‘Ah yes, Os Terríveis. They do love a good fight and feast,’ Gibbs said.
‘So, you know 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 have long been disbanded.’
‘Let’s hope that they bring their A-game to the refinery. I am looking forward to fighting alongside them.’
A few hours later, once they had loaded the supplies and made their acquaintances in the desert town of Otjiwarongo, they pushed up to the bush town of Tsumeb where they spent the night camping. The Angolan border was only a short four-hour drive away.
***
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.
‘It’s about an hour to the checkpoint, but we turn off twenty minutes before that,’ JP replied, looking over at Gibbs. ‘The detour will add about an extra hour, but it limits the chances of being seen.’
‘Didn’t you say we wouldn’t have any problems at the border post?’ Gibbs frowned at him.
‘Two of the 32 Battalion boys are not happy about going into the country through this checkpoint, apparently they caused a lot of havoc on their last operation in Angola and would rather cross under the radar,’ JP explained.
‘Fair enough,’ Gibbs said. ‘What are the chances of any impromptu road blocks?’
‘Not on this side of the border, but on the Angolan side, we will probably run into one or two. 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 then started the five-hour journey north to Lubango. Gibbs was fast 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 under the truck in the dust like a lizard. 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 only just 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 are brand new, so it just proves that Africa can break anything.’
The team helped JP pirate spare parts from the other three trucks and then he set about fixing the broken suspension. Gibbs stood leaning against the back of the truck, chewing on a handful of the locally dried apricots. A huge billowing cloud of dust grew larger behind a vehicle as it approached them at speed. For five long minutes, he waited and watched as a banged-up, white Land Rover Defender approached them.
One of 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 experience within setting off danger signals in his head. The vehicle slowly drove past and then 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 have 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 truck.
JP reached the three men and discussions began with some local civil greetings. They enquired what he had in the trucks and where they were headed.
‘We are heading to Luanda to sell or trade those trucks for scrap metal then hopefully buy locally carved souvenirs and take them back to Namibia to trade,’ 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.’
‘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 second later 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.
The third man quickly grabbed a startled JP, swinging his arm around JP’s 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 screamed. ‘Tell them to stop and get out of the truck or you will die!’
JP shouted 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 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 is 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 and blew a hole out the back of his head. He fell where he stood.
‘Down, JP!’ Gibbs screamed as he noticed the driver from the Land Rover come out from his hiding place. The man screamed in anger and pulled the pin of the grenade. He launched into a throw, but before he could release the grenade, Gibbs fired twice into the man’s shoulder and chest, sending 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 the prostrate Gibbs and JP. Bits of burning debris landed all around the two men, which kept them lying in the dust for a few more seconds, then JP slowly stood up. He looked aghast at the bodies around him then looked backed at the burning Land Rover, a black plume of smoke spiralling upwards on the gentle breeze.
JP returned to the trucks, furious with Gibbs. ‘What the fuck, boss, I was busy negotiating with them and was close to making a deal for our safe passage. Now there is a huge plume of smoke for all to see.’
‘When the guy raised that revolver at you, 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, Gibbs. 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.
‘Okay, well, it’s done now. Let’s get moving,’ Gibbs said.
A few helpers came fo
rward to drag the bodies to the side of the road and cover them with any 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, as they unloaded the hundred and twenty large wooden crates 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.
‘We should be okay here, boss, many of these little trawlers moor up here to offload their catch so we should remain undetected,’ JP said.
‘JP, just make sure that those men don’t drop any of the crates and spill any guns and ammunition out. 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 is 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, but you are still the trigger-happy arse, which we all love to hate,’ JP said, with a big grin on his face. ‘I had better go and see to all those crates.’
Chapter 16
Unilever House, Central London, UK - 2019
‘What do you mean, you have mercenary teams stationed out 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?’
‘Well, I guess that would be me, Lady Winterton,’ the large figure of Mason Waterfield replied.
‘It's quite alright, Mason. There is no need to cover for me on this occasion,’ John Mountford said. ‘Actually, it was me who 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 have done? You have always been reckless and foolish in the past, but this stunt is just plain mutinous. You have ruined our global reputations with this random act.’
‘Please refrain from snapping at me like I am some barnyard dog, Lady Winterton. You know full well that we have 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 asked.
Lady Winterton looked shocked. Her eyes showing her 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, can we all just take a deep breath here. Think about the original mandate that we all drew up together a few years ago,’ Mason said. ‘It is 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 are all in contact with your designated regional leaders, both on government and opposition levels.’
‘Yes, but we haven’t mobilised any teams into action in our areas,’ the member from the Asian region said.
‘This 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 explained.
Lady Winterton shook her head. ‘But what of our envoys in Luanda who are currently in negotiations with the Manual Abilo government? We have worked extremely hard to get Mr Abilo to discuss the prospect of sharing resources with other African governments in the region and we now stand to lose months of hard work and effort.’
‘I asked John to mobilise teams from here and from within Southern Africa to be on standby in case the negotiations fail, Rosemary,’ Mason said. ‘And based on reports which are coming out of Luanda in the last day or two, it does seem unlikely that a favourable diplomatic agreement will be reached which can be made into policy by the Abilo Parliament. Or that any other agreement will be achieved at all in the negotiations.’
‘So we have mercenaries waiting to strong-arm their way into Angola if the negotiations fail?’ Lady Winterton asked, 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. ‘For once I happen to agree with Mason and John on this, Rosemary, we are not the United Nations. We are 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 have worked hard to keep the Club’s name out of this. We have a plan in place to set up one of the units as a scapegoat if the operation it 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.
‘Are you able to speak freely?’
‘Yes, a few of my men are here with me but can be trusted.’
‘Okay, fair enough. 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 for the assault. Will the strike order come from you directly?’
‘Good work, Gibbs. 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 go in. We are just trying to close out negotiations with the Abilo government, and we are not sure exactly how long that will take, so sit tight.’
‘Roger that,' Gibbs said. 'We are 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 have 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 the group.
‘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.
‘We know that 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 old pro-climate change lobby. He understands the importance of pooling all our resources,’ Mason said, looking around the table at the sceptical Club members.
‘So, forgetting about their oil reserves for a minute,’ Lord Butlers said. ‘What is his stance on the water issue?’
‘He is well aware of the security risks and potential conflicts of water wars in sub-Sahar
an Africa. The main reason we feel comfortable that he is on board with this is that he requires our expertise and substantial investment for the planned Cubango Dam project,’ Mason replied.
‘I take it we are still struggling with the Botswana government’s reluctance on the damming up of the Cubango River?’ another member asked.
‘Yes,’ Lord Butler said. ‘They are adamant that it will have dramatic effects downstream and therefore, can see no benefit to them. The Okavango swamps and Maun could suffer dramatically once the dam is built and operational. I guess the government in Botswana will take more persuading that the Angolan government won’t cut their water off.’
‘So are we talking about more forceful persuasion here?’ Lady Winterton asked.
‘Possibly, but I think that scenario won’t play out for another eighteen months or so,’ Lord Butler replied.
‘It certainly appears as though we have to effect a lot more forceful change than we ever mandated,’ she murmured, shaking her head.
‘Lady Winterton, it was never going to be easy to consolidate all the resources around the planet, we knew we would have to use coercion and force on the odd occasion,’ Lord Butler said. ‘The more precious the natural resource, the more force would be required at a point in the future. We see a marked increase in illegal immigration from Africa to Europe as the localised water wars continue. Our mandate is to try and get regions to consolidate resources so they can support their people and not have them pouring into our cities.’
‘I take it we will need to hire your mercenary teams again to do more work in the future?’ she said. ‘This strikes me as a very devious and backhanded method of getting us to approve of a small Billionaires Club army.’
‘Lady Winterton, you are making a rather broad assumption considering we are only talking about the Angolan action here. How do you suddenly jump to the conclusion that we will have our own army?’ Mason replied.
‘Oh, please don’t insult our intelligence, Mason. We all know the slippery slope we are about to embark on here and where it eventually will lead.’
Celt_The Journey of Kyle Gibbs Page 9