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  “As has yours,” Capt. Stirling said. “The word is you are quite the gun moll.”

  Ex-Lt. Jaxx said, “Mandy specializes in the Texas heart shot—don’t turn your back on her.”

  Lt. Mandy said, “Kill those Japs, Billy Jack.”

  Capt. Stirling looked confused.

  Ex-Lt. Jaxx said, “Inside joke—I’ll explain later, sir.”

  “Raiding Forces has been alerted for a RED INDIAN mission,” Col. Randal said, getting down to business. “Percy, you’re not cleared to know any more about the nature of RED INDIAN code name missions than the name—understood?”

  “Sir!”

  “Jack serves as my raid planner and assistant team leader for RED INDIANS. King is on the team, as are the Lovat Scouts Fenwick and Ferguson, plus the Ranger Patrol Phantom Team,” Col. Randal said. “Mandy, well . . . she gathers intelligence, serves as liaison and performs other unspecified duties that arise. She was my personal assistant during the siege of Habbaniya—and that says everything you need to know about her ability.”

  “Impressive,” Capt. Stirling said.

  “For our next RED INDIAN we have not been given a specific target—only a class of target,” Col. Randal said. “Capture certain materials that are to be found in Italian rail stations. Percy, since you are the world’s leading expert on enemy rail in Libya,” Col. Randal said, “I need you to recommend a target.”

  “You require a station that is isolated,” Capt. Stirling said. “One you can attack with a small team, spend time searching undisturbed, then disappear back into the desert with the booty you went there to obtain, I presume, sir?”

  “That’s the idea.”

  “I have precisely the target, Colonel,” Capt. Stirling said. “A small coaling station with a turnstile and a water storage tank located in the middle of nowhere—and I do mean remote.

  “It looks like something out of an American Wild West movie. Less than a dozen Italian railroaders man the station. No roads in or out—no enemy forces within a hundred miles or more. My Railroad Wrecking Crew never bothered to attack it because we concentrate on blowing the rails or bridges, not hitting fixed targets.

  “A couple of months ago we did cut the phone lines and ambush the work crew that came on their handcart to make repairs.”

  “Perfect,” Col. Randal said. “King, ask Ensign Hamilton in.”

  Capt. Stirling was pointing out the location of the train station on the map to Col. Randal, ex-Lt. Jaxx and Lt. Mandy when King and The Great Teddy entered. The target was not more than two hundred miles from where Raiding Forces was planning to set up the dummy armored brigade diversion. However, in the desert without motor transport that is a long distance.

  “Mandy,” Col. Randal said, “contact the Long Range Desert Group and see if they have anything going near our RED INDIAN. If so, we need them to extract our team after we jump in and conduct our raid—you handle the coordination.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Ensign Hamilton” Col. Randal said, “Raiding Forces has been alerted to conduct a mission that is so classified that you are not cleared to know its code word identifier—which, nevertheless, is RED INDIAN.”

  “Sir,” Ens. Hamilton said, “I have a Most Secret Clearance—required in order to work at the places I do when I am not in school.”

  “Yeah, well, this is ‘need to know,’” Col. Randal said, “and you don’t have the need . . . so forget what you know.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “What I want from you,” Col. Randal said, “is a plan to make what we are getting ready to do not look like what we did.”

  “Colonel,” Ens. Hamilton said, “I shall require a little more information than that, sir.”

  “We’re going to conduct a raid on an isolated railroad coaling station,” Col. Randal said. “Kill everyone present, recover certain materials that may be located on the premises. And we don’t want anyone to know we were ever there.”

  “Then you need to go big, sir,” Ens. Hamilton said. “Stage an airplane crashing into the station with two five hundred-pound bombs on board—something like that. You want the opposition to be so overwhelmed by the magnitude of the destruction that they never even consider any other possibility about what happened.”

  “We don’t have an airplane to crash,” Col. Randal said.

  “In that case, sir, do you know when the train will come by?”

  “We have train schedules,” Capt. Stirling said. “Italians are superb railroad operators—take pride in their work. Mussolini may have fouled up everything else but he makes the trains run on time.

  “We blow them up right on schedule.”

  “In that case, Colonel,” Ens. Hamilton said, “time your raid before a train arrives. When it does, set charges to cut the track so the engine derails and crashes into the station. Place additional explosive charges inside the building so that when the derailed train hits it, everything blows sky high.”

  “Kid,” Col. Randal said, “I can see you haven’t lost a step since Habbaniya—the bad guys will never figure that one out.”

  “Naturally,” Capt. Stirling said, “you will require my services to cut the track.”

  “Well, that gives me pause,” Col. Randal said. “But you’re right—we do.

  “Jack, make a plan. Mandy, let me know the instant you hear from the LRDG. Ensign Hamilton—like your style, stud.”

  While Col. Randal was wrapping up his orders, Lt. Mandy was examining Ens. Hamilton’s military identification card—she wanted to see how his photo turned out.

  “Teddy, how did you gain two years in age from the time you left Habbaniya?”

  Col. Randal stuck one of Waldo’s thin cigars between his teeth. “Ensign, did you fail to mention an additional year you stacked on top of the one you admitted to adding when we had our little talk?”

  “Yes, sir,” Ens. Hamilton said. “You have to be eighteen to be admitted to bars.”

  “No one checks an officer’s ID at a bar,” Col. Randal said. “Not one wearing the OBE.”

  “Like you always say, sir,” Ens. Hamilton said, not the least bit discomfited by getting caught red-handed in another lie about his true age, “why take a chance?”

  Col. Randal said, “Good answer, Ted.”

  9

  ARAB TENTS

  Captain Taylor Corrigan, Squadron Commander of the Wing, and Colonel

  John Randal were inspecting the trucks that Major A. W. “Sammy” Sansom, chief of Cairo Counterintelligence, had provided—most likely stolen. Men were working like galley slaves loading all the provisions that Major the Lady Jane Seaborn and Ensign Teddy Hamilton had procured to establish the brigade-sized dummy tank diversion on the right flank—the Great Sand Sea side—of Rommel’s counterattack.

  “Go hard,” Col. Randal said to Capt. Corrigan. “Run down the edge of the Sand Sea but stay on the good going. If a truck breaks down, leave it. I want you there in two days or less.”

  “Colonel,” Capt. Corrigan said, “rest easy, sir. These Sudanese drivers of Major Merritt’s are the most experienced long-haul men in the business. I have already instructed them we shall be running ‘round the clock until we arrive.”

  “Outstanding,” Col. Randal said. “I’ll see you when you get there. Oh, by the way . . .”

  He reached inside his pocket and produced a pair of British Crown rank insignia. “Pin these on, Taylor—long overdue, Major.”

  “Thank you, sir,” the Horse Guards officer said. Raiding Forces did not stand on formality. Promotions came straight from Col. Randal without fanfare and at a time and place of his choosing, which made the event personal between the two of them. Major Taylor Corrigan, for one, liked it that way.

  “Pull out the minute you’re loaded.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Lieutenant Mandy Paige drove up in a jeep. Col. Randal climbed in the passenger seat. She proceeded to a remote section of the auxiliary RAF strip that was serving as the departure airfield,
where the three Hudsons were being loaded. A ring of shotgun-toting Military Police were cordoning off the aircraft.

  Two of the three planes would be airdropping the Arab tents, inflatable dummy tanks, compressed air tanks, smoke pots, etc. Every machine gun Raiding Forces possessed was being rigged for the drop—the idea was to make Rommel believe a British armored brigade was lying in wait.

  And that meant the Luftwaffe and/or the Regia Aeronautica would be paying a visit—in force. Raiding Forces was planning to fight back with everything they had when the enemy air arrived.

  The Hudson, piloted by Lieutenant Pamala Plum-Martin, would be dropping the jumpers. She was in the cockpit, going through her preflight inspection. Wing Commander Ronald Gordon and Earthquake McGoon were doing the same in their airplanes.

  A team of RAF loadmasters was working under the supervision of Lieutenant Karen Montgomery, the Raiding Forces Chief Parachute Rigger, to get all the bundles rigged. The Hudsons would be dropping wing bundles and door bundles—meaning the materials would be on pallets and shoved out the door by “door kickers” with their parachute’s static lines hooked up to the steel cable running the length of the fuselage. Raiders not going on the mission would be serving as the kickers.

  Armed with a clipboard and checklist, Ens. Hamilton was inventorying the loads as he moved from plane to plane.

  Ex-Lieutenant Billy Jack Jaxx was supervising preparation of the jump aircraft. He was busy inspecting the cables, taping the edges of the exit door, etc. Col. Randal would be the jumpmaster with Jack Cool as his assistant.

  Lt. Mandy said, “Y patrol of the LRDG is operating approximately fifty miles south of your RED INDIAN target, John. The patrol leader has been signaled to divert and set up a drop zone. When you jump, the patrol will be laagered a mile east of the objective. At 0230 hours, they will mark the DZ with a lighted letter Y.”

  Col. Randal said, “Good job, Mandy.”

  The main party would be dropping blind without the aid of a Pathfinder Team or ground reception party. Not that it mattered. For Ens. Hamilton’s purposes, one patch of the desert was as good as another.

  The fact that, with the exception of the small RED INDIAN party, this was not an actual combat operation did nothing to lessen the sense of urgency of the people working at the airstrip. Raiding Forces was a precision military team by this stage—highly trained, combat experienced, used to conducting missions that came up unexpectedly with a short time fuse. Everyone pitched in—everyone did their part.

  Raiders were turning up at RFHQ, forgoing part of their leave to come help with mission prep. They all volunteered to go on the operation—even some who were recovering from wounds. A couple of men had gone absent without leave from the hospital.

  Captain “Geronimo” Joe McKoy and Waldo Treywick were at the airfield, critically observing every phase of the preparations. The two did not hesitate to lend a hand when it came time to muscle a bundle aboard an aircraft. Teamwork was thick on the ground.

  When Lt. Mandy rolled up with Col. Randal aboard, Capt. McKoy strolled over to the jeep. “John, me and Waldo want to jump in with your team—that OK by you?”

  “Fine,” Col. Randal said, accepting one of Waldo’s thin cigars when the ex-ivory poacher walked up. “The target is a remote railway station. The mission is classified. You’re not authorized to make entry into the building—is that understood?”

  “I don’t think I want to be anywhere near that train depot,” Capt. McKoy said. “Not with Jack Cool and Pyro Percy rigging enough Composition B to blow the Hoover Dam to kingdom come.”

  “Me and Joe want to see the show,” Waldo said, “from a nice safe distance—say about a mile.”

  “Good plan, Mr. Treywick,” Col. Randal said. “I’ll probably be right there with you.”

  Lt. Mandy drove over to the aircraft where Ens. Hamilton was at work. “The Great Teddy” was leaving nothing to chance. He personally inspected each item loaded and checked it off his list.

  “You have enough magic gear,” Col. Randal asked, “to pull this off?”

  “No, sir,” Ens. Hamilton said. “We barely have what it takes to get started. Have to improvise until the ground convoy arrives.”

  “Major Corrigan said he can be there in two days,” Col. Randal said. “You keep the charade going until then, Ensign.”

  “Yes, sir,” the Great Teddy said, secretly thrilled that Col. Randal addressed him as Ensign—not that he would ever let anyone know.

  For his part, Col. Randal noted that his tough, battle-hardened Raiders were treating the new, very junior officer as part of the unit. While the men would not be wanting to follow him in bayonet charges anytime soon, it was a given that Ensign Hamilton knew what he was doing when it came to the military art of camouflage and deception.

  Raiding Forces respected talent.

  Besides, The Great Teddy was already a living legend—inventor of the wildly popular camel chip and horse apple contact mines.

  James “Baldie” Taylor drove up at the wheel of a jeep. Without getting out, he asked, “Everything going according to schedule?”

  “What schedule?” Col. Randal said.

  “The one you are making up as you go,” Jim said.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Lady Seaborn informed me you were reading Rommel’s book,” Jim said. “Learn anything?”

  “He likes to penetrate the opposition’s Main Line of Resistance,” Col. Randal said. “Pour through, drive deep to cause maximum disruption, then divert predesignated troops to swing around and roll up both flanks—has a high opinion of his own leadership ability.”

  Capt. McKoy wandered over in time to hear Col. Randal’s answer.

  “His current intentions certainly appear to fit the pattern,” Jim said. “The Desert Fox definitely has our forces back on their heels and our high command rattled.”

  “What’s your take, Captain?” Col. Randal asked, curling his finger around Waldo’s thin cigar. “You checked the book out and gave it to me.”

  “Rommel ain’t psychologically geared to fightin’ goin’ backwards,” Capt. McKoy said. “He’s an attack man—this excitement ain’t nothin’ more than a temper tantrum that ain’t goin’ nowhere, John.”

  “What leads you to that conclusion?” Jim asked. “If true, you would be the only person in Middle East Command to believe that.”

  “Probably the Field Marshal didn’t like havin’ to pull back to reconsolidate after CRUSADER—he lost a lot a’ men and tanks with nothin’ to show for it,” Capt. McKoy said. “Made him look bad—to hisself.

  “Right now he’s just like a rattlesnake rattlin’ his tail after he ain’t got no juice left to bite with.”

  “Interesting take on the subject, Captain,” Jim said. His prewar military intelligence specialty for MI-6 was evaluating enemy and friendly forces.

  He did not quite have Rommel figured out at this point—the Desert Fox was an enigma. Jim intended to read his Infantry Attacks.

  “I understand you have your RED INDIAN target selected, Colonel.”

  “We do,” Col. Randal said.

  “Pencil me in on the manifest to jump with your team,” Jim said.

  “General,” Col. Randal said, “you’re not authorized to go on this one . . .”

  “Who told you that?”

  “You did, sir.”

  “Forget what I said, Colonel—bring Rommel’s book along. I can spend my time reading it while we sit around waiting for enemy air to show up to bomb The Great Teddy’s magic circus into the stone ages.”

  As she was driving Col. Randal back to RFHQ, Lt. Mandy said, “I thought this was supposed to be nothing more than a camping trip in the desert, John. Set up a few of Teddy’s inflatables—create one of his illusions.”

  “It is,” Col. Randal said. “You don’t think we’ll be anywhere near those Arab tents or dummy tanks when the enemy air arrives?”

  “John, do try to stay out of trouble,” Lt. Mandy said. “You have
a history of reckless behavior.”

  Lieutenant Butch “Headhunter” Hoolihan was standing outside of RFHQ when Col. Randal returned from the departure airfield.

  “I was hoping to find replacements for the two jeeps we lost, sir,” Lt. Hoolihan said when Lt. Mandy pulled up. “None to be had.”

  “Right after we take off you can have this one, Butch,” Col. Randal said. “Sergeant Rawlings will be here any time. He should be able to fix you up with one more runner. Billy Jack says the Desert Patrol jeeps are on their last legs.”

  “I will take what I can,” Lt. Hoolihan said. “Not any immediate rush, sir. Warthog put the King Duck in dry dock for maintenance and repairs. Duck Patrol will not be going on operations anytime soon.”

  “Now that you’ve had time to think about it, Butch,” Col. Randal said, “what’s your thought on the Little Elephant’s performance?”

  “Frank loves the cannon, sir,” Lt. Hoolihan said. “Being able to drive straight out to sea in the DUKW was a life-saver. Made extracting back to the King Duck easy . . . but under normal circumstances we would have had to abandon our gun jeeps—no problem last night since they had both already been blown up.”

  “You’re right about that,” Col. Randal said.

  “Personally, I think the jury is still out, Colonel,” Lt. Hoolihan said. “The COW 37mm is approximately two-thirds lighter, it can be mounted on a jeep—which makes it more nimble, and at the point-blank range we engage from, it does almost as much damage.”

  “Keep experimenting—you’ll work out the tactics,” Col. Randal said.

  “Right now, Butch, what I want is you on leave starting immediately—take a break. Notify the Operations Room where you’ll be staying. Check in by phone once a day.”

  “Thanks, Colonel,” Lt. Hoolihan said. “My lads can use time off.”

  “Don’t worry about your jeeps,” Col. Randal said. “Word is we’re getting all new ones.”

  “Outstanding, sir,” Lt. Hoolihan said.

  “Mandy,” Col. Randal said, “drive back to the airstrip. If we don’t intervene, Pam will spend all day going over the Hudson. Bring her back here—eight hours of sleep before flying tonight.