The Sharp End

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The Sharp End Page 29

by Phil Ward


  “I know you will, Captain.”

  As the others were leaving, Lieutenant Pamala Plum-Martin came in, wearing her workout togs and leg warmers with a towel around her neck. The snow-blonde Royal Marine pilot was glistening.

  “I was planning to come see you after our swim,” Lt. Plum-Martin said.

  “About what, Pam?” Col. Randal asked. The two had served together for a long time. They were comfortable around each other—he trusted her with his life, frequently.

  “Ronnie found a BOMBSHELL target,” Lt. Plum-Martin said. “Air Intelligence identified a small, isolated beachfront hotel. Several squadrons of Luftwaffe pilots reportedly use it as their BOQ. They operate off satellite airfields in the area.”

  “That is a good target,” Col. Randal said. “Only we don’t have any Raiders. Everyone’s on leave. Show me anyway.”

  The Vargas Girl-looking Royal Marine pointed to the map with a scarlet-tipped nail.

  Col. Randal said, “Exactly the target we’re always looking for.

  “King, can you come in here?”

  The Merc studied the map coordinate Col. Randal indicated with the tip of his unlit cigar.

  “Most likely an exclusive resort hotel for wealthy Egyptians to take their mistresses before the war,” King said. “Discreetly located all alone on the coast—private.”

  “Contact Mr. Zargo,” Col. Randal said. “See if he can confirm that German pilots are billeted there.”

  “Roger,” King said. “Make a great target if they are.”

  “It would,” Col. Randal said. “Unfortunately, the only people we have to raid it would be you, me and Mandy.”

  “Recommend,” King said, “we not mention that to Mandy, Chief.”

  “Pam,” Col. Randal said, “I need you to have Billy Jack and the new Five-Seven-Five officer, Lieutenant Hays, extracted from Scout Patrol. They’re needed here fast.”

  “Do my best, John.”

  “Send another pilot, you stand by ready at RFHQ. No telling what could happen next,” Col. Randal said.

  “Brandy’s evaluating a possible SOLID GOLD target, which will take priority over anything else. Check in with her. Stay up to speed on the status of the mission.”

  “Wilco,” Lt. Plum-Martin said. “Things always heat up when Raiding Forces is least able to carry them out—like the ‘Gunfight at the Blue Duck.’”

  “Let’s not think about it,” Col. Randal said. The situation was eerily similar—irresistible target, Raiders all on leave. He got shot.

  “Pam,” Col. Randal said, “have Rocky stop by before she leads the morning swim.”

  “Will do.”

  Twenty minutes later Rikke Runborg padded in, wearing her bathing suit. “Yes, John?”

  “Terry Stone is getting ready to tell me he’s fit enough to return to full duty,” Col. Randal said. “I’m not taking his word for it.”

  “Oh?”

  “When Zorro can make it through one of your workouts,” Col. Randal said, “you let me know. Then he’s cleared—good to go.”

  “As you wish,” Rocky said. “Sir Terry was gravely injured, John. My classes consist of vigorous, high-intensity ballet warm-up calisthenics, light-weight, high-repetition resistance training with Indian clubs—plus the swim—will possibly take time for him to achieve our level of fitness.”

  Col. Randal said, “That’s what I think too.”

  After Rocky had gone to lead the morning two-mile swim, King said, “I thought Major Stone was a friend of yours, Chief.”

  “He’s always wanted to get to know Miss Runborg better,” Col. Randal said. “I’m giving him the opportunity.”

  “Zorro always likes to say ‘it’s always darkest before pitch-black,’” King said. “He is about to find out how true that is.”

  James “Baldie” Taylor and Commander Ian Fleming arrived. King showed them into the suite. Col. Randal clicked on immediately. He was beginning to feel whipsawed.

  He knew Cmdr. Fleming did not travel out from London to Egypt without reason. In the past, his arrival had always resulted in Raiding Forces being tasked to execute a high-value mission.

  What Col. Randal did not know was that ever since the Kriegsmarine had added a fourth rotor to their Enigma encoding machine, Bletchley Park was no longer able to read any of the German Navy’s communications—that source had gone dark.

  Unrelated to the additional rotor being added, but at approximately the same time, the Nazi U-boat war had gone into overdrive. Submarines were taking an even heavier toll on Allied shipping than ever before.

  Great Britain was being strangled.

  And the truly frightening part was that there were never more than six U-Boats operating against British sea lanes at any one time. What if the Kriegsmarine deployed more?

  Cmdr. Fleming said, “GOLDEN FLEECE.”

  Another thing Col. Randal was not cleared to know was that GOLDEN FLEECE was the second-highest priority code word in British military lexicon. Right behind CROMWELL, which would signal the German invasion of England—if it ever came.

  What Col. Randal did know was that when he heard GOLDEN FLEECE, he was to drop everything he was doing and immediately execute the mission that followed—with alacrity.

  He recognized that Jim was uncharacteristically grim this morning, which gave him something else to think about.

  “There is a tiny island—a cay, actually, located ten miles off Crete,” Cmdr. Fleming said. “Only a flyspeck on the map and does not even have a name. The place is isolated, uninhabited and completely treeless. You can stand in the middle and see across it in all directions.

  “The Kriegsmarine has a B-Dienst radio station located on the island,” Cmdr. Fleming said.

  “Raiding Forces is alerted to raid the station tonight with your RED INDIAN Team. Kill or capture the German signalmen and recover all pertinent signals equipment and documents of intelligence value,” Cmdr. Fleming said.

  “Naturally, no fingerprints. A Royal Navy destroyer will be standing by off shore to shell the station at sunrise the morning after the operation to cover up any signs of your raid.”

  Lady Jane and Lt. Mandy came in from their swim, drying their hair with towels, breezed past and went straight out to the private pool.

  “Hello, Ian,” Lady Jane said as they disappeared outside to sunbathe.

  “War is hell,” Cmdr. Fleming said.

  “Yes, it is,” Col. Randal said, picking up the phone and dialing the Operations Room. “Stephanie, find my Lovat Scouts Fenwick and Ferguson. And my Phantom team.”

  The Royal Marine said, “The Scouts are somewhere in the desert hunting ibex, Colonel—I shall attempt to locate the Phantom operators for you, sir.”

  “We have a situation,” Col. Randal said, putting the phone back in its cradle. “I don’t have a RED INDIAN Team.”

  “Explain,” Cmdr. Fleming said, taking out one of his custom-blended cigarettes with the three gold rings on the end and tapping it on his elegant, sterling silver case.

  “Raiding Forces is on stand down after CRUSADER,” Col. Randal said. “When everyone comes back from leave and the hospital, we’ll be at fifty percent strength—maybe less.

  “Captain Jaxx is on patrol with Captain Kidd—we are attempting to have him flown back now, but no word on that yet. RED INDIAN Team members Fenwick and Ferguson are away on a hunting trip. We’re trying to locate the Phantom operators you trained to search for GOLDEN FLEECE material.

  “In addition,” Col. Randal said, “Raiding Forces has been alerted for two other missions—one Field Marshal Auchinleck personally feels is a higher local priority than GOLDEN FLEECE.”

  Cmdr. Fleming’s veneer of suave gentility vanished in a flash, his eyes narrowed. He snarled, “Nothing has a higher priority than GOLDEN FLEECE.”

  “Tell that to the Field Marshal,” Col. Randal said.

  “I brought a navy signals intelligence officer with me who is parachute qualified,” Cmdr. Fleming said. “He can ide
ntify the Nazi equipment we require—put together a team to capture the GOLDEN FLEECE target, Colonel, and do it now.

  “After all, you do have an entire regiment of American parachutists to draw from.”

  The atmosphere in the room was tense. Having suffered the appalling losses Raiding Forces had taken in CRUSADER, Col. Randal was in no mood for some rear echelon armchair commando to be picking targets for his men to risk their necks on. Not without good cause—made clear.

  “Tell him,” Col. Randal said.

  Jim said, “The Five-Seven-Five is a regiment in name only—totally green, trained in jungle warfare in Panama. They are in the field now for a month’s acclimation and to learn how to operate in the desert environment.

  “No help there, Commander.”

  Cmdr. Fleming said, “I had no idea.”

  “Everyone take a deep breath,” Jim said. “Colonel, you try to scrape together a raiding party—there are believed to be only a half-dozen German signalmen on the objective. We can arrange for you to have anything you want in the way of support—ships, aircraft, etc. Raiding Forces, has to accomplish this mission.

  “There is no higher priority.”

  “For the record, Colonel,” Cmdr. Fleming said, “I am acting on the express orders of the Prime Minister, which is a conversation the two of us have had before.”

  Jim said, “Put me on the manifest for the raid if that helps.”

  “Great,” Col. Randal said. “That means our team will consist of you, me, King and Mandy—maybe we can augment it with Rita and Lana if I can get them to take the night off from dancing at the Kit-Kat.”

  Cmdr. Fleming turned pale. It was beginning to sink in that there was a legitimate reason for Col. Randal’s reluctance to take on a new mission. Normally, he was the most can-do of all the army officers Naval Intelligence worked with.

  “Here’s what I need for starters,” Col. Randal said. “Two Dakotas—and they have to be wheels up in the next thirty minutes to pick up the 575th Rangers I&R platoon. Pam will brief the pilots.

  “No Dakotas, no mission—is that clear?”

  “Perfectly,” Cmdr. Fleming said. “What else do you require?”

  “I’ll get back to you on that,” Col. Randal said. “Now, if you two gentlemen will excuse me . . .”

  As they were leaving, Col. Randal ordered, “King, I need Pam.”

  “On the way, Chief.”

  Lady Jane came in from the pool where she had been listening in on the conversation from concealment beside a crack in the sliding door—all those spy schools she attended had taught her tricks nice girls were not supposed to know. Mandy followed her inside.

  Concerned by what she overheard, Lady Jane placed a call to Brandy, who ran upstairs to the suite. Lt. Plum-Martin arrived back from the swim. The Royal Marine was dressed but had her wet, snow-blonde hair swept back.

  Col. Randal briefed the women on developments. Raiding Forces had three high-priority missions. There were virtually no troops available. Most of his officers were absent or not fit for duty. Sea Squadron had its ships in dry dock.

  In the best of times, three simultaneous special operations would strain Raiding Forces’ resources. These were not the best of times.

  Lady Jane asked, “What are your intentions, John?”

  “Drive on,” Col. Randal said. “Hit the targets.”

  • • •

  Colonel John Randal took a call from the Operations Room. “Captain McCoy phoned, sir—Duck Patrol is standing by to sail. The captain says he was only able to assemble half of the patrol’s complement of troops,” Stephanie said. “Warthog Finley is on board to skipper a trawler Brandy borrowed from the Royal Navy Patrol Service. Wino Muldoon is along as an observer.

  “Frank is at the dock with his gun DUKW awaiting instructions, as per your orders.”

  “Thanks, Stephanie,” Col. Randal said, hanging up.

  Almost immediately the phone rang again, “Sir, the plane with Billy Jack and Clint Hays will be landing in five minutes. Roy Kidd is with them as well.”

  “Have them report to me,” Col. Randal said, “the minute they get here.”

  Apparently, acting on his own initiative, Captain Roy Kidd had decided to turn over Scout Patrol to his assistant patrol leader and make himself available for whatever was taking place at RFHQ.

  His decision gave Col. Randal the last piece of the puzzle he needed to finalize his plans.

  • • •

  Colonel John Randal huddled with Captain Billy Jack Jaxx, Captain Roy Kidd and Lieutenant Clint Hays in his suite as soon as they reported in.

  “Raiding Forces has been alerted for three Top Secret missions. We do not have enough personnel available to handle them. To augment our troop strength, the I&R platoon is being flown here to RFHQ. Expected to arrive in the next three hours.

  “When they do, Jack, I want you and Lieutenant Hays—plus five Rangers you handpick for Team A—to be prepared to conduct a parachute drop on a target later tonight. I will lead the team—the general will be coming along, as well as a Royal Navy intelligence officer.

  “Roy, your mission is to link up with Frank Polanski—Team B. You two—plus a Phantom operator, a navigator and the Little Elephant’s gunner—will take the gun DUKW, launch three miles off shore and land right about here on this beach,” Col. Randal pointed to the map.

  “Drive inland to the Via Balbia, then motor east for approximately a mile and attack the hotel located here,” Col. Randal indicated the target.

  “Timing is not an issue. Initiate your attack as soon as you arrive. Fire up the hotel. No one gets out alive—clear?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Then turn north and head into the desert on an azimuth of 185 degrees. Somewhere on your line of march, you will be met by one of Mr. Zargo’s men—a man known to you as Club. You’ve worked with him before?”

  Capt. Kidd said, “I have.”

  “We have no idea how the DUKW is going to perform in the desert. If the truck can’t negotiate the terrain, cache it and you will be picked up by either Raiding Forces or a patrol from the LRDG.

  “Questions?”

  “A one-DUKW raid?”

  “Small-scale.”

  “Roger that,” Capt. Kidd said. “I like it, sir.”

  “Following the drop by Team A and the subsequent capture of a classified German target,” Col. Randal said, “Team A will board a Walrus amphibian, be flown back here to RFHQ where it will transfer to a C-47, fly to another DZ, jump in, re-enforce Captain McKoy and Duck Patrol, which is designated Team C tonight, and assist them in carrying out a raid on another classified target.

  “Upon conclusion of Team C’s mission, Pam is going to extract Jack, Roy, the general and myself in the Hudson for return to RFHQ. Duck Patrol will return to Oasis X, traveling overland.

  “Lieutenant Hays,” Col. Randal said, “you’ll accompany Capt. McKoy as he patrols back to X, hitting targets of opportunity along the way.

  “Questions?”

  “Sir,” Lt. Hays asked, “is service with Raiding Forces always like getting swept up in a tornado?”

  “Actually, Clint,” Col. Randal said, “the Five-Seven-Five arrived during a lull in our operations.”

  Capt. Jaxx said, “That’s a definite Rodge.”

  Jack Cool.

  • • •

  Major Sir Terry “Zorro” Stone arrived at Colonel John Randal’s suite. He was not expected. Normally laid back, he did not seem his normal self today.

  Maj. Stone said, “R. J. and Jim are on the way. When they arrive—I was never here. Understand, old stick?”

  Col. Randal clicked on, “Roger.”

  “There is a major counterintelligence flap at Grey Pillars,” Maj. Stone said. “An intense spy hunt is underway—no one is above suspicion.”

  “Mandy mentioned it,” Col. Randal said.

  “When R. J. and Jim arrive,” Maj. Stone said, “they are going to ask you questions—act surprised, but u
nder no circumstances get angry or lose your temper.”

  “I can do that.”

  “One other thing,” Maj. Stone said, as he was turning to leave. “The Duke likes your idea about the name change and reorganization of the Lancelot Lancers, old stick—sent me a message that he would be nominating you for the next King’s Birthday Honors List.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “Almost anything.”

  A half hour later, King stuck his head in the door, “R. J. and the general are on the way up, Chief.”

  The two officers arrived and entered the suite. R. J. shut the door firmly behind them.

  Jim said, “Colonel, I realize this is not the best time, but there is no good time for what we are here to talk to you about.”

  Col. Randal said, “What might that be?”

  R. J. said, “We have a Nazi mole embedded somewhere at the highest echelon of Middle East Command. We have knowledge that Rommel is receiving information that can only come from a highly-placed source with unfettered access to the top echelon of GHQ. The spy’s reports include assessments of our top commanders, tactics and equipment. While not flattering, the information is breathtakingly accurate.”

  “Do you suspect Rocky?” Col. Randal asked, sticking one of Waldo’s cigars between his teeth.

  “No,” Jim said. “Ever since you allowed Rocky to move into RFHQ she has been reclusive—rarely leaves the compound unless you or Lady Jane are with her.

  “We know she has no way to transmit the volume of information to the Germans we are investigating, even if she were in possession of it. If Rocky is a Russian spy—they are our allies, we have no concerns if Stalin knows our intentions.”

  “I see,” Col. Randal said, which meant he did not have a clue.

  R. J. said, “Nothing we discuss today is to EVER leave this room—on your word as an officer.”

  “It won’t, Brigadier.”

  “Lady Jane,” R. J. said, “has unrestricted access to Field Marshal Auchinleck and all the senior officers at Grey Pillars. At any time has she ever indicated to you any political connection that might cause you to believe she is sympathetic to or has ever had any association with either the Nazi or Fascist Parties?”

  “Are you crazy?” Col. Randal said.

 

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