Celt_The Journey of Kyle Gibbs Page 3

  ‘First prize goes to you, young man, for stating the bloody obvious.’

  ‘You could probably hunt flying geese with a rake,’ Gibbs said, returning to his seat.

  ‘Good God! If that’s the quality of joker in this pack then I got here just in the nick of time to rescue this show before it tanks,’ Shredder said.

  Gibbs smiled at their newest member. He would fit in perfectly. ‘You mentioned something about our orders?’

  ‘Aye, we are all heading to Baghdad for a spell of covert protection of some inbound British dignitaries,’ Shredder said in his thick Scottish accent.

  ‘That’s just bloody great, more VIP shit,’ Killey said, tossing a chocolate bar across to Shredder. ‘I suppose it beats sitting around here and kicking Gibbs’s arse at football all day long.’

  ‘Old man, you have yet to score a goal against my fantasy team, let alone win a game,’ Gibbs smiled.

  ‘These games are all you are good at, sonny,’ Killey said, kicking out his boot at Gibbs’s bare feet. ‘Well, that’s what your girlfriend told me.’

  Gibbs flipped him the middle finger.

  ‘So, Shredder, where does that bloody ridiculous nickname come from? I suppose you shredded some poor bastard with a knife?’ asked Killey.

  ‘Nah…nothing that bloody morbid. I used to love Shredded Wheat cereal and ate it all the time, even had it for dinner during basic training, so the name stuck.’

  ‘Shredder, are you any relation to Jaime Byrne from Stonehaven or Aberdeen ways?’ Gibbs asked, putting down the game controls.

  ‘Jaime Byrne. Aye, he is a distant cousin of mine or something like that. Scrawny little runt. I take it you know him then?’ Shredder replied.

  ‘We grew up in Stonehaven together. I’ve tried to contact him a few times when I was back up in Aberdeen, but I think he has probably moved away.’

  ‘I’d say he’s moved away alright,’ Shredder said. ‘When was the last time that you heard from the little shit?’

  ‘Not sure, the end of 2005, I think,’ Gibbs replied.

  ‘Clearly you haven’t heard then. He is in prison for manslaughter,’ Shredder said, unwrapping his bar of chocolate.

  ‘What?’ Gibbs said, stunned to hear about his childhood friend.

  ‘Seems he got into a bad crowd in high school, and they were eventually all expelled for selling heroin and other drugs to fellow students. Jaime was pretty much addicted by then and got thrown out of the house. I'm told he lived on the streets after that, and you know where it goes from there.’

  Shredder got up and slowly walked over to his large brown duffle bag lying on the bunk. He rummaged around inside it and pulled out a bottle of whiskey. Like an old western cowboy, he pulled the cork out with his teeth and had a long swig. He passed it around to the other two men in the tent.

  ‘What did he do to get manslaughter?’ Gibbs asked.

  ‘He had to pay for the habit so got caught stealing clothes from a department store in Aberdeen. Apparently he ran out into the street to get away from the store security and ran into two plain-clothes policemen who also picked up the chase. Eventually, he got cornered in a student pub and stupidly grabbed a young woman as a hostage and the situation got out of control pretty quickly once the armed police arrived. While trying to avoid being tasered by one of the officers, Jaime tripped and fell while still holding the girl and accidently stabbed her. She died at the scene.’

  Gibbs was silent and sat back down on the couch, the bottle of whiskey in his hand. Guilt flowed through him as he recalled his friend he had left behind at the bus stop all those years ago. It wouldn't have taken much more convincing to talk him into getting on board with him.

  ‘We had planned to run away from Stonehaven together and join the North Sea fishing fleet, but he got cold feet and stayed behind to look after his little brother. It could all have been so different now,’ Gibbs said.

  ‘Why did you guys want to leave?’ Shredder asked.

  ‘My bloody father,’ Gibbs said, and swigged more whiskey.

  Chapter 5

  Grosvenor House, Hyde Park, London, England, UK - 2015

  Two years later in an affluent Victorian apartment overlooking the green expanse of Hyde Park in London, the figure of a man stirred in his antique high wing-backed chair, and he slipped his legs off the leather-covered foot stool. Leaning forward slightly to reach for a smouldering Montecristo cigar from the crystal ashtray, he took another long draw, allowing the dark, warm aroma to fill all the reaches of his lungs. He carried on reading the crumpled copy of the Financial Times and exhaled slowly, allowing the ghostly breath to wisp up over the top of the front page headline, MARKET CRASH.

  The man took another long pull on the cigar and grinned.

  ‘Shall I pour you something to celebrate with, sir?’ Alex Brun asked.

  ‘I know it’s crude to celebrate the worst kept secret of the century, but 2015 will go down in our history, along with the Great Depression, as defining moments that shaped the destiny of the planet. With all the shares that have been dumped and the run on the banks, it was only a matter of time before it all collapsed in on itself. So yes, Alex, pour me a double of the Oban Special Edition.’

  ‘Fine choice, sir.’

  A massive explosion erupted somewhere in the park and shattered the main bay window. The force of the blast caused the huge velvet curtains to billow inwards and blew all the newspapers off the tables. As the force pushed through the room, Alex dropped the whiskey and dived on top of Lord Butler to shield him from the debris.

  ‘Bloody heck!’ Lord Butler shouted.

  Both men stood up and walked over to the window. ‘Thank you, Alex. I fear we are witnessing the start of the violence for tonight.’

  ‘Yes, sir, the numbers of protesters have doubled in the park since yesterday. The building supervisor believes that they may be taking on the military again tonight by breaking curfew, sir,’ Alex said.

  ‘I can see that. Such stupidity really, it will just give the military the excuse to open fire on them. Maybe it’s time to leave this place for the safety of Carshalton House.’

  Lord Butler calmly stood looking out of the window. ‘Send for maintenance, Alex. Let them know that there are a few bits of broken glass up here.’

  A few minutes later the stuttering of machine gunfire could be heard across the park, intermingled with angry shouts and screams from the homeless protestors.

  ‘Will you please get the car ready? I need to leave in the next thirty minutes. Do you have the new curfew passes, Alex? I don’t want to be held up at any roadblocks this time.’

  ‘Yes, sir, I have the new ones,’ he replied.

  ‘I also need to speak to Secretary Waterfield before I leave, so please get him on the line.’

  Lord Butler stared through the damaged windows at a group of around forty people who were sprinting down the road in front of his building, closely pursued by a green Land Rover. It mounted the pavement after them and smashed through the thin metal railing in pursuit. Chasing the protestors towards a cluster of old oak trees, it veered to the left with the right side of its canopy engulfed in flames. Another Molotov cocktail looped through the night air and smashed into the back of the Land Rover, enveloping it in bright yellow and orange.

  The Land Rover skidded to a stop on the wet grass and soldiers jumped out the back door to escape a fiery death. A rioter stepped up with another glass bottle filled with amber fuel, set the paraffin-soaked cloth stuffed down the bottle’s neck alight and prepared to throw it at the vehicle. His body shuddered with bullets from one of the troop’s machine guns, and he fell forward onto the muddy ground, spilling the fuel that then set his body on fire.

  The shrill sound of the phone broke Lord Butler’s stare.

  ‘Mason?’ he asked.

  ‘Hello, Lord Butler. How are things this evening?’ the deep voice of Secretary Waterfield asked.

  ‘Things have been better. It’s all kicked off here in Hyde Par
k again, I am afraid. I have to leave shortly for Carshalton House to get away from the carnage.’

  ‘I am sorry to hear that, sir, what can I do for you?’ Mason Waterfield asked.

  ‘Mason, the time we have all planned for is now upon us. Can you call together all the members to the Canary Wharf address for a meeting in two days?’

  ‘Do you believe it’s time for us to come out of the shadows?’ Mason asked.

  ‘I do indeed. We have to start formally looking after what’s left of our planet’s resources. We can no longer allow the planet’s governments of the world to keep working in isolation or against one another. As they have demonstrated over the past few months, they are barely able to control their own people, never mind work together on a project of this scale. The planet’s assets, along with our interests, must be centralised and preserved.’

  ‘Is Lady Winterton still to be appointed as the first Chairperson?’ Mason asked.

  ‘Yes, she is.’

  ‘Should she not be the one to call the members together then?’

  ‘Although she is going to chair the new organisation, Mason, it will always be my project and my vision. I believe we should rotate the position of Chair every few years, but we will discuss that in more detail at a later juncture.’

  Chapter 6

  Grangemouth, Scotland, UK - 2019

  ‘I swear if another person bumps into me tonight I will lay them out in a hospital bed,’ Killey said, and shoved the drunken reveller off the pavement and into the empty street. The man mumbled some abuse before carrying on through the mass of bodies celebrating the start of Scottish Hogmanay - the last day of the year.

  ‘Let’s not try to spend the first few days of 2019 in a prison cell, shall we?’ Gibbs said. ‘This is the first night we’ve managed to get off the bloody base in a while so let’s get drunk and go home with something local and blonde.’

  ‘I am going to have to smash down a few quick drinks to get on the same level as these clowns,’ Killey said.

  ‘Is this the only place you could find to have a drink in this town, Killey? I mean, what sort of name is the Earl of Zetland for a pub?’ Gibbs asked.

  ‘Forget the damn name. It’s a bloody church that has been converted into a drinking hole,’ Shredder said, looking up at the old gothic spire.

  ‘Since when did you get religion, mate?’ Killey asked.

  ‘Sorry, but it’s just not right. You don't mess with this kind of shit.’

  ‘Fine then, when we get inside I’ll order you a glass of bloody church wine, shall I? Now shut up and make yourself useful. Go and chat to the bouncer to see if we can jump this queue of teenagers,’ Killey said.

  After a bit of wrangling at the door, they were allowed in and walked into the crammed bustling interior of the old church. The high ribbed vaulted ceiling and large organ pipes behind the long bar counter were the only clues to the building’s previous spiritual incarnation. Loud music crackled out of old speakers that were mounted on the gothic pillars along the side of the church.

  ‘Isn’t that our acting Commanding Officer over there harassing that blonde? ’Killey asked, as they walked up to the bar.

  ‘And so it is. Captain John Warren out drinking with the local townsfolk, not sure what he will say if he sees us here,’ Shredder added. ‘We are all supposed to be tucked up in bed.’

  ‘It looks like he’s upsetting that girl,’ Gibbs said. ‘I think I should be a gentleman and step in, don’t you think?’

  ‘No! Definitely not,’ Shredder said. ‘We haven’t even had a drink yet, and you want to go and cause trouble. Remind me who said not more than thirty minutes ago, they didn’t want to spend New Year’s Eve in prison. You've already had two altercations with that bloody man and both times you ended up in a solitary cell.’

  ‘Yeah, sit the hell down and let’s get a few more into us first, and then we can go and harass our own blondes. What the hell has got into you the last few days, boss?’ Killey asked.

  Gibbs slid onto a wooden barstool and downed another whiskey. ‘It’s just this new bloody posting we are on. What sort of job is it to have SAS regiments protecting a bloody oil refinery? There is no chance of any combat here.’

  ‘In today’s world, need you bloody ask why? Someone has got to protect our oil and gas industry,’ Shredder said.

  ‘From whom, bloody hairy icemen marauding from the Arctic?’ Gibbs asked.

  ‘Whoever the powers that be believe might want to steal our shit.’

  ‘Shredder, do you genuinely believe that we will see any action in this town during the next few months?’ Gibbs asked.

  They all turned their heads at the sound of a nearby commotion. The form of Captain Warren falling on top of the scantily clad blonde woman had drawn attention from everyone. He drunkenly pushed himself up off her and received a slap to the face when they got to their feet. The drunken captain pushed the young lady in the chest, screaming incoherently. Her hands went up to her mouth in shock and her eyes welled up.

  ‘Bastard!’ Gibbs shouted and slipped off his chair in a flash.

  ‘Here we go,’ Shredder said.

  Gibbs was the first male to arrive at the scene, and he grabbed the captain’s arm, twisting it behind his back while pushing him forward through the dancing gridlock of drunken partygoers. Captain Warren tried to turn his head around to shout at his assailant, but Gibbs grabbed a handful of the officer’s hair and snapped his head back. With his other hand, he grabbed the man’s belt and drove him into a granite pillar near the main door. A loud moan escaped his lips as the wind was knocked out of him. Gibbs gave a final shove and guided the drunken officer outside.

  ‘You need to learn how to behave around women, you arse,’ Gibbs snapped.

  The man stumbled backwards for a step or two then slipped on the wet paving stones and landed in a heap. He pushed himself up and looked at his attacker. ‘I know you. You’re one of those bloody SAS boys who strut around the base like they own the place. What are you doing out of camp? I will have you charged with AWOL.’

  Gibbs stepped forward. ‘Why don’t we settle this like real men, Warren?’

  ‘Fuck you, sonny,’ Captain Warren said.

  Gibbs grabbed the man by his shirt front and head-butted him, breaking his nose. His eyes rolled back with pain and Gibbs released him to sink to his knees, blood pouring onto his white shirt. Gibbs felt the adrenaline flowing, and he grinned at the three advancing bouncers. Good, some battle at last.

  Killey and Shredder moved in alongside Gibbs, Killey stepping forward, a large hunting knife in his hand. ‘None of this has anything to do with you, gentlemen.’

  The huge men stood three abreast in black jackets and scarves, staring at the SAS soldiers. ‘Best you move along then. You are no longer welcome here.’

  ‘So, Gibbs, was that enough action for you?’ Shredder asked. ‘It’s so frikkin’ early we might as well head back and have hot chocolate.’

  ‘Shut up.’

  Chapter 7

  Firth of Forth, Scotland, UK - 2019

  The rhythmic thumping sound of the water slapping against the boat’s hull was the only sound that could be heard as it sped past the southernmost tower of the Forth Rail Bridge. Ton de Geest glanced up at the crumbling metal structure for signs of danger before looking down at his luminescent diving watch again.

  He rose from the seat amongst his men and moved to the front of the assault craft, taking a seat beside the blond boat-pilot. The young man stared ahead to the distant floodlit horizon of the Grangemouth Oil and Gas refinery. Large golden gas flares burned brightly against the vanishing dark of night.

  ‘What’s our current status, Walter? Will we be able to make up the lost time?’ he asked.

  ‘It’s going to be close, sir,’ the young man said, not daring to shift his gaze from the refinery.

  ‘Push her up to seven knots. We'll have to risk being spotted to make up for lost time,’ Ton said, returning to his seat amongst the
rest of the men in the boat.

  The tall blond mercenary from Amsterdam sat down next to his second in command. ‘You are worried?’ the big Russian asked.

  ‘We are behind schedule and could miss our operational window.’

  ‘With the vicious tides here it is the calmest window we can dive in without drifting off the target,’ the Russian said.

  ‘I know the pressures, Gregori. The client is expecting a good result here.’

  ‘These are the best men in Europe that money could buy,’ the Russian said. ‘The client will get what he paid for.’

  Ton nodded and gave the circular signal with his index finger to Gregori Zykov to get the men suited up.

  The soldiers of fortune went about silently putting on all their scuba gear. They all wore black dry-suits with hoodies, gloves and boots to help negate the icy tide coming in from the North Sea. Their buoyancy compensators and tanks had also been blackened out for the mission, and they were hoisted up from the centre of the boat onto their seats to be tested one last time.

  Ton looked at his watch again. Nervous excitement welled up in him. The diversion that was supposed to signal the start of their operation had not happened yet. Could there be a problem?

  If the other insurgency teams had been caught while they positioned the charges at the refinery, it could jeopardise their own mission. He looked up towards the horizon and decided they could wait for another minute or two before making a decision.

  A flash of golden light suddenly lit up one of the darkened tanks on the outskirts of the refinery. The low booming sound of a second explosion followed a few seconds later.

  Ton pressed his radio transmitter button three times and waited for the coded reply. He pressed the transmitter again. Silence.

  ‘They are dead?’ Gregori asked in his thick Russian accent.

  ‘Or captured,’ Ton replied.

  ‘Okay, what do we do now?’ Gregori enquired.