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  ‘No, boss. I think we’ve got enough men up there. All are well dug in and ready for anything,’ JP said. ‘Now that we think we might be attacked, you’ll need the additional men down here more. Want me to stay down here with you softies?’

  Gibbs shook his head.

  ‘What else do you want us to do?’ Shredder asked.

  ‘Well, we have to assume they’ll try and catch us off-guard and mount either an evening or early morning attack.’

  Gibbs turned to the big South African and said, ‘Sorry, mate, you’ll have to head back up to the lookout point and watch that road. Select a few of the best men and send them a kilometre further north. That should buy us more time. Once they spot the Angolan forces moving in, you can alert us, and we’ll all be in a good position to attack from the hillside. It’ll mean their troops will be outflanked and caught in the crossfire.’

  ‘When do think they will hit us?’ Shredder asked.

  ‘Based on the timeline since the coup was quashed, I guess tomorrow morning or maybe the next.’

  ‘Bastards,’ Shredder said. ‘Do you suppose Kirkwood or Mason knew about all this?’

  ‘Maybe Kirkwood is simply supplying both sides with mercs,’ Killey said.

  ‘I wouldn’t put it past the money-grabbing little git,’ Gibbs said.

  • • •

  ‘Alpha one, Alpha one, this is Bravo one, come in, over.’

  Gibbs grabbed the handset from the radio man. ‘Go ahead, Bravo one.’

  ‘The forward position has been compromised, and the men have pulled back to my position, over,’ JP said.

  ‘Did they sight enemy troops, over?’

  ‘Affirmative, Alpha one. Ten trucks carrying troops and two trucks carrying Olifant tanks, copy over.’

  ‘Confirm two Olifant tanks Bravo one, over,’ Gibbs said, looking across at Shredder, whose eyes widened.

  ‘Affirmative, over,’ JP replied.

  Gibbs threw the headset down on the table. ‘Shredder, I need you to head up to JP’s position and see if there is any possible way we can negate the tanks from up there. Let me know if it is possible to use the mortars on them before they make their move.’

  ‘Copy that,’ he replied.

  Gibbs nodded silently and turned back to the map on the table. They had to weather the initial attack to buy them more time to find out what was going on. He picked up the satellite phone and dialled the number he had been trying for the past two days. The single dial tone teased him until eventually, the robotic voice told him to leave a message.

  ‘Bastards,’ he said and threw the phone down on the table. Gibbs walked across to the dirty windows that overlooked the courtyard. They were alone on this one.

  • • •

  Gibbs sat at the radio table and called again. He had been trying for thirty minutes to raise JP on the radio. ‘Brave one, Bravo one, this is Alpha one, come in over.’

  Nothing.

  ‘Brave one, Bravo one, this is Alpha one, come in over.’

  More silence.

  Then 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 seconds later, a solitary click came through on Gibbs’s headphones. JP couldn’t communicate for some reason. Gibbs’s heart started to beat a little faster. He walked over to the army cot he’d 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 said.

  ‘Yeah, we saw it too. I’ve 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, checking the rounds into his spare magazines.

  ‘Great! Oh, and the news gets better. I could’ve sworn I saw that prick 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. ‘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’s stopped midway down the tarred road into the refinery area. The troop carriers behind it have also stopped. Men are 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 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 had to try to reach Kirkwood again. After a further two failed attempts, he knew it was time to change approach. Crouched in the corner of the main reception he punched in one of the numbers he’d memorised before leaving the UK. The ringtone mocked him as nobody answered the first time. He redialled a second and third time, and finally, someone picked up.

  ‘Mason, it is Gibbs,’ he shouted down the line. 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 at this number,’ Mason said.

  ‘What the fuck is going on here? You’re the only person I can get hold of. We’re 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 said. ‘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. I have had no radio comms from Luanda or contact with bloody Kirkwood.’

  ‘I’ve had no contact with them either, but it sounds like something must be wrong.’

  ‘You think?’ Gibbs said. ‘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, 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 hour before we’re overrun.’

  ‘Gibbs, listen to me. If you cannot hold them off indefinitely then get your men the fuck out of there,’ Mason said. ‘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

  A few minutes after the call, Gibbs was back amongst the chaos trying to neutralise the Angolan snipers hidden up 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 from the khaki chest-webbing. ‘All units. Alpha one here. Retreat to evacuation points. Retreat. We are pulling out.’

  The men’s focus changed, and they slowly retreated to the back of the courtyard. Gibbs opened the 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 off in the distance, the Indian Ocean. Parked outside the windows 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.

  His thoughts turned to the men on the hill. They had some work to do to evacuate. 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?’

  ‘Nothing. I hope they got the message.’

  ‘The big Afrikaner will get his men out. He always does,’ 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 tired. None of the local troops could understand a word he said. He kept trying to drive them forward, but they were scared of mines and were waiting on the winding dust road. He wiped his forehead and the back of his neck with a damp cloth. 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.’ The man looked at him and didn’t move. John raised three fingers. ‘Trucks. Here.’

  The man smiled and ran off up the road.

  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. John 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 out the stranded truck. Keep your eyes open for any booby traps because the bastards seem to have laid them everywhere else.’ He felt better about having a plan, at least the other trucks had Western mercenaries in each group.

  John glared at his driver and shouted, ‘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 a hint to where they might be headed.

  ‘Put your foot down, driver. They must be heading to the Catumbela Airport,’ he said, confident that he knew how Gibbs planned to escape. The man he was chasing would clearly hightail it out after the spanking his team had handed out. John smiled.

  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 before indicating that he had the spoor, then he jumped up onto the side runners 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?’

  ‘Truck drive 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. His heart thumped at the thought of Gibbs out there with a sniper rifle. The red sandy soil made it impossible for anything to grow in the area apart from the occasional acacia thorn tree that was dotted around the landscape. 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. ‘We’ll 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 sandy verges of the road where the old truck was parked. He squatted down at one point and grunted a few comments to the Angolan soldiers who were eagerly awaiting his verdict.

  ‘Well?’ John asked.

  The little man gestured for them to follow, and they 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 at a steady heat. The thought of killing Gibbs was the only reason that drove him to continue, and he touched the scars on the bridge of his nose. Up ahead the tracker suddenly stopped, dropping down to his knee. John 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. What of it?’ John said.

  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?’

  ‘We do not follow the white soldier. These are African soldier. Look at feet pattern,’ the tracker said, pointing to the barefoot spoor leading off to the east.