The Sharp End (Raiding Forces Book 10)

by Phil Ward

  Not long after the Five-Seven-Five marched in, Captain Roy Kidd’s Scout Patrol arrived at the rally point.

  Col. Randal called over Capt. Jaxx and the I&R platoon leader, Lieutenant Clint Hays.

  “Jack, I want you and Lieutenant Hays to accompany Roy on patrol—he’s going to demonstrate his truck plinking technique.”

  “Outstanding, sir,” Capt. Jaxx said.

  “Lieutenant Hays, pick your two best riflemen to understudy Captain Kidd’s Lovat Scout snipers,” Col. Randal ordered. “The captain and his boys are our premier truck killers.”

  “Yes, sir,” Lt. Hays said. “My platoon has a two-man sniper element armed with scoped M-1903s.”

  Col. Randal said, “The Lovat Scouts are going to show you something that works a little better than Springfield rifles at extreme long range.”

  “That I’m looking forward to, sir,” Lt. Hays said.

  “Jack, you understand,” Col. Randal said, “we may have to pull you out of the field in a hurry if a SOLID GOLD, RED INDIAN or a BOMBSHELL comes up.”

  “Roger that, sir.”

  Then, Col. Randal’s party had boarded the airplanes for the flight back to RFHQ.

  • • •

  Colonel John Randal said, “Raiding Forces” and wrote the words at the top of the chalkboard. “Let’s break it down into two ground elements—Lancelot Lancers and Rangers with one seagoing element, Sea Squadron. He was still tweaking his plan.

  “We’ll fold Desert Patrol into the Lancers under Terry Stone. And, we’ll have one reinforced gun jeep company of Rangers under Travis McCloud, which will be styled ‘Ranger’, with a platoon of amphibious Rangers assigned to Sea Squadron once they get back from Achnacarry.”

  “That should make the Rangers and the Lancers about equal in size,” Captain “Geronimo” Joe McKoy said. “Five patrols each.”

  “Roy Kidd’s Scout Patrol will be a Raiding Forces asset reporting directly to me,” Col. Randal said, diagramming it separately from the other three command elements. “As will the Railroad Wrecking Crew II under Percy.”

  “That’s a good idea,” Capt. McKoy said. “What’s the plan for Billy Jack?”

  “He’s going to form a Special Missions/Quick Reaction Team out of part of my Ranger Patrol, which needs to be renamed now that the Five-Seven-Five has arrived.”

  Waldo said, “Raider Patrol.”

  “I like that, Mr. Treywick,” Col. Randal said, writing it on the board. “It will be under my direct control.”

  “Jack’s takin’ a real close look at the I&R platoon,” Capt. McKoy said. “What d’you reckon he’s got up his sleeve, John?”

  “I don’t know,” Col. Randal said. “We’ll find . . .”

  King stuck his head in the door, “Sergeant Blackburn, Chief.”

  “Send him in,” Col. Randal ordered.

  Sergeant Rex Blackburn, the Ranger—now Raider—Patrol mortar NCO, walked in and reported, having been summoned earlier by Col. Randal.

  “The Five-Seven-Five 81 mortar crews need work, Sgt. Blackburn,” Col. Randal said. “Come up with a plan, pack your bags and join Sergeant Major Mikkalis in the field. The crews looked pretty good in action but couldn’t hit anything.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You’re the best in the business,” Col. Randal said. “Make it happen, sergeant.”

  James “Baldie” Taylor arrived as Sgt. Blackburn was leaving.

  Col. Randal ran through the reorganization chart with him.

  Jim said, “I have one suggestion—why not call Major McCloud’s gun jeep company ‘Ranger Force’? That gives you the Lancelot Lancers Yeomanry Regiment and Ranger Force, which still barely totals up to two full companies of troops, but sounds like an entire brigade of desert raiders.”

  “We can do that,” Col. Randal said. “I like it.”

  “Dudley is sure to love having a phantom special operations brigade to play with,” Jim said. “Particularly one with the ability to carry out real live missions. He will probably try to make the Nazis believe it’s a full division—giving him two pseudo parachute divisions.”

  Jim’s suggestion gave Col. Randal an idea that solved a problem he had been trying to work through for some time—how to best employ Major Sir Terry “Zorro” Stone. Now all he was going to have to do is sell it to him.

  “Sergeant Rawlston, Chief.”

  “You wanted to see me, Colonel?” the AVG ex-sergeant asked.

  “Stand at attention, Sergeant,” Col. Randal ordered in a loud tone. “Lady Jane—front and center.”

  Drop-dead gorgeous Major the Lady Jane Seaborn came out of the bedroom with three khaki BDU jackets over her arm, which she carefully laid over the back of one of the overstuffed chairs in the living area. Then she walked up to where ex-Sergeant Hank W. Rawlston was standing at attention while holding the nasty stub of his blunt cigar against one grease-stained pants leg.

  Lady Jane reached into her shoulder bag, produced a switchblade jump knife Col. Randal had never seen before and touched a button on the handle. A razor-sharp spear-point blade appeared as if by magic. She had everyone’s attention.

  Without a word, Lady Jane cut the chevrons off one sleeve of the sergeant’s blouse, then walked around and neatly removed the other. Sgt. Rawlston was wondering what crime he had committed now that justified his being busted. This was not the first time it had happened.

  “I’m the commander of a regiment of U.S. Army Paratroopers,” Col. Randal said. “Demeaning for an officer in my position to have a mere sergeant as my chief of maintenance.

  “You’ve been promoted to Chief Warrant Officer, skipped a grade—more fitting—provided that you re-enlist.”

  “Congratulations, Chief,” Lady Jane said, her green eyes sparkling, as she pinned Chief Warrant Officer’s insignia on his collar. “There are three new BDU jackets for you on the chair over there, all with the proper badges in place.”

  “Could have gotten you a direct promotion to captain, Mr. Rawlston,” Col. Randal said, handing him one of Waldo’s custom-rolled cigars, “but I knew you’d turn it down.”

  Chief Rawlston said, “Holy . . . !”

  • • •

  Colonel John Randal and Major the Lady Jane Seaborn were sitting in the

  back of the Gezira Club restaurant behind a palm. Rita and Lana were at the table. The two Zar Cult priestesses caused quite a stir when the group walked in.

  Due to their undercover work at the Kit-Kat Club, Rita and Lana had become local celebrities. Every man, and some of the women, in the room, knew who they were. The girls, totally aloof as they always were in public, did not appear to notice the attention.

  Col. Randal was the object of much envy, as well as quite a bit of speculation, it being well-known that Rita and Lana openly referred to themselves as his slaves. The question in everyone’s mind was what Lady Jane thought about her boyfriend being the owner of the hottest duo attraction at Cairo’s most notorious nightclub.

  Or, was there more to it behind closed doors?

  Major Sir Terry “Zorro” Stone, drinking at the bar with one of his hospital nurses, joined them at the table.

  Rita and Lana lost their haughty expressions, replacing them with their standard-issue magnificent smiles now that they were seated with their backs to the crowd. The pair twittered like canaries when Maj. Stone arrived. Normally ambivalent to men, the girls thought Zorro looked like their favorite movie star, Errol Flynn.

  And he did.

  Col. Randal said, “Jane, do you have a pen?”

  When she produced one from her purse, he unfolded a paper napkin and started to diagram the new Raiding Forces Table of Organization. Maj. Stone watched skeptically.

  “So, here’s the deal, Terry,” Col. Randal said. “We roll Desert Patrol into the Lancelot Lancers—you can consider it a new squadron and we will attach Travis McCloud with a reinforced company of Rangers as well, which will be called ‘Ranger Force.’

  “Now you have three
gun jeep squadrons, so we’ll reflag the Lounge Lizards as the Lancelot Lancer Raiding Regiment—Raiding Regiment for short.”

  Maj. Stone studied the diagram, “I shall have Phantom message the Duke straightaway. You can never predict how he will react—at least I have never been able to.”

  “What’s your thought?”

  “Like the name, old stick,” Maj. Stone said. “An elegant solution for re-enforcing the regiment—one of your best.”

  “Understand,” Col. Randal said, “the purpose of the exercise is to have a joint U.S./U.K. outfit. This plan will make you my Deputy Commander—not simply the Raiding Regiment’s commanding officer.”

  “The cheese in the trap?”

  “There it is.”

  “Fine,” Maj. Stone said. “I knew you would have your way sooner or later. You never give up.”

  The maître ď brought a phone to the table. “Call for you, Lady Seaborn.”

  As she took her phone call, Maj. Stone excused himself to get back to the nurse at the bar.

  Lady Jane put her hand over the mouthpiece of the phone, “Chief Rawlston is at the dock, John. He says the Five-Seven-Five jeeps have arrived—what is a SNAFU?”

  “Situation Normal All Fouled up,” Col. Randal lied.

  “We have a SNAFU,” Lady Jane said. “A big one.”

  “No kidding,” Col. Randal said. “I never really expected the U.S. Army to send us one jeep for every three men in the Five-Seven-Five like Colonel Fellers promised.

  “How many did we get?”

  Lady Jane burst out laughing. “Eight hundred sixty-six.”

  “SNAFU, hell,” Col. Randal said, “That’s a FUBAR.”

  “And what,” Lady Jane asked, “is a FUBAR?”

  “Fouled Up Beyond All Recognition.”

  • • •

  Colonel John Randal, James “Baldie” Taylor, Colonel Dudley Clarke,

  Colonel Bonner Fellers and Chief Warrant Officer Hank Rawlston were standing on the dock watching the 575th Ranger’s jeeps being unloaded.

  Captain “Geronimo” Joe McKoy was showing Waldo Treywick how to display his brand-new counterfeit CIC identification card. Col. Clarke had the A-Force forger “Twitters the Taster” make the ID for him.

  The problem with the ID card was that Waldo was not in the U.S. Army and he did not have any rank. The A-Force forger had resolved that issue by placing a 0 in the space that said “Rank.” While that would probably confuse anyone who saw it, questions might be raised.

  Major the Lady Jane Seaborn, Rita and Lana were paying rapt attention to Capt. McKoy’s tutorial.

  “Now the thing to keep in mind, Waldo, is nobody knows what the CIC does for sure,” Capt. McKoy said. “And you ain’t gonna volunteer any information—mystery bein’ a good thing for a man in your particular situation.”

  “Yeah,” Waldo said, “loose lips could sink my ship.”

  “So what you do,” Capt. McKoy said, “if you ever have to produce your credentials, is hold your trigger finger over the rank part down here in the corner—which, in your case, is zero. And hold the ID up at arm’s length so whoever you’re showing the card to can see it.

  “Make it casual, while tryin’ to look real sinister.

  “The main thing is—a CIC man never surrenders his ID,” Capt. McKoy said. “Keep it in your possession at all times—meanin’ don’t hand the card over for someone to inspect. Anybody asks why not, say it’s against regulations. Nobody’ll know if it is or it ain’t.”

  “Got it,” Waldo said.

  Lady Jane was thinking she needed to have A-Force produce counterfeit SOE ID cards for Rita and Lana.

  Col. Randal and Col. Fellows walked over from where the big brass had been holding their council of war on what to do with all the jeeps.

  Capt. McKoy said, “What’s the verdict, John?”

  “Colonel Clarke is going to take responsibility for setting up a motor park at a secure site for the bulk of the jeeps,” Col. Randal said.

  “I need you to take charge of transporting the vehicles from the dock to the A-Force motor park.”

  “Sounds like a plan,” Capt. McKoy said. “Anybody know why the army sent us so many?”

  Col. Fellers said, “To hazard a guess, some harried Port Authority officer in the States probably received orders to ship one jeep for every three men in the 575th PIR to Egypt. He verified the TO & E of a parachute infantry regiment, then divided by three—unaware that the Five-Seven-Five is, in reality, only a half-strength battalion.”

  “There’s always that ten percent,” Capt. McKoy said, “who don’t get the word.”

  “Army got it backwards, ‘s what happened,” Waldo said. “Three jeeps per man.

  “So, Joe . . . how’s ‘the problem is the solution’—like it said in that correspondence course you took back in the day—workin’ on this jeep deal?”

  “Good question, Waldo,” Capt. McKoy said. “Ain’t real sure them college professors ever envisioned somethin’ like this. I’m shootin’ blanks—nothin’s poppin’ up when I give it a try.”

  Lady Jane said, “Where do we find eight hundred sixty-six drivers?”

  “That answer,” Capt. McKoy said, “ain’t comin’ through either.”

  • • •

  Vice Admiral Sir Randolph “Razor” Ransom arrived on the dock. He

  immediately pulled Colonel John Randal aside.

  “Colonel, I am shipping out tomorrow morning on a classified operation in which Raiding Forces does not play a role. The troops involved are green and have never been in action.

  “Would it be possible for you to provide one of your officers for me to take along to act as an advisor?”

  “Yes, sir,” Col. Randal said. “Who would you like to have, Admiral?”

  “Lieutenant Hoolihan,” VAdm. Ransom said. “The Headhunter is far and away the most experienced amphibious man in the Royal Marines.”

  “Butch is scheduled to report to Achnacarry for a tour as an instructor at the Special Warfare Training Center, Admiral, but we can push that back until you return, sir.”

  “I would appreciate if you would,” VAdm. Ransom said.

  “He’s yours,” Col. Randal said, “as soon as I can get him to my HQ to promote him to Captain—you two try to stay out of trouble, sir.”

  “Thank you, Colonel,” VAdm. Ransom said. “Out-bloody-standing!”

  24

  GOD’S TRUTH, LTD.

  As the sun was coming up, Brandy Seaborn and her partner-in-crime Captain Penelope “Legs” Honeycutt-Parker—the Lauren Bacall look-alike—arrived at the suite Colonel John Randal shared with Major the Lady Jane Seaborn. They were not on a social call.

  “Cutting your morning exercise class, ladies?” Col. Randal asked. He had clicked on the moment the two walked in the door.

  Brandy said, “We have a probable SOLID GOLD target, John.”

  Col. Randal said, “Show me.”

  “Captain Seebohm sets up the 621st with a central headquarters tent and other tents fanned out like the tentacles of an octopus—they can be a long distance apart. Each tent contains radio interception equipment—we want Seebohm, who we believe will be in the central HQ tent,” Brandy said. She produced a grainy, black-and-white aerial photo as they walked over to the wall map in the small briefing area of the suite.

  Normally, Brandy flirted with Col. Randal for fun. Not today . . . she was all business—strictly professional.

  “We believe this is a photograph of the 621st—our target is located right about here on the map. Most likely Seebohm is eavesdropping on the 9th Australian Division surrounded at Tobruk.”

  Brandy was pointing to a spot about five miles from the Mediterranean coast, in the middle of nowhere.

  “What’s the plan?” Col. Randal asked, sticking one of Waldo’s cigars between his front teeth.

  “We want you to hit it,” Capt. Honeycutt-Parker said. “Fast.”

  “The 621st is highly mobile,” Brandy said.
“Seebohm is here today, gone tomorrow. The good captain is not about to make it easy for us.”

  As he picked up the phone and dialed the Operations Room—Col. Randal ordered, “King, locate Captain McKoy. Have him report up here.”

  “Roger, Chief,” the Merc responded through the open door from the desk in front of the suite. He knew what that tone meant.

  Col. Randal dialed the Operations Room duty desk again. The Royal Marine Duty Officer in the Operations Room answered the phone.

  “Stephanie,” Col. Randal said, “recall Duck Patrol—expedite.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He put down the phone, “Parker, would you go find Pam?”

  “On the way, John.”

  “The problem, Brandy,” Col. Randal said, “Raiding Forces is on total stand down. Sea Squadron has its entire fleet in dry dock, to include both of Randy’s MAS boats. Your father and Butch flew out on a Catalina this morning for parts unknown.

  “So I don’t even have a Duck Patrol leader—and they are the only way to reach your SOLID GOLD target with enough firepower for the job.”

  Captain “Geronimo” Joe McKoy walked in, having been found downstairs at breakfast.

  “You lookin’ for me, John?”

  “Brandy has a potential SOLID GOLD target,” Col. Randal said, tapping the map. “The Headhunter is committed to another mission. I need you to take charge of Duck Patrol—or at least as many of its people as we can find on short notice, minus Frank’s gun DUKW.

  “Head up that way, go ashore, drive overland to the objective and put eyes on the target. If the 621st is still in place, then under cover of darkness I’ll drop in with a team and we’ll take it out.”

  “How am I supposed to get Duck Patrol from here to there?” Capt. McKoy asked. “We ain’t got any sea transport.”

  “That is a problem,” Col. Randal said.

  “Leave it to me,” Brandy said. “I shall have Field Marshal Auchinleck commandeer a trawler. You can combat load the DUKWs on board by crane.”

  “Find us a ship, Brandy,” Capt. McKoy said. “Warthog’ll supply the crew—he ain’t gonna wanna be left out of this.”

  Col. Randal said, “Get it done.”