The Sharp End (Raiding Forces Book 10)

by Phil Ward

Col. Randal was reading a brochure he had picked up in the lobby of the hotel when he checked in. Madagascar, aka the Red Island because of its scarlet-colored dust, was the fourth largest island on earth. It was like a tiny continent surrounded by the Indian Ocean. Originally settled by Asians, then the Bantus from East Afrika. Nowadays it was a Vichy French colony run by expatriate French citizens.

  The locals were called Malagasy.

  Top Secret intelligence reports indicated the Japanese were eyeing the island to use for a submarine base. U.S. code breakers, having cracked the Japanese diplomatic code called ‘Purple’, had recently learned Berlin was urging Tokyo to occupy Madagascar.

  Hitler wanted Tojo to interrupt the British Eighth Army’s sea lanes prior to Rommel’s next offensive. It was hoped by the Nazis they would then be able to prevent British Forces from receiving new tanks from the U.S. Then the Desert Fox could drive the Allies out of Libya and Egypt, capture the Suez Canal and knock England out of the war—information not in the pamphlet or known to Col. Randal.

  Except for the part about Rommel trying to capture the Suez Canal—he knew all about that first hand.

  According to the guide, Madagascar was a mysterious place where it was difficult to separate fact from fiction. For example, at one time it may have been a pirate enclave that declared itself its own nation called Libertaria—or maybe not. Col. Randal thought a thing like that should not be so hard to pin down since it allegedly took place only about a hundred years ago.

  The island had two hundred fifty species of birds—forty-four percent only found there.

  It was home to the Panther Chameleon—the size of a housecat, the orange-red Tomato Frog, the Giraffe-Necked Weevil, which had a long neck, and the Satanic Leaf-Tailed Gecko.

  Ten of the island’s mammals could not be found anywhere else in the world.

  There was a three foot tall, three-toed bipedal humanoid creature with a bad attitude and long claws called the Kalanoro. Only no one had ever actually killed, captured or even photographed one because the animal’s toes were backward so hunters went the wrong way when they tracked it.

  And there was a tree that ate people.

  A beach was located not far from the hotel where the local French girls went topless—Col. Randal imagined they were as elusive as the Kalanoro.

  King was at the bar having a drink while talking to the bored bartender—tourism having taken a sharp decline since the start of the war. Captain “Geronimo” Joe McKoy, Waldo Treywick and Acting Provisional Sub-Lieutenant Skipper Warthog Finley, DSO, OBE, RNPS were off somewhere chartering a fishing boat.

  Col. Randal and his party were hiding in plain sight. He was wearing an oversized Hawaiian shirt that concealed a pair of 1911 Colt .38 Supers, his High Standard Military Model D .22 w/silencer in a chest holster—a faded pair of blue jeans and his old cowboy boots that were so soft they could be rolled up in a ball. He did not have any idea why he was in Diego Suarez.

  The United States was not at war with Vichy France.

  The British were not at war with them either, at least officially. However, it had been deemed advisable no one on the mission to Madagascar have a British passport—everyone carried U.S. visas except King, who was Swiss.

  The United Kingdom had sunk the French fleet at Oran, invaded the French colonies of Lebanon and Syria and was now more than a little annoyed with the collaborationist Petain Regime because his Vichy Government had ‘invited’ the Japanese to occupy the French colony Vietnam.

  Indochina gave the Japs a springboard to Malaya, which led to their being able to attack Singapore from the rear inflicting the most embarrassing defeat on the British Empire in its storied history. The U.S. was not exactly pleased with the Vichy government either. Part of the Japanese fleet that invaded the Philippines had staged in Cam Ranh Bay.

  No one, to include the French Colonial Army, wanted to see the Rising Sun flag flying over Madagascar. In Saigon, French officers were being required to salute Japanese privates—which was intended to be demeaning. However, it was difficult to predict what the local Vichy politicians might do.

  Anything was possible.

  Col. Randal had no knowledge of French plans or intentions regarding the Japanese.

  What he did know was that tomorrow morning at sunrise 5 Commando was going to conduct an amphibious assault, storm ashore and attack the port of Diego Suarez right about where he was sitting—OPERATION IRONCLAD.

  Col. Randal’s orders were to, “Meet an agent or agents known to you.”

  • • •

  Two French women drifted into the Colonial Hotel’s bar in their swimsuits—wearing their tops. Diego Suarez had a relaxed dress code, being a beach town in a French Colony. Swimwear was acceptable attire almost anywhere.

  The ladies went to the bar and ordered drinks.

  Captain “Geronimo” Joe McKoy came in with Waldo Treywick. They went to the bar and ordered drinks.

  Rikke Runborg walked in wearing her swimsuit—she was extremely fit—which caused the droopy-eyed bartender to perk up. Rocky rippled over to Colonel John Randal’s table against the wall and sat down in one of the large clamshell-backed bamboo chairs.

  Rocky’s arrival cleared up the question of who the ‘agent or agent’s known to you’ was going to be. She was the last person he would have ever expected to be entrusted with a secret mission in a foreign land.

  Rocky was a Nazi spy—or had been—and might be the Russian agent Marina Lee who stole the British battle plans and gave them to the Wehrmacht resulting in the loss of Norway early in the war. Nowadays she was a double agent working for the Secret Intelligence Service MI-6 out of Cairo. It was said she was Field Marshal Irwin Rommel’s most trusted spy. Rocky had convinced the Desert Fox to leave Afrika and fly to Italy to celebrate his birthday the day before OPERATION CRUSADER kicked off.

  Some in MI-6 believed Rocky to be the single most valuable intelligence asset the Middle East Command possessed. Which would make risking her on a dangerous mission in a backwater like Madagascar seem like a crazy idea. On the other hand, there were those in Counterintelligence MI-5 who believed Rocky was a triple agent—meaning she was still working for the Germans.

  Or possibly the Russians… or maybe the Germans and the Russians. And that made sending her on a mission even crazier.

  Col. Randal could not have been more surprised if one of the bipedal, three-toed Kalanoro had walked in.

  The bartender came over to take Rocky’s drink order. King went to the jukebox, studied the menu of songs, selected several and dropped coins in the slot. Soon a wild throbbing big band jungle song heavy on the drums was blaring.

  It was believed the hotel rooms might be bugged. In the event the bar was too, no listening device ever invented was going to be able to record with that noise booming.

  Rocky pulled the other two chairs in close leaving a small crack for Col. Randal to peek through to keep an eye on the door.

  “Hello, John,” she said in her sexy Norwegian accent.

  “Hello to you, Rocky,” Col. Randal said. “Enjoying yourself at the beach?”

  “I was by the pool on the roof,” Rocky said, “to observe when you checked in.”

  That sounded like pretty good spy craft to Col. Randal—not that he knew much about the subject.

  The bartender brought Rocky her drink. He acted like he might like to hang around and join the conversation. She had that effect on men.

  Hair the color of ice, big white teeth, and a fabulous tan, she tended to suck the oxygen out of a room. For the first time Col. Randal noticed her eyes were the color of ice too.

  He let Rocky go first. So she did.

  “Percy Mather, a well-connected, highly-thought-of French business man who has lived here for many years, is SOE’s man in Madagascar,” Rocky said. “Our mission is to bring him out before British Commando’s come calling tomorrow morning. Or—it was.

  “Unhappily, our assignment has turned into what you Americans call a SNAFU�
�� Lady Jane taught me the expression. She thinks it funny.”

  “I see,” Col. Randal said, which meant he did not have a clue what she was talking about.

  “SOE has chartered a sixty-foot dhow called the Lindi equipped with a long range radio and sonar. It has been charting the coastline in the invasion area. The crew has done excellent work with the mapping. They determined that an island marked on the chart is actually a mile and a half from where it really is, which could have caused the Royal Navy invasion fleet to run aground,” Rocky said.

  “That,” Col. Randal said, “would not have been good.”

  “For the preponderance of their duties, the Lindi’s crew is incompetent or cowards, possibly both,” Rocky said.

  “The dhow rendezvoused with Percy two nights ago on an isolated beach and brought him a bottle of knockout drops. SOE’s orders were for him to throw a party tonight for all the senior military and political leadership and place the drops in the punch bowl. It was hoped everyone in attendance would wake up twelve hours later to find 5 Commando patrolling the streets of Diego Suarez,” Rocky said.

  “This is where the SNAFU occurred. The agent from the Lindi who delivered the knockout drops mentioned that the effect only lasted three minutes—enough time for a spy to get away in an emergency.

  “Percy asked for a clarification since that information did not match the original plan for the drops to work for twelve hours. Another rendezvous was scheduled for the next night—last night. The Lindi failed to appear.

  “Percy had no way to hand over the secret intelligence documents he had brought with him. He could not confirm how long the knockout drops would last. So after a long fruitless wait, he cut the phone cable that ran along the coast road knocking out all landline communications between Diego Suarez and the rest of the island, then returned to the Continental Hotel.”

  “Sounds like a good piece of work,” Col. Randal said.

  “Regrettably,” Rocky said, “when he arrived back here, Percy was arrested by the Centre d’ Information Gouvernementel—the Vichy Colonial Secret Police—CIE. The CIE found all the notes and sketches he was carrying. He was turned over to the army who threw him in a prison cell and offered the services of a priest.

  “Percy is scheduled to be put in front of a firing squad at dawn.

  “Would you agree,” Rocky said, “the situation has deteriorated into what you refer to as a FUBAR?”

  Colonel John Randal looked out through the crack between the two empty chairs. Captain “Geronimo” Joe McKoy and Waldo were dancing with the two French women over by the jukebox. Acting Provisional Sub-Lieutenant Skipper Warthog Finley was sitting at the end of the bar nursing a beer. He established eye contact with Col. Randal and made a slashing motion across his throat.

  Not going to be any boat off the island.

  “Now,” Col. Randal thought, “We have a FUBAR.”

  • • •

  An unshaved man in a rumpled white tropical suit came into the bar, headed to straight to the bar, ordered a drink and threw it down in one gulp then ordered a refill.

  Rocky saw him pass by the crack between the two chairs screening their table. She pushed one of them back to get a better look at the newcomer. The two locked eyes. Without hesitation she waved for him to join their table.

  The man in the suit threw down the second drink, ordered a third, then strolled over to where Colonel John Randal and Rocky were sitting.

  “John,” Rocky said, “allow me to introduce you to Percy Mather.”

  Col. Randal said, “I thought you were getting shot in a few hours.”

  “That may still be on,” SOE’s man in Madagascar said. “The Vichy military commandant in Diego Suarez decided to play it safe—keep all his options open. I am out on ‘house arrest’ as long as I agree to stay confined to the Continental Hotel—the bartender is CIE, as are the desk clerks.”

  “Do the authorities know the Commandos are coming?” Col. Randal asked.

  “Not as far as I am aware,” Percy said. “Suspect something is up—no idea what.”

  “We will rescue you,” Rocky said.

  “Maybe not,” Col. Randal said. “There’s no boat available to take us off the island.”

  “Correct,” Percy said. “The few fishing boats in Diego Suarez have been impounded by the navy to prevent the locals from using them for potential anti-Vichy resistance activities.”

  “We need to be away before morning,” Rocky said. “Surely there is some craft available for the right price.”

  “I had a list of the ships operating out of Diego Suarez but it was confiscated. I believe I can recall it from memory,” Percy said, “The converted liner Bougainville, packed with guns and welded on armor plate, rated an auxiliary cruiser, the D’Entrecasteaux—an anti-submarine sloop, and two submarines—the Benveziers and the Le Heros.”

  “Any others?” Rocky said.

  “There is one small steamer,” Percy said. “The SS Wartenfels arrived here in March after a mad dash for Portuguese East Afrika where she had been interned since the beginning of the war.”

  Col. Randal clicked on, “A Nazi ship?”

  “German flagged,” Percy said. “There is speculation a Kriegsmarine wireless team is onboard monitoring British merchant traffic in the Mozambique Channel. I have never been able to confirm the report.”

  “Give me a minute,” Col. Randal said.

  He stood up, walked over to the bar and stood next to Acting Provisional Sub-Lieutenant Skipper Warthog Finley—but ignoring him.

  “Would you take the lady at my table whatever she is drinking,” Col. Randal said to the bartender.

  The bartender mixed the drink and rushed to deliver it to Rocky.

  Col. Randal stood staring straight ahead at the mirror not looking at his reflection but watching Captain “Geronimo” Joe McKoy and Waldo behind him cutting the rug with the two French women. Whatever wild improvised dance they were doing he was pretty sure it did not have a name.

  Col. Randal said, “Ever hear of a ship out of Portuguese East Afrika called the called the SS Wartenfels?”

  “I have,” Skipper Finley said, taking a sip of the beer from the bottle he was drinking. “German freighter. The Portuguese have the ship interned. Me and Wino moved her to a new berth for the port authorities one time before you showed up and ruined our reputations as honest hard-working tugboat men.”

  “The Wartenfels,” Col. Randal said, “is docked here in Diego Suarez.”

  “Colonel,” Sipper Finley said, “that tramp steamer is our ticket out ’a here. Take down her crew, leave me a couple ’a men for the engine room and I can sail us to meet the Royal Navy or all the way back to Egypt if we need to.”

  Col. Randal said, “Get your bags packed.”

  “I ain’t had time to unpack.”

  Col. Randal turned to go, glanced at King, then over to the bartender still at the table talking to Rocky and nodded.

  The Merc stared back with no visible expression.

  • • •

  Rikke Runborg left first, returning to the pool on the roof. Colonel John

  Randal went up to his room. Percy Mather had another drink then went to his room, put on his swimming trunks and walked up to the pool to nap in the sun—he had not slept well in jail. Acting Provisional Sub-Lieutenant Skipper Warthog Finley finished his drink and wandered upstairs to the pool area where Percy pointed out the location of the SS Wartenfels, which was clearly visible from the roof of the hotel. Captain “Geronimo” Joe McKoy and Waldo Treywick hung out with the French women for an hour then went to their rooms.

  King stayed in the empty bar.

  • • •

  At 2300 hours Col. Randal reached the pier where the SS WARTENFELS was

  docked. He thought he was the first one there.

  Rocky arrived. She was no longer wearing her swimsuit but a dark blouse and a pair of black slacks tucked into soft suede, rubber-soled half boots. The .32 Saur Model 13 Col. Randal
had given her was in her purse. When she moved she was as silent as a butterfly and almost invisible in the dark. Clearly the former ballet dancer was a professional.

  The two decided to stroll down the dock to do a walk-by of the SS. Wartenfels. No one else was in sight except a couple of men up the pier night-fishing—Capt. McKoy and Waldo.

  It was dark. There were no lights on the wharf. Madagascar was not on blackout since the colony was not at war, it was just no one had ever gotten around to installing any.

  “Evening,” Capt. McKoy said when Col. Randal and Rocky walked by.”

  “Catching anything?” Col. Randal asked.

  “Not a nibble,” Waldo said. It would probably have helped if they had put bait on their hooks. The SS. Wartenfels was moored not more than ten feet away.

  Tramp steamer was a good description. The ship was a rust bucket. A dim light was glowing in the wheelhouse on the bridge and the sultry sound of Lil’ Marlene was drifting out of what was most likely the radio shack. That would make at least two people standing watch on the upper deck. Percy Mather had said that nights, the bulk of the crew was most often to be found in one of the local bars or bordellos.

  The gangplank was unguarded. Long, boring duty interned in Portuguese East Afrika for over two years and now stationed on the remote tip on the north end of Madagascar had lolled the German crew into a false sense of security.

  That was good.

  Col. Randal and Rocky continued on past to the end. They faked gazing out at the ocean for a while then turned to go back. Skipper Finley was standing on the jetty next to the SS Wartenfels talking to someone onboard. He knew the crew from when his tugboat, the King Kong, had moved the ship to a new berth in Portuguese East Afrika.

  The two fishermen had called it a night. They were waiting when Col. Randal and Rocky walked ashore. King and Percy were there as well.

  Percy said, “Quite the commotion at the Continental as we were surreptitiously effecting our departure out the back door. The relief shift found the bartender dead in the wine cellar. Man apparently slipped, fell down the stairs and broke his neck.”

  “That’s too bad,” Col. Randal said.