Cobra 405

by Damien Lewis

  A quick burst of power sent the lead RIB gliding forward and Ward lifted the engines free of the water. It bumped over the shallows at the mouth of the cave and glided out into the open ocean. Kilbride signalled to go to full throttle, and the boat powered away from the dark cliffs. By the time the three RIBs hit the open sea in line astern, each boat was up on the plane and knifing through the waves.

  Kilbride pulled out the Thuraya from where he’d stowed it on the RIB. He punched speed-dial button four, the number for the pilot of the Mi-26 HALO who was waiting for them on Cyprus. A flood of relief washed over him as he heard the laconic tones of the New Zealander answering.

  ‘Fat Lady here. Where d’you need me, mate?’

  ‘We need you at the LZ in fifty, repeat five-zero minutes,’ Kilbride yelled. He could hardly make himself heard, what with the wind rushing past his face from the boat’s slipstream. ‘Can you make that? Our situation is hot, repeat hot, and we may have hostile company.’

  ‘Not a problem, mate. See you at the LZ in fifty. Stand by.’

  Kilbride had arranged the landing zone (LZ) some thirty kilometres out from the Lebanese coast, well into international waters. He closed his eyes and thought momentarily of sleep. His mind drifted to Marie-Claire and his kids, and he thanked God that he was still alive.

  And then he thought of Nightly. The man had changed so much from his younger days. He’d turned into a humble and likeable soldier, with a killer aim on the LAW. But just as Kilbride and the rest of his men had been getting to know him again his life had been snuffed out in an instant. Nightly’s death had cast a shadow over the mission. And back in England there was a wife who was now a widow and two kids – soon to be three – with no father any more.

  The ringing of the Thuraya brought Kilbride crashing back to the present. Shit. If it was the chopper pilot cancelling the pick-up they were in serious trouble.

  ‘Kilbride.’

  ‘Soup Dragon here.’ It was the voice of Burt, the pilot of the Buffalo. ‘I’m afraid you’ve got company, man. There’s a big Sun Seeker speedboat bearing down on you fast. Packed full of the nasty little bastards, it is …’

  ‘If we go to diesel power can we outrun them?’

  ‘You can, but only as far as the LZ, man. Then they’ll catch you. They might even get the chopper. No, man. There’s only one thing for it. I’ll have to deal with them.’

  ‘But you’re out of foo gas …’

  ‘Foo gas, maybe … Watch the horizon to your backs, man. There’s going to be a light show.’

  Before departing from Africa Burt had deliberately fuelled the Buffalo with petrol, as distinct from avgas, the less flammable aviation fuel. It was one of the beauties of the aircraft’s rugged turboprop engines that they could run on just about any flammable liquid. Burt banked the Buffalo around and brought her in low in line astern behind the enemy speedboat. When he was still some three hundred yards short of the sleek, powerful craft he began dumping his fuel. He overtook her and flew on ahead, a veil of gasoline trailing behind the aircraft and drifting into the sea.

  Some five hundred yards in front of the boat Burt banked the Buffalo around in a sharp turn. Volker leaned out the side window and fired off a distress flare towards the sea. Before it even hit the water there was a giant flash and the petrol ignited. Fire ripped out from the ignition point, crackling and burning up the waves. The captain of the Sun Seeker saw the wall of boiling flame bearing down on him, and brought the speedboat around in a tight turn until it was heading back the way it had come. He pushed the throttle to the max and the craft leaped forward as he tried to outrun the flames. But the fire was quicker.

  It flashed across the sea, caught up with the boat, flickered alongside and overtook her, and suddenly the craft was entombed in a wall of flame. For several seconds she thundered forwards, but this only served to whip the surface of the ocean into a crackling, burning frenzy. Figures dived from the boat to try to escape the flames, but the surface above remained a sea of angry fire. Suddenly, there was a hollow thump from the Sun Seeker as one of its internal fuel tanks exploded in a gout of flame. For a split second the inboard engines screamed wildly and the boat ploughed onwards, and then she broke into several pieces that tumbled in fiery abandon across the waves.

  Burt glanced at Peter, his co-pilot. ‘That’s the end of that, man. It’s also the end of the Buffalo …’ He tapped the fuel gauge in the console above his head. The arrow was stuck on empty. ‘We’re out of fuel, man. Prepare to ditch at sea. It’s a pity to lose the old girl, but …’

  Burt turned to the rear of the aircraft. ‘Volker, get the RIB ready.’ He held out the Thuraya. ‘And take this, man.’ He grinned. ‘You never know, we may still need it to call for a lifeboat or something.’

  He put the Buffalo into a long, low dive. As he approached the surface of the sea, he brought the plane’s air speed down to just above a stall. At seventy knots he settled her as gently as he could towards the waves. In the rear of the aircraft, Shortie and Volker already had the side door open. There was a splash and a bounce and the upturned nose of the aircraft struck a wave. Burt cut the engines on the high-set wings and the aircraft proceeded to do a perfect belly landing.

  Before she had even come to a stop, Peter had the emergency hatch open at the top of the cockpit. As the Buffalo settled, all four men baled out. Volker and Shortie brought the RIB around from the plane’s rear and hauled the pilot and co-pilot aboard. As they rowed away from the sinking aircraft, Burt turned to watch the raised tail fin disappear below the waves.

  *

  Kilbride watched the horizon as the flames died down to the east of them. Even from this distance they had spotted the Sun Seeker blowing herself apart. It was good to think that the last of the enemy might finally have been dealt with. It was ten kilometres, if that, to the LZ now and the three RIBs were flying along at thirty-five knots. The slipstream from the raised prow buffeted Kilbride around the ears and made it all but impossible to talk. He contented himself with searching the dark skies ahead for the squat form of the chopper.

  Fifteen minutes later and the helicopter came homing in on them, the ghostly white form descending from the dark night sky. The pilot brought her down in a perfect hover, inching the giant aircraft ever lower towards the surface of the sea. The huge eight-bladed rotor kicked up a storm of spray as the wheels made contact with the waves. Still the pilot inched lower, until the open ramp of the chopper was resting on the ocean swell. Turbines screamed as the pilot held her steady, and the sea spray ripped about the faces of Kilbride and his men.

  Kilbride gave the signal and the RIBs turned in line, his boat bringing up the rear. The big diesel outboards on the first RIB gave a throaty roar. She accelerated, making straight for the chopper’s yawning hold, the body of the boat lifting clear of the water as the speed of the RIB took her up on the plane. There was a sharp crack, the RIB reared up, bounced over the chopper’s ramp and crashed into the floodlit interior. One down, two to go, Kilbride told himself.

  The second RIB powered forward, took the ramp at a fearsome pace, cannoned off one side of the chopper’s gaping hold and skidded into the interior. There was a short delay as the flight crew used an internal winch to haul the second RIB alongside the first at the front of the hold. Then the loadmaster gave Kilbride a thumbs-up from the open ramp. Ward brought the bow around to face the helicopter and pushed the throttle lever fully forward. Kilbride felt himself thrust back in his seat as the engines roared behind him and the RIB powered ahead. Just seconds before the point of impact Ward cut the engines, tilting them out of the sea and forward into the boat.

  For an instant the giant chopper reared above them. Then there was a sharp smack and the RIB bucked and slammed down with a sickening lurch, skidding into the hold. The boat slewed sideways, rode up onto the two RIB craft in front of it, twisted around and finally came to a shuddering halt. They were in. Quickly, they lashed the RIB to a steel eyelet set in the chopper’s floor. Then K
ilbride gave a thumbs-up to the Mi-26’s loadmaster. The turbines revved to a fever pitch as the massive helicopter prepared to lift herself – and the twenty tons of extra cargo.

  Inch by inch the giant aircraft rose, the swell sucking at her fuselage as she did so. Kilbride glanced out the open ramp of the chopper to see the sea whipped into a frenzied spray. For what seemed like an age the engines screamed at maximum revs, but the chopper just seemed to hold fast. She hung there, eight massive rotors thudding through the air above and the swell crashing mightily against the fuselage below. Kilbride locked stares with Berger as they gripped the side of the RIB craft. Then the giant chopper seemed to shiver once along the whole length of her airframe – and she shook herself free.

  Suddenly they were airborne and powering upwards. Kilbride punched the air as a mighty cheer went up from the men. He ruffled the fur on Sally’s neck, and as he did so he felt a twitch from her. She was coming around from the gas, which struck him as being odd, as the gas was supposed to knock out the victim for twelve hours or more. For a second Kilbride wondered if dogs were somehow less vulnerable to the gas than humans. Then he remembered that Sally had been at the rear of the cave, so she might not have breathed in a full dose.

  He glanced across at The Searcher, just to check that he was still out cold. As he did so, he thought he saw an eyelid flickering. Kilbride looked down, his eye catching a faint movement. One of The Searcher’s hands was twitching, fumbling instinctively around his waist. In an instant Kilbride realised that his fingers were groping for his explosives belt.

  ‘NO!’ Kilbride yelled. He dived forwards and as he did so there was an ear-splitting blast.

  At the back of The Searcher’s suicide belt one of the explosive cells had dried out enough to work. Abu Jihad, the Black Assassins’ armourer, had been very thorough when building those belts, and he had included a back-up detonator circuit. In a stupor of half-consciousness The Searcher had hit his reserve detonate button, and the one good cell had exploded. It punched a hole in the floor of the RIB and threw The Searcher’s body upwards, catapulting him into Kilbride.

  The two men fell as one towards the chopper’s open ramp. They landed hard, rolled once and tumbled into the ocean darkness outside …

  Above the puttering of their outboard motor Burt heard a ringing of the Thuraya satphone. It struck him as being an odd noise, this far out on a deserted sea.

  ‘Soup Dragon.’

  ‘This is Fat Lady, mate. How’re you doing? We got us a problem. The boss took a tumble in the sea, mate. I can’t risk putting her down again, ’cause we barely made it out the first time. Plus I’m real low on fuel. Reckon you could take a look, mate?’

  ‘Shit, man, I had to ditch the Buffalo in the drink. We’re in a four-metre RIB … Still, I reckon we could putter on over there. Might take us a while, but we’ve got bugger-all else to do.’

  ‘I’d appreciate it, mate. The lads are going pretty wild in the back here. I tried telling ’em we can’t do it, but I’ve got me a bloody mutiny on board …’

  ‘What are the coordinates we’re looking at, man? It’s the LZ where he took the tumble, is it?’

  ‘Pretty much, yeah, mate. Right, let me know when you find anything, eh?’

  The Mi-26 hit the tarmac with a sickening lurch. The pilot had nursed the aircraft over the last few miles, coaxing her in to Cyprus with the tanks on empty. It was a miracle she had made it: they had been sipping on air for the last mile or so. As far as the pilot was concerned, they’d had no choice but to leave Kilbride behind. Had they gone around and searched for him the chopper would have run out of fuel and ditched at sea, and they would all most likely have been dead by now. But the men had taken a lot of convincing to turn west and head for Cyprus.

  In the rear of the chopper’s giant hold the atmosphere was as dark as the grave. The exhausted men slumped against the side of the RIB craft, their heads hung low, their shoulders hunched in pain and loss. In the final analysis, the pilot had been proven right, of course. But that didn’t help much: they had still abandoned Kilbride in his hour of need.

  As the chopper settled on the runway, Berger hauled himself to his feet and threw back the aircraft’s side door. The first thing he saw was a bank of floodlights, and the figure of Nick Coles striding across the tarmac towards him. At his side was a tall, stooped figure, who seemed somehow familiar. As the rotors slowed to a thwooping stop, Nick Coles thrust out a hand to the big American. Berger stared at it with dead eyes, and failed to respond.

  ‘You bloody did it!’ Nick enthused, thrusting his hand forward again. ‘Congratulations! Where’s the man of the moment? Where’s Kilbride?’

  Berger glanced up, his face like stone. ‘We lost him.’

  ‘What? Kilbride … Where?’

  Berger waved his arm, indicating the sea that stretched behind them towards the Lebanon. ‘He didn’t make it.’

  The big American soldier stooped to lift a wooden box that they had readied by the door. It had a golden winged-staff stamp on its side. With Smithy’s help he heaved it up over the sill of the chopper’s entry hatch and dropped it onto the tarmac. It landed with a loud smack.

  ‘What’s this?’ Nick asked.

  ‘It’s your fuckin’ share of the gold, buddy!’ Berger growled. ‘Remember, you cut a deal with Kilbride? Go on, take a look. That’s your share of the loot. That’s dead man’s gold.’

  Nick stooped to inspect the crate. As he did so the tall besuited figure drew closer and stared over his shoulder with eager eyes. Nick levered off the lid and threw it aside. Inside were a dozen gleaming gold bars, cushioned in their packaging.

  ‘Two million dollars’ worth,’ Berger announced, his eyes like murder. ‘That’s what you asked for. That’s what Kilbride died for. You demanded we bring it to Cyprus and we lost him on the way. So take it. I guess you think you fuckin’ earned it.’

  Nick glanced up at the chopper and tried to think of something to say, but he was lost for words. It was the taller, older man who spoke instead.

  ‘And The Searcher? What news of him?’

  The voice grated on Bill Berger’s nerves. There was something familiar about it, and about the cut of the man’s features. It came to the big American in a flash. The years hadn’t changed the man much. It was Marcus Thistlethwaite, the OC of Q Squadron from all those years ago …

  ‘Gone,’ Berger grunted. ‘Fell from the chopper with Kilbride.’

  ‘Well, good riddance, I say …’

  Suddenly, Berger had snatched up his Minimi and levelled the barrel at the older man’s head, at pointblank range. ‘Good fuckin’ riddance to who, buddy?’ he snarled, his finger white on the trigger. ‘Best you think about it long and hard before you fuckin’ answer me …’

  Colonel Marcus Thistlethwaite stared back at the gun barrel unflinchingly, his old grey eyes showing little concern for the threat. Behind him, several soldiers moved forward, their weapons held at the ready.

  ‘I don’t think we need any of this,’ he announced stiffly. ‘You’ve rid the world of a menace. Good on you, I say. I’m sorry you’ve lost your man. But he didn’t die in vain: the world is a far better place today because you dealt with the Black Assassins.’

  Bill Berger didn’t say a word. But he lowered the gun slowly.

  ‘Unfortunately, it has cost us a little more than the agreed two million to run this operation,’ Colonel Thistlethwaite continued. ‘Especially as we have a bill from your fellow countrymen for one Sea Strike UAV. Costly toys, it seems. Unload the remainder of these boxes,’ the Colonel snapped the order at the soldiers behind him. ‘The gold remains here, I’m afraid, until we’ve made a full accounting of the mission costs. I’m sure you understand. Then we will pay you what is rightfully yours.’

  Nick Coles was staring at the Colonel, shock written across his features. ‘But, sir! That wasn’t the deal …’

  ‘Change of orders, Nick. Sorry, didn’t I tell you? Only just heard myself, actually. Comes fr
om the very top. We’ve got to make a full accounting of the mission costs, before … Anyhow, let’s get the crates unloaded, quick as we can.’

  The Colonel turned on his heel and a phalanx of heavily armed soldiers closed around him.

  Bill Berger stared after him. ‘You can run, Major, but you’ll never fuckin’ hide,’ he growled. ‘Not while I’m still breathing.’

  The Colonel turned back to face the aircraft. ‘As it happens, Captain, I don’t like my orders any more than you do. Personally, I think you’ve more than earned your reward. But unlike your ilk, I generally tend to believe that orders are orders and should be obeyed. It’s not in my nature to do otherwise.’ He paused for a second, then pulled himself upright to offer Berger a stiff salute. ‘I salute you, Captain, on a mission well accomplished.’

  Colonel Thistlethwaite headed across the apron, a hunched, lonely figure, until he was lost from view. The wooden crates were heavy, and it took two soldiers to lift each of them out of the chopper’s hold. There was a sullen silence in the dimly lit rear of the Mi-26 as Berger, Smithy, Ward and Johno watched and waited. The loss of Kilbride – and Nightly – had thrown a dark cloud over the mission, and none of them really gave a damn any more if the ruse worked or not. If a soldier dropped a crate and it spilled sand all across the tarmac, then Berger would just tell Nick Coles and the rest to go to hell.

  ‘Erm … I’ll get the chopper refuelled, shall I?’ Nick asked quietly. Berger stared at him, wordlessly, his eyes a blank void. ‘Look, I’m sorry. I genuinely knew nothing about all this. If I had done—’

  ‘If you had done, what?’ Berger grated. ‘You’d have kept it a fuckin’ secret, just like you fuckin’ did about Knotts-Lane? I’ve had enough of your favours to last a fuckin’ lifetime, buddy. If you’d told us about that traitorous bastard, Kilbride might still be with us …’