by Damien Lewis
The SSM grunted an affirmative. ‘Too right. Anything’s possible, ain’t it, lad? But whatever you do get up to in there, don’t let Thistlebollock catch you at it. He’ll have your fucking guts if he does, you mark my words.’
Kilbride looked the SSM in the eye. ‘So, you’ll cover for me, will you, Spud?’
The SSM held his gaze. ‘Listen, lad, I don’t know what you’re up to and I don’t want you telling me.’ He winked, slowly. ‘But if there’s any way Spud Jones can cover your arse, then I fucking will.’
The rest of the day passed in a whirlwind of activity as arms, ammunition, personal kit and boats were ferried out to HMS Spartan at her anchorage. There was nothing sophisticated about the way in which the three Zodiac RIBs would be carried to their drop-off point. They were deflated and lashed to the deck just aft of the conning tower, and would remain there until they reached the Lebanese coastline.
By the time the men of Four Troop had gathered in the mess tent for their last hot meal before deployment they were all dog-tired. The sub’s crew had volunteered their bunks, and Kilbride’s men were looking forward to getting a good sleep before going into the unknown.
‘Everyone’s knackered,’ Kilbride announced, once the men had finished eating. ‘So if you want to forgo the pre-mission send-off, I’ll understand.’
‘No bloody way, boss,’ Smithy protested. ‘Never has a mission gone down under your command without one.’
With that, Smithy pulled out a bottle of Johnnie Walker Red Label from his kitbag. Mess mugs were passed across to him and each soldier received a generous shot. It was totally against army regulations, of course. Drinking alcohol was seen as a dereliction of duty. But The Regiment had never been big on rules, especially those of the dumbest sort. Smithy proposed a toast to the coming mission. The men raised their mess mugs and drank to it.
Over in one corner of the mess tent a lone figure watched Four Troop with something approaching burning resentment. John Knotts-Lane had never been able to reconcile himself to Kilbride’s unforced popularity. And seeing the big American taking an easy place amongst his men made his blood boil. Knotts-Lane wondered how it was that Kilbride had such a close, instinctive bond with the men of his unit. Part of him hated Kilbride for it – and envied him, too.
CHAPTER FOUR
SOME TWENTY-FOUR HOURS later the massive slab form of the Spartan’s conning tower slunk away into the night and was soon lost in the slap of the sea and the inky shadows. The last that Kilbride and his men had seen of the sub’s crew were their ghostly white faces peering out of the darkness. The three 8.5-metre Zodiac RIBs set out towards the Lebanese coastline in a tight V formation, showing no lights. Kilbride was in the lead boat, along with Ward, the young SBS operator. Ward was navigating using a DECCA radio direction finder. It was accurate to within ten metres, and would steer them in to the cave entrance itself.
As they drew away from the submarine drop-off point, Kilbride scanned the surrounding ocean for any sign of trouble. In the far distance he could just detect a faint line of lights, twinkling on the pencil-thin horizon. That had to be downtown Tripoli, the brighter glow that of the Al Mina port area. So far, Tripoli had remained largely unaffected by the war. But for how much longer that would remain so was anyone’s guess. As far as Kilbride could tell there were no other craft out on the night-dark sea, which was just as he had hoped.
The throaty roar of the Zodiacs’ engines and the whip of the sea wind made talking all but impossible. But Kilbride decided that he had to seize the moment for he might not get another chance. He grabbed Smithy by the arm and leaned across to have a word in his ear.
‘I said if there’s anything going down, you’d be the first to know,’ he yelled. ‘Well, there just might be.’
‘Like what?’ Smithy yelled back.
‘I’ve got an alternative plan to present to the lads, when we reach the cave. Whatever happens, I want to hit that gold.’
‘Bloody A-okay with me, boss,’ roared Smithy.
‘I don’t trust Nightly. Plus Boerke’s an odd one. That’s why I didn’t mention it back at base.’
‘Bushman’s okay – he’s just a thick-skulled Afrikaner. I dunno about Nightly, though.’
‘When I present the plan, I want back-up, okay? If you come right out and support me, I reckon the other lads will follow …’
‘Fine by me, boss. Like I said, count me in.’
As the boats nuzzled in closer to the Lebanese coastline a squat dark shape loomed out of the swell. It was the island. Ward brought the RIB in under the low cliffs, throttled back the engine and began searching for the cave entrance. Kilbride soaked up the night atmosphere. There was the slap of the waves on the rocks, and the strong iodine smell of the sea. It was good to be out on the ocean, preparing to go into action again.
‘There she is,’ Ward announced softly as he pointed out a darker shadow amongst the grey cliffs.
Ward brought the craft around, lifted the outboards from the water using the on-board hydraulic tilt mechanism and edged her into the blackness of the opening. The other two boats fell in behind, in line astern. The lead RIB glided forward for several seconds, propelled by little more than her momentum, the noise of the sea muffled by the massive rock walls. Quite suddenly, she scraped across a shallow ledge and came to rest against the back wall of the cave. It was dark as pitch in there, but at least the men’s natural night vision had had time to kick in during the journey across the sea.
As Smithy held the boat steady Kilbride made a leap for the rock ledge, a mooring rope in one hand. He landed safely a few feet above the water level and pulled the RIB in towards him. He tied her off so that Smithy and Ward could unload the gear. As he did so, he heard the soft rubbery squelch of the other two boats nosing into the rock wall behind him. They had all made it safely into their cave refuge.
Kilbride lit a battered oil lantern and took stock of his surroundings. The cave was largely as Ward had described it and there was ample space on the ledge for the nine men and their gear. The place certainly smelled as if it was occupied by some pretty unsavoury beasts, Kilbride reflected, as he wrinkled his nose. All the same, it was an excellent forward mounting base for the mission. As to the cave’s features below the waterline, Kilbride would have to trust to the accuracy of Ward’s word on that. There would be no time to check before their onward deployment to Beirut.
His inspection of the cave complete, Kilbride gathered his men around him. The plan he was about to propose was pretty bloody crazy – and he knew it. He steeled himself, breathed deeply and began speaking, his voice echoing weirdly around the cavernous space.
‘Right, lads, I’m not going to fuck around: prepare yourselves for a major change of plan. We’re going into Beirut but with a very different mission objective – or at least we will be if the rest of you are with me. If you are, I can promise you this will be the mission of a lifetime.’
All eyes were on him now, and he let his words hang in the air for a second.
‘There’s fifty million dollars’ worth of gold bullion in that bank vault. Now, Major Thistlebollock wants us to steal some documents – and nothing more than those documents. So, we either do what the Major’s ordered or we don’t – we disobey orders. If we do the former, things will be the same at the end of this week as they are now. If we do the latter, we’ll be fifty million dollars better off by this coming weekend.’
Kilbride glanced at the figures around him. Eight pairs of eyes stared back at him from the gloom, eight faces half lit by the dancing light of the lantern.
‘I say we go in and get that gold. I’ve been planning this ever since Thistlebollock did his speak-and-be-heard number back on Cyprus. But let’s be clear – if we do this, it’s not out of any spite we might feel towards the Major. No fucking way. We’re doing this because it’s a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. Think about it. When will any of us ever get another chance like this – to steal fifty million in gold bullion? With up-to-date
intel, a perfect cover story, a pile of weapons and eyes on target? Plus it’s in the middle of a war zone, which is where we work best. This is the dream bank job just waiting to happen.’
Kilbride paused to let his thoughts catch up with him. As he did so there was an eerie silence in the cave. It was as if every man was holding his breath in case they missed whatever was coming next. No doubt about it, Kilbride reflected, this was a wild, crazed situation. But right at this very moment there was nowhere else in the world that he would rather have been, and nothing else he would rather have been proposing.
‘This is a freelance operation,’ Kilbride continued. ‘Everyone has to be a volunteer. I’d like you all to be with me – every last man amongst you. But I’ll understand if any one of you opts to remain behind, and I’ll think nothing less of you for it. Anyone who decides not to join the party will be left here as a guard force to protect our rear. They will have taken no part in the operation, and no discredit will reflect upon them if we who proceed get nobbled.
‘Now, before you make your decision consider the risks … I have every confidence we will pull this off, but I want none of you to underestimate the hazards. They are significant, and very real. We are heading into a major war zone to rob a bank of an enormous sum of money. For those of you who do decide to join me, I have to say that whilst I have tried to plan for every eventuality we may well fail. Any one of us could be injured, captured, or killed …
‘And one more thing,’ Kilbride added. ‘I have it on good authority, very good authority, that the gold in that vault is terrorist gold. If we don’t empty that vault, rest assured that it will be used to finance more mayhem and bloodshed. So, if greed doesn’t get the better of you, maybe your consciences will. Right, it’s make-your-mind-up time. Do I have any volunteers?’
Almost before Kilbride had finished speaking Smithy was on his feet. ‘You can bloody well count me in, boss! I wouldn’t miss it for all the tea in China.’
‘Same goes for me, buddy,’ said Bill Berger, stepping forward to join Kilbride. ‘I had a feelin’ you was up to somethin’ and I ain’t been disappointed yet.’
‘Sure, I’m a thieving, robbing Irish gobshite,’ Moynihan announced. ‘So you may as well count me in. I’ll tell you, Kilbride, you’d live well without your mother.’
Smithy scowled. ‘What the hell does that mean, you thick Paddy bastard?’
‘Sure, it means the boss man there’s a feckin’ survivor, which is more than I can say for a lump of brainless British beef like you.’
‘I’ve got an Englishman, an American and an Irishman,’ announced Kilbride. ‘As a multinational force it’s a start. Any more?’
McKierran stepped forward from the gloom. ‘Ye’ll be lost without a bloody Scot … In for a penny, in for a pound. I’m with ye.’
Ward shifted his position, bringing himself more into the light. ‘One question. Fifty million in gold bullion weighs a ton, I would imagine. And we’re not going to be taking it back to Cyprus to present it to Major Thistlebollock. So, what are you planning to do with it?’
‘Fifty million in bullion weighs eight-point-seven-five tons, to be exact,’ Kilbride replied. ‘You know that deep pool at the back of this cave, the one you discovered? Well, we’re going to sink the gold and leave it there. That way, we return to Cyprus clean as a whistle. This war can’t last for ever, can it? And when it’s over we’ll come back and collect our loot.’
Ward grinned. ‘I thought as much … Okay, silly question – does it rust or anything?’
‘Gold doesn’t tarnish or rust in sea water,’ said Kilbride. ‘Not if we left it here for a hundred million years.’
‘Which we won’t, will we?’ Ward replied. ‘Sounds good enough for me. I’m in. Johno?’
‘What’ve we got to lose?’ said Johno. ‘If anything goes wrong we can just blame it on you SAS lot, say you led us SBS lads astray.’
Smithy snorted. ‘That’ll never bloody work. You SBS lads may fight on the water – we bloody walk on it.’
‘Right – Boerke? How about it?’ Kilbride prompted.
‘South Africa is the biggest producer of gold in the world,’ Boerke announced as he stared into the lantern flame. ‘We have had a long love affair with the stuff. But there’s not much you can do about it on a soldier’s wage. You think I would miss out on this, man? I’m in.’
Boerke stood up to join the group, leaving only Tony Knight crouched on the cave floor. All eyes turned to him.
‘Nightly,’ said Kilbride. ‘Come on – you’re with us, aren’t you?’
‘Why didn’t you tell us about this back on Cyprus?’ Nightly asked, the resentment clear in his voice. ‘Who don’t you trust?’
‘The walls have ears, Nightly,’ Kilbride replied. ‘Anyone could have been listening. Word could even have got back to the major. That’s not a risk I was willing to take.’
‘That’s bullshit,’ Nightly muttered. ‘Truth is, you didn’t trust us enough to share it with us. If you’d done so we could have planned for it properly …’
‘I’ve done all the planning that’s needed, Nightly.’
‘Anyhow, it’ll never work. We’ll get nobbled. Beirut’s crawling with Brit and American spies. Just as soon as we hit the bank every man and his dog will know about it.’
‘Possibly,’ Kilbride conceded. ‘But even if they do, they’ll never prove it was us. The gold will be safely hidden here, where no one will ever find it. That’s the beauty of the plan – we pitch up in Cyprus totally clean. If anyone accuses us – we’ll be outraged. As the Major himself pointed out, two Beirut banks have been robbed already since the civil war began. No one can pin it on us – end of story.’
A ripple of laughter echoed around the cave as the men reacted to Kilbride’s use of Moynihan’s catchphrase. For a second or so the tension eased a little.
‘Yeah, okay, maybe,’ said Nightly. ‘But what if someone talks? What about if one of us talks?’
‘No one’s talking,’ Smithy growled. ‘And if you don’t bloody fancy it, Nightly—’
‘No one will talk,’ Kilbride cut in, stopping Smithy from completing the sentence with what he knew was coming – ‘you can bloody well stay behind’.
‘It’s very simple,’ Boerke added. ‘We deny it, man. Bank raid, we say, what bank raid? Try it. It’s not so difficult, is it?’
‘How do we divide the loot?’ Nightly asked, glancing up at Kilbride. ‘At the end, when we come to retrieve it, how do we divide it between the nine of us?’
‘Equal shares,’ Kilbride replied. ‘How else could it be?’
Bill Berger shifted his weight impatiently. ‘Come on, buddy, the clock’s tickin’. We gotta go blow a bank vault.’
‘All right,’ Nightly announced, getting to his feet. ‘I don’t suppose I have much choice. I’m with you blokes, then.’
Kilbride breathed a sigh of relief. They were one hundred per cent on to hit the Imperial Bank of Beirut for fifty million dollars.
‘One more thing, buddy,’ Bill Berger said. ‘What’s the mission code name?’
Kilbride scratched his head, sheepishly. ‘No idea, mate.’
Bill Berger grinned. ‘Well, we gotta have one, if only so’s we can tell our grand-kiddies about it after … Couple of years back we did this exercise on the Vietnam border with the Thai special forces. We called it Cobra Gold. I think some of you guys was there too?’
Kilbride nodded. ‘Most years some of the lads from The Regiment do it.’
‘Dunno why, but it just came into my head. It’s kinda appropriate …’
‘For the mission code name? Cobra Gold?’ Kilbride smiled. ‘It’s perfect.’
Kilbride spent the next half-hour running over the logistics of Operation Cobra Gold. It was now 8.45 p.m. on Thursday, 22 January. They would hit the bank under cover of darkness the following night, when it would have been shut down for the weekend. Kilbride reckoned that they ought to be able to load the gold into the Red Cross vehi
cles and get on the road by early Saturday morning. They would drive directly back to the safe house, load up the RIBs and head for the Palm Islands.
Each 8.5-metre Zodiac RIB had a cargo capacity of 2,500 kilos, so that meant 7,500 kilos between the three boats. With 8.75 tons – or 8,846 kilos – of bullion, plus the men and their weapons, each craft would be overloaded by some 500 kilos. But as long as the weather held good Kilbride had every confidence that the boats would be up to the job. Presuming they made Ramkine Island on schedule, they would spend the rest of the weekend sinking the bullion in the cave’s depths and be ready to rendezvous with the sub on the Monday evening. It was a simple plan that relied heavily on the cover of using the Red Cross vehicles. If the ruse worked, so would the plan. If not, they were in trouble. But Kilbride could see no way around that.
By 11 p.m. the men were ready to depart. Kilbride’s boat led the force out of the cave hideaway, and Ward set a course on a bearing for Beirut. Relieved of the weight of the extra kit, the RIBs were quickly up on the plane and slicing through the seas. Each craft was powered by a pair of Johnson 150-horsepower engines, extensively modified to suppress sound emissions. The RIBs had a range of one hundred miles on a set of full fuel tanks and were durable and sturdy in open seas. The run into Beirut was being done in coastal waters and would be like child’s play to the powerful craft.
The three RIBs flitted across the darkened waters, as invisible as black shadows on the charcoal sea. Each man sat alone with his thoughts. Each in his own way had suspected that Kilbride was up to something. And as each reflected on what he was about to do, he knew that he had passed the point of no return. All nine of them – Nightly included – were now committed to Kilbride’s fifty-million-dollar bank job. And each one of them had done their calculations: they stood to gain five and a half million dollars each, should the mission be successful.
