Tales of Strikeforce Falcon, Book 1: Flashpoint
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FLASHPOINT
A TALES OF STRIKEFORCE FALCON adventure
by Richard White
Published by Pro Se Press
Part of the SINGLE SHOTS SIGNATURE line
This book is a work of fiction. All of the characters in this publication are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead is purely coincidental. No part or whole of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage or retrieval system, without the permission in writing of the publisher.
Copyright © 2015 Richard White
All rights reserved.
“Up and at ‘em, Yank.”
Captain Brock Delaney rolled over and stared up at the shadowy figure through his bleary eyes. “Don’t they have any respect for the dead here?”
The familiar voice of his second-in-command rang in his ears as Brock forced himself to sit up on his cot. He tried to swing his legs out of the cot, but after the third attempt, there was a blur of motion and two hands grabbed his feet and tossed them over the edge. “Come on, old chap. You’re going to have to do better than that. Of course, we have respect for the dead. Why, we won’t wake them for guard duty for another couple of hours. Now, come on. The old man wants to talk to us.”
Brock stumbled to his feet, trying to avoid the boxes of ammunition and food scattered around the cots. He glanced up at the shadows the one lamp in the cave cast on the low ceiling. He’d been sharing this burrow with four other officers ever since he’d wound up on Timor after his airplane had been shot down trying to make it from the Philippines to Australia three weeks ago following the Japanese landings in the Philippines in December 1941. He had expected to make a stand on Corregidor with the rest of his unit, but HQ insisted he try and get back to Australia. Unfortunately, the Japanese had other ideas.
He leaned heavily on a box of C-rations. “Damn it, Terry. We just got in at two a.m.. What time is it?”
His counterpart, Lieutenant Terrance Howard, poured a cup of coffee and walked over to him. Somehow, even here in the mountains of Timor, Terry looked like he’d just walked off the fields of Eton, his mustache impeccably trimmed and his uniform spotless. However, even Brock’s sleep filled eyes could see it was starting to get thin in a few spots. Brock wiped his hand down his face and gratefully accepted the steaming cup. Even though he was half asleep, he felt the heat through the canteen cup and gingerly sat it down on the box next to him.
Terry poured himself a cup of coffee before answering Brock’s question. “A few minutes after six. The old man is pretty fired up about something. We’re supposed to meet him at zero six thirty. Do try to shake the cobwebs out of your head by then. I have a feeling this could be a nasty mission. We don’t want you getting lost or something.”
“A nasty mission? Worse than the last six?”
“I mean exactly that. Oh, for heaven’s sakes, do run a razor over your stubble. You’re looking more and more like a civilian every day.”
Terry walked out of the small cave while Brock sipped his coffee and fumbled in his ruck sack for his shaving gear. Gotta give the old man credit. He’s taken the charge of taking the fight to the Japanese to heart. I can’t complain though. When our plane was shot down, I figured I’d be spending the rest of the war in a POW camp. At least, this way, Tech Sergeant Petty and I have a fighting chance.
Ever since the Japanese had seized the Dutch half of Timor, what was left of the Australian unit known as Sparrow Force had been pushed east deeper into the mountains of the Portuguese side. The Portuguese were technically neutral in the war, but they’d been aiding the Australians and their allies as much as they could. The Australians had absorbed all the stray Allied soldiers they could to shore up Sparrow Force and divided them up into small groups around the island to harass the Japanese as long as possible. Lieutenant Colonel Holmes was in charge of what was left of the 2nd Battalion of Sparrow Force near Dia Tuto and he’d quickly grabbed Brock and put him in charge of one of the units.
A few minutes later, he’d slipped into his least dirty tunic and walked out of the cool cave. Even at 6:15 a.m., it was starting to get warm outside. Gonna be another scorcher today. Need to make sure everyone tops their canteens off before we take off. He cradled his Thompson submachine gun in his right arm and made his way across the clearing. Reaching the far side, he saw the rest of his team waiting. Each man acknowledged his presence, but continued cleaning and prepping their gear.
“Any idea what they’ve got in store for us today, Sir?” Sergeant Clyde Baker asked as he ran a cleaning rod down the barrel of his sniper rifle. The Enfield was nearly swallowed up in the burly Australian’s huge hands.
“Your guess is as good as mine, Baker. If anyone knows it’d be Lt. Howard and he’s not here right now.”
A yawn escaped from Sergeant Petty and he leaned away from the radio he was working on, trying to stretch his back. “I don’t know about you, Sir, but it wouldn’t break my heart to get a day off. I don’t know if this thing is ever going to work again. Bad enough we’re short of parts, but digging the shrapnel out of this is taking forever.”
“That’s why you get paid the big bucks, Petty. Make it work.”
Petty pushed his glasses up on his nose, his eyes widening. “I get paid?”
“When we find a U.S. payroll officer, you do. Until then, just assume you’re on an enforced savings plan.”
The men laughed. “Ain’t like we’ve got a lot of places to spend it anyway,” Lance Corporal Mick Lyons said, pointing around the clearing. “That is, unless you officers are hiding a canteen somewhere over on your side of the camp?” The wiry Australian didn’t look any bigger than the Bren light machine gun he was cleaning, but he’d walked Brock into the ground on more than one forced march.
Brock snapped his finger before replying. “Dammit, Lyons! Who told you?”
The men laughed again before climbing to their feet and gathering up their gear as Lieutenant Howard appeared out of the nearby brush. The team followed him down a small trail to a camouflaged tent where Lieutenant Colonel Holmes was waiting. A lieutenant was spreading out a map for them as the team entered.
The colonel waited until everyone was settled before he began. His voice sounded as tired as his face looked. “Sorry to roust you all out of bed so soon, but one of the locals brought in some rather unfortunate news. The Japanese are establishing a new ammo dump near Liltai. If this supply dump is completed, it would make it possible to fortify Cal Mauc. That, my good fellows, would make this place impossible to hold. We need to remind the Japanese leaving Dili is a bad idea.”
Brock looked at the map, noticing the ridges and small rivers separating where they currently were from Liltai. “Any word on what the enemy strength might be or how active their patrols are near Ai Norc Ma, Sir?”
“Captain Delaney, you know that answer probably better than I do. How many patrols did you avoid last night on the way home?”
“Good point, Colonel.”
The colonel pointed at the map and turned to face him. “The locals say they counted nearly one hundred Japanese and impressed Timorese building fences and clearing the jungle at the ammo dump. However, we’re not sure how many of them are building crew and how many are guards and camp workers. Assume there are a hundred enemy soldiers and if there is less, count your blessings.”
“That’s only fifteen to one odds, Sir. We’ve faced worse,” Brock said, suppressing a sarcastic laugh.
“Good to hear, Captain, because a runner just came
in a few hours ago telling us the Japanese landed another battalion-sized unit the other night. We’re all going to be facing long odds here soon enough.” The lieutenant colonel tipped his head back over his shoulder. “Bartles here has your operational map. Draw the ammo and supplies you need. Be prepared to move out no later than oh-eight hundred hours.” The colonel paused and then gave him a grandfatherly smile. “Be careful out there.”
Delaney nodded and stepped away from the colonel’s makeshift desk to talk to the young lieutenant behind him. He gathered up the operational map and turned to the team. “All right, you all heard the colonel. Hit the supply tent and draw what you can. Petty, you going to have that radio working by eight?”
“Not a chance, sir. I’m going to have to pray they can get me some parts in the next supply drop. I’ll swing by Sid’s tent and give him a list. Hopefully, they’ll be able to airdrop the gear in on their next run.”
“All right. Don’t waste any more time playing with it this morning. Guess you luck out not having to haul that thing all over these mountains—this time.”
“I’ll take what I can get.”
Delaney waited for the good natured ribbing to calm down before turning to van Straten. “Since he’s not carrying the radio, he can carry your spare barrels. That’ll free Gurung up to play scout for real this time.”
Over Petty’s yelp of outrage, Brock barely made out van Straten’s “That’s good.” The huge Dutchman patted his Browning Automatic Rifle and pointed for Petty to follow him. Brock watched the two of them vanish into the bush, the young American grumbling all the way while the taciturn Dutchman merely pointed or nodded.
I’m not sure I’ve heard van Straten say more than two sentences in a row. If he ever starts talking, I might just pass out from shock. Apparently, he lets that B.A.R. do his talking.
Brock felt a presence next to him more than he heard anything. The lithe Gurkha stood next to him with an expectant look on his face. “If the sir would not mind, might I review the map? If I am to be the scout on this mission, I would like to familiarize myself with our route.”
“Of course, Havildar.” Brock pulled the map out of his pocket and passed it over to the Nepalese. The young man bowed his head slightly and moved across the clearing with as much noise as a puff of smoke. Brock watched him for a few seconds and then went to find Terry. After a short search, he spotted his counterpart arguing with the armorer. He waited until the conversation came to a lull and then joined the two men. “Is there a problem here?”
“With all due respect, Captain, your lieutenant here is trying to beggar me. He wants all the C-4 I have left. I keep telling him I have to ration it out for all the teams, but he’s being unreasonable.”
“And I keep pointing out to the young sergeant, if I don’t have enough plastic explosives, I might as well not go on this mission. I do have a bit of a reputation as a miracle worker, but even Christ himself started out with two loaves and five fish. I can’t make explosives out of coconuts.”
“How much do we have left, Sergeant?”
“I’ve got four teams and three kilograms of Nobel 808. I offered your lieutenant here four sticks, that’s a half-kilo of 808. That’s almost your full allotment. I’ve got a call in to Darwin for more but it’ll get here when it gets here.”
“We’ll take it.”
Lieutenant Howard started to say something but Brock waved him off. As the sergeant disappeared into the shallow cave, Brock turned to him. “Look, Terry, we’re going after an ammo supply dump. If you can’t use four sticks of 808 to set off an entire dump of explosives, then I’m going to start questioning your skills.”
Terry let out his breath in a low whistle and didn’t say anything when the sergeant came back with a leather bag. The explosives expert managed to keep his expression neutral as he lifted the bag, emphasizing how light it was before slinging it over his shoulder. Brock tried to keep the grin off of his face until Terry had disappeared into the brush. Terry was an outstanding officer and his ability to improvise had been why the Special Operations Executive had recruited him in the first place. The good thing about the SOE was they were the British elite unit for special missions—sabotage, espionage, reconnaissance. The bad thing was they knew it. If Terry had a flaw, it was he was a bit of a perfectionist when it came to his work and the team enjoyed teasing him about it.
Delaney checked his watch and saw it was zero seven fifteen; he still had a little time before they had to take off. He did a quick head to toe checklist and hurried over to the supply tent to draw his rations and a spare pair of socks. When he was satisfied he had everything for the mission, he went over to the team’s meeting place and curled up under one of the palm trees. A few seconds later, he was sound asleep.