Those Who Dare - [Raiding Forces 01] Page 14

  “What would it take, Strange, to get you to come down and go along on a raid with us some dark night?” Major Randal snarled. Both men had huge, fake smiles plastered on their faces for the benefit of the spectators.

  Captain Lady Jane Seaborn pinned his wings on during the brief ceremony. “Congratulations, John,” she said. “Welcome to the Airborne.”

  It had been three weeks since he had last seen her; she was even more beautiful than he remembered. The faint fragrance of her Cartier perfume smelled like vanilla. He was not able to think of one thing to say.

  Later in the parking lot, the men of the Small-Scale Raiding Company gathered to load onto the buses. Captain Lady Seaborn had arranged to transport them to the rail station in Manchester, and then they were all off on a hard-earned ten-day leave.

  Captain Terry “Zorro” Stone sidled up to Major Randal. Jerking his thumb at the sky, he said, “Was that as awful as it looked, old stick?”

  “Don’t even ask.”

  The Raiders were pounding each other on the back, proud as punch to have survived the tough training. They were officially paratroopers now: Jolly Green Giants in a world inhabited by Lilliputians.

  As Major Randal and Captain Stone swaggered toward Captain Lady Seaborn’s Rolls-Royce, it was difficult not to notice the glamorous Royal Marines driver, Pamela Plum-Martin, casually leaning against the driver’s door, filing her long, most un-Royal-Marines-regulation scarlet fingernails. She looked exactly like a real-life Varga pinup girl dressed in a Royal Marines uniform.

  Then they saw them: Stitched to her left sleeve were official-issue British parachute wings, the same ones they were wearing. The jump wings had not been there the last time either of them had seen her.

  “Marine Plum-Martin,” Captain Stone barked, “how many jumps have you made?”

  “Seven, sir,” the Royal Marine answered, looking up from her nails, not in the least ruffled by his challenging tone.

  “When did you finish your training, Marine?”

  “Last week, sir.”

  “And, pray tell, when did you start?”

  “Last week, sir.”

  “Last week!” Major Randal and Captain Stone exclaimed in unison.

  “Yes, sir, last week.”

  “That’s right, boys,” Captain Lady Seaborn said with only the slightest hint of a smile. “Pamela took the short course.”

  Major Randal and Captain Stone stared at each other. They were both in shock.

  “The short course?”

  “Done in a week,” Captain Lady Seaborn said. “Five days, actually. I took it. The short course is reserved for senior officers and ‘specials’ getting ready to parachute behind enemy lines as agents for one or another of the hush-hush services.”

  “The ‘short course’?” Major Randal growled the words through gritted teeth. “You never told me about any ‘short course’!”

  “You never asked.”

  While an outraged Major Randal and Captain Stone were standing there like two bulls blowing steam, looking at each other and feeling like complete idiots, Geronimo Joe McKoy limped up in his pointy-toed yellow alligator cowboy boots.

  “That was a dang good show you put on up there, Major. Do you reckon they’d let me jump outta one of them balloons?”

  ~ * ~

  REST AND RELAXATION

  ~ * ~

  14

  TRAIN TO LONDON

  THE TRAIN TO LONDON PULLED OUT OF MANCHESTER AN HOUR later with the Small-Scale Raiding Company on board. There were two first-class cars for the unit. In the first car were only two people: Major John Randal and Captain the Lady Jane Seaborn.

  “I don’t even want to know how you pulled this off,” Major Randal said as he looked around at the rail car’s plush accommodations.

  “Quite possibly, the railway company had some reason to believe there were very important passengers aboard who had high-level, hush-hush business to conduct,” Captain Lady Jane Seaborn responded in a composed tone, idly tapping the teacup on the table in front of her with her long, scarlet-tipped nails. Exquisitely poised, though slightly apprehensive at the moment, she planned to cover a lot of ground in the meeting they were getting ready to have and was not entirely sure how well what she had to propose was going be received.

  “That explains the armed guards at the doors. For a minute there I thought we were under arrest.”

  “I did not want us to be disturbed,” she explained. “I have found, John, that if a thing is stamped ‘Secret,’ most people tend not to barge in or ask many questions, particularly if there are armed guards barring their way.”

  “Right,” said Major Randal, “questions like: Are you really sure this is official?”

  “Precisely.” Captain Lady Seaborn’s eyes sparkled as she detonated one of her incandescent smiles. “You simply would not believe how easy it is to cut through red tape if you just say the magic word.”

  “The magic word?”

  “In this case it was ‘frogspawn,’” she said with a perfectly straight face. “I walked into the railway office in Manchester and discreetly whispered, ‘Frogspawn,’ into the managing clerk’s ear. It does not mean anything, of course, but he did not have any way to know that.”

  “What did he do?” Major Randal asked, wondering if she was pulling his leg.

  “First, he looked startled. Then he composed himself and inquired what he could do to be of service. I informed him that I required an extra first-class car on the train to London for the purpose of conducting a classified meeting in private and that I needed him to reserve the other first-class car for the officers and men of a very secret Commando unit.”

  “Frogspawn?”

  “I could have said ‘egg salad’ or ‘purple penguin.’ Anything will work. I happen to like ‘frogspawn.’ The trick is to stand boldly on and not lose confidence once you make your play.”

  “You’re one dangerous woman.” He shook his head in admiration, not entirely sure he believed her.

  “Yes, I am. Try not to forget it.”

  Captain Terry “Zorro” Stone and Sergeant Major Maxwell Hicks entered the car and walked down the aisle to their table.

  Captain Lady Seaborn quickly demonstrated that she had not been idle while they had been “enjoying themselves” at No. 1 Parachute Training School.

  “You received my telex to the effect that we have been authorized to augment the number of troops in the Small-Scale Raiding Company?”

  “We did. I’m curious how Combined Operations Headquarters arrived at the exact number of officers and men,” Major Randal said.

  “It is the same as was recently established for a Commando troop under the new table of organization,” she explained, unconsciously slipping into a clipped professional tone that had the unintended effect of sounding extraordinarily sexy. “You are not locked into that number. Consider it merely a starting point for administrative purposes.

  “For example, I have arranged for a team of retired navy pensioners to take over the maintenance of HMY Arrow. They will free Randy’s crew to rest between operations instead of having to worry about getting the yacht ready to put to sea again. The pensioners will fall under your command but do not count against your authorized troop strength.”

  “That’s a great idea, Jane,” said Major Randal, obviously impressed. He took out a Player’s Navy Cut and offered her one from the pack. He lit hers, then his own.

  “Well, it brings up the first item of business you have to decide today,” she continued.

  Captain Stone broke out his sterling silver cigarette case and extended it to Sergeant Major Hicks; they both lit up their own cigarettes and leaned forward to listen.

  “Since the navy element has been expanded, it merits a more senior officer than Randy. As you know, he was due to be promoted to sublieutenant when his regular commission was approved. Well, it has finally come through, and his promotion party is laid on for tonight.”

  Captain Lady Seaborn gave Maj
or Randal an inquisitive look. “You now have the option to bring in a more experienced officer ... or you could promote Randy.”

  “Promote him to what?”

  “Lieutenant—the equivalent of captain in the army,” she answered, tapping the ash of her cigarette into the crystal ashtray on the table. “It would mean skipping sub-lieutenant. The Royal Navy is touchy about things like that. He’s only eighteen. And his father may not be overjoyed with the idea of Randy staying on in the Commandos. He has arranged an assignment for him on HMS Hood.”

  Major Randal glanced at Captain Stone.

  “Stick with Randy,” the Life Guards officer advised. “He’s bound to turn nineteen sooner or later. I say, beware the sailor you have never sailed with.”

  “Sergeant Major?”

  “I agree, sir. The men are confident sailing with Mr. Seaborn.”

  “You need to understand, this is going to raise eyebrows,” Captain Lady Seaborn said. “An underage-for-grade waiver will be required, but I have already made the necessary preparations in the event you decide to choose that option. Randy will become the youngest full lieutenant in the Royal Navy.”

  “Perhaps we can find Mr. Seaborn a seasoned chief petty officer,” Major Hicks ventured.

  “Probably should have done that a long time ago,” Major Randal conceded.

  “How is it going to feel, Jane, having a teenage nephew the same rank as you?” Captain Stone teased.

  “I guess I shall just have to arrange to have myself promoted again,” Captain Lady Seaborn replied smoothly.

  Captain Stone gave Major Randal a knowing wink. “Hello, Field Marshal.”

  “All right, then, let’s get Randy the waiver and work on locating a seasoned CPO for him,” Major Randal said. “What’s next?”

  “There is a party planned tonight to celebrate Randy’s transfer from the Volunteer Reserve to the Royal Navy and his promotion to sublieutenant. Everyone is going to be flabbergasted at this turn of events. The Razor will be there, which means half the Admiralty will turn out to wet down his grandson’s new straight stripes. Randy’s mother, Brandy, has made you, John, the guest of honor. Maxwell, you and Terry are both invited, of course.”

  “May I bring Mrs. Hicks?” the sergeant major asked.

  “Absolutely, we would love to have your wife attend.”

  Major Randal’s alarm bells kicked in. He and Captain Stone had made elaborate plans for their leave that did not include spending time with mothers and widows.

  The dashing Life Guards officer had an inexhaustible supply of decadent, blue-blooded women of the fox hunting set whose first names all had three syllables—party girls who wore pearls and carried silver flasks in their purses. And they really liked Americans, particularly those serving in their armed forces now that England was standing alone.

  The two Commando officers were literally chomping at the bit to get started, and it didn’t seem fair for Midshipman Randy Seaborn’s mother to force them to waste one precious minute of their leave time at a party where they would actually have to behave, especially considering they had just voted to promote her young swashbuckler ahead of his class.

  “John, you and I have an intensive series of meetings scheduled over the next week,” Captain Lady Seaborn continued. “Depending on how the initial contacts go, they could extend well into the following week.”

  Major Randal suddenly felt like one of those German parachutists in the film at No. 1 Parachute Training School, body-slamming onto the rocky drop zone.

  “Meetings?” he said weakly.

  “Combined Operations Headquarters has been authorized to raise ten Commando battalions. As we speak, they are in the process of forming and training all across the United Kingdom. No. 3 Commando even carried out a raid while you were in parachute school.

  “We need to be very careful not to suddenly wake up someday to find ourselves absorbed by one of the new Commando battalions.”

  “We definitely would not want that to happen,” Captain Stone agreed. “Not likely!”

  “To avoid that ever occurring requires you to meet key people and to make the right connections,” Captain Lady Seaborn said in an even tone, her eyes never leaving Major Randal’s face.

  “I hate meetings.”

  “John, it is imperative we establish ourselves before someone else gets there ahead of us. The early bird gets the worm.”

  “I see,” Major Randal said, not having the slightest idea what she was talking about. It was obvious that Captain Lady Seaborn had been giving the future of the Small-Scale Raiding Company a considerable amount of thought. Once again, he wondered why.

  “Tough luck, old stick,” Captain Stone said, clearly sounding disappointed. “It appears Lady Jane has a plan. If there is any way to preserve our independent status, I for one am personally willing to do whatever it takes. This is the most fun I have ever had in the army—all operations, all the time. Will you be staying at the Bradford, Jane?”

  “Yes.”

  “You can count on me to check in twice daily by telephone and not travel more than two hours from London in case you should happen to require my presence for any of your nefarious schemes,” Captain Stone promised. He may have been a wealthy aristocrat and practicing playboy, but he was no dilettante. The 2nd Life Guards officer was the epitome of a professional British Army officer.

  “But Jane, try really, really hard not to.” He gave her a rakish smile.

  “Thanks, Terry,” she said. “There is one very special event I am hoping to arrange that you are uniquely qualified to attend. If I can organize it, you definitely need to be involved.”

  “Count me in.”

  “I thought rank had its privileges,” Major Randal grumbled. He was surprised at how quickly Captain Stone had caved in and gone along with her scheme; he must actually believe Lady Jane knew what she was doing, and that was worth thinking about.

  “There are a few other items we need to go over before we bring in the rest of the troops.” Captain Lady Seaborn plunged on, wanting to move the conversation along while she was ahead.

  Their much-anticipated liberty wrecked, Major Randal and Captain Stone sat there at the table smoking their cigarettes in stony silence. The two officers were sick. They took chasing women seriously.

  Captain Lady Seaborn stole a glance at Major Randal, fighting the urge to smile. She was well aware the two officers had serious reputations as lady-killers. Her nephew held them in awe on that account.

  “I have developed a new name for the unit,” she announced, changing the subject.

  “A new name?” Major Randal snarled. “What’s wrong with the one we have?”

  “Nothing, John, except it is somewhat confusing.”

  “It’s supposed to be confusing; it’s a cover name. Small-Scale Raiding Company has a nice ring to it, and it makes us sound like we have a lot more people than we do.”

  “The name also gives the impression of being limited,” said Captain Lady Seaborn in an even, reasonable voice. “A company is a relatively minor military unit. Being designated as one limits potential for future promotion. ‘Small-Scale’ implies we are capable of only minor military tasks.”

  “By all means, we certainly would not want to limit any potential for promotion, that’s for sure,” Captain Stone said, giving Major Randal a nudge under the table with the highly polished toe of his boot. “Particularly for the officers.”

  “Here. I typed up the new name I propose in block letters so you can see it before you hear it,” Captain Lady Seaborn continued, taking a folded sheet of paper out of her handbag and laying it out flat on the table.

  The note read, strategic raiding force.

  “Whoa, that’s good!” blurted Major Randal, momentarily forgetting his deep disappointment at having to cancel his leave plans.

  “Extraordinary,” Captain Stone said with genuine enthusiasm. “Sounds like we report directly to the prime minister.”

  “Most impressive, Lady Seab
orn,” Major Hicks added, sounding pleased. “The lads will like it.”

  “The name itself will be classified,” Lady Jane explained. “We never use it except on documents that are classified ‘Secret’ or above. That gives us the aura of being very special, a hush-hush unit cloaked in mystery, not to be trifled with by middle-level officers or bureaucrats, because they will not be entirely certain who, precisely, we actually do work for.”

  “Clever,” Major Randal said. She had his full attention now. “What will we call ourselves?”

  “Raiding Forces,” Captain Lady Seaborn explained, pulling a black tab embroidered in silver thread from her purse and laying it on the table. It read, in bold block letters, raiding forces.