Nothing.
‘Brave one, Bravo one, this is Alpha one, come in over.’
More silence.
Suddenly he heard three clicks through the earphones he had on. He executed the agreed reply with two clicks of the transmitter button on his handset. A few second later, a solitary click came through on Gibbs’s headphones. JP could not speak for some reason. Gibbs’s heart started to beat a little faster. He walked over to the army cot he had been sleeping on and picked up his SA80 machine gun. Chambering a round, he walked out of the ops room.
Twenty minutes later, Shredder, JP and two rebel fighters rushed into the compound and took up positions alongside Gibbs and his teams who were positioned just inside the main gate. ‘Jesus, that was close,’ Shredder said, breathing hard. ‘We couldn’t contact you as we were almost outflanked by a large group of Angolan soldiers sweeping the south side of the hill, What’s more, there are a few mercs helping them. I heard a good few English accents amongst them.’
‘Are they all coming out of the encampment on the north road?’ Gibbs asked.
‘Seems so, we didn’t detect any other troop movements. However, we did see a small recon plane coming in over the ocean. It circled once and then went south,’ Shredder replied.
‘Yeah, we saw it too. I have placed one of the men in the top lookout tower with a Stinger missile and told him to take it down if it comes within range again,’ Gibbs said.
‘You had any contact with Kirkwood or Luanda yet?’ Shredder asked.
‘Sweet fuck all,’ Gibbs replied, loading more rounds into his spare magazines.
‘Great! Oh and the news gets better. I could have sworn I saw that idiot John Warren in all the excitement,’ Shredder said.
‘What?’ Gibbs stopped dead in his tracks.
‘I know, boss, I had to look twice, but I am pretty sure it was him giving the orders to the Angolan troops. He was pushing his men to get set up, and they seemed to be ready to move in on us at any moment,’ Shredder said.
Gibbs checked his magazine again and slipped the safety off. ‘Well, it’s a long way for Captain Warren to come to die, but I guess Angola is as good a place as any. This time, there won’t only be broken noses when we meet.’
One hour later the first tank shell smashed into one of the vacant guard towers alongside the gate, demolishing the main struts and causing the roof to collapse. The screeching sound of metal tracks pierced the air as one of the tanks slowly edged its way down the winding road to the refinery. It started to pepper the admin building with explosive shells that rained down brick and mortar on everyone below. Gibbs and Shredder crouched down and ran towards the main gate then ducked into an alcove as they came under enemy fire from the Angolan troops hidden on the mountainside. Reaching around the corner, they returned fire into the hillside, but with only occasional muzzle fire to aim at, it was futile.
The Claymore anti-personnel mines that JP and his men had deployed along the lower parts of the mountain started to go off, and with each detonation, the screams of the victims echoed from the hill.
Amidst the chaos, Gibbs radioed Killey. ‘Delta one, Delta one, come in.’
‘Delta one here, over,’ Killey replied.
‘What is the status of that bloody tank?’ Gibbs shouted.
‘It has stopped midway down the tarred road into the refinery area. The troop carriers behind it have also stopped. They have men sweeping for IEDs ahead of the tanks and trucks.’
Silence followed for a few seconds as Gibbs thought about the situation. ‘Delay them by using your sniper fire. Target the men on foot, over.’
A loud hissing sound that echoed through the courtyard caused Gibbs to spin around and look skyward. The Stinger missile flew upwards from its shoulder-mounted launcher, away from the guard tower towards an advancing helicopter. The missile tracked in a northerly direction toward the approaching Puma helicopter, which suddenly lurched to the left as the crew spotted the advancing threat. The pilot dropped the nose of the helicopter sharply to try and escape towards the ground, but the missile slammed into the engine cowling just below the spinning rotor.
A huge orange fireball lit up the blue sky, and burning bodies leapt from the briefly suspended fuselage before the engulfed wreck dropped down into the clearing behind the admin block.
Little flicks of sand suddenly licked the ground near Gibbs as an enemy sniper spotted him huddled against the side of the main gate. He quickly rose to his feet and dashed off towards the main admin building again, bullets flying over his head and thudding into the walls near him.
He simply had to try and reach David Kirkwood again. After a further two failed attempts, he knew it was time to try and contact the man who called the shots. Crouched in the corner of the main reception he punched in one of the numbers he had memorised before leaving the UK. The ringtone mocked him as nobody answered the first time; he redialled a second and third time.
‘Mason, it is Gibbs!’ he shouted down the line, finally reaching one of the men who could provide answers. Another mortar blast exploded closer to the building, shattering the windows and ripping the maps to the floor.
‘Gibbs, I asked you not to contact me directly,’ Mason answered.
‘What the fuck is going on here, Mason? You are the only person I can get hold of. We are taking a bloody pounding here at the refinery,’ Gibbs shouted. ‘Angolan troops from Luanda have descended upon us here in Lobito and are trying to take us out.’ Another shell blast nearby destroyed a corner of the building.
‘What?’ Mason shouted. ‘Do you know what happened in Luanda?’
Coughing loudly from all the dust, Gibbs shouted, ‘That’s what I want to know. We’re being pounded by tank and mortar fire here, and I have had no radio comms from Luanda or any contact with bloody Kirkwood.’
‘I've had no contact with them either but it sounds like something must be wrong,’ Mason said.
‘You think?’ Gibbs added. ‘And, Mason, the attack on the refinery seems to be commanded by white mercenaries from Europe.’
There was silence on the other end of the line. Gibbs shouted again, ‘Mason… did you hear what I said?’
‘Yes…yes, I did,’ Mason replied. ‘Do you think you can hold them off long enough to retain control of the refinery?’
‘Negative, we are running low on ammunition and have taken quite a few casualties. We can probably hold them off for another two to three hours before we are overrun.’
‘Gibbs, listen to me, if you cannot hold them off indefinitely then get your men the fuck out of there,’ Mason shouted. ‘Cover your tracks as best you can, we can’t risk any of you getting caught. Get the hell out.’
‘Understood,’ Gibbs said.
Chapter 19
Lobito vicinity, west coast, Angola, Africa - 2019
An hour after the call, Gibbs was back amongst the chaos trying to negate the Angolan snipers on the hill. He heard a loud moan near him as a rebel fighter went down on his knees, clutching his chest. Gibbs looked around the courtyard and counted four other soldiers who had perished where they fought.
He pulled out the small two-way radio that gave him direct contact with his team leaders. 'All units. Alpha one here. Retreat to evacuation points. I repeat. Retreat! We are pulling out immediately.’
All the men’s focus changed, and they slowly retreated to the back of the courtyard. Gibbs opened a door to one of the disused admin offices and rushed the men through to the back window. The previous day, under his instructions, they had removed the window frame and all the glass leaving a gaping hole that overlooked the refinery tanks, and in the distance the sea. Parked outside were their escape vehicles.
‘Everyone into the trucks,’ he shouted, ushering the men through the gap in the wall. The gut-wrenching screech of the tank tracks came from the direction of the main gate causing him to spin around. It had made it down the road and just rammed the gate. One shell through the door could end it all.
I hope all the
boys made it off the hill to the agreed rendezvous point. A loud explosion in the courtyard snapped him back to reality. He jumped through the window opening as the office wall behind them was demolished by a tank shell. Splinters and concrete shards showered the truck as the men climbed in.
‘Move out!’ Gibbs shouted to Shredder, who was driving one of the trucks.
‘Any news from the other boys?’
‘Nope, I hope they made it.’
‘They will all make it out,’ Shredder said. ‘Now, hold on tight.’
The two trucks smashed through the compound fence that encircled the admin section and entered the expanse of the refinery grounds. Only one more fence to get through and they would be away.
Shredder slammed the gearstick forward. ‘Boss, I know that we have been in tight spots before, but this one takes first prize.’
***
John Warren was hot, sweaty and in a foul mood as they waited on the winding dust road. The incessant African heat would drive a man berserk if he were not accustomed to it. The relentless humidity easily drained the resolve of any determined soldier, and he was determined.
A communication received from his scouts had confirmed that two army trucks were hastily being loaded up and readied for what seemed like an escape attempt from the refinery compound. He glanced anxiously at the map again and traced his finger along a red line south of the refinery. There were so many routes out of the place, and London would not be happy if he let Gibbs get away.
‘Sergeant, bring me three trucks with three army units. We need to cover a possible escape to the south.’
A few minutes later they pulled up to a dusty intersection a kilometre south of the refinery. The roads were eerily empty of any local Angolans who, with all the shelling going on, had gone into hiding. Captain Warren scanned the road in all directions. ‘There they are!’ he shouted with relieved excitement.
One of Gibbs’s trucks had pulled over with what looked like a puncture. The nervous driver in the cab with John then also pointed in the opposite direction to the road leading south. A large dust cloud hung in the air as an unidentified vehicle disappeared away from them in a southerly direction.
John barked into the radio at the truck behind his. ‘Stay here and check the stranded truck. Keep your eyes open for any booby traps because the bastards seem to have laid them everywhere else.’
John glared at the driver and shouted, ‘Well, what the hell are you waiting for? Follow that damn truck, will you, they're getting away.’
They sped south along the road towards a small town called Catumbela, the plume of dust from the speeding truck in front of them obscuring the empty road. John sat with his black-and-white print scarf over his mouth and looked down at the folded map for any hint as to where they might be heading.
‘Put your foot down, driver. They must be heading to the Catumbela Airport,’ he barked, confident that he knew how Gibbs planned to escape.
A few minutes later they reached the turn-off to the airport, yet the truck up ahead carried on straight, still headed south. Could Gibbs be making a break for Namibia instead? His thoughts were quickly answered as the dust plume up ahead suggested that the truck had turned off onto another side road.
‘Pull over and get the tracker to have a look at the tyre treads. Make sure we follow the right truck,’ he said, and they slowed down to wait for the second truck to catch up.
A short Angolan soldier in an ill-fitting green overall walked up to the driver’s window and after a brief conversation walked around to the front of the truck and stood for a while, scanning the road. He walked back and forth across the road then indicated that they were following the right truck, and he jumped up onto the side step of the truck door. He continued to converse with the driver as they sped off along the road, hand on the side mirror for grip.
A few kilometres after the turnoff for the town of Benguela they suddenly slowed, and the tracker jumped down from the truck, taking a keen interest in the road again. After a quick scout amongst the myriad daily African tyre tracks on the road, he jumped up onto the door again, and the driver started to turn the truck around.
‘What are you doing, man? Why are we turning around?’ John Warren asked.
‘Truck gone off another road,’ the driver replied in broken English.
A few hundred meters back on a small dirt track, they found the elusive truck tyre tracks heading inland once more.
The cat and mouse game continued for another fifty kilometres before the chasing convoy caught a glimpse of what appeared to be the abandoned truck on the side of the track. They stopped a few hundred metres away, and John with three other mercenaries slowly approached the truck with their weapons raised.
John scanned the barren horizon for any possible layup positions for Gibbs and his men to hide in. The red sandy soil made it impossible for anything to grow in the area apart from the occasional acacia thorn tree that dotted the landscape. A few isolated clumps of shrubbery also grew in attendance by a herd of goats.
‘Damn it,’ John said. ‘It looks abandoned. One of the mercenaries nearest to him grunted his agreement. ‘Well have to track them on foot.’
‘Tracker!’ John shouted back to his truck.
The little man in overalls ran forward and studied the ground and the sandy verges of the road where the old truck had been parked. He squatted down at one point and grunted a few comments to the soldiers who were eagerly awaiting his verdict.
‘Well?’ John asked.
The little man gestured for them to follow, and they all walked off in single file into the dry scrubland towards a large range of mountains. The tracker occasionally glanced down at the ground as he tracked the spoor of the group of men.
‘Where the hell are we going?’ John asked the little man, who simply gestured for them all to follow.
After twenty minutes of walking in the scorching noonday African sun, John’s temper was percolating nicely. The thought of killing Gibbs was the only reason that drove him to continue, and he rubbed the scars on the bridge of his nose. Up ahead the tracker suddenly stopped, dropping down to his knee. John Warren eased his way towards the little man, who was pointing to what looked like a big pile of clothing lying under a small bush in the path up ahead.
‘Yes, I see it, a pile of old clothes and boots, so what of it?’ John asked.
The tracker looked up at John and replied in surprisingly good English. ‘It is the clothes of the men we follow.’
‘Why would Gibbs and his team change their clothes here? What the hell is he up to?’ John replied.
‘We not follow white soldier, these are African soldier. Look at feet pattern,’ the tracker said, pointing to the barefoot spoor leading off to the east.
‘What?’ John replied. ‘How can you be sure these aren’t Gibbs’s clothes?’
‘These are African feet. See toes are spread far apart from not wearing shoes, white soldier’s feet have toes close together.’
‘Arrrrrgh!’ John screamed, and punched the tracker in his smiling mouth.
***
‘Stop the truck right here, Shredder,’ Gibbs said. They pulled over, and all jumped out a few hundred meters short of the main intersection out of town. Shredder reached down to the left front tyre and forced his knife into the threadbare tread, puncturing it in three places. He gave a quick thumbs-up to the second truck, which had the remaining Angolan rebel fighters in it, and then they all turned and ran down along the refinery perimeter fence for about two hundred meters towards the sea.
The big smiles of JP, Killey and seven others greeted them at the meeting point. They all continued running along the small wooden marina to two black rubber Zodiacs. Killey had tied them up two days prior and hidden them under large tarpaulins, which were quickly removed and disposed of under the jetty.
‘Get down, everyone,’ JP cried, pointing back to the intersection. Three Angolan army trucks pulled up to the crossing. Gibbs’s men all dropped down onto their bel
lies, their machine guns out in front of them, ready for anything. In silence, they trained their weapons on the Angolan soldiers who got down from their truck and then carefully took their time looking around the abandoned truck. Meanwhile, the second truck turned left at the intersection and sped off in a southerly direction following the rebel fighters.
The Angolan soldiers stood around the stricken truck and laughed amongst one another as they shared a joke. A few of them lit cigarettes and passed them around the group.
‘Come on, gents,’ Gibbs whispered, willing them to move off. He unclicked the safety on his weapon and heard everyone around do the same.
One of the soldiers sat on the ground and was about to lie back in the shade of the truck wheel when a radio broadcast made them all jump up and head back to their truck and drive off.
With the immediate threat gone, Gibbs and all his team jumped down into the Zodiacs. ‘Shredder, let’s move out of here at five-minute intervals. Head across to the peninsula, then turn north-east, parallel to the coast, before doubling back on yourselves towards the Lobito Lighthouse. You can see it clearly from out at sea, so make your way to the truck parked in the main car park, we’ll rendezvous there.’
‘Copy that, boss,’ Shredder replied. ‘By the way, did you see who was sitting in the front seat of that other truck?’ Shredder said.
‘I sure did,’ Gibbs chuckled.
Chapter 20
Benguela Road, Angola, Africa - 2019
John Warren paced back and forth checking his watch regularly, as the old wooden boards of the Lobito marina creaked and groaned under each step. The still water across the bay did little to calm him down as he looked at the large white-tipped waves beyond the peninsula. The rough sea out there could easily conceal a small boat, and he wondered whether Gibbs had left the safety of land as part of his plan. His phone rang and his stomach tightened. Time to face the music.
Celt_The Journey of Kyle Gibbs Page 11