by Damien Lewis
Nick stared in silence at the tarmac for a second. He knew that there was some truth to the big American’s words.
‘Look, I’m truly sorry,’ he stammered. ‘I really am. But right now we don’t know what a hornets’ nest you may have stirred up behind you. We don’t want anyone – the Lebanese, the Syrians, or, God forbid, the Israelis – tracing the chopper back to Cyprus. So, once we’re done unloading it’s best we get you out of here. I’ll bat for your team over the gold, you have my word. I’ll fight your corner … Now, I’ll get the ground crew refuelling you, shall I? Where do you want to go?’
‘Get us clearance to fly to Tanzania,’ Berger growled. ‘Get us clearance to land at Kilbride’s place. And do us one favour, even if you are a lyin’, cheatin’, double-crossing bastard. Phone Kilbride’s wife and give her our time of arrival. And tell her that her man didn’t make it home … I can’t face getting there to break the news …’
‘Of course. I’ll make the necessary arrangements. And I’ll say what needs to be said. I’m sorry.’ Nick turned to leave – and then he halted. He turned back to the chopper and signalled to a couple of the soldiers to help him. Together, they bent and picked up the one opened crate of gold.
Nick and the soldiers hoisted it up to Bill Berger and Smithy. ‘Here, take this. It’s not much, but at least it’s something. I’ll get a rocket for allowing you to take even this … Kilbride’s gone and two million dollars is something, at least … They’ll have my guts for garters, but I just feel this is something I have to do. I’ve never met them, but give it to his family, will you …?’
As the vast bulk of the Mi-26 powered across the ocean towards the beach, Marie-Claire set the stereo playing. It was Kilbride’s favourite track of all time, Bob Dylan’s ‘Ring Them Bells’. She’d put the speakers down on the beach and she and Nixon had prepared a welcome-home buffet for everyone, complete with several bottles of chilled champagne and crates and crates of Kilimanjaro beer.
Marie-Claire stood with a child held in either arm, gazing out to sea at the aircraft that was bringing her man home. She smiled at Tashana, who stood on her right, next to Nixon. On her left was Janey, a new addition to the tribe. All three women were facing the rising sun that backlit the giant chopper a fiery bronze, waiting for their men to dismount onto the golden sands.
As the Mi-26 approached it reduced its speed, preparing to land. Marie-Claire held her two boys tight to stop them rushing forward to greet the giant aircraft. The sand was wet from the receding tide, and they were standing well back to avoid the down draught of the massive rotor blades.
‘Ring them bells for the chosen few’ – the music played on. Kilbride believed that he was one of the ‘chosen few’, that his years in the SAS were a matchless gift in life. But it was the last words of the song that really did it for Kilbride – ‘breaking down the distances between right and wrong.’ He’d always told Marie-Claire that the older he got, the more he saw the world in shades of grey. The most important thing was to live and let live.
The huge helicopter settled onto the sand, sunlight glinting on its riveted bodywork. Scorch marks peppered the thin skin of the craft, and for a second Marie-Claire’s heart missed a beat. Surely her man couldn’t be hurt? Wounded? Someone would have told her. That British man who had called to tell her about the chopper’s arrival – he would have let her know.
The side door opened and Sally jumped down. She sniffed the sand, realised that she was home, and bounded up the beach towards them. She flew into the family’s arms, almost knocking Marie-Claire over, and then the big dog began to lick the faces of the two small boys.
Marie-Claire glanced back at the chopper, her face aglow, half expecting Kilbride to follow next, the leader first down from the aircraft. Instead, the gaunt figure of the big American soldier descended onto the sand. Tashana let out a little cry, and rushed forward to meet him. At the bottom of the steps Bill Berger stood stock-still, his face streaked with blood and grime and his arms hanging impotently at his sides. Tashana flung herself at him. The big man did not respond.
Ward stepped down from the aircraft. He joined Bill Berger, his head hung low, his shoulders bowed with grief and exhaustion. As soon as they’d spotted the welcome-home party the men had known that no one had told Marie-Claire. Nick Coles had taken the course of the true coward and had chosen to say nothing. She didn’t know that her man was missing in action, presumed lost – and which of them now had the courage to tell her?
Marie-Claire searched their faces, looking for a hint of welcome, a sign that they were all safe and that the war was over and that no one was ever having to go back there again. ‘Where’s Kilbride?’ she murmured, as the first cold fingers of panic gripped her heart. ‘Where’s Kilbride?’
Johno stepped down from the chopper, eyes red with exhaustion, hair matted with filth and grime. ‘Where’s Daddy?’ Marie-Claire heard her eldest, David, murmur. She looked down into his face, trying to hide her fear. ‘He’s coming. He’s coming,’ she tried to comfort him. ‘You’ll see.’
She stared back at the chopper, willing her man to descend. Maybe it was a tradition, she told herself, that troops returning from combat always let the commander dismount last. She tried to comfort herself with that thought, but her mind was screaming: Where’s Kilbride?
This was the moment for him to step down, she told herself, for the song was almost over. She stared at the chopper’s side door, willing him to appear, but the bulky form of Smithy emerged instead. Janey let out a yell, and sprinted for the helicopter. She threw herself at the burly sergeant, but he barely registered her presence. He was staring over at Marie-Claire, his eyes empty pits of pain.
She stared back at him, desperately, willing him to say something, to explain what was going on. He shook his head, imperceptibly at first, as the tears started pouring down his grimy face. To Smithy’s left, Berger felt his chin quivering and a tear rolled down the chiselled, granite features of the man who had been forced to take over Kilbride’s command.
With a last few piano chords the song finished, the final notes drifting out across the dawn sands. The chopper’s rotors slowed to a dead stop. A silence followed, as deep and as empty as the grave.
Suddenly, Marie-Claire rushed forward. ‘WHERE’S KILBRIDE!’ She dodged the soldiers and threw herself at the door of the chopper, but the vast, cavernous cathedral of the hold was empty. She turned and screamed at the line of men, at Smithy, Berger, Ward and Johno: ‘WHERE’S MY HUSBAND? WHERE’S KILBRIDE? Where’s Kilbride?’ she sobbed as she collapsed into the sand. ‘Where’s Luke … Oh my God, no … Oh my God, no … Oh my God, no …’
Bill Berger turned away from his woman, Tashana’s side. Feeling as if he were in a dream the big American stumbled across the sand and sank to his knees. He took Marie-Claire’s shoulders in his massive hands and tried to lift her up, to turn her away from the aircraft, but she tore herself away from him. ‘No. No. No. No. No …’ She clawed at the sand beneath the chopper, hoping beyond hope that the giant machine might still deliver the man she loved.
Berger broke now. His features crumpled, the tears streaming freely down. There was no dishonour in a man crying. The only dishonour lay in their leaving Kilbride behind. He buried his face in his friend’s wife’s hair, rocking her from side to side.
‘We had to leave him,’ he sobbed. ‘We had to leave him …’
Finally, Marie-Claire allowed the big American soldier to lift her up, a hunched, fragile, heaving figure. His arms around her shoulders, Berger turned her away from the chopper, and set her face towards the beach. There was a terrible finality in him doing so, and she knew that all was lost.
Burt was the first to spot it. They’d been searching the landing zone for hours now, and part of him refused to believe it. But there it was again, an arm raised and waving from the sea. He altered course and brought the RIB in towards the figure. As they nosed in closer Burt and Volker leaned over the side and hauled the survivor on board.
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Burt slapped the figure on the back. ‘Always said you were like a bit of old boot-leather, man. Bloody indestructible.’
Kilbride lay in the bottom of the boat and grinned up at him, exhaustedly. He tried to speak but his voice came out as a dry croak. Burt handed him a bottle of water, and Kilbride necked it greedily.
‘Thanks,’ he managed to choke out.
‘Right, time to head for home,’ Burt announced. ‘Anyone got any ideas as to our route? We could try for Israel, Cyprus or back to the Lebanon. It’s about the same distance either way. Best not head back to the Lebanon, eh? I reckon Cyprus is pretty dodgy too. Looks like we’ll have to try for Israel, man. Volker, set a course for the nearest Israeli landfall. And Shortie, break out that medical kit and take a look at Kilbride.’
Burt grabbed the Thuraya from his belt. ‘There’s still some juice in the satphone, so I guess we can get a call through to the Israeli coastguard or something … But first I got to make another call …’
Burt punched a number into the Thuraya’s keypad, then handed the phone to Kilbride. ‘Best you let your family know we found you safe and well, isn’t it, man?’
Two hundred and forty nautical miles to the south of them, the dhow chugged resolutely onwards. On the foredeck McKierran sunned himself in his wheelchair, and Boerke sat alongside him with a heavily strapped and bandaged leg. To the aft, Moynihan was at the wheel, his gaze set south and his mind dreaming of a woman back home in Ireland. And at the stern, Mick Kilbride and his buddy Brad were happily fishing for sharks – though they had yet to catch a single one. The dhow had observed complete communications silence ever since slipping anchor and steaming away from Tripoli. She had done so just in case anyone was trying to track, follow and find her.
She would remain like that until she reached Kigamboni, and had delivered her golden cargo home.
END NOTE
Readers may wonder how much of this story is true. The simple answer is that I don’t know. I have been told about the original bank raid in great detail, but for obvious reasons, all of that information is unattributable and remains unverifiable. I have also been told that the gold was hidden and that at some later date a gold-retrieval mission was necessary. Whether this story remains purely an SAS urban myth with no truth to it whatsoever, or something more, I am unable to say for certain. Whichever is the case it makes for a fine story.
I’ll leave the reader with one extra thought. In the course of writing this book I asked myself if there had ever been any other cases of special forces opportunistic robbery. In 1959, the SAS were deployed on anti-insurgent operations in Oman, the Gulf. A Squadron of elite soldiers had scaled Oman’s Jebel Akhdar, the Green Mountain, the highest peak in the region. At the summit they discovered a cave guarded by enemy fighters. After firing rockets and hurling hand grenades the SAS men stormed the cave. Inside they discovered a stash of large wooden chests. Fully expecting them to contain ammo, they levered open the chests only to discover glittery heaps of Maria Theresa silver dollars.
Each wooden chest was piled high with the treasure, and the cave contained riches beyond the wildest dreams of the SAS men. They threw down their packs, emptied out the contents and stuffed them full of the Maria Theresa dollars. The men were laughing and joking and already planning their long retirements on the French Riviera. However, over the next two days they were mortared and machine-gunned by the enemy, and gradually treasure was dumped in an effort to lighten their loads and escape with their lives. This act of opportunistic SAS lighthandedness is reported in SAS-veteran Ken Connor’s superlative book, Ghost Force – the Secret History of the SAS. The story is credited to the eyewitness account of an SAS sergeant who was present in the Jebel Akhdar at the time.
Since the Jebel Akhdar mission, I have heard of one or two other, equally-inventive freelance special forces operations – in the Balkans, Afghanistan and, most recently, Iraq.
For those readers whose interest in Submarine launched UAV’s and UAV’s in general has been piqued by this book, a good starting place to research them is www.globalsecurity.org. For those readers whose interest in gold, tungsten (wolfram) and metallurgy in general has been piqued by this book, take a look at Theo Gray’s website, periodictabletable.com. For those readers who may actually wish to buy their own gold plated tungsten bar or cylinder (highly recommended by the author), go to Max Whitby’s website, rgbco.com. And for those readers wishing to make up their own shipment of false gold, drop me an email via my website, and I’ll put you in touch with the real ‘Goldenboy Guss’.
www.damienlewis.com
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Epub ISBN 9781448165667
Version 1.0
Published by Arrow Books 2008
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Copyright © Damien Lewis 2007
Cover photography: Corbis
Cover design: Nick Castle
Damien Lewis has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.
First published in the United Kingdom in 2007 by Century
This novel is a work of fiction. Names and characters are the product of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
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A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
ISBN 9780099481966
