The Journey of Kyle Gibbs Box Set Page 4

  ‘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 as he pushed 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 said.

  The man stumbled backwards for a step or two then slipped on the wet paving stones and landed in a heap. He sat staring down at the road then pushed himself up and looked at his attacker. ‘You? You’re one of those bloody SAS boys who strut around the base like they own the fucking place. What are you doing out of camp? I’ll have you charged with AWOL.’ He stumbled forward and took a swing at Gibbs, the arm going past at neck height as the captain fell forward onto his knees.

  ‘Get up so we can settle this like real men, Warren?’

  ‘Fuck you, sonny,’ Captain Warren said, getting to his feet.

  Blinking his eyes, he threw a slow punch which Gibbs dodged, moving his head to his right. Captain Warren fell forward onto Gibbs, alcohol fumes washing over the SAS man.

  Gibbs grabbed the man by his shirt front and head-butted him, breaking his nose with a crack. His eyes rolled back with pain and Gibbs released him to sink to his knees, blood pouring onto his white shirt. Adrenaline flowed through Gibbs, and he grinned at the three advancing bouncers. 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 overcoats and scarves, staring at the SAS soldiers. The middle man who was sporting a black wool beanie said, ‘Best you take this elsewhere. You’re no longer welcome here.’

  ‘So, Gibbs, was that enough action for you?’ Shredder said.

  ‘It’s more that we’ll see in this bloody place,’ Gibbs said.

  ‘It’s so frikkin early. Thanks to you, we might as well head back to base for hot chocolate and biscuits,’ Shredder said.

  ‘Shut up.’

  Chapter 7

  Firth of Forth, Scotland, UK - 2019

  The rhythmic thumping sound of the water slapping against the boat’s hull was all 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. As he squinted into the wind, the icy Scottish air brought a chill to him. They were nearing their target. The young pilot 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.

  ‘Can we make up the lost time, Walter?’ Ton said.

  ‘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 the target on 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 look worried?’ the big Russian said.

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

  ‘With the vicious tides here that’s not good news. It is the calmest window we can dive in without drifting off the target,’ the Russian said. ‘We won’t get a second chance at this.’

  ‘I know the pressure, Gregori. The client is expecting a successful mission here. Just make sure the men know this.’

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

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

  The soldiers of fortune went about putting on all their scuba gear in silence. They 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. Adrenaline started to flow as he looked at the horizon then back at his watch. The diversion was to be their signal, and there was none. There must be a problem.

  If the other insurgency teams had been taken captive while they positioned the charges at the refinery, it would jeopardise their mission. He looked up towards the distant hills and the brighter morning glow. He 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 moments later.

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

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

  ‘Or captured,’ Ton said.

  ‘What are our orders?’

  ‘We still have a job to do regardless of Bravo team’s position. The sun is nearly up, and we need to get moving.’

  ‘I agree,’ the Russian replied, and barked out an order to the waiting frogmen.

  Raising their tanks and buoyancy compensators over their heads, they slipped them on and buckled the straps. Grabbing their black assignment bags, they moved into position at the back of the boat. Ton stood beside Gregori and nodded to him. Slipping their masks down, they placed the regulator mouthpieces into their mouths and did a final breath test. With an ‘OK’ signal, one by one they took a long stride off the back of the boat into the dark depths.

  The group descended into the silence in a plume of silver bubbles as they equalised to the increasing pressure. On cue, they flicked on their waterproof spotlights. Gregori led the way down with a receiver in his hand that he moved from side to side, monitoring a pulsing green light that indicated the direction they had to swim in.

  Long, slow kicks of their fins helped them drift down into the strong tide before six algae- and seaweed-encrusted gas pipes became visible in the murky beams of light. Their target loomed into view like the sunken monument of ancient Atlantis, and the diving pairs fanned out across the length of the designated target area. Packs of explosives were hastily removed from their black bags and the charges laid along the thirty-metre section of the pipe. Seeing the agreed two quick flashes from their torches, Ton had the confirmation he was waiting for. The charges were successfully laid. He cracked two luminescent underwater flares and dropped them. All the men activated their timers.

  With the clock ticking, the divers ascended in a blizzard of bubbles, legs driving them upwards as quickly as they dared. Gregori grabbed Ton by the arm and gestured upwards. Against the background of the orange morning sky, Ton could make out the darkened hull of another much larger vessel circling their boat, the hum of the propellers barely audible. He could see the intermittent spitting of yellow muzzle flashes as gunfight erupted above them. The occasional bubble stream whizzed downward as the bullets sheared through the water.

  Ton stopped ascending and waited for the men to reach him at a depth of four metres. He signalled for the pairs of men to move off in different directions. They needed to outflank the attacking vessel to stand any chance. The taste of bile from the exertion of swimming into the tide for so long stung his throat. A gut feeling told him the mission wa
s compromised.

  The stiff westerly breeze would disguise bubbles that reached the surface but not all of them. Armed with only 9mm pistols, it was up to his men on board their boat to act as cover for them until they were able to engage the enemy fully.

  Ton’s head broke the surface, and his heart sank at the sight of two more enemy vessels circling in a wider arc. One of his men was on his knees on the bow of their boat, firing at one of the attacking craft. Ton watched as the man doubled over when a bullet slammed into him, and he slumped forward over the side of the boat, his arm hanging down into the water, moving eerily as the boat rocked from side to side.

  A salvo of bullets flicked up the churned water all around Ton’s head, and he looked to his left to see two figures standing on the back of a nearby gunboat, their automatic weapons trained on him. Kneeling between them was Walter Nigge, his boat pilot, and nephew. His hands were placed on his head with a look of terror on his face. More weapons were suddenly trained on him as he trod water. He would get off two or three rounds at their attackers but that could cost Walter his life. Ton raised both hands out of the water in surrender. They were outgunned.

  The large stealth boat circled the battle scene picking up a few remaining survivors, and Ton was one of four captives kneeling on the rubber decking. He knew from their equipment, clothing and demeanour that their captors, who were all dressed in black, were from some Special Forces unit. They all had black scarves pulled up to cover their faces and communicated in short, sharp sentences, giving no other information away.

  Two of the masked soldiers dragged another body out of the water onto the back of the boat behind him and checked through the man’s pockets and pouches on his BC. One of the soldiers turned to the man who stood nearest to Ton and in a thick Scottish accent said, ‘Look like mercs to me, boss.’

  The man in charge just nodded and replied, ‘Take any relevant documents and toss the bodies overboard.’

  His radio suddenly squawked into life. ‘Alpha one, we have traces of explosives here, spare detonators and timing devices. Copy over.’

  The leader walked over to Walter Nigge and dragged him up off his knees. ‘So, it seems your boys have been quite busy down there.’

  The young man flashed a beseeching glance over at Ton for a second, his eyes wide. ‘I am just the boat pilot. I don’t know anything.’

  Ton’s heart sank. The masked man had caught the fleeting look from the young man. He looked across, his dark brown eyes studying the kneeling man’s reactions for a few seconds. Ton didn’t break his gaze and watched the tall man withdraw his hunting knife from its belt sheath and press the black blade to the young man’s throat. ‘Give me the coordinates of where you laid the charges, and I won’t slit his throat and throw his body overboard for the crabs and eels.’

  Ton glared up at him then looked forward.

  The tall man in black reached up and pulled the scarf down from his face. ‘My name is Gibbs, and I’ll be responsible for your interrogation for the foreseeable future. Start talking and you might save a few of your boys here.’

  A few seconds later Gibbs took a step back and smashed the handle of his knife against Walter Nigge’s temple. The young man moaned as he went down onto the rubber deck of the boat. Gibbs nodded to a second man who was standing nearby, who moved forward to kneel down over Walter and place his razor-sharp blade at the shocked boat pilot’s throat.

  ‘You are running out of time, mate. He is seconds away from joining your other men at the bottom of the Forth.’

  ‘You only have about two minutes to detonation. There won’t enough time to deactivate the charges,’ Ton said.

  Gibbs turned and sheathed his knife. He lowered his machine gun and walked over to Ton, smashing him in the face with his rifle butt. ‘That’s not what I wanted to hear.’

  Ton fell backwards, and his head hit the deck with a loud thump. As he grew dizzier, he felt a monstrous thud reverberate through the hull of the boat. Men started shouting at each other, and the engines roared into life. He shook his head and blinked as a spray of seawater washed over the boat as it listed to the left. Ton rolled across the deck and stopped up against the side of the railings. The taste of blood and seawater in his mouth. Job done.

  Chapter 8

  Central London, England, UK - 2019

  The brick looped up through the driving rain and followed its natural downwards arc to crash onto the bonnet of the car.

  ‘Holy shit!’ Mason Waterfield shouted from the back seat of the chauffeur driven car.

  ‘Little bastard,’ the driver shouted and pressed the accelerator to clear the area. ‘You okay back there, sir?’

  ‘Yes,’ Mason said. ‘I never get used to that sort of thing happening.’

  ‘A young tearaway, no doubt, trying to impress some gang lord.’

  ‘Indeed,’ Mason said, shifting around on the black leather seats. ‘Drop me at the Watergate Street entrance tonight, David. This bloody weather is frightful, and I will get soaked if I use the main entrance.’

  ‘Yes, Mr Waterfield.’

  ‘Our weather does seem to have taken a turn for the worse these last few years, doesn’t it?’ Mason said. ‘Maybe all that climate change bullshit is true after all.’

  ‘I’m not a follower of the sciences, sir. To me, if it rains, I take out my umbrella.’

  Mason smiled and checked his jacket pockets for his phone. ‘How are you and Cindy managing with all these blackouts?’

  ‘Coping well, sir. We have a few new coal burners in the house, and it’s not too difficult to trade for coal nowadays. The little lady is happy, so I am happy.’

  ‘I’m glad,’ Mason Waterfield said and looked out through the tinted windows. Black smoke from coal burning fires drifted across the London’s once majestic skyline, blocking out much of the natural light. Continuous rioting and protests during the previous two years had resulted in the army being stationed all over the capital with the unilateral power to quash any threat to public order. Although the military had tried martial law and curfews, they were fighting an ongoing battle with ever more organised gangs and other crime syndicates.

  ‘Is it difficult trading with these gangs?’ Mason asked, feeling the gulf of living standards between them.

  ‘As long as you pay up on time, sir, they’re okay to deal with. Just normal blokes wanting to provide for their families, I guess.’

  ‘I wish I could do more to help.’

  ‘I’m sure you already do enough with your charities.’

  ‘One can always do more for the world,’ Mason said, clearing the condensation on the inside of the window.

  The sleek form of the black Maybach slipped across a rain-soaked Blackfriars Bridge and drove around the back of the abandoned Unilever building, stopping silently in front of a dimly lit green door. Mason eased his big frame out of the car and shouldered into the icy rain, pulling his overcoat collar up to his neck in an attempt to keep dry. Two uniformed security guards opened the steel door as he approached and checked the street in case someone had followed him. Mason then followed them through the old abandoned corridors of the major corporate giant that once did business on the premises.

  ‘Has everyone already arrived, Steven?’ he asked as they walked.

  ‘All present except Mr Mountford, governor,’ the burly man replied.

  ‘Of course,’ Mason said. ‘Bloody Mountford.’

  Mason walked into the great elaborate boardroom and took his seat at the head of the long rectangular dark-wood table. Everyone was already seated, and with the raising of his left hand he brought the meeting to order. The antiquated odour of the room was mixed with the smell of wet coats and lit cigars.

  ‘Does anyone object if we begin without Mr Mountford this evening?’ Mason asked. A loud murmur broke out amongst the members at the mention of the absentee. ‘Lord Butler?’

  Lord Butler sat to the side of the gathering, from where he monitored proceedings from a large black leather couch
with the ever-present Alex Brun standing alongside. ‘No objections from me, but may I reiterate that although many of you would like to get rid of the young man, I believe that his ambition, aggression and inherited billions are still required by this group. I still endorse his membership, and I expect you all to follow my lead.’

  Murmurs of discontent filtered around the group.

  ‘Thank you, Lord Butler,’ Mason said.

  ‘Down to the first order of business then. Our sources in the Ministry of Defence have been monitoring UK troop movements over the last three to six months and have informed me of the steady rise in the troop withdrawal from our government’s overseas interests. Homeland security now seems to be becoming a major priority to our friends in Westminster,’ Mason added.

  ‘But so many of our assets listed in those countries will have no protection. We could lose billions,’ Lady Winterton said, fiddling with her pen which was placed on the table in front of her.

  Mason smiled and looked at the grey-haired woman. She was always immaculately dressed and added a sense of refinement to the group of ageing men.

  The conference room door opened, halting Mason before he could reply. The tall figure of John Mountford strode in, dressed in a black Armani dinner suit that highlighted his sickly pale skin. He strode around the seated members and took his seat at the table.

  ‘It’s so nice of you to make an effort to join us, John,’ Mason said, staring at the latecomer.

  ‘My pleasure, Mr Chairman. What’s so urgent that I had to fly back to London at such short notice? I was at an important function, you know,’ he replied.

  ‘When it comes to the matter of the Club, these meetings trump all other priorities, John. I have no interest in the urgency of your personal affairs. Our bylaws state that when summoned to an urgent meeting, attendance is mandatory for all members, and promptly, I might add,’ Mason said.

  ‘Yes, Mr Chairman, and as I’ve pointed out on numerous occasions, it’s a list of bylaws that would not be enforceable in any country. What will you do to me? Throw me out of your little club?’