Walter Nigge's temple, causing the young man to moan as he went down onto the rubber deck of the boat. Gibbs nodded to a second man who was standing at the back of the boat, who moved forward to kneel down over Walter and place his razor-sharp blade at the shocked boat pilot's throat.
‘You are running out of time, mate. He is seconds away from joining your other men at the bottom of the Forth.’
‘You only have about two minutes to detonation, so there won’t enough time to try and deactivate the charges,’ Ton said.
Gibbs turned and sheathed his knife. He lowered his machine gun and walked over to Ton, smashing him in the face with his rifle butt. ‘That is not exactly what I wanted to hear.’
Ton fell backwards, and his head hit the deck with a loud thump. As he grew dizzier, he felt a monstrous thud reverberate through the hull of the boat. Men started shouting at each other and the engines roared into life. He shook his head and blinked as a spray of seawater washed over the boat as it listed to the left. Ton rolled across the deck and stopped up against the side of the railings. Job done.
Chapter 8
Central London, England, UK - 2019
The brick looped up through the driving rain and followed its natural arc downwards as it crashed onto the bonnet of the car.
‘Holy shit!’ Mason Waterfield shouted from the backseat of the chauffeur driven car.
‘Little bastard,’ the driver shouted and pressed the accelerator. ‘You okay back there, sir?’
‘Fine, thanks. I just never get used to that sort of thing happening,’ Mason said.
‘A young tearaway, no doubt.’
‘Indeed,' Mason said. 'Please drop me at the Watergate Street entrance tonight, David. This bloody weather is frightful, and I will get soaked if I use the main entrance.’
‘Yes, Mr Waterfield.’
‘Our weather does seem to have taken a turn for the worst these last few years, doesn’t it?’ Mason Waterfield said. ‘Maybe all that climate change bullshit is true after all.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘How are you and Cindy managing with all these blasted blackouts?’ Mason asked.
‘Coping well, thank you, sir. We have a few new coal burners in the house, and it is not too difficult to trade for coal nowadays.’
‘I am glad,’ Mason Waterfield said, and looked out through the tinted w
indows. Black smoke from coal burning fires drifted across the capital’s once majestic skyline, blocking out much of the natural light. Continuous rioting and protests during the previous five years had resulted in the army being stationed all over the capital with the unilateral power to squash any threat to public order. Although the military had tried martial law and curfews, they were fighting an ongoing battle with ever more organised gangs and other crime syndicates.
‘Is it difficult trading with these gangs, David?’ Mason asked, feeling the gulf of living standards between the two men.
‘As long as you pay up on time, sir, they are okay to deal with. Just normal blokes wanting to provide for their families, I guess.’
The black Maybach slipped across a rain-soaked Blackfriars Bridge and drove around the back of the abandoned Unilever building, before stopping silently in front of a dimly lit green door. Mason eased his big frame out of the car and shouldered into the icy rain, pulling his overcoat collar up to his neck in an attempt to keep dry. Two uniformed security guards opened the steel door as he approached and checked the street in case someone had followed him. Mason then followed them through the old abandoned corridors of the major corporate giant that once did business on the premises.
‘Has everyone already arrived, Steven?’ he asked, as they walked.
‘All present except Mr Mountford, governor,’ the burly man replied.
‘Of course,’ Mason said. ‘Bloody Mountford.’
Mason walked into the great elaborate boardroom and took his seat at the head of the long rectangular table, and brought the meeting to order.
‘Does anyone object if we begin without Mr Mountford this evening? Lord Butler?’ Mason asked. A loud murmur broke out amongst the members at the mention of the absentee.
Lord Butler sat to the side of the gathering, from where he monitored proceedings from a large black leather couch with the ever present Alex Brun standing alongside. ‘No objections from me, but may I reiterate that although many of you would like to get rid of the young man, I believe that his ambition, aggression and inherited billions are still required by this group. I still endorse his membership, as you all know.’
More murmurs of discontent filtered around the group.
‘Thank you, Lord Butler,’ Mason said.
‘So, down to the first order of business. Our sources in the Ministry of Defence have been monitoring UK troop movements over the last three to six months and have informed me of the steady rise in the troop withdrawal from our government’s overseas interests. Homeland security now seems to be becoming a major priority to our friends in Westminster,’ Mason added.
The conference room door opened, halting Mason in mid-sentence. The tall figure of John Mountford strode in, dressed in a black Armani dinner suit that highlighted his sickly pale skin. He strode around the seated members and took his seat at the table.
‘It’s so nice of you to make the effort to join us, John,’ Mason said, staring at the latecomer.
‘It’s my pleasure, Mr Chairman. What is so urgent that I had to fly back to London at such short notice? Some of us are quite busy, you know,’ he replied.
‘When it comes to the matter of the Club, these meetings trump all other priorities, John. I have no interest in the urgency of your personal affairs. Our bylaws state that when summoned to an urgent meeting, attendance is mandatory for all members, and promptly, I might add,’ Mason said.
‘Yes, Mr Chairman, and as I have pointed out on many occasions, it’s a list of bylaws that would not be enforceable in any country. What will you do to me? Throw me out of your little club?’
‘Yes, John, and you will leave with nothing. You of all people understand that all of your personal assets are tied up in this organisation. Assets you only inherited, my friend,’ Mason said.
‘Oh please! We are not back to that shit again, are we? Yes, I inherited my money as did most of you old folks. Can we bloody move along?’
‘It is very simple, John, obey the bylaws or leave. That’s what every member across the planet signed up to,’ Mason replied, looking over at the younger man who was sitting back in his chair, his arms folded.
‘Moving on with the reason for this meeting?’ Mason asked.
‘I wait with bated breath, Mr Chairman,’ John replied, waving Mason on.
Mason paused for effect. ‘It is becoming more evident that the UK government is no longer honouring its agreement with us to share military resources across the European economic zone. What’s more, they are moving the remainder of the navy into the Atlantic and the North Sea. I have here a transcript of a conversation that we obtained of Chief of Defence Staff, General Malcolm, authorising the withdrawal of Special Forces units from the Middle East to assist in defending the UK’s remaining oil and gas supplies.’
‘Was that in retaliation for the gas pipeline explosion that happened a few days ago?’ Lord Butler asked.
‘No, Lord Butler. There were already a few SAS units present but sadly they were unable to prevent it,’ Mason replied.
‘Just how could they let it happen right under their bloody noses?’
‘Apparently bad intelligence was picked up on the wires, and the units were deployed to the harbour refinery and not the gas pipelines directly. We believe that one of our European partners instigated the attack and used mercenaries who have since been captured at the site’' Mason replied.
John laughed and said, ‘So much for us all working together, then.’
‘Has the Navy already been redeployed or is it still possible to influence their decision?’ The question came from a grey-haired man at the side of the table.
‘I believe they are en route as we speak, Sir Michael,’ Mason replied.
‘We must continue the policy of arbitration between governments and try to get them to resume sharing of resources in this zone. It is the only way we can preserve our way of life in Europe,’ Sir Michael Cameron said.
‘Oh please, gentlemen,’ John interjected. ‘No common ground has ever been reached across the European continent when it came to a cohesive energy policy or any other policy that actually made sense for that matter. In these difficult times, why would leaders behave any differently than they have in the past? The race for resources has already begun and has resulted in national protectionism the likes of which we have not seen in hundreds of years. The explosion at the Grangemouth plant just proves that.’
‘We all know this, John, but we must still explore all avenues of diplomatic solutions to keep the economic zone together,’ Sir Michael replied.
‘With all due respect to your diplomacy, Sir Michael, but screw that. Those days are gone. Moving forward, we need to take steps to maintain the presence of the supremacy we have at this table. This Club has the power and funds to set up small military forces that can bring about the changes we all know will safeguard our future.’
‘John, you have raised this idea on many occasions, and we have debated it in this forum and across the Club as a whole. It is not what we are about,’ Mason said. ‘What you are talking about is military style government influence through destabilisation, and it will never pass as a Club policy.’
‘That's just bollocks. None of you has ever bothered to look at other possible solutions in any real detail. I will keep bringing it up because I believe it is the only possible solution to get governments to pool their resources. Diplomacy might have worked ten years ago, but the time for talking has passed,’ John replied.
As the members took a break for fifteen minutes, Lord Butler walked over to Mason who was having a cigar by himself in the corner of the large hall. ‘Nice work, Mason. The Billionaires Club has done supremely well under your chairmanship.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
‘I would love to nominate you for a second term and you know nobody will go against me, but I need you to do something for me first,’ Lord Butler asked.
‘Name it, sir,’ Mason said.
‘I need you to get behin
d and promote young Mountford there. I know he sometimes behaves like a spoilt brat having inherited all those billions, but he is critical for my vision for the Club’s future over the next few years. Can I count on you?'
Mason swallowed hard. ‘Of course you can, Lord Butler.’
Chapter 9
Grangemouth Refinery Barracks, Scotland, UK - 2019
‘Get up, you disgusting drunk,’ the sixteen-year-old Gibbs screamed, and wiped a stream of blood from his nose with his sleeve. ‘Is that all you’ve got, old man?’
Looking down as he stood over the battered and bruised form of Private Smith who lay on the interrogation room floor, visions flooded back of his abusive father. The young soldier’s eyes were swollen and bloody, his lips had been split in two places from the beatings. From previous experience, Gibbs knew that he had probably pushed the interrogation of the prisoner a little too far. Two of the other prisoners, kneeling next to the prostrate young man, looked on in shock.
‘Gentlemen, you need to start talking, or things are going to get really bad for you all. Are you prepared to die for the men who hired you?’ he said, turning towards the table. ‘You come into our country, blow up our gas lines and expect to be treated with open arms and a pat on the back?’
Gibbs knew that the tall blond man kneeling next to Private Smith had led the team into UK waters, and he had already shown a weakness for his troops during the boat ride back to the base. It was the pressure point that Gibbs would exploit.
Reaching down, Gibbs picked up his Sig Sauer P226 pistol off the table and walked back over to Smith.
‘I will ask you one last time. Who are you working for, soldier?’ he said, pointing the pistol at the young man.
‘You can’t shoot me. That would be…’ Gibbs squeezed the trigger and shot the man through his muscular shoulder. The thunderous blast echoed throughout the small interrogation room, deafening everyone. Smith groaned then rolled over, clutching his bleeding shoulder.
Celt_The Journey of Kyle Gibbs Page 4