by Phil Ward
“Seebohm is the acknowledged master of signals intelligence—he will never make a stupid mistake that gives away his position. My guess is the 621st shall be constantly relocating to throw us off the trail.”
“You can bank on it,” Col. Randal said.
“Everyone slips up, Seebohm will too . . . eventually,” Brandy said. “When we do gain actionable intelligence on the 621st, Raiding Forces is going to have to react fast. That means a team of Raiders constantly on standby with transport aircraft, gun jeeps or whatever else you need ready to swing into action.”
“We’re going to require outside support, Brandy,” Col. Randal said. “All our aircraft, with the exception of the Hudson, and most of our equipment, other than the gun jeeps, consists of obsolete hand-me-downs no one else has any use for. Even our jeeps are total wrecks after CRUSADER.
“We don’t have what it takes for a high-speed, low-drag assignment like yours.”
“I met with Field Marshal Auchinleck to discuss the mission,” Brandy said. “He agreed to provide us with a blank check. In his mind, eliminating the 621st is the highest priority mission in Middle East Command—even higher than GOLDEN FLEECE.
“Questions, John?”
Col. Randal asked, “Is there a requirement to take Seebohm prisoner?”
“We prefer alive in order to interrogate him,” Brandy said. “Dead is fine.”
“Who am I working for?”
“Me,” Brandy said, and for once she was not laughing. “Are you OK with that, John?”
“I am.” Col. Randal asked, “Does the operation have a name?”
“Not yet.”
“Does now,” Col. Randal said. “OPERATION SOLID GOLD.”
• • •
Major Sir Terry “Zorro” Stone arrived poolside with Red. He was still shaky, recovering from his wound. Doctor Stephen Milam had cleared him for “extreme” light duty.
Major the Lady Jane Seaborn said, “We have spare swimsuits in the guest bedroom, Red.”
Brandy said, “Hi Terry, you are looking much better,” as she got up off the lounge and slipped into the shallow end of the pool.
Rita and Lana twittered like canaries. Generally ambivalent to men, they thought Maj. Stone looked like movie star Errol Flynn.
While Red disappeared into the suite to change, Maj. Stone pulled up a chair next to Colonel John Randal.
“Keeping extraordinarily high-quality female company as usual, old stick,” Maj. Stone said. “How does one keep one’s concentration around this pool?”
“Who said anything about concentrating?” Col. Randal said. “Especially since Jane has a hard time getting Rita and Lana to keep their tops on.”
“I understand the girls are stars at the Kit-Kat,” Maj. Stone said. “Now that I am up and around, I intend to make it a point to drop in to catch Rocky’s next show. Word is it’s something one has to experience at least once in a lifetime—see Rome, and die.
“Rocky may not be dancing anymore,” Col. Randal said.
“Just the luck,” Maj. Stone said.
“What are you doing here, Terry? Light duty means resting at RFHQ or the hotel of your choice in Cairo. I need you to recover as soon as possible. A major reorganization is in the works.”
“Precisely what I wanted to talk to you about, old stick,” Maj. Stone said. “Like we discussed earlier, I prefer to focus on commanding the regiment.
“Father is recruiting—sending new men to parachute training and then to Special Warfare Training Center. However, our county is sparsely populated, and he only has a small pool of men to draw from. He wired me that there were twenty-two brand new, fully-trained Lancers en route to Egypt as we speak.”
“I can appreciate that, Terry,” Col. Randal said.
“Why don’t we work it this way—we’ll attach the Lounge Lizards to Desert Patrol—not assign them. That way you can be promoted to Lieutenant Colonel but still be under the administrative control of Desert Patrol.”
“An elegant solution,” Maj. Stone said. “The Duke shall be pleased. However, be advised that he is going to want to keep the Americans we currently have assigned. Hands across the sea and all that.”
“No problem,” Col. Randal said. “A contingent of fifty new U.S. Paratroop volunteers will be arriving tomorrow. Get with Mad Dog—pick out all you need.”
Red came outside in a green swimsuit that looked like it had been painted on. The Clipper Girl was a stunner. Unlike most redheads, she was tanned almost chocolate brown—no freckles.
“I shall go inside for a nap on your couch,” Maj. Stone said. “In my weakened condition, it’s probably wise to take the scenery out here in small doses.”
“Roger that,” Col. Randal said.
“R. J. and a Colonel Fellers to see you, Colonel.”
“Send ’em out, Stephanie.”
Colonel John Randal knew Brigadier Raymond J. Maunsell, who seldom dressed in uniform and liked to be called “R. J.,” quite well. Major the Lady Jane Seaborn had mentioned Colonel Bonner Fellers, the United States Army attaché in Cairo, several times. He had never met him.
The two senior officers pulled up chairs and sat down.
“John, let me introduce you to Bonner Fellers,” R. J. said.
Col. Fellers said, “Your reputation has preceded you, Colonel.”
“So has yours,” Col. Randal said.
Lady Jane had said everyone liked and respected the American. He had been all over the battlefield observing OPERATION CRUSADER in a civilian private-purchase automobile.
Jim had mentioned that Col. Fellers sent daily dispatches back to his boss, Lieutenant General George C. Marshall, Army Chief of Staff, and that President Roosevelt ordered copies, which he called his “Little Fellers,” to be hand-carried to his office as soon as they arrived so that he could personally read each one.
R. J. said, “As we discussed, John, I have been working out the details for your transfer back to the U.S. Army. Here is what we have arrived at—you transfer in grade of full colonel. Is that satisfactory with you?”
“It is.”
“You will continue in command of the Strategic Raiding Forces, provided there is an assurance from you to expand it to include an equal-sized contingent of U.S. to British troops. Colonel Donovan, director of the U.S. Office of Coordinator of Information, will supply you with the personnel from Airborne Command at Ft. Benning.”
“I like that.”
“James Taylor will serve as the Special Operations liaison between COI and MEHQ. Your chain-of-command will remain unchanged. Is that acceptable?”
“It is,” Col. Randal said, wondering what his chain-of-command was exactly. That had never been made clear to him.
Raiding Forces was simply assigned high-priority missions as they came up and otherwise left alone to fight the war as they saw fit, concentrating on hitting strategic targets like enemy wheeled truck transport and fuel depots, killing Axis pilots where they congregated, shutting down enemy rail lines, etc.
“Now for the icing on the cake,” R. J. said. “Bonner, would you care to explain?”
Col. Fellers said, “The U.S. Army is going through a massive expansion. The plan, which is classified, is to raise one hundred divisions.
“Unfortunately, we face shortages of everything—during the Louisiana Maneuvers, our troops used logs to represent anti-tank weapons, wooden rifles to teach drill and ceremonies. We do not have enough tanks for our own armored divisions being formed, much less enough to continue supplying armored vehicles to Russia and Great Britain at our current pace.
“The powers that be in Washington intend to send Air Corps and support units to Egypt, which the Chief of Staff tends to view as a strategic backwater, but no ground combat troops—the General Staff want to invade Fortress Europe across the Channel first thing.”
“Good luck,” Col. Randal said.
“My sentiments exactly,” Col. Fellers said. “It could take years before we’re ready to attempt a
complex operation of such magnitude—the brass are not listening to me on the subject.
“All that said, the thinking in high places is that the United States Army could benefit from having a token combat unit in Egypt as a demonstration of our support for our British allies.
“If you agree to the terms R. J. has laid out,” Col. Fellers said, “a regiment of parachute infantry will be dispatched to your command by the first available transport.”
“You want to assign a PIR to Raiding Forces?”
“Affirmative.”
“So,” Col. Randal said, “what am I supposed to do with it, exactly?”
Col. Fellers looked him dead in the eye, “Whatever you want—no strings attached. It’s a token gesture. There will not be any other ground troops assigned to this theatre of operations. You will be the senior U.S. ground commander in Egypt.”
“What say you, John?” R. J. asked.
“Parachute infantry is useless in the desert without wheeled transport,” Col. Randal said. “To be of any value, the regiment needs one jeep for every three men, one three-quarter-ton truck per platoon, and half-dozen two-and-a-half-ton trucks per battalion.”
“Consider it done,” Col. Fellers said, a little too quickly. Col. Randal felt the faint ding of an alarm bell go off in his mind, but he could not understand why.
“Do we have a deal?”
“We have to work out the details of the American Volunteer Group transfer back to the U.S. Army also,” Col. Randal said. “I need to be able to promote experienced leaders.”
“As the commander of an independent regiment, you are authorized to promote anyone up to the rank of major,” Col. Fellers said.
Col. Randal glanced at R. J., who gave him an almost imperceptible nod.
“We have a deal.”
• • •
Ex-Lieutenant Billy Jack Jaxx arrived at the pool. Colonel John Randal
waved him over to where he and Major the Lady Jane Seaborn were sunning on the lounges.
“Sorry to interrupt your leave,” Col. Randal said. “I have a mission for you.”
Ex-Lt. Jaxx looked around the pool, “I wish you’d interrupted a little earlier, sir.”
Lady Jane laughed.
“Brandy Seaborn is involved in a highly-classified mission. I’ll let her brief you on the details,” Col. Randal said.
“The short version is, we need to set up a Quick Reaction Force to respond to a specific target that is highly mobile and prone to relocate frequently.
“I want you to be my deputy commander. Select the team, which will be on standby—ready to deploy at a moment’s notice,” Col. Randal said.
“Pam will be tasked to fly the mission.”
“In the event I’m not available when the operation launches, you lead it.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Field Marshal Auchinleck believes this mission is the most important in the Middle East Command’s theatre of operations—keep that in mind, Jack, at all times.
“Brandy is overall commander, we report to her—which means you do when I’m not here.”
“You want me to work for Mrs. Seaborn?” ex-Lt. Jaxx said, looking at Brandy floating on a raft in the pool.
“Affirmative.”
“Wow!”
• • •
Major Sammy Sansom arrived. Stephanie, the Royal Marine, escorted him out to the pool. The Chief of Cairo Field Security came over to where Colonel John Randal and Major the Lady Jane Seaborn were sunning.
Maj. Sansom said, “Lady Seaborn, could you give us a moment?”
“Certainly,” Lady Jane said, getting up and slipping into the pool.
Lieutenant Mandy Paige strolled over and stretched out in Lady Jane’s place on the lounge.
“I will cut straight to the chase, Colonel,” Maj. Sansom said. “Mrs. Seaborn and ‘Legs’ Parker intercepted a high-value enemy desert expert out of Tripoli whose mission has been to deliver Abwehr agents to cities in Egypt. Unfortunately, as you already know, the two agents the Nazi was delivering on this trip had already departed for Cairo before the women caught up to him on the last leg of what the Abwehr calls OPERATION KONDOR.
“The two spies were soon discovered in the Kit-Kat, attempting to make social contacts with the patrons in hopes of using them, with or without their knowledge. In their efforts at espionage, they recruited me.
“Both men are staying on a houseboat moored on the Nile next door to Hekmet Fahmey’s—the feature dancer at the club.
“The Jewish Intelligence Agency, the Haganah, sent in a female agent who slept with one or both of the Nazis, then searched their houseboat after they were asleep. She found a long-range transmitter concealed in a cabinet. We believe there is a second radio, delivered by a disaffected Egyptian army officer named Anwar Sadat, hidden on Hekmet’s houseboat.
“After the club closes tonight, I have promised to take the two Kondor spies to meet with a group of anti-British Arab League revolutionaries.
“We need you to show up at the Kit-Kat, Colonel, pick up Hekmet and take her to dinner on a floating restaurant while Mandy and a team of my people clandestinely search her houseboat for the second radio.”
Col. Randal said. “Haven’t we tried that before?”
“Yes, we have,” Maj. Sansom said. “Only this time, don’t sleep with the target, and for God’s sake don’t shoot her.”
• • •
The Kit-Kat was pulsating when Colonel John Randal arrived, crowded with wealthy Egyptians, civilian merchants of half-dozen nationalities, officers from the best regiments on leave from the desert and the usual complement of “gabardine swine” from MEHQ.
Mo, the manager of the club, made a big show of having one of his staff carry a table up to the very edge of the dance floor for Col. Randal, giving him the best seat in the house. Another member of the Kit-Kat staff produced a white tablecloth while the first came back with a pair of chairs. A waiter arrived with a magnum of champagne.
The show was in full swing—Rita and Lana were doing a dance that would have gotten them arrested at the Muthaiga Country Club in Kenya—which was thought to be impossible.
Rocky appeared at the table and sat down. Col. Randal signaled a waiter, who arrived with a second glass, popped the cork on the bottle of bubbly, and poured the champagne.
To say that Col. Randal was the center of attention in the smoke-filled room—second only to Rita and Lana—would have been a major understatement.
“Here is what is going to take place, John,” Rocky said in her sexy Norwegian accent. “The Royal Marine dancers, Rita, Lana, and I will flirt with you outrageously tonight. Ignore us at first. Even though we come and sit at your table, do not talk to us.
“When Hekmet dances, make full eye contact with her, but never smile. Do not make any overt gesture to invite her to your table. Let her make the first move.
“Dancers cannot stand rejection. They are fiercely competitive when it comes to men. The first time Hekmet comes to sit at your table, give her champagne but do not talk to her—watch the girl performing.
“Then when the Raiding Forces girls come to your table the next time, flirt with us and laugh. Give us champagne. Hekmet will be jealous. She is used to being the center of attention.
“In the dressing room, Hekmet will inquire who you are and we shall say that you are a great hero and a magnificent lover but you have a paramour—Lady Jane. All this will make you irresistible to her.
“Most of the girls make dinner dates for after the show. Do not ask. Make Hekmet invite you—she will.
“You suggest the place Lady Jane told you about—it’s her favorite.”
Rocky leaned across the table and kissed Col. Randal on the cheek, then she was gone as Rita and Lana finished their dance to the sound of pounding drums and crashing symbols.
Col. Randal looked around the darkened, smoke-filled room. King was sitting at the bar. Ex-Lieutenant Billy Jack Jaxx was at another table, chatting up a Hungarian da
ncer.
Major Sammy Sansom, wearing an off-white linen suit, was at a table with a couple of men. He appeared to be drunk.
Rita and Lana shimmied up to Col. Randal’s table, ringing and clapping their finger symbols. They rubbed up against him like cats. The girls were clearly trying to steal the show from the next performer.
Dancers have been known to do that.
Rita and Lana finally sat down at the table and the waiter appeared with two more glasses. Since the two Zar priestesses had vowed never to speak to him except in a life-or-death emergency, that made ignoring them—per Rocky’s instructions—a snap.
After drinking their champagne, the girls gave him big beautiful smiles, then vanished into the crowd on their way to the dressing room.
The rest of the night proceeded exactly according to script. Major Sir Terry “Zorro” Stone was right—Rocky’s show was the Eighth Wonder of the World.
The feature dancer, Hekmet Fahmey, turned out to be about ten times more beautiful than Col. Randal had counted on. Golden complexion that rivaled Brandy’s, dark hair, exotic green eyes—a lot like Lady Jane’s. Exuded sex.
At 0200 hours the two of them found themselves alone on the roof of one of the more expensive Nile River restaurants in a private, open-topped pavilion formed by curtains. Ten million stars were gleaming in the sky.
Col. Randal and Hekmet were reclining on couches opposite each other, sipping more champagne. There was electricity in the air. He was pretty sure that she was a witch—or possibly Cleopatra reincarnated.
Nothing good could possibly come from this.
Major the Lady Jane Seaborn arrived unannounced and unexpected, in the best tradition of Raiding Forces, storming through the curtain that served as the entrance. She grabbed the bottle of champagne that was icing down in a tall, three-legged bucket and threw it at Col. Randal, while screaming at Hekmet in three different languages.
The dancer was so shocked she appeared paralyzed.
Col. Randal certainly was—this had not been part of the plan.
“I should kill you,” Lady Jane shrieked at Hekmet, as she reached for the ivory-gripped Colt .38 Super at her waist.