by Damien Lewis
Berger pulled the pin on the first grenade and lobbed it as high and as far as he could. He’d been a prize baseball pitcher at high school, and his throwing arm had lost little of its strength. The other two grenades followed in quick succession, and under the cover of the explosions Berger was up and running again. He made an oblique line for the ridge, aiming to take the shortest route back to Kilbride. As he did so he heard the distant roar of engines starting up below and behind him. The enemy vehicles were on the move.
Back on the plain of Wadi Jehannam, Kilbride had pulled the two Mitsubishi jeeps in close to the Ford truck. With the three vehicles and his men clustered together like this, the enemy would have a hard time getting a clean shot at a target. He was hoping to buy himself some time, gambling that the enemy wouldn’t risk harming the truck and its precious cargo.
Kilbride and Nightly took cover behind the engine compartment of the right-hand jeep while Ward and Johno got into a similar position to the left. The engine was about the only part of a civilian vehicle that offered any real protection from enemy fire. Kilbride was worried sick about Berger and Boerke: the one-hour deadline had already passed, and still there was no sign of them. But there was no way he was leaving without them: all the gold in the world wouldn’t buy friends like those.
For the umpteenth time he scrutinised the entrance to the gorge with his night-vision goggles. As he did so, he spotted the first of the enemy vehicles nosing its way out of the valley and onto the flat of the plain. Five other vehicles followed, none of them showing any lights, and in line astern they started to crawl forwards. Kilbride reached behind him and grabbed an LAW 66mm rocket launcher. He flipped it out into extended-fire mode, steadying his aim on the bonnet of the vehicle. He signalled to Nightly to do the same with a second LAW.
Kilbride held his fire as the convoy advanced. The enemy commander had his vehicles spaced well apart. Maybe he feared a second ambush, this one set by Kilbride and his men. Well, there was an ambush of sorts – but it wasn’t quite what the enemy would be expecting. The accurate range of the LAW was three hundred yards max, but Kilbride was going to try deploying it at over twice that range. Over the years he had worked out that the LAW could be fired in one of two ways: it was designed to be used with a flat trajectory aimed directly at the target; but it could also be fired into the air for a longer elliptical delivery. There was a simple rule of thumb: for every extra hundred yards in range he should aim two fingers’ width above the target.
When the enemy convoy was still some eight hundred yards away Kilbride pulled the trigger. A split second later Nightly’s rocket followed. There was a double flash of flame that lit up Kilbride’s position in a stark glare as the two missiles streaked unseen through the air. The first struck in a shower of sparks just in front of the lead enemy vehicle, and exploded on the far side of the road. An instant later Nightly’s missile hit, the 66mm projectile tearing into the centre of the enemy convoy. A pick-up disappeared in a sheet of flame, the soldiers in the vehicle’s rear being thrown into the air by the blast.
Kilbride glanced at Nightly. ‘Nice shooting, mate.’
Nightly shrugged. ‘I just got lucky, boss. Don’t expect a repeat performance.’
There was an answering death rattle of gunfire, but Kilbride and his men were well beyond the range of the enemy’s AK47s. The firing ceased. Kilbride wondered what the enemy commander would do next. There were a few seconds of eerie silence and then a single shot rang out. A windscreen shattered, showering Kilbride with glass. Further rounds followed on single shot, punching their way through the thin metal skin of the jeeps. Kilbride noticed that with each impact there was a puff of white smoke at exactly the spot where the bullet had hit.
The enemy commander had a sniper on his team. For a second Kilbride wondered what weapon he was using: it had to have a range of a thousand yards or so, so it was probably a Soviet Dragunov or similar sniping rifle. It also had to have a night scope, for Kilbride’s vehicles were totally dark and there was no other way the enemy could have located them. And he was using phosphorus-tipped bullets, which accounted for the puff of smoke each time he scored a hit. From those alone the sniper could judge his range and adjust his aim onto target.
First a fearsome ambush had been set, now there was an expert sniper: again Kilbride wondered who on earth he was up against on the other side. He ordered his men to respond as best they could. With two LAWs already expended, Kilbride knew that they had to conserve their stocks of the one-use rockets. He and his men began returning fire with their Diemaco assault rifles on single-shot. The enemy were two hundred yards beyond its optimum range, but even at this distance it still made a passable sniping rifle.
As Kilbride’s team and the enemy sniper traded shots, he tried to put himself in the opposition commander’s shoes. Even if he had mortars or other heavy weapons, there was no way he could risk using them. To do so would endanger the truck and its precious cargo. He would have to get his men closer to Kilbride’s position, where they could put down accurate small-arms fire. In which case, he would have to send out his men on foot in a flanking manoeuvre. Kilbride popped his head up over the bonnet and swept the enemy position with his night-vision goggles. As he did so a round slammed into the far side of the engine compartment. Sure enough, the enemy commander had done just as he had anticipated: figures were moving forward on either side of the road.
Kilbride warned his men of the new threat, and they started to snipe at the advancing fighters. Kilbride squeezed off a round and saw one of them go down. Whether he was hit or simply taking cover Kilbride couldn’t be certain. Either way, he was painfully aware that they couldn’t hold them off for ever, and that there was still no sign of Berger or Boerke. Over the deafening crack of their own gunfire, Kilbride sensed a noise in the background. He tried to refocus his hearing, and as he did so he realised it was the fierce ringing of the Thuraya. He grabbed it, punched the answer key and clamped it to his ear.
‘Kilbride!’
‘Thank Christ for that.’ It was Nick’s voice and he sounded flustered. ‘I’ve been ringing and ringing … Listen, that IR strobe – it’s moving out of the gorge and down towards your position. Moving at quite a pace, too. I’d say it’s a man running …’
‘Which direction?’
Nick gave him the bearing and Kilbride cut the connection. With his night-vision goggles he swept the valley floor towards the south-west of their position. Almost immediately, he picked up on the hunched figure of Berger with the injured South African slung across his shoulders. They were moving at a fast pace towards them. He swept the night-vision goggles across to check on the enemy, and in a flash he realised that Berger’s line of march would take him right into the path of the advancing foot soldiers. Berger clearly hadn’t noticed the men on foot – and Kilbride had to find a way to warn him.
He grabbed a LAW, signalling for Nightly to do likewise. Hurriedly, he explained his plan. The two men steadied the LAWs on the bonnet of the vehicle. If they overshot there was always the danger that they would hit Berger and Boerke. Kilbride fired first, his rocket skitting across the dirt road and exploding just short of the advancing enemy soldiers. Nightly fired next: there was a second’s delay, then his rocket struck bang in the midst of the lead enemy fighters. There was an intense flash of flame as bodies were ripped apart by the blast.
Kilbride glanced at Nightly and raised one eyebrow. ‘Fucking nice shooting! Mate, you’ve got nerves of steel …’
Nightly grinned, and turned back to his assault rifle. Kilbride grabbed his night-vision and searched for Berger and Boerke. He picked up on them again, this time looping out around the enemy position to come in from the flank. Kilbride warned Nightly to be ready to bug out as soon as the big American reached them. Then he crawled across to Ward and Johno to tell them the same.
Five minutes later and Kilbride heard a strained shout coming from the shadows to their front. ‘Cover me – I’m comin’ in!’
The
four men switched their weapons to automatic mode and began pumping rounds into the advancing enemy soldiers who broke ranks and dived for cover. As they did so the ghostly figure of Berger came pounding onto the road, the limp form of Boerke dangling from his shoulders. With a superhuman effort he surged ahead towards Kilbride’s position. An enemy soldier spotted him and yelled to alert his comrades. Bullets slammed into the road, kicking up the dust at Berger’s feet. For a split second Kilbride was certain that they’d got him, but it was Berger diving for the cover of the nearest vehicle. The big American hit the dirt with a hollow thump as he used his body to break Boerke’s fall.
‘Hit the detonator!’ Kilbride yelled.
Ward punched the firing device and a hundred yards ahead there was a blinding flash of flame. A charge of RDX exploded, setting off a pile of booby-trapped grenades and ammo. The crack of the exploding rounds gave the impression that a major counter-attack was under way. As a thick cloud of smoke drifted across the road, Kilbride and Nightly dragged Boerke into the nearest jeep, while Johno, Ward and Berger piled into the rear. Kilbride lobbed a last white-phosphorus grenade in through the window of the second four-wheel drive, gunned his engine and accelerated away. As he skirted the truck there was the crack of the grenade exploding, and the abandoned hire vehicle burst into flames.
The Searcher stood in the rear of his pick-up, his gaze fixed on the battle scene up ahead. One enemy vehicle was a flaming wreck, and the other seemed to have disappeared. He sent his men in on foot, ordering them to check for enemy booby traps. Slowly, they filtered in among what remained of Kilbride’s position and declared the all-clear. The Searcher stared at the truck, sitting there before him on the road. The prize. The prize was within his grasp.
Yet he remained wary. Kilbride and his men had fought well, but how they had managed to discover the ambush in the gorge escaped him. Whoever had triggered it had been a brave and resourceful soldier, and it never ceased to amaze him how men without belief, those who had failed to find the One True God, could still demonstrate such courage. There were mysteries that even he, a Brother and a true Holy Warrior, would never fathom.
The Searcher had lost eight Brothers in the gorge, maybe a dozen overall. But Kilbride must have suffered serious casualties himself, for what else would have made him abandon the gold? He had reports of two of Kilbride’s men hit in the gorge. Blood had been found, plus an abandoned pistol. If both of them were lost then Kilbride would be down to four men – a third of his force wiped out. Then there was the burned-out jeep. Had Kilbride lost another two there? Perhaps there were only two left alive, which would explain why he was running.
The Searcher pulled the convoy to a halt a hundred yards short of the enemy position. He felt a kick of adrenalin as he eyed the truck, the shipping container perched on its rear. But there was little time to glory in the moment. It was 11 p.m. and he needed to get back over the border into Syria before daybreak. He ordered his men to check the tractor unit. The engine cover was still open and it seemed as if it had had mechanical problems.
The Searcher went to inspect the rear of the truck. The shipping container was secured by a thick padlock and chain. He had little doubt what it was carrying, but he still needed to be certain.
‘Brother Sajid, shoot the lock off,’ The Searcher commanded of his lieutenant.
Sajid raised his weapon and fired a long burst at the padlock. The shattered metal fell away. The Searcher vaulted up onto the flat bed of the trailer, and with Sajid’s help he threw open the steel doors of the shipping container. He shone his torch beam into the dark interior. All his wariness evaporated in an instant. There, glowing in the shaft of light, was the golden hoard. He had succeeded. He had won the prize.
For a second The Searcher considered sending a couple of vehicles after Kilbride. He would dearly love to kill him – or, better still, capture him alive. He would carry him back to their camp in chains. He would force him to watch the Seven Assassins departing for their Holy Mission, knowing that it was his failure that had gifted them the means to carry out their attack. But the Old Man’s orders had been clear and wise. He was to let the enemy go and concentrate on bringing the gold safely back to their camp. Vengeance would be left to God, just as the Old Man had promised him it would be.
There was the coughing of an engine and then the throaty roar of the truck revving. The Searcher smiled to himself. They were mobile. He ordered his men to form up in convoy, two pick-ups leading the truck and two behind it. They moved out and headed back into the fire-ravaged gorge, passing the burned-out wrecks of two of their vehicles. No matter, The Searcher told himself. Their arrival in the camp was just hours away, and with it their moment of glory. He would present the prize, at which stage he, Brother Mohajir, would have surely become the most trusted lieutenant of the Old Man of the Mountains.
*
As dawn broke over the plain of Wadi Jehannam, Kilbride nosed his vehicle into a deserted patch of woodland. Although still driveable the jeep was badly shot up and had clearly been in a firefight. Ward had got a drip into Boerke, but he was still in a bad way. And Nightly had taken a bullet in the arm, although luckily it was only a flesh wound. The men needed to eat and rest and gather their strength for the next stage of the mission. The jeep needed checking over to make sure that it would make the drive to Tripoli. And they needed to tend to their wounded.
Having parked up in some cover, Kilbride put a call through to Smithy. All was going well on the dhow, Smithy reported, and in forty-eight hours they would be ready to depart. Kilbride told him to bring one of the RIBs and meet them at a deserted end of Tripoli’s Al Mina port area at midnight. He planned to make the drive to Tripoli after sundown, when the damage to their vehicle was less likely to attract attention. They had full trauma kits and a sickbay aboard the dhow, and Boerke would stand as good a chance there as he would in any Lebanese hospital.
Right now the order of the day was rest, recuperation and cleaning of weapons and kit. Kilbride set a rotating watch, just in case they were disturbed, and sent Berger off for a long sleep in the vehicle. The big American was dead on his feet, which was hardly surprising. After that solo rescue mission it would take him a lifetime to recover.
Or maybe it wouldn’t, Kilbride reflected wryly. Maybe all it would take would be a couple of intimate massages from Tashana. Her arse was cute enough to persuade any man to make a miraculous recovery.
*
The Brothers gathered around the truck in a seething throng. Word had swept through the camp like wildfire that The Searcher and his men had returned. Every one of the Black Assassins wanted to share in the moment, the glory of the knowledge that the Holy Mission for which they had all been preparing would soon be launched upon an unsuspecting infidel world. The Searcher stood in front of the truck as he waited for the Old Man himself to appear. The sun was barely over the mountaintops, and it promised to be a glorious day.
Finally, the Old Man emerged from his bunker and picked his way down the hillside, using his stick to help steady himself. He raised his head, and his gaze met that of The Searcher. He signalled for him to reveal all.
‘Brothers Sajid, Abdul – show them the prize,’ The Searcher commanded.
The two Brothers went to open the container. There was a dull metallic clunk and the door started to swing wide. A reverential hush fell on the crowd as the rear of the shipping container revealed itself to them. Inside the ribbed metal walls there was a pile of shining golden bars. The Searcher stepped inside, bent and picked up one of the bars, its weight smooth and cold in his grasp. He turned and held it up for all to see. Below and before him the throng of assembled brothers broke into wild, frenzied cheering, brandishing their weapons in the salute of the Holy Warrior.
The Searcher stepped down from the container and made his way across to the Old Man. The crowd parted ahead of him. He stood with his head bowed, holding out the golden bar.
‘Here, Your Holiness,’ he announced softly. ‘God willin
g, this is the key that will unlock your dreams.’
The Old Man took the golden bar in his talon-like grip. He gazed on it in rapture for a second, then turned to address the crowd.
‘Brothers, today is a truly glorious day. With this’ – he held the golden bar aloft – ‘with this we can achieve our dreams! With this, we can deliver on our Holy Promise to the One True God! With this, God willing, the Seven Assassins are assured of a great and glorious victory. With this, we shall shake the Infidel world to its very core. Let the Christian dogs and the unbelievers shiver and cower in terror when the wrath of the Seven Assassins falls upon them.’
A wild cheer went up from the crowd. The Searcher stood at the Old Man’s side and basked in the reflected glory. The Old Man had already declared the day a rare Holy Day, and the Brothers would have a day of rest and feasting. Seven goats – symbolically, one for each of the Seven Assassins – would be roasted over an open fire. There would be the singing of Islamic poetry, and the scholars among them would recite Hadiths from the Koran. It was a day to enjoy, a day to celebrate, a day for The Searcher to feel that he was truly chosen.
He strode across to the shipping container and went to close the door. As he did so, something caught his eye. He had always been fastidious and mess offended him. During the firefight with Kilbride’s men a stray round must have pierced the shipping container. It had damaged one of the golden bars. The Searcher picked it up. The bullet had struck at an oblique angle, tearing a shallow groove across the pure golden surface of the bar.
He ran his hand across the rough silver sharpness of the broken metal. Suddenly it struck him as odd that the bar should show silver where it had been damaged. Surely it should show gold? For a second he felt a cold panic gripping his heart. But no, he reasoned, it had to be the lead of the bullet that had bled the shining ribbon of silver across the bar, not the other way around – for the alternative was unthinkable. But what if it wasn’t the bullet that had left its mark on the bar? What if it had simply revealed what the inside of the bar was made from?