Cobra 405

by Damien Lewis

  ‘Berger, Moynihan, Emile and I will remain here, as command and back-up. I’ll be eyes on the building and monitoring your radios at all times, in case of any trouble. Berger will be on the roof with the GPMG, keeping you covered. And Paddy will be fingering his PE4 charges, saying a few prayers and preparing to blow the vault.’

  Moynihan grinned. ‘Amen and end of feckin’ story.’

  Kilbride glanced around the faces of his men. ‘Soon as Stage One – the assault – is complete, we move on to Stage Two: the robbery. Bronco, Johno and Ward, you set up watch on either side of the building, whilst Boerke and Nightly, you relocate the Claymores to cover the bank. I’m allowing an hour for Stage One and Moynihan reckons he’ll need three hours maximum to blow the vault, so by twelve midnight we should be in there. That still leaves us seven hours until daybreak.

  ‘Right, by my calculations the gold weighs eight thousand, eight hundred and fifty kilos. Each bar weighs twelve-point-five kilos, so that’s seven hundred bars, give or take a few. That’s a hundred bars an hour we’ve got to get out of the vault and into the truck. If we have seven people loading the gold – Emile included – and three keeping watch, that’s fifteen bars per person per hour, or one every four minutes. That has to be easily doable, which means we can be in and out of there tonight. If we’re all loaded by seven a.m., then it’s time for Stage Three of the operation, the exfil. We retrace our route across the city, hit the safe house and lie up for the day. Saturday night we load up the RIBs, head down the river and get the hell out of Beirut. Any questions?’

  ‘What about the guards, boss?’ Smithy asked.

  ‘Tie them up and lock them in one of the rooms out the back,’ Kilbride replied. ‘Leave them enough water to last until Monday morning, plus some ration packs.’

  ‘What about the guards getting relieved, boss? Like, do they send in a fresh guard force Saturday morning, or anything?’

  ‘They don’t. With Emile’s help we listened in on the guards’ chat and there’s no change over the weekend. They just rotate during the day, with two on and two off. There’s a makeshift kitchen out the back, with a couple of sofas for them to get some kip.’

  ‘Is there a back-up generator?’ Ward asked.

  Kilbride glanced over at Emile. ‘Not that we know of.’

  ‘There is a great shortage of generators in Beirut,’ Emile volunteered. ‘They are lucky even to have the one.’

  ‘If there is a back-up generator, what then?’ Ward insisted.

  ‘If there is one it must be hidden somewhere inside the building, probably in the basement. We’ll hit the generator we know about first and see what happens. No one hits the bank unless and until it goes dark. If a back-up generator does kick in, then it’s time for Plan B.’

  Ward glanced at Kilbride. ‘Plan B?’

  ‘Plan B is we mallet the fucking place with all we’ve got … It’s not very sophisticated, but we reckon that if we wreck the bank’s central security room, then the alarm systems won’t have time to cut in. They’re designed to deter a straightforward robbery, not a full-scale military assault by the likes of us.’

  ‘What about all the racket?’ asked Ward. ‘There’s a ceasefire, so it’ll be obvious a major shit-fight’s going down. That’ll alert both sides, won’t it?’

  Kilbride was silent for a second, and he glanced uneasily at their Lebanese fixer. ‘Not if we hit both front lines first with a barrage of mortars – just like we outlined in the original plan of attack. We provoke both sides, the ceasefire collapses and we go in under the cover of a bloody great battle.’

  ‘Don’t worry so much, my friend,’ Emile volunteered. ‘This ceasefire, it will never last. They never do. All you are doing is bringing the inevitable a little closer …’

  ‘Anyone of you guys know the gross vehicle weight of the truck?’ Bill Berger asked, seeking a rapid change of subject.

  Smithy nodded. ‘She’s got a six-’n-a-half-ton cargo capacity, mate.’

  ‘So we’ll be two tons overweight. That a concern for us, you reckon?’

  ‘She’s a bloody Bedford, mate. That means she’s built like a brick shithouse. Nothing to worry about.’

  ‘Anyone know what the guards are carrying?’ Nightly asked. ‘Shorts, longs, grenades, or what?’

  ‘AK47s,’ Boerke replied. ‘And I overheard one of the guards saying how he’s been selling off his ammo to the militias. There’s nothing to worry about, man.’

  ‘No one’s worried,’ Nightly retorted.

  ‘Right, you’ve all got your Arabic headgear?’ Kilbride cut in. ‘Wear it when you go in. And make sure no one speaks in front of the guards. That way they won’t have a clue who we are, and hopefully they’ll take us for one or other of the militias.’

  As he briefed his men Kilbride was trying to project an aura of calm professionalism, a keenness to get the job done. But inside, his guts were twisted into knots. He was always like this before an attack, and fine just as soon as it got started. But this time it was far worse: this time, if any of the men were hit then he would be responsible. They were all volunteers. But Operation Cobra Gold was his mission and his alone, with no one from headquarters ordering them in.

  ‘One last thing,’ said Kilbride. ‘If we are driving out of here by tomorrow morning, I want one man in the rear of the Bedford, on a stretcher, looking like death. That’s you, Bronco. Have the GPMG with you, hidden under your blanket. If anyone opens that truck without yelling out the password, you mallet the fucker, okay?’

  ‘Fine by me, buddy. What’s the password?’

  ‘Gold fever?’ Kilbride ventured.

  ‘Gold fever,’ Berger growled. ‘I like it.’

  Night crept silently into Rue Riad al-Sohl, leaving just the warm glow from of the Imperial Bank of Beirut to offend it. The men waited, poised in the empty shadows between windows and doors. Kilbride gazed eastwards. A fog of darkness lay across the city like a death shroud. He thought of the young militia girl with the brown eyes above the mask. There was a burst of distant gunfire, with no answering shots. Kilbride thought of the girl again, this time letting loose her thick auburn hair from beneath her khaki combat cap. Being passed a bottle, taking a drink, passing it on. It seemed that they started partying early on Friday nights in Beirut. That was one party to which Kilbride would have liked an invitation some day.

  Somewhere out at the back of the bank the generator coughed, then resumed its steady rhythm. It caught Kilbride’s attention. He glanced at his watch: 7.45 p.m. Fifteen minutes to zero hour. From the first floor of the deserted building he watched as Smithy and Johno slipped across the street and disappeared around the corner of the Imperial Bank. They were moving into position to take out that generator. Otherwise, the street was deserted. He glanced across at Moynihan, who gave him a silent thumbs-up.

  Above them on the roof, Bill Berger trained his GPMG on the front of the bank. He could just make out one of the guards flicking through a dog-eared girlie magazine. For a second, his mind wandered and he thought of the doe-eyed girl at the checkpoint. He daydreamed about her warm brown eyes and tawny skin, and about the lingerie that she might be wearing beneath the khaki uniform. Then he pushed the thoughts to the back of his mind, and pulled the cold metal of the big machine gun closer into his shoulder. There’d be plenty of time for girls like her once he’d banked the five and a half million dollars.

  Down below on the ground floor, Boerke, Nightly, McKierran and Ward readied themselves in the cover of the darkness. They checked their M16s, making sure they had a 40mm grenade snugly in the weapon’s stubby underslung M203 launcher. It was the first time the men had gone into action wearing white medical uniforms, and they had improvised grenade pouches and webbing wherever possible. As soon as the bank went dark Boerke would put a 40mm smoke grenade in through the front door, blowing out the windows and stunning the two guards. A muffled crump as the round exploded and they would be inside, lobbing around the thunderflash stun grenades, by which time
the lobby would be pretty much theirs.

  The hands of Kilbride’s watch crept slowly forwards and he found himself holding his breath, transfixed by the dial’s faint luminosity. As the second hand hit 8 p.m. there was a faint thud from the rear of the bank. Smithy and Johno had just hit the generator. For a second the lights dimmed and the bank almost went dark. But then there was a muffled roar and a splutter, and somewhere a second generator kicked into life. Kilbride stared at the bank, willing it to go dark again, but it remained stubbornly illuminated, a bright ship in a sea of darkness.

  There was a faint burst of static on Kilbride’s walkie-talkie, and Smithy’s voice came up over the radio.

  ‘We hit the genny, boss,’ he whispered. ‘No joy.’

  ‘Stand by for Plan B,’ Kilbride replied. ‘Stay in your positions. McKierran, Ward – on me.’

  Kilbride heard the big Scot and the young SBS soldier pounding up the stairs below him. Together with Moynihan and Emile, the three men headed up onto the roof. The night air was chill and Kilbride found himself shivering in his thin cotton uniform. They had to move quickly now. Sooner or later, one of the guards would go to investigate the faulty generator, and Smithy and Johno would be forced to take him out. And that in turn might alert the other three guards.

  ‘Right, McKierran, you’re on one mortar tube, with Moynihan as loader,’ Kilbride ordered. ‘Bronco, you’ve drawn the short straw – ’cause you’re on the other one with me. I want twelve rounds onto either side of the Green Line. McKierran, you take east Beirut. Bronco, we’ll take the west. What is it, seven hundred yards or so to get in among them? Right, set your elevation and add some petrol to boost the charge. And don’t worry too much about accuracy: they’re smoke rounds, remember, and the aim is simply to convince each side that it’s being mortared by the other.’

  McKierran grabbed one of the mortar tubes, directed the muzzle towards the east of the city and rammed a foot down onto the baseplate to hold it firm. He’d watch where the first round fell and readjust his fire from there. Berger grabbed the other tube and did a repeat performance, pointing west. Kilbride and Moynihan made a pile of mortar rounds next to each of the mortar tubes, and hauled across a jerrycan of fuel each.

  ‘Ward, grab that sheet of galvanised iron and improvise a flash deflector in front of McKierran’s mortar,’ said Kilbride. ‘Emile, see if you can’t do the same with the other lump of galvanised. Just copy what Ward does, okay?’

  Emile nodded. He dragged a sheet of galvanised iron across the roof, and held it bent into a half-circle in front of the mortar’s muzzle.

  ‘Keep your bloody head down,’ Kilbride added. ‘Don’t go getting it blown off before you can get us the hell out of here.’

  Kilbride heaved up the jerrycan and glugged a slurp of petrol down into the mortar tube. To his left, Moynihan did likewise. Kilbride took one last look around him to make sure that everyone was ready. By operating the mortars on the roof they would be invisible from street level. All the bank guards would detect was the indistinct thump of each weapon firing. And the galvanised iron would help shield the white muzzle flash from any watching eyes across the city, plus it would deflect the sound signature.

  ‘Now!’ Kilbride announced as he dropped a round down the tube.

  There was a massive whump! from the petrol-boosted detonation, and the first two mortars were away. Each man counted the seconds, using the time to refuel and rearm each mortar, as the smoke rounds flew across the darkened city. Nine seconds after the flash of the tubes firing the first shell hit, the crack of the explosion illuminating the dense plume of smoke that it threw up. It was followed almost instantly by the second.

  ‘Bang on,’ McKierran growled. ‘Fire for effect.’

  Moynihan dropped in another round and away it flew. He grabbed the petrol can and another mortar shell, settling into a rhythm. To the right of him Kilbride and Berger were doing the same, having adjusted their fire to hit the front-line positions to the west of the city. Two minutes after the first mortar round had struck the final two were away.

  After the muffled crump-crump of those last two exploding a deathly silence descended over Beirut. Two clouds of smoke drifted over the blackened city, one to either side of the Green Line. They were barely visible against the grey smudge of the sky. Now the wait for the response, Kilbride thought to himself grimly. The calm before the storm.

  Kilbride could just imagine the panic on both sides as radios went haywire and front-line commanders requested orders from their back-room chiefs on how to respond to the unprovoked attack. The Muslim and Christian militias would each be thinking the same thing now. Ceasefire? What ceasefire? The cursed enemy could never be trusted.

  Kilbride heard a sudden burst of shouting to the east of the city, and then the grunt of a heavy engine firing up. Moments later there was a blinding flare, and a barrage of rockets went flashing into the night sky.

  ‘Goddamn Katyushas!’ Bill Berger growled as he watched the fiery ejections from the Soviet multiple-rocket-launcher.

  The first of the rockets smashed down onto the Muslim side of the Green Line, the white flash of the blast lighting up the western side of Beirut. Then there was the answering roar of a diesel engine followed by the crunch of a big gun firing out of that part of the city.

  ‘Sounds like a tank with a one-oh-five-millimetre,’ Kilbride remarked. ‘They’re answering fire with fire from both sides …’

  Kilbride ordered his men down from the roof and back to their original positions. The firefight was growing in intensity, salvos of mortars rippling across the night sky. It sounded as if one long drawn-out eruption was consuming the city, and for a moment Kilbride wondered what terrible destructive power he had unleashed on Beirut.

  ‘It would have started soon enough,’ Emile yelled, as if he was reading Kilbride’s thoughts.

  Kilbride gave a shrug and grabbed an M72 66mm light anti-armour weapon (LAW). It was too late for any second thoughts now. He flipped off the end covers, extended it into its firing position by telescoping the inner tube outwards, and signalled for Moynihan to do likewise.

  ‘Fourth window from the right,’ Kilbride yelled at Moynihan. ‘That’s where the security room is.’

  Kilbride grabbed his walkie-talkie. ‘Lads: on me – give it all you got.’

  From Smithy, Berger and Boerke he got a one-word acknowledgement: ‘Boss.’

  With the LAW on his shoulder Kilbride took aim on the target. The rocket motor would be fully burned out just as soon as the missile exited the tube, causing a large back-blast. Kilbride checked to make sure that Emile was safely out of the danger area, turned back to the bank and squeezed the trigger. There was a sudden gout of flame, which momentarily blinded him, and a split second later the one-kilogramme warhead tore through the window of the Imperial Bank. It ploughed into the back wall, detonating as it did so, throwing a powerful blast wave into the centre of the building. A split second later Moynihan’s rocket hit, blasting its way even further into the bowels of the bank.

  Down below on the ground floor Boerke took the roar of the rockets as his cue to attack. He squeezed off a 40mm grenade, and there was the loud bloop! of the other lads doing likewise. The four rounds smashed through the glass of the bank’s lobby and hit the back wall, exploding in a sheet of debris and smoke. An instant later the blast wave blew out the windows all along the front of the building, spraying shards of glass into Rue Riad al-Solh. With a signal to the other lads to follow him, Boerke sprinted across the street, heading for the bank’s blasted interior. Thick smoke billowed out of the shattered doorway, but without a moment’s hesitation Boerke charged inside.

  At the rear of the building, Smithy and Johno blasted their way through the bank’s back doorway with two 40mm grenade rounds. As they stormed through the scorched ruins of the back entrance they could hear the harsh clamour of the bank’s alarm system rising above the noise of battle. Up on the roof above Kilbride, Bill Berger was covering the men with
his big machine gun. He too heard the ringing of the bank’s alarm as it built to a deafening crescendo, and he did so with a sinking feeling. Whatever Kilbride’s rocket attack had achieved, it didn’t appear to have shut down the bank’s security systems.

  Moments after he’d disappeared into the smoking lobby Boerke re-emerged, coughing and choking his guts up and dragging one of the guards by his feet. Seconds later, big Jock McKierran came charging out onto the street after him, the second guard held in a fireman’s lift across his broad shoulders.

  ‘Ward! Nightly!’ Boerke yelled as he wiped a glob of spittle from his mouth. ‘You got first aid, man? Stabilise these two, and stay on them.’

  Boerke turned to face Jock McKierran. ‘Security room – let’s do it, man.’

  The two big men headed back into the grey haze of the shattered lobby. As they did so the whole of the building went dark, the wail of the bank’s alarm systems dying with the light. In the echoing silence that followed, Boerke reached forward and hit the switch on the torch that he had gaffer-taped to the barrel of his M16. McKierran did likewise. They moved forwards, their torch beams probing the darkness, the light diffusing in the thick, swirling dust. They pressed onwards towards the rear, stepping carefully over upturned furniture and buckled floorboards. The bank’s long polished-mahogany counter had collapsed with the blast, and it lay at a crazy angle to the floor. Boerke and McKierran skirted around it and made for the doorway to the rear.

  Through the blackened door frame a wooden staircase could be seen leading up to the first floor. Boerke and McKierran made for the start of those stairs, balancing on the balls of their feet. They paused and swept the darkened stairwell ahead of them with their torch beams, their weapons at the shoulder and in the aim. It appeared to be totally deserted, with no sign of life coming from the floor above. As they went to advance there was a burst of static on Boerke’s radio.