‘Fine, but I think we should, at least, interview this Tom Scott, before taking a final vote on this issue,’ Lady Winterton said, folding her arms.
‘Agreed, Andrei. Please set up a meeting with this warlord as soon as possible,’ Lord Butler said.
Chapter 43
The Prison Ship ICARUS III - Wick, Scotland, UK - 2028
Gibbs shifted forward on his small bunk and wrapped the two thick blankets around him even tighter. He looked across at Killey and Shredder, who were also sporting thick dark beards with flecks of grey in them. The conditions were cramped, dark and cold in the metal containment cells they were all forced to share. Together with eight other prisoners, they lived on top of one another like a pack of wild animals.
‘Okay, it seems that we have a little more privacy now,’ he said, looking around at the other sleeping cellmates. ‘Looks like plan C has been thwarted. I hear that the bastards have welded shut the rusty porthole that we discovered last week.’
‘Shit, man, I thought that would be our way off this tub,’ Shredder said.
‘Well, we will just have to find another way off, then,’ Gibbs replied.
‘It’s great that you are so optimistic, boss, but they are shutting down our escape attempts faster than we can come up with them,’ Killey said.
‘Chin up, boys, we will get off this bloody ship. I swore an oath to find out who helped David Kirkwood do this to us, and I intend to get us off this rust bucket so we can kill the fucker.’
‘Are you sure that he or she is still alive?’
‘The last few years in these cells have made me do a lot of thinking. Even that Alex Brun chap said that he had an employer who told him to tie up the loose ends, that being Kirkwood and us.’
‘True,’ Shredder said. ’You have to wonder what he did to piss this guy off.’
‘Doesn’t matter. We just know that he exists, that’s all,’ Gibbs said, and looked up at the door as a siren rang out above the containment cells. Two long sounds, which meant it was time for topside exercise.
‘Watch your backs out there, boys,’ Gibbs said.
***
An icy wind whipped around the prisoners’ heads as they shuffled around in single file in a large rectangle, covering the length and breadth of the old oil tanker’s main exposed deck. Sleet and hail blew across the deck, making their weekly two-hour exercise session less than pleasurable.
Gibbs pulled his thick coat tighter around his neck to try and keep the cold out while staring at the prisoner a few men in front of him. Inmate McCabe, with tattoos covering his bald head and neck, stood head and shoulders above the surrounding prisoners. He looked around and stared at Gibbs before scanning for the movements of the wardens on deck. The ongoing feud with McCabe, and his sidekick inmate Henry had been simmering for the five years they had been prisoners.
‘Halt!’ the command boomed over the on-deck loudspeaker system.
‘Prisoners of the prison ship Icarus III. This is to be your last exercise session for the next three weeks as we are hoisting anchor to pick up additional scum like yourselves. Please welcome the new inmates with your warm smiles and happy demeanour. All below deck duties will continue as usual while we make room for the new inmates.’
Gibbs looked across to the other side of the ship and spotted Killey in the adjacent line of prisoners as they started walking again. He nodded a greeting. Killey pointed to Gibbs’s left, giving him the signal to watch his back. Gibbs turned his head to see the evil smile of Henry positioned two men behind him. Their eyes met, and Henry made a fist and dragged his thumb across his throat. Gibbs blew him a kiss then faced forward again as the call to continue walking, came over the loudspeaker.
Where would he launch the attack if he were planning it himself? McCabe would try something first because he seemed to be the leader. Reaching the bow of the boat, McCabe was at the furthest point from the bridge and warden’s stations. The warden who was usually stationed on the bow was missing and nowhere to be seen. Get ready, any moment now.
McCabe stepped aside, letting the man behind him pass by, then turned and came at Gibbs with a sharpened shiv made from a filed down spoon handle wrapped in cloth and resin to form a crude handle. He stabbed at Gibbs’s torso but found only air as Gibbs jinked sharply to his right and landed a punch on the side of McCabe’s face. The large man recoiled under the blow but managed to swing his sledgehammer fist back at Gibbs’s head.
Gibbs dropped to one knee to dodge the blow, at the same time swinging his fist upwards into McCabe’s testicles. He heard a popping noise as one of them ruptured and his opponent let out a blood-curdling scream, collapsing onto the deck in pain.
Gibbs jumped to his feet again just as Henry tackled him from the side. Both men hurtled towards the ship’s railing, coming to a thudding halt against the cold metal. Gibbs gasped for breath as the wind was forced from his lungs.
Henry tried to scoop him over the railing by grabbing Gibbs’s legs, but he kept twisting to his left and right, switching the point of balance from his attacker. From the other side of the deck, he could hear distant whistles being blown but knew that the wardens had no intention of getting to the skirmish on time. Henry pulled one of his hands free from Gibbs’s grip and managed to get his palm under his chin. This would give him greater leverage as he pushed. Gibbs smashed his fist into the side of his assailant’s body as he needed to do something quickly. The wardens didn't fish anyone out of the ocean.
Gibbs reached around with his other hand and managed to gouge at his attacker’s eyes, his finger slipping into the eye socket. Henry groaned and released Gibbs’s chin. It was the chance he needed as he retaliated with a vicious head-butt to Henry’s left eye. He staggered back a little, Gibbs grabbed him by the lapels of his winter jacket with both hands and turned his right hip into Henry’s midriff, lifting him up onto his own body, and then in a swift judo throw, swung him over his shoulder onto the ship’s railing.
Henry lay there for a split second with his legs dangling over the side of the ship. He made a frantic grab for Gibbs’s jacket, but his hands were slapped away. A scream drifted away on the wind as he plummeted into the North Sea.
One down, one to go. McCabe tried to stagger to his feet and fell forward. Walking over to him, Gibbs let rip with a vicious right hook that laid the big man out cold on the deck. Looking up, he could see that the wardens had managed to secure Killey, who was pinned face down on the deck. Other wardens had secured Shredder further back along the row of men. The large deck door slammed open and more wardens scampered up from the lower deck and walked towards Gibbs, their guns and tasers drawn. All weapons were pointed straight at him. He placed his hands on his head and knelt down on the deck.
‘Well, prisoner. It seems you and your little friends here have earned yourselves an extended stretch in solitary confinement for your sins. Let me see? Should we say about six months? Yes, that sounds about right to me,’ the Chief Warden said.
Three prison wardens dragged Gibbs into his new metal cell and threw him on the floor. One of the oversized men placed his knee in Gibbs’s back and knelt on him while he cut the cable ties that bound his hands.
‘Now you be a good boy and don’t give us any more shit, do you hear me?’ he said, leaning forward and stuffing a small parcel down the back of Gibbs’s trousers so the other guards couldn’t see.
Gibbs turned around and watched the prison screw back out of the cell. He flipped the man the middle finger, a smug grin on his face.
‘Enjoy your stay, Gibbs,’ the overweight warden said, and slammed the metal door.
A solitary yellow light bulb lit the dark, isolation cell. Gibbs walked over to the side wall and slid down to sit on the floor. Leaning against the cold metal wall, he reached into his trousers and pulled out the dirty piece of cloth. As he unwrapped it slowly, two large iron keys fell into his palm. There was a note written on the cloth - Your services are required in London. Be ready to leave. More to follow.
‘Six m
onths in solitary? I don’t think so,’ he said, smiling to himself.
***
PHOENIX
The Journey of Kyle Gibbs
Book 2
By Wayne Marinovich
Chapter 1
East of Lake Turkana, Kenya, Africa - 2028
Sweat dripped from the leader’s face as he looked back at the range of mountains behind them. The chasing group were hidden from his gaze.
‘Run, brothers!’
The group of men wound their way in single file along the grassless and barren shores of Lake Turkana. Running in a northerly direction, they followed an old path that had been used by fishermen and herders for generations. Their pace was at a steady lope, like the jackal that once roamed the grasslands; there was a determined urgency in the men’s gait. Each man focused on the sandaled heels of his comrade in front of him, all of them following the lead of the tall, dreadlocked man who ran up front. The heavy and tattered backpacks they all carried swayed rhythmically in time with each footfall on the dusty red ground. Machine guns, pistols, axes and their trademark machetes added to their burden.
The leader glanced behind them again, scanning the mountainous horizon for any signs of movement. As the sun approached its zenith, Chilemba Wangai eventually slowed up his pace and came to rest under a lone acacia tree beside the dusty path. The long laboured breaths of his men showed him that they were grateful for the opportunity to rest and have a drink of water, which they all sipped cautiously from their water bags. Not a precious drop could be wasted.
‘Fellow warriors of the Njenga Mungiki gang. Gather around quickly for we can only rest for a few minutes,’ Chilemba said, breathing deeply as his men approached. With a casual flick, he tossed his dreadlocks over his lean muscled shoulder and wiped his brow with the back of his hand. His brown t-shirt was soaked through and stained from where the backpack had been in contact with his body.
The men squatted down on their haunches in front of him, as was their custom, glistening beads of sweat running down their faces and dripping down onto the parched soil. They all took long, deep breaths to quickly cool their bodies down. The shimmering heat haze that rose from the barren landscape closed in on them, oppressing any cooling breeze.
‘Dudu Njenga, our fallen father, would have been proud of this fierce pace, my warriors,’ he said, looking at the rag-tag bunch of men squatting around him who all wore different lengths of khaki pants, sleeveless shirts and tyre tread homemade sandals. Chilemba glanced up at the rocky escarpment they had just descended from. Still, nothing moved. He hoped his men didn’t notice his concern. He locked eyes with one of the runners sitting across from him. One who knew his soul as well as he did. One who knew the danger that followed them.
Chilemba looked around at the proud marauders he led, all of them staring intensely at him, waiting for their next instructions, waiting for him to take the lead again. He rubbed at the itching poultice that covered the grenade shrapnel wound on his forearm. The pain was intense, but he wouldn’t let it show.
‘Men, our two comrades who volunteered to wait behind to observe the mangy hyenas who chase us and want to send us to meet with our forefathers, should have caught up by now. I fear that they have perished,’ Chilemba said.
‘Jackson Bayo. Brother, do we wait for the others?’ Chilemba enquired of his second in command. The man squatting across from him was shorter than Chilemba but more muscular and wore the scars of battle across his face. He clenched his jaw out of habit while he thought.
‘Brother, the men tracking us are getting closer, and I agree, our cadres might have been killed. If we keep stopping, sooner or later we will be caught. It is your decision that we will listen to, and obey.’
‘We will head out and stop only once more today, and then we will assume that they have been captured or made their way to Ethiopia,’ Chilemba said.
One of the other Mungiki members said, ‘We agree with your decision, Chilemba. We will follow where you lead.’
‘Jackson, take the lead,’ Chilemba said, pointing north with his outstretched hand. All the men rose slowly, adjusted their backpacks and slipped their machine guns over their shoulders.
‘Forward,’ shouted Jackson. He jogged along the path, and in unison, all the men followed and slipped in behind one another. Within a few paces, they were in the perfect rhythm again, and Chilemba fell in at the rear of the group, smiling fondly at the thought of his ever serious friend up front.
***
With the monotony of the barren landscape continuing, Jackson eventually shouted from the front of the column, and the men rapidly came to halt. The rocky floor of the valley went on for as far as the eye could see and they were stood at a junction in the dusty path. Jackson turned to Chilemba.
‘Which way, brother?’ Jackson called.
Chilemba briefly looked down both dirt paths, and then said, ‘Head up into the mountains, the other path goes to Lake Chew Bahir. We can hope that they think we have gone south.’
The tired group of men started their slog up the winding path. The landscape resembled a plateau on some alien planet, the narrow dusty path winding through areas of large rounded boulders and splintered scree that littered the valley sides, forcing the men to stick to the stony path. They moved through the midday heat without stopping, as the path continued relentlessly upwards through the valleys. Legs and lungs burned from the strain of climbing towards the heights of Ethiopia.
The occasional dead acacia tree and clumps of small lifeless shrubs became more prevalent as they moved onto a higher plateau. Small dust devils whipped up on the gusting wind and Chilemba could not remember when last he had felt the refreshing sensation of raindrops washing down his skin.
Suddenly Jackson’s clenched fist shot up into the air, no order came from his lips. Everyone stopped immediately. Chilemba felt his gut tighten, and his hand dropped down to his machete. All of the men went down onto one knee, instinctively reaching down to slip the safeties off their machine guns. They waited in silence as Chilemba made his way to the front, he knelt beside Jackson, who pointed down to the floor of the valley.
Nestled amongst a clump of dead acacia trees was a small rural village. Eight huts were positioned in a semi-circle around a central fire and a much larger dwelling. All had blackened grass roofs that shimmered in the sun while traditional white painted patterns and markings adorned the mud-covered walls, which were instrumental in keeping the occupants cool in the scorching African sun.
‘Any movement down there?’ Chilemba asked.
Jackson shook his head, eyes trained on the nearby valley walls. ‘I see no movement anywhere, it seems deserted,’ he said.
‘The path takes us right through the middle of it. We cannot go around it either. We will lose too much time,’ Chilemba said.
Jackson nodded. ‘It will also be risky to go through the village because this narrow path will mean we cannot fan out or flank it from either side. We will be easy targets. It is very risky, my brother.’
Chilemba sat studying the small innocuous village. The livestock paddock was empty, so the men and boys could be out looking for grazing, and the woman might be fetching water or firewood. It would still have left the elders and young children, running around. There was no gentle spiral of smoke from the open fire, or puff of smoke from a hastily extinguished one either.
‘It is deserted, I can feel it,’ Chilemba said.
Jackson looked at his friend and nodded. ’I trust your instincts as my own, brother.’
As one person, they rose from their haunches, repositioned their weapons and made their way down into the silent valley.
With their senses heightened, they walked into the small village and spread out to walk between the small round huts. The smooth hardened floor around the blackened central fireplace and semicircle of huts was baked solid by the sun, and would usually have been swept clean each day by the women. A layer of dust had been blown down from the valley wall, with small acacia lea
ves pushed up against the mud steps in front of the open doorways. The residents had long since left their homes and no personal possessions were left behind, indicating that the tribe had simply moved on to better things. Chilemba let off a short, sharp whistle and gestured to all the men to join him in front of the large main hut.
‘Sit, everyone. We’ll rest for fifteen minutes,’ Chilemba said. ‘We will wait this one final time and see if our scouts can catch up with some news.’
‘Will the gang follow us into Ethiopia?’ one of the men asked.
‘If they are part of a bigger gang, they might give up and return home, but if it is only a small roving gang, then they will follow us across the border,’ Chilemba replied.
‘Should we not wait for them to catch up and settle this?’ asked Jackson.
‘This is not the place to stage an ambush, Jackson. If we can find such a place, we will fight. We don’t have enough ammunition for a frontal attack. We need to lie in ambush,’ Chilemba said.
‘Like the puff adder,’ one of the men replied.
Chilemba smiled. ‘Like the puff adder.’
‘Remember how we used to set ambushes for the hyenas that raided our goat herds at home? So we shall wait for the best opportunity to kill this chasing pack,’ Jackson said.
‘I remember with great fondness those youthful, carefree days we had shared before Dudu Njenga kidnapped us to serve in his army,’ Chilemba said.
‘We became men very quickly, brother,’ Jackson replied.
'You became a man a long time before that, Jackson. The day you took your spear and ran it through the leopard that was on top of me, tearing at my flesh. The whole village hailed your coming of age.’
‘This is true. Those were terrible wounds, my brother.’
‘All have long healed thanks to you and the kind missionaries who helped raise us. I still owe you a life debt.’
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