Cobra 405

by Damien Lewis

  ‘Why don’t they hit us at the farm?’ Ward asked. ‘Why wait until we’re on the move?’

  ‘Because they’ll want to be certain that it’s the hiding place of the gold. Upon arrival at the farm, we use the tractor unit to tow the trailer and shipping container out of the barn. Soon as the enemy see us doing that, they’ll assume it’s the target. And once they see us heading back the way we’ve come, they’ll be a hundred per cent certain. They need to hit us very hard and get in and out quickly, and the gorge is the ideal place for them to do so.’

  ‘Sounds lovely,’ Nightly quipped. ‘Like a bullet in the head.’

  Kilbride grinned. ‘Yeah. But remember, they don’t hold all the cards. We’ll have full satellite and comms coverage at all times. We’ll know exactly where they are, exactly what they’re saying to each other, and exactly what they’re planning. We’ll have a Psion laptop with us and we can download satellite images via the Thuraya satphone. Any pics we want we can have them: their convoy on the move, their ambush positions, their commander having a dump behind a rock, even.’

  There was a ripple of laughter, which quickly died away.

  ‘What then?’ Ward asked. ‘Once we’ve been successfully ambushed, that is …’

  ‘All being well we head for Tripoli, which is about forty klicks away. We use the local dive tour to ferry us out to the dhow. We’ll just be some more of their dive buddies joining the dive on HMS Victoria. Then we load up the last of the gold and the dhow sets sail. Once she’s under way the six of us transfer into the RIBs and make for our ocean rendezvous with the Mi-26 HALO. Then it’s just a short flight to Cyprus, where we unload our cargo and convince The Project they’ve got what they’re looking for …’

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  BA FLIGHT 516 touched down on the hot Beirut tarmac five minutes ahead of schedule. Kilbride and his men had been flying for sixteen hours, Dar-es-Salaam to London, and then London to Beirut. On the first leg Kilbride had managed to grab some sleep. On the second he had run over all the developments of the last few days, just to make sure that he had missed nothing. There had been a spot of trouble with the dhow off Somalia, but once a mad, wheelchair-bound Jock McKierran had pumped half a dozen shotgun rounds into the pirates’ boat, they had rapidly made themselves scarce.

  Two days ago the dhow had dropped anchor off the Palm Islands, and Kilbride’s son Mick and his buddy Brad had joined the ship. Smithy, Moynihan, Mick and Brad had then started diving the wreck of the huge iron battleship HMS Victoria. According to Smithy’s last report phoned in on the Thuraya, it was all going like clockwork.

  Half an hour after touching down at Beirut airport Kilbride and his men were spewed out into a chaotic arrivals hall. Kilbride searched the crowd for a man with a card bearing his name. He found him and was led to a couple of waiting Mitsubishi Shogun four-wheel drives. The men loaded their bags on board and set off on the drive into northern Lebanon. As Kilbride pulled out onto the airport slip road, he sensed a vehicle close behind him. He checked his rear-view mirror. Two cars back was a Toyota pick-up, another one close behind it. Those were the vehicles to keep an eye on.

  Three hours later they reached Bcharre town. The Hotel Chbat perched in splendid isolation on the side of the rugged Qadisha Valley. It had two self-contained dormitories, and Kilbride had block-booked one of them. It would make the perfect place to assemble his private army. A gleaming white Ford tractor unit was in the hotel parking lot and the keys and hire documents for the truck were waiting at reception. Kilbride handed both to Boerke, who immediately went to give the vehicle the once-over.

  At midnight Kilbride and his team prepared to set out for the arms drop. They wore dark clothing and blacked up their faces with a burned cork – no one had wanted to risk bringing any camouflage cream through the airport. Before setting out, Kilbride put a call through on the Thuraya to Nick Coles.

  ‘Nick? It’s Kilbride. Any developments?’

  ‘Nothing pressing,’ Nick replied. ‘You’ve had a tail since the airport, but I’m sure you’re aware of that. They’ve also got a tracking device on your lead vehicle.’ Nick chuckled. ‘Funny, they’ve been tailing you so closely that I can only conclude they don’t trust the technology that much.’

  ‘Where are they staying, Nick? Tonight. You have a fix on them?’

  ‘We do. Opposite side of the valley. There’s a dump of a place called the Makhlouf Resthouse. We tracked their vehicles to it …’

  ‘Any chance they’ve got eyes on us now?’

  ‘Unlikely. You’ve picked a classic spot, actually. Perched on the side of the valley with few sites overlooking it. They’d have problems getting close …’

  ‘Any changes on the airdrop?’

  ‘None. Same coordinates. Same time tonight.’

  ‘Thanks, Nick. We’ll speak tomorrow.’

  Kilbride cut the line. It was 1.30 a.m. and time to head into the hills. An hour later he and his men were crouching in a patch of craggy forest, high above the Qadisha Valley. They craned their heads skywards, waiting for the UAV to appear. Suddenly, Kilbride detected a flash of green silk high above him. There was a faint rush of wind, and the squat form of the Snow Goose UAV glided out of the darkness. It crashed against a stunted tree, righted itself and thumped into the rocky earth on its two stubby skis.

  For several minutes Kilbride and his team remained where they were, observing the drop zone. If anyone else had seen the UAV arrive, they would be sure to show themselves. When he was certain that they were alone, Kilbride had his men gather around it. The aircraft stood shoulder high, with a stubby nose cone housing a propeller and drive unit. But the bulk of the fuselage was taken up by six cargo housings, three to either side. One by one the covers were removed and the weapons crates unloaded. Before leaving, Kilbride bundled up the parachute and stuffed it into one of the empty cargo housings.

  Each man shouldered a crate and began the trek back to the hotel. The weapons were heavy and unwieldy, but at least it was all downhill. Wherever possible the Snow Goose UAV had been built from combustible components. At 5 a.m. sharp it was programmed to self-destruct. Separate incendiary charges in the nose cone and tail would blow, incinerating the aircraft. By sunrise, all that would remain on that mountainside would be a twisted heap of smoke-blackened metal.

  Once back inside their room Kilbride and his men started disassembling the crates and reassembling the weapons. Kilbride and Ward had opted for the Masterkey weapons system – the Diemaco assault rifle with the underslung Remington MCS shotgun. Boerke, Nightly and Johno had gone for the Diemaco with an underslung M203 40mm grenade launcher. Berger had opted for the belt-fed FN Minimi Squad Assault Weapon, a light machine gun and the most concentrated piece of firepower the team now possessed. And each man had a SIG-Sauer pistol as his personal reserve weapon.

  Packed into one crate were six 66mm LAW disposable rocket launchers. Several boxes of 5.56mm ammunition made up the bulk of the remainder of the kit, plus a dozen No. 80 white-phosphorus grenades. Finally there was a cardboard crate sporting a skull and crossbones, and with the letters POISON stamped across it. This contained half a dozen canisters of Agent BZ-16, a state-of-the-art nerve gas that Berger had ordered. It would render any victim unconscious for twelve hours, without actually killing them. And its main advantage was that it was totally untraceable in the human system.

  By 4.30 a.m. the weapons were checked, loaded and packed into the vehicles, at which time Kilbride told the men to try to get some rest. They had a long day ahead of them.

  Smithy peered into the ghostly grey-green depths of the pool as he waited for Mick Kilbride to give a tug on the rope – the signal that he should start hauling. They had a fixed line going down to the seabed: the two divers loaded up the bullion at depth, whereupon Smithy and Moynihan hauled it to the surface. They had been here for five hours now, and the young Kilbride and his buddy Brad had stirred the water into a thick pea soup. Visibility was down to a couple of yards, but it hadn�
�t seemed to faze them, and Smithy thanked his lucky stars that they had the two young lads doing the toughest of the work.

  Smithy took a look around him at the cave. It was exactly as he remembered it, and being back here again was a mighty strange feeling. He glanced across at Moynihan. The Irishman was taking the last of the gold bars and stowing them in the bottom of the RIB. The big 10.5-metre craft had a set of three powerful diesel-electric engines at the rear, and she had a serious cargo-carrying capacity. Without completely overloading her, the RIB could carry some six thousand kilogrammes of cargo and still be able to squeeze her way out of the cave.

  To one side of the RIB lay a pile of wooden crates, those that Smithy, Moynihan, Mick and Brad had ferried across from the dhow earlier that evening. Smithy’s torchlight glinted on the stamps depicting a winged staff entwined with two cobras that adorned each of the boxes. He grinned to himself in the half-light. On each journey they would bring forty wooden crates from the hold of the dhow and dump them here in the cave. They would return with 470-odd gold bars and stow them in the ship’s hold. It was exhausting work, but one journey per night over three nights and they should have the operation finished. And all of it would have taken place under cover of darkness.

  Burt lined up the Buffalo with the runway and began his final descent. A flash of dawn light illuminated the mountains to the east, and he figured that he had to be the first aircraft into Beirut that morning. He glanced across at his co-pilot, a black Kenyan named Peter. Beirut would be the furthest afield that Peter had ever flown, and his first time outside Africa. Behind him sat Volker, a taciturn white Zimbabwean navigator-cum-engineer. And in the jump seat to the rear was Shortie, the aircraft’s loadmaster and a fellow South African.

  ‘I hear Beirut’s a party city these days,’ Peter remarked, speaking into the radio mike attached to his headphones. ‘Pity we won’t get the chance to visit … All those foxy Arabian girls …’

  Burt nodded, and turned back to the runway. A few seconds later there was a faint screech from the front tyre and the aircraft bounced a little, settled and trundled down the tarmac. The Buffalo had an unrivalled short-take-off-and-landing (STOL) capability, being designed for operations on remote bush airstrips. The aircraft was also capable of flying at extraordinarily slow speeds, down to eighty knots or less. Landing at Beirut airport was a breeze for her.

  Burt taxied over to the arrivals bay and shut down the engines. Leaving his crew to look after themselves, he wandered across to the pilots’ reception area. He was dressed in a crisp white pilot’s uniform, with a peaked pilot’s cap and gold flashes on his shoulders and sleeves. Burt delivered his story to the airport authorities – that he was delivering some equipment from a South African vineyard to a new Lebanese concern up-country. He presented his flight manifest for inspection: it showed one Toyota ‘spraying tanker’, and a four-metre RIB that would be returning with the aircraft.

  Burt cracked a joke that the RIB was their life-raft in case they ditched at sea. Then he explained that he’d have to sit on the apron for a while because his customer had still to give him the coordinates for his onward journey. No one seemed particularly interested in Burt’s flight or its cargo. A Lebanese Customs official strolled over and peered into the aircraft’s hold. He spotted a bottle of Jack Daniels whiskey, which Burt had deliberately left visible. After a few brief words, the bottle of whiskey changed hands and there were smiles and handshakes all round. Burt and his crew were free to use the pilots’ canteen and freshen-up facilities, and to remain on the apron for as long as they needed.

  Once back in the Buffalo’s cockpit Burt pulled out the Thuraya satphone that Kilbride had given him. He flipped up the tubular black aerial, punched in Kilbride’s number, and listened for a ring tone. He checked his watch: 6.45 a.m. He grinned to himself as he imagined Kilbride thrashing around in his sleep as he tried to find the phone.

  ‘Kilbride,’ came a groggy-sounding voice.

  ‘Sorry, man, did I wake you? Just a quick call to say the Soup Dragon has landed. We’re on call, man. I’ll only hear from you if you need us, isn’t it?’

  ‘Correct. Nice to have you with us, Soup Dragon. Sit tight.’

  *

  By 9 a.m. Kilbride had the convoy back on the road. On the outskirts of Bcharre they picked up their tail again, although now the enemy vehicles seemed happy to hang back and rely on the tracking device. Kilbride took the route north-east, the peaks before him fresh with a sprinkling of snow. Over the next hour the road grew more narrow, eventually becoming a dirt track winding its way into the mountains. Finally, the convoy swung into a steep-sided gorge and the vehicles slowed to a crawl. Within minutes the towering rock walls had blocked out the sunlight, throwing the vehicles into a cold and shadowy gloom.

  Kilbride eyed the dark terrain closing in on them. ‘Ambush alley, mate. This is where they’ll hit us.’

  Bill Berger peered around him, an uncomfortable expression on his rugged features. ‘The Valley of Death, buddy … Better pray it’s only them that’s gonna be doing the dying …’

  Kilbride glanced at him, scrutinising his features. It wasn’t like his big American buddy ever to show signs of fear or concern. They pressed onward in a tense silence. Finally the far end of the gorge spewed them out onto a flat, desolate plain.

  ‘Wadi Jehannam,’ Kilbride announced. He checked his map. ‘See that group of stone buildings? That’s the farm.’

  ‘I been in some godforsaken dumps before, but this place gives me the creeps … You wanna set up a vineyard here, you’re on your own, buddy.’

  Kilbride checked his rear-view mirror. The big Ford truck was close behind him with Boerke at the wheel, the second jeep close behind that. He gunned his engine and forty minutes later pulled his vehicle into a flat earthen courtyard. On one side was a walled olive grove, on another a large stone-sided barn, whilst a flat-roofed farmhouse made up the third side of the courtyard. The men dismounted and gathered around Kilbride’s vehicle. Apart from the wind whistling through the trees, the plain was eerily silent.

  ‘Right, unload any gear you need into the farmhouse,’ said Kilbride. ‘Keep your weapons hidden in the vehicles but handy. As you’re doing so think arcs of fire and all-around defence, just in case they do try to hit us here. Heads-up in the olive grove in five.’

  Kilbride headed for the farmhouse and pulled out the satphone. He dialled Nick’s number.

  ‘What do you see, Nick?’ he asked.

  ‘Just as you anticipated, they’ve pulled up in the gorge. I would imagine they have eyes on the farm from where they are. We’ve also got a further movement of vehicles coming down from the Syrian border. Looks like reinforcements.’

  ‘That second force – how many vehicles? How many people?’

  ‘Three more pick-ups. Doing a rough head-count I’d say six in each. That’s eighteen altogether, plus the six already with you.’

  ‘Twenty-four, or four-to-one in their favour. How d’you fancy our chances, Nick?’

  ‘Erm … I wouldn’t like to say.’

  ‘Nick, I’m going to show them the truck. The prize. I expect them to react by setting an ambush in that gorge. As soon as you see – or hear – anything, let me know.’

  Kilbride cut the phone. He gathered the men around him in the cover of the olive grove.

  ‘Okay, seems like they’ve sent for reinforcements,’ he announced. ‘So we have twenty-four enemy in half a dozen vehicles. I’ve just had confirmation that they’re holed up in the gorge we passed through—’

  ‘You mean Death Wish Valley?’ Boerke interjected. There was a ripple of nervous laughter. ‘I’ll tell you this for free, man, it’s none of us will be dying in there.’

  Kilbride stared at Boerke for a second. It was odd the effect that driving through the ambush site had had on his men. All this talk about death … Was it a kind of bravado, or were Berger and Boerke really spooked by it somehow?

  Kilbride tried to shake off the creepy feelin
g that had settled over him. ‘The shipping container’s parked up in the barn,’ he continued. ‘It’s hidden behind a false wall of logs. Rip that down and tow it out – use the Ford tractor unit. Remember, this is all about letting the enemy see the prize. There’s only one way out of here, which is back the way we’ve come. So they know we have to pass back through that … valley sometime soon.’

  ‘We got us a great defensive position here,’ Berger remarked, as he eyed the surrounding terrain. ‘Clear arcs of fire as far as the eye can see. And look at the walls – solid boulders. We could hold the fuckers off for days, buddy. It sure beats heading into that valley …’

  ‘That’s exactly why they’ll never hit us here,’ Kilbride countered. ‘Once we know their intentions, then we’ll make our move. But if they set an ambush in that gorge, that’s where we’ll be heading … In the meantime, keep a lookout. And see if you can’t act excited. It’s a truck full of gold, remember, a fortune beyond your wildest dreams …’

  The men spent the next hour making a big show of opening the barn’s wooden gates and retrieving the shipping container. Boerke jumped into the cab of the gleaming white Ford, revved her up in a cloud of diesel smoke and inched the trailer out of the barn. The blue container was covered in dust and debris from breaking down the wooden wall. It really did look as if it could have been sitting there for two decades or more.

  With the prize now in full view, the men settled down in the olive grove for a lunch of tinned food. One or two jokes were cracked, but they fell pretty flat. The atmosphere was tense and jumpy. During several decades of special-forces soldiering none of these men had ever set themselves up as bait before. They were trained to go on the offensive, to spearhead operations, and being this exposed just didn’t feel right somehow. As for deliberately driving into an enemy ambush, that was causing the men some serious problems.