Cobra 405

by Damien Lewis

  ‘With an accent like yours I wouldn’t be bloody surprised,’ said Smithy. ‘Still, it’d be one less person to share the gold with, eh?’

  The South African stared at Smithy in silence for a few seconds. ‘You ever been in a war, man? A real war? A nasty, dirty, vicious little war with no rules – like we had in South Africa. And like they have now in Beirut.’

  ‘Only nasty, dirty little war I ever been involved in is with the wife,’ Smithy replied, with a fixed grin. ‘And—’

  ‘Yeah, don’t tell us – she goes for the nuclear option every time and grabs you by the balls,’ Kilbride interjected. ‘The joys of domestic bliss. Right, there’s a lot to get sorted so let’s move on …’

  Things were starting to get out of hand, and Kilbride had a strong suspicion why. Each of his men had to be thinking the same thing: was there some way in which he could get his hands on some of the fifty million in gold bullion in that vault? It was unsettling his troop and causing friction, and he needed to get the men firmly focused on the job in hand once again.

  ‘Boerke’s plan has got a lot going for it,’ Kilbride continued. ‘I’ll talk it over with the intel people and see what comes up. If there’s a Red Cross depot we can access in Beirut, or some other way of getting hold of those vehicles, then let’s do it.’

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

  ‘That’s the first thing I’m off to investigate once we’re done here. We need a drop-off point at sea that works for us and the submarine, plus a safe route into Beirut. Which reminds me. Ward. Johno. I want you two SBS lads to head down to stores and get us three eight-point-five-metre RIBs. No one else touches them from now on. Got it?’

  ‘Sure thing, boss,’ John ‘Johno’ Hare replied.

  Johno was a lanky, laid-back operator who came from a Cornish sheep-farming family. Joining the SBS had been his ticket out of the lonely grind of the farm. The SBS always had a couple of their lads on exchange with the SAS, and vice versa. Johno had been with Kilbride’s unit for three months now, and in his quiet way he was blending in well with the team.

  ‘Just on the route in – there was an option Andy and I was thinking might work,’ Johno ventured. ‘It’s something we recced with the SBS several months back.’

  ‘What is it?’ Kilbride asked.

  ‘Andy, you spent longer in there ’n I did,’ Johno prompted, turning to his fellow SBS operator.

  ‘We reckon we may have a route into Beirut,’ Andy Ward volunteered. ‘Several months back we had to get some CIA agents into and out of Lebanon. There’s a group of islands off the coast at Tripoli, forty miles north of Beirut – the Palm Islands. They’re on the twelve-mile limit of Lebanon’s territorial waters, so it’d be easy for the sub to drop us nearby …’

  Andy ‘Shagger’ Ward was a fair-skinned, blue-eyed boy in his early twenties. He came from Bournemouth, in the south of England. He was a smart dresser and a real hit with the ladies – hence the ‘Shagger’ nickname. He’d joined Four Troop at the same time as Johno, but Kilbride felt he had yet to fully get the measure of this young SBS soldier. He was a bit of a smooth operator for Kilbride’s liking.

  ‘We recced all three islands – Palm, Sanani and Ramkine,’ Ward continued. ‘They’re completely deserted, which is a rarity for the Lebanon as the coastline’s heavily populated. There’s no fresh drinking water, so they don’t exactly get a lot of visitors. It’s the last one, Ramkine, that interests us the most.’

  ‘In what way, exactly?’ Kilbride asked.

  ‘All three islands are eroded limestone outcrops. Ramkine is furthermost from the shore, and it’s small, less than forty thousand square yards of surface area. It only rises to about fifteen yards above sea level, but it’s what’s under the sea that interests us. What led us to it was the barking of the Monk seals …’

  Ward paused for a second to catch his breath – and for dramatic effect, Kilbride figured. He had all the men of the unit gripped.

  ‘There’s a series of caves that remain half-submerged most of the time. Apart from the seals, they’re totally deserted. Where the sea action has scoured out the caves they go down to considerable depth. They’re big enough to sail a dozen RIBs into, and they’d be totally hidden from view. There’s only one drawback: the whiff’s a bit much from all the accumulated seal shit. But if you SAS lads can handle that, it’s the perfect hideaway.’

  ‘If we can put up with the smell from your tent, I reckon we can handle bloody anything,’ Smithy grunted.

  ‘So what’re you suggesting?’ Kilbride prompted.

  ‘Well, back in 1289 the islands were the scene of a bloody massacre,’ Ward continued. ‘The Muslim Mamelukes were advancing on Tripoli, which was a big Crusader outpost at the time. The Christian inhabitants fled by boat to the islands. They hid in the church of Saint Thomas, on Palm Island, but the Mamelukes found them, tore down the church and slaughtered them all. Ever since then the islands have been cursed. Even the local fishermen avoid the place, which is a blessing for us, really.’

  Bill Berger yawned. ‘Jesus, buddy, enough of the history lesson. Get to the point …’

  ‘The point is that they’re deserted and shunned by everyone, which makes them the perfect forward mounting base for us lot. I’d say we deploy from HMS Spartan to Ramkine Island and lie low while the sub disappears. We can dump any surplus supplies in the cave and head on to Beirut from there. That way, if the mission goes tits-up at any stage we can make for the islands until it all dies down again. No one knows those caves exist – I’m certain of it. So we’d be safe as houses in there.’

  ‘How long did you spend checking them out?’ Kilbride asked.

  ‘We did a three-day recce. We got a feel for the best access routes, and I did three dives on the main cave. There’s tunnels going back into the limestone that probably end up in Syria, for all I know. Only sign of human life we ever saw was a few distant fishing boats, and no way in the world were they ever going to notice us.’

  ‘Nice work, Ward,’ Kilbride announced. ‘Right, unless someone comes up with a better plan we’ll be paying a visit to the Palm Islands. Don’t forget to bring your deck chairs and sunscreen. We’ll meet back here same time tomorrow evening for a heads-up. I want to see real progress on all fronts by then.’

  The men broke up into their groups and headed off to their various tasks. As Bill Berger made to leave the mess tent he felt a hand on his shoulder. He turned to find himself face to face with Boerke. He and the lean South African were the same height, and they were eye to eye with each other.

  ‘I meant no offence, Captain,’ Boerke remarked, quietly. ‘I have a great respect for the US military – what you did in Vietnam. I don’t know if it was the right war exactly …’

  ‘It started off being the right war,’ Berger replied, a hint of bitterness in his voice. ‘But by the time we left, the media and the politicians had made darn sure it was the wrong one.’

  ‘Isn’t it always thus? Just look at South Africa, man.’ With a thin smile, Boerke offered his hand to the American captain. ‘There are few units I rate alongside the South African special forces. The SAS is one; your Mobile Strike Force is another. It’s an honour to serve alongside you.’

  Berger took Boerke’s hand and gripped it. ‘Appreciate it. And less of the “Captain”: it’s “Bronco” to my buddies.’

  Seeing that Bill Berger had been waylaid, Kilbride grabbed Ward, the young SBS operator, and led him away to a deserted corner of the mess tent.

  ‘A quiet word,’ Kilbride said. ‘How deep did you say the water went in that main cave?’

  ‘About thirty-five to forty feet. Imagine a horizontal tunnel going back into the cliff face, a tunnel that ends in a deep pool. What with all the sediment we stirred up it was pea soup down there, but I could feel an inrush of water. I reckon that’s an underground stream venting into the cave, and it’s that which has carved out the deep pool. Why d’you ask, boss?’

  ‘Just
curious. You seem to know a lot about Lebanese geography and history.’

  ‘I like to know the enemy territory, the lie of the land. Lebanon basically doesn’t have a coast in the normal sense – the mountains just rise straight out of the sea. They’re supposedly honeycombed with underground rivers. That’s what I reckon we have with these caves.’

  ‘Thanks,’ Kilbride remarked. ‘I’ll go and check it out on the charts.’

  ‘The caves are unbeatable, boss,’ Ward added. ‘Oh, and in case you were wondering, they’re the perfect hiding place. If you were looking to hide anything, that is …’

  ‘I wasn’t,’ Kilbride retorted, evenly. ‘Should I be?’

  CHAPTER THREE

  THAT EVENING, KILBRIDE and Berger went to work on the two military-intelligence officers who had been assigned to Q Squadron’s Cyprus operations. They had many questions to which they needed answers, with scant time. Luckily, the MI6 boys had at their disposal a tame journalist in Beirut. Within twenty-four hours they could have him check out the Imperial Bank’s guard strength and security systems. They would get him to open a safety-deposit box with the bank so that he could check out in person the way in which the vault operated. They also had a trusted Lebanese fixer, who was perfect for checking out the Lebanese operations of the Red Cross and the availability of suitable vehicles.

  The MI6 officers proceeded to brief Kilbride and Berger about a recent SAS mission. A four-man team had entered Beirut city from the sea, using the Beirut River as their route in. They had done so using one-man Rigid Raiders, flat-bottomed rapid-assault craft similar in design to a jet ski. Fast, silent and compact, they were great over short distances in sheltered coastal waters. But they were useless over long stretches in the open sea with a heavy load of weaponry, which ruled them out for Kilbride’s mission.

  But if that four-man team had got up the Beirut River using Rigid Raiders, maybe Kilbride’s larger force could do the same with their Zodiac Rigid Inflatable Boats (RIBs). Kilbride knew better than to ask about the objective of the previous mission. If it had already happened and he knew nothing about it, then there would be good reason for that secrecy. All he wanted to know was the ease of access up the Beirut River. It turned out that the leader of that previous mission had been a fellow Q Squadron operator – John Knotts-Lane, the commander of One Troop.

  ‘Best we go and find Knotts-Lane,’ Kilbride remarked to Berger as they left the meeting. It was getting late, but both men were fired up with the excitement of the coming mission. ‘He usually hangs out in the ops tent, just in case there’s any juicy intel coming in. He likes to be the first to know, if you get my meaning.’

  Bill Berger nodded. ‘We got the same types in the Green Berets. Say, you reckon those intel guys will come up with the goods? That’s a lot to ask of them in twenty-four hours.’

  ‘They’ll have the answers for us,’ Kilbride confirmed. ‘They get a kick out of this sort of thing.’

  ‘What kinda name is Knotts-Lane, anyways?’ Berger asked as they threaded their way through the tented sleeping area of the camp. ‘We just don’t do this two-surnames shit in the States. I feel kinda sorry for the poor bastard going through life with a name like that.’

  Kilbride laughed. ‘I wouldn’t tell him that if I were you. He’s sort of touchy about it.’

  ‘Who wouldn’t be?’

  ‘It’s a double-barrelled surname. Means he’s got class. Breeding. Or so he thinks.’

  It was Bill Berger’s turn to laugh. ‘What is it with you Brits and all this class crap? Only thing that matters in the US is whether you got money – and balls.’

  Sure enough, the two men found Knotts-Lane hunched over a desk in the ops tent. He was playing a game of chess with himself and seemed lost in a world of his own.

  ‘Knotty,’ Kilbride announced, using the man’s nickname. ‘Need a word. You got a minute?’

  Knotts-Lane glanced up, a faraway look in his eyes. Kilbride registered an angry red cut to his face, and wondered if he’d sustained an injury on the recent Beirut mission.

  ‘I suppose I can spare you just the one minute, Kilbride. That’s unless you want to stay and have me massacre you at chess again? I seem to remember the last time it took about half a dozen moves.’

  ‘Something like that,’ said Kilbride. ‘You know Captain Berger? He’s over from the States, attached to my troop.’

  Knotts-Lane flicked his gaze towards Bill Berger, and barely grunted. ‘So what is it you want?’ he asked Kilbride.

  ‘You were on a mission into Beirut recently, up the Beirut River. I need to know if we could get some RIBs up the same route that you blokes used.’

  ‘Ah – your little bank robbery,’ Knotts-Lane replied. ‘Well, I’m sorry but I can’t tell you, Kilbride. I’m afraid our little op was need-to-know stuff only. It’s restricted.’

  ‘Well, it is my need-to-know, mate,’ said Kilbride.

  ‘And the Yank?’ Knotts-Lane remarked, nodding in Berger’s direction. ‘What about him?’

  ‘The MI6 boys just briefed us both on your mission. Anyway, we don’t want to know the classified stuff, just the state of access via the Beirut River.’

  ‘Best you pull up a chair,’ Knotty said, indicating the space beside him. ‘And your Yankee sidekick.’

  Bill Berger grabbed himself a chair, straddled it so that he faced Knotts-Lane across its back and eyeballed him. ‘You got a problem with Americans, buddy?’ he demanded. ‘’Cause it sure as hell looks that way from where I’m sittin’. If it makes things easier I can make myself scarce, and you can talk to my buddy here alone … Once you’re done I’ll be waiting around the corner, and you can get what’s coming.’

  Knotty held Berger’s gaze without a hint of fear in his eyes. ‘Is that right? Just the way it happened in Vietnam, when you kick-arse Yankee tough guys took on the Vietcong? Let’s knock the shit out of the slanty-eyed bastards, just ’cause they’re Commies and for the heck of it.’

  Bill Berger pushed his chair away angrily and rose to his feet, knocking over the chessboard as he did so. ‘Ain’t you the bleedin’ heart?’ he growled. ‘From where I’m standin’ seems like you’re in the wrong goddamn business, but I hear Mother Teresa’s got some vacancies. I’ll be waiting for you outside, Kilbride.’ He turned to leave. ‘Oh, and sorry about the chess game, buddy.’

  Knotts-Lane stared after the big American, resentment burning in his eyes. ‘Fucking Yanks …’

  ‘Better not let me catch you alone in the shadows, boy,’ Berger called over his shoulder. ‘If I do, you’ll be getting another scar on your face to match the one you’ve already got.’

  Knotts-Lane sneered. ‘Real tough guy, eh? Beats me how come the Vietcong took Uncle Sam to the fucking cleaners, with blokes like you on their side …’

  Kilbride had known Knotts-Lane for the seven years that he’d been in The Regiment, and he’d learned as much about his background as anyone. The man’s father was an international businessman, and Knotts-Lane had spent the bulk of his childhood growing up in the Far East. Whilst there, he’d become an expert in martial arts – which was why he seemed to fear no man, Bill Berger included. He’d tried a career in business but had been bored senseless. Then he’d found his way into The Regiment.

  Kilbride was about as close as anyone came to being his friend, which wasn’t saying a great deal. Pretty quickly he’d realised that somewhere there was a serious disconnect with Knotty. He seemed incapable of forming genuine, close friendships. He led his troop by virtue of his position, as distinct from any sense of comradeship with his men.

  Nevertheless, Knotts-Lane had confided to him something of his troubles. Two years earlier they’d been on Arctic exercises, and Kilbride and Knotty had spent twenty-four hours holed up in a snow cave. Over a shared flask of whisky Knotty’s story had emerged. When he’d been fourteen he’d gone trekking in Yellowstone National Park, in the States, and his sister had fallen from a cliff.

  His father had called i
n an emergency chopper, but the hospital had demanded proof of medical insurance before they would treat the girl. She’d died on the operating table, and that was the moment when Knotty’s hatred of Americans had begun. He’d been very close to his sister. They’d been soul mates. And, over time, he’d realised that he found it difficult to get close to anyone else, in case the same thing happened again.

  He still felt that his sister’s spirit was with him, Knotty had explained. She was an angel sitting on his shoulder, watching over him and waiting for the perfect moment for revenge.

  ‘Wanker!’ Knotts-Lane spat out, as he jerked his head in the direction of the American captain.

  Kilbride ignored the remark. He needed to get some information out of Knotts-Lane. ‘So, the Beirut River – what’s it like?’

  ‘It’s a cesspit,’ Knotty replied. ‘It’s full of offal from the slaughterhouses and polluted as hell. But this time of year, with the river in spate, you shouldn’t have a problem. Take it slowly and watch out for underwater snags – you know, old motorbikes, rotten prams, decomposing corpses, that sort of thing. You’ll make it all right. I just hope the big Yank takes a fall and swallows half the river – that’ll finish him.’

  Knotts-Lane sketched out a rough map of the route that Kilbride should take up the river, plus the landmarks to look out for. Two converging lines marked the river estuary; a series of dots at the estuary mouth marked the oil-storage depot; a pair of ruler-straight marks depicted the path of the river as it was channelled through a massive concrete culvert; a line across the river’s route marked a road or rail bridge; a group of squares on the riverside showed the location of the sprawling Karantina slaughterhouse complex.

  When he was done, Knotty handed Kilbride the map. ‘Follow that and you’ll be okay.’