Celt_The Journey of Kyle Gibbs

by Wayne Marinovich

  ‘Okay, Gibbs, you have made your point,’ Mason said.

  ‘I am not finished, Mason. I am also convinced that you have men in your employ who would usually handle the recruitment of resources for you, so I am assuming that this is a very sensitive and covert operation, possibly even hidden from others in your organisation and thus you feel the need to oversee this yourself.’

  Mason leaned back in his chair.

  Gibbs continued, ‘You are hiring us personally because we are great at what we do and more importantly, we are expendable. In essence, we take all the risk and in turn you buy our experience, silence and loyalty.’

  ‘Okay then, a hundred and eighty thousand per man, half now and half on completion, and that is more than I would usually authorise.’ Mason leant forward and stuck out his hand to seal the deal.

  Gibbs smiled and shook it.

  ***

  Captain Warren sat with his feet on his desk and stared out of the small-paned window as the rain pelted down against it. Another fine Scottish storm had been blown into the Firth of Forth and was hammering the base, and his mood was worse than the weather.

  ‘Yes!’ he said as he picked up the phone ringing on his desk.

  ‘It’s Sergeant Walsh, sir.’

  ‘Well, it’s about bloody time, Sergeant. Have you caught Gibbs and his men yet?’

  ‘No, sir. I am afraid we have lost them in London, sir.’

  ‘What? You bumbling idiot, how could you have lost them, Sergeant? You had just a single task to perform, chase Gibbs and his men and apprehend them. Your last report said that you had traced them and were on their tail. What the hell happened?’

  ‘We were headed off by a large gang, and this delayed us, giving Gibbs and his men time to escape. We could not trace them again.’

  ‘Useless idiots. What are we supposed to do now?’

  There was silence on the line.

  ‘Well, Sergeant?’

  ‘A colleague of mine called me and said that someone has been making enquiries into Gibbs and his men’s personal service records, sir.’

  ‘Is that so? Do you have a name for me?’

  ‘Name and telephone number, sir. It’s a David Kirkwood in London. I can call him if you want, sir.’

  ‘No, Sergeant, leave it with me, I don’t want you cocking this up too.’

  Chapter 14

  Clapham, London, England, UK - 2019

  Gibbs leaned against the granite wall of the Northcote public house on a busy street in the borough of Clapham. Hundreds of hawkers and passers-by were going about their daily business. He looked down at the little boy who was standing next to him and copying his every move. The little man’s piercing blue eyes shone even more against his dirty tanned face. His face lit up with white teeth at the attention from Gibbs. ‘Come on, mister. Give us some change for me lunch.’

  A commotion distracted him as two women dressed in overalls started fighting over a small mirror that someone wanted to trade. After a few seconds of hair pulling and shrieking, a group of men got involved ensuring the pushing and shoving match got even more violent.

  Tangible goods and possessions were all that mattered in the new underground trade markets. Bartering as the new economy was fast gaining visibility across all the major cities in Europe.

  ‘Here you go, wee man. Spend it on food, now,’ Gibbs said, giving him a pound coin. He realised he and his men were lucky to have a skill that wealthy men were willing to exploit or else they could also be down in the mud, scrapping for old mirrors like the group in front of him.

  The team spent the morning in a rundown old pub and took it in turns to observe the address that David Kirkwood had passed onto them. After a few hours of observation, the exercise had yielded nothing out of the ordinary at Kirkwood Enterprises. Gibbs tapped on the windowpane and nodded to the two men sitting inside, and then he crossed the littered road to the green wooden door they had staked out for the last few hours.

  A few minutes later they were inside the accountant-like offices and were all seated at a small boardroom table looking over documents. ‘Mason brought me up to speed on what you discussed at your last meeting, Gibbs, and I am glad to have you and your men on board with us. To give the rest of you some background, Mason Waterfield, whom Gibbs met, is chairman of a massive collective of billionaires which affects policy across many countries around the world. They have their fingers in most pies, and you could probably say they’re a sort of government unto themselves.’

  ‘This sounds like a script from a Bond movie. Does he own a white cat?’ Killey said.

  ‘It does indeed. Some of the more recent missions all three of you would have fought in for the British military were orchestrated by these billionaires. At present, they are engaged in particularly difficult negotiations with an African government. Your team will be one of five heading to Africa to help destabilise that government to the point where they will either agree to certain political and economic terms or risk having their government replaced,’ Kirkwood said.

  ‘Which country are we talking about here, David?’ Shredder asked.

  ‘I’ll let Gibbs handle that question,’ Kirkwood said.

  ‘I have agreed with Mason and David not to reveal the exact location of the operation until just before we land. This is just standard procedure to ensure both their and our protection should the operation run into trouble before it gets off the ground,’ Gibbs said.

  ‘Fair enough,’ Shredder said.

  David continued. ‘You will land and enter through one of the target’s neighbouring countries and travel by road using valid business visas under your assumed identities. The weapons, ammunition and equipment will arrive in the country by way of one of our regular African military partners. You and your team can collect all the containers once you have organised your trucks.’

  ‘Can these partners be trusted to deliver on time?’ Gibbs asked. ‘We only have a small window of opportunity during the operation to meet up.’

  ‘We have a great working relationship with them. They have supported us in many of our operations around the world and will take care of all the legal red tape to ensure the weapons are there.’

  ‘It doesn’t mean that I trust them to deliver on time within Africa,’ Gibbs said.

  ‘I trust them implicitly, and I’m happy to vouch for their abilities. I know it’s often tougher in Africa but they have an excellent track record in securing the correct certificates and import documentation for landing large amounts of military equipment legally, also, it is very much in their best interests to keep us satisfied as clients,’ David said.

  ‘I would still like to see all copies of the shipping documents before we leave on this operation, David,’ Gibbs said.

  ‘I take it that much of the smaller equipment can be sourced locally,’ Shredder said. ‘Will we have to organise them ourselves?’

  ‘Correct,’ David replied. ‘Vehicles and smaller automatic weapons and ammunitions can be sourced locally, but be aware that it could attract attention from intelligence agencies. I would suggest that you use any contacts you have in the neighbouring countries instead and take the equipment in with you.’

  ‘That’s all well and good, David, but you didn’t answer me about the documents,’ Gibbs said.

  ‘Why is it so bloody important that you see them? I told you that I can vouch for my contacts,’ David said.

  ‘Just get me the copies, David, or we walk,’ Gibbs replied. ‘Our lives are on the line here, and I want to eliminate as much risk as possible before we even leave these shores. Is that clear?’

  ‘Fine, I’ll get copies for you in the next few days.’

  ‘Thank you. Now, what is the status of our new identities?’ Gibbs asked.

  ‘The initial funds for the operations have been transferred to my company so I will cover the costs for them and take it out of your share. You gents will receive as agreed, half of the negotiated rate up front, so ninety thousand pounds will be tran
sferred to each of your accounts once you have opened them,’ David said, gathering up his papers.

  ‘How long will our new passports take?’ Killey asked.

  ‘My source can get them done in about five days, which is perfect timing for this operation. They come with a full birth certificate and driving licence.’

  ‘Will the quality stand up?’ Killey asked. ‘I’m not worried about travelling within Africa, but travelling in and out of the UK and Europe will be much more risky.’

  ‘They are flawless, so you won’t have any problems,’ David said. Turning to Gibbs, he asked. ‘Are you good to source the additional team members that you need?’

  ‘I have sourced the best men available in Africa, and they will be ready to go. They will secure their own travel documents, and we will meet up with them on the way to the target,’ Gibbs said.

  ***

  Gibbs, Shredder and Killey left the offices of Kirkwood Enterprises an hour later and returned to the pub for a few beers and a post-mortem of the meeting.

  While he was at the bar ordering the final round of tequilas before they went to the strip clubs in Soho, Gibbs’s mobile phone rang. ‘Gibbs,’ he answered, trying to drown out the loud background music.

  ‘Hello, mate. Are you in position? Great, your target should be leaving his office in the next half hour so, follow him and find out who he meets up with during the next two days,’ Gibbs said, and ended the call with a glance at the bemused Killey and Shredder.

  ‘And what the bloody hell are you up to now?’ Shredder asked when he re-joined them. ‘Who was on that on the call?’

  ‘That was just JP,’ Gibbs said. ‘He is running a small errand for me, off the books of course.’

  ‘No way! What is that mad bastard doing in London and why the fuck is he not here drinking with us?’ Killey said, and slammed an empty tequila glass down on the table.

  Gibbs laughed. ‘Like I said, he’s doing a small job for me in London before heading back to Namibia. He’ll be joining us on the mission because he speaks so many of the local dialects and has served in some of the countries we are heading to, which could be handy.’

  ‘So it’s off to Namibia then,’ Shredder exclaimed.

  ‘Shut it and get one last round in, Shredder,’ Gibbs said.

  ***

  David Kirkwood sat at his wooden desk and finished off the last of his emails for the day. He looked at his diary on his desk at the name showing for his final meeting of the day. This one would be an interesting one.

  The tall man walked in and stood behind the chair opposite Kirkwood. ‘Please, take a seat, Captain Warren. It is nice to meet you face to face. I am very keen to discuss your reasons for wanting to lead one of our teams to Africa.’

  Chapter 15

  Somewhere over Morocco, Africa - 2019

  The plane shuddered thanks to the turbulence and suddenly dropped for a second. Killey and Shredder woke from their drink-induced sleep to see Gibbs standing in the aisle, whiskey glass in hand. ‘Follow me, sleeping beauties,’ he said.

  The luxury of first class on the old Boeing 747 was a big change from the usual rickety military planes they had grown accustomed to.

  ‘You know what, boss, I could get used to this crap lifestyle of sleeping horizontally on a plane journey,’ Shredder said.

  ‘It sure beats being seated upright in a DC-10 for hours,’ Gibbs replied.

  ‘Damn, had forgotten about the old Vomit Comet. Let’s not fly in those again, boss.’

  ‘Well, it will be bumpy as hell in this old tub when we fly into Windhoek, I can assure you.’

  ‘So are you still sticking to your story that Namibia is not our target, boss?’ Shredder asked.

  ‘Shut up.’

  Sipping on whiskeys and martinis in the vacant eighties-decorated plane bar, the three men were all casually dressed in t-shirts and jeans and easily passed for wealthy entrepreneurs. Only an observant person would have taken notice of the small, detailed map spread out across the narrow bar counter between them. A stern glance from Killey sent the over-attentive barman to the other side of the bar.

  ‘Once we’ve landed in the city of Windhoek, we will be collected by JP and some of his men. Here is the list of mercenary names that he has selected, all are chaps we either know by reputation or have served with,’ Gibbs told them

  ‘So, boss, where and what exactly are we up to?’ Shredder asked.

  ‘The entire operation takes place in two locations in Angola over the next week. Four other teams are assembling across South Africa and Botswana with the sole purpose of destabilising and possibly replacing the current Angolan government.’

  ‘It sounds like we’ll finally get to see some bloody combat,’ Killey said. ‘What role do we play in all of this?’

  ‘Assisted by local rebel fighters, we will attack and take control of the Lobito Oil refinery on the coast, south of Luanda,’ he said, pointing to the location on the map. ‘We will neutralise the small army regiment they have in residence there and take control of plant security until we get further orders from the operational intelligence folks who will be controlling all of this from within Luanda somewhere.’

  ‘Is it just me or do you also see the irony in attacking an oil refinery after just releasing mercs who attacked one of ours?’ Shredder said.

  ‘I did think of that, but we are mercs ourselves now, so there is no ours and theirs. Only those who pay our way,’ Gibbs said.

  The three men remained huddled together, hunched over intelligence documents and maps for a further three hours. As the sun started to rise over the African continent, the plane banked one final time then begun its descent for final approach into Windhoek.

  ***

  Gibbs had spotted the burly Afrikaner a long while before they got through to the arrivals hall, which was operating on standard African time - slow.

  ‘JP, you mad bastard,’ Gibbs called to his African contact as they walked through the security doors. Gibbs looked the South African Special Forces veteran over and knew that they would be in good hands.

  ‘Good to see you again, boss,’ JP replied. ‘Bloody hell, you three northerners have all got nice and fat. Not much need for exercise while sitting behind a desk, it seems.’

  ‘No, mate, every time we shag your sister, she gives us a doughnut,’ Killey replied to the South African.

  The big man let out a riotous laugh and slapped Killey on the back so hard he nearly choked on his chewing gum. Shaking his head as he walked, JP led the men out of the deteriorating old terminal building and into the heat of the African sun. Hundreds of local Africans stood along the barriers trying to sell the newly arriving tourists all manner of food products and sightseeing trips. The vibrant colours of their clothing lifted the tired men once it dawned on them that they were away from chilly Europe. They walked past small trading stalls manned by smiling ladies selling exotic fruits, beads and carved stone novelties. Stern-faced woodcarvers stood alongside their polished animal carvings, smoking their hand-rolled cigarettes.

  ‘They all seem so happy and content, don’t they,’ Gibbs said to JP.

  ‘They might not be wealthy, but they look after everyone in their extended families, and everyone looks after them. What’s important to them is to smile, laugh and sing. Why would you need anything else?’

  Gibbs stopped at a small mobile barber shop, set up in a blue and white canvas pagoda. He got a thumbs up from a smiling customer while the barber continued shaving his head with a rusty looking straight razor.

  A little further on, they found themselves standing in a congested and bustling parking lot, looking at what was to be their transport for the mission. Parked alongside one another were four old rusty International trucks of different colours of faded green.

  ‘You have got to be kidding me, JP?’ Gibbs said, shaking his head in disbelief. 'Where did you get these rust buckets from? The frikkin scrap heap?'

  ‘The engines, chassis and suspensions are all but n
ew, Gibbs. These puppies will get us to where we are going without mechanical problems or attracting any real attention. You know that you cannot drive into the bush in brand new trucks. This is Africa, man,’ JP said, a grin on his face.

  ‘You had better hope we don’t break down in these museum pieces,’ Gibbs replied.

  A small shirtless African boy ran up to the group of men and went straight to the South African, handing him a small parcel. JP scraped together coins from his pocket and tipped the kid before turning the package over to Gibbs, who walked over to his bags and stashed the small item deep inside.

  ‘Um…is there something we should know, boss?’ Shredder asked as Gibbs re-joined the group.

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

  ***

  The four-truck convoy made its way out of the bustling, and surprisingly modern, streets of Windhoek and out into the hazy Namibian vastness. The landscape changed very 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 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 would still need other items like gas canisters, water and fresh meat.

  ‘So, boss, do you think that ten days’ worth of supplies will be enough for the job?’ JP asked.

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

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