Those Who Dare - [Raiding Forces 01] Read online

  “The Hood agreed to accept Randy as a sub-lieutenant. They are not going to take him in the grade of lieutenant. It would not be fair to the Hood or to Randy.”

  “I can tell you’re not all that pleased with the idea of Randy staying on in Raiding Forces, sir.”

  “Major, it has been widely reported that you Commandos have a dash each of the Elizabethan pirate, the frontier tribesman, and the Chicago gangster, all rolled into one. That kind of job description is not likely to enhance one’s career in the Royal Navy.”

  “Commander, are you in a position where you could take off for a couple of days?”

  “Certainly.”

  “Why don’t you come down and go out on an operation with us some night, so you can see Randy do his stuff? Your father-in-law did. That way, you can evaluate for yourself if Randy is contributing more to the war effort by serving in Raiding Forces than if he were the junior sublieutenant on the Hood.”

  “The admiral mentioned that he had accompanied you on a mission—said the Arrow was pretty lively.”

  “Well, sir, if what you sailors call lively is a forty-foot boat standing straight up on her stern and shaking herself like a wet dog, that’s what the Arrow was the night the Razor sailed to France and back with us. One of the crewmen was so seasick he passed out.”

  “She was never meant for that kind of weather. The Arrow is a pleasure craft intended for fair-weather sailing,” Commander Seaborn said with a rueful shake of his head. “Two days’ notice would be best. Randy has my private number at the Admiralty.”

  “I don’t think you’ll be disappointed, sir.”

  On the way back to the table Major Randal ran into Vice Admiral Sir Randolph “Razor” Ransom. “So, you’re headed back into harm’s way again, sir,” he said to the silver-haired admiral. “The Suicide Run. Couldn’t you find something a little more dangerous, Admiral?”

  “They are bringing some of us retired people back in to act as commodores on merchant convoys. At least I shall not be in a mosquito boat that dances on her tail like a hooked tarpon, dead lost in the middle of the night not more than twenty miles from my home in waters I have sailed a thousand times before,” the crusty old admiral said with a twinkle in his eye.

  “Stay low, sir.”

  “That was a fine thing you did for my grandson, John.”

  “He earned it, Admiral. You saw how he handles himself in a tough situation.”

  Major Randal slid back into his seat at the table. Squadron Leader Paddy Wilcox had arrived, wearing his black eye-patch and escorting two posh young ladies whose combined age might have equaled his, give or take six months either way. Nobody actually believed they were his nieces. The Canadian pilot, as usual, was having a mighty fine time.

  “I’m at the Bradford, Paddy,” said Major Randal. “Check in with the front desk twice a day and let me know how to get in contact with you.”

  “Wilco.”

  Sergeant Major Maxwell Hicks and his wife, Lorraine, made their appearance. Ramrod-straight as ever, the sergeant major conducted himself with an exaggerated, old-world courtesy: the professional’s professional. He could just as easily have passed for a Roman centurion as a British Grenadier Guardsman.

  Lorraine Hicks was nearly as tall in her heels as he was and was a patrician beauty. The two complemented each other: She was as charming as her husband was wired tight.

  “Sergeant Major, I am staying at the Bradford. Leave a number at the front desk where you can be reached in the event something comes up,” said Major Randal after greeting the sergeant major and his wife.

  “Sir!”

  At that moment, Captain “Geronimo Joe” McKoy made a grand entrance. The cowboy showman was dressed to kill in a fringed buckskin jacket. He was carrying his pearl-gray Stetson in one hand, and his associate, Miss Lilly Threepersons, was on the other arm. She was ravishing in chartreuse.

  No sooner had they arrived than the lights in the room went up. The master of ceremonies, clad in a roll-collar tuxedo jacket, took the microphone and said, “Ladies and gentlemen, I hope you are enjoying yourselves this evening.”

  Polite applause rippled through the crowd.

  “I have just been informed that we have an illustrious visitor with us tonight, and I want him to come up here so that I can introduce him. Let’s have a warm round of applause for Captain Geronimo Joe McKoy, famed Wild West Indian fighter and hero of the charge up San Juan Hill with Teddy Roosevelt’s Rough Riders. Please come on up here, Captain.”

  As the band broke into “Hot Time in the Old Town Tonight,” Captain McKoy pranced up to the microphone to the accompaniment of a ripple of courteous, but not overly enthusiastic, clapping.

  “It says here,” the announcer read from his cue card, “you were also an Arizona Ranger. Is that like a Texas Ranger?”

  “Yep, exceptin’ we operated in the state of Arizona.”

  “What brings you to London, Captain?”

  “Tonight I’m at a promotion party for a friend of mine, Lieutenant Randy Seaborn, the youngest full lieutenant in the entire dang Royal Navy.” The crowd broke into applause and strained to see the young officer. They did not know much about San Juan Hill or Indian fighting, but they appreciated date of rank; the youngest lieutenant in the navy was worth taking a gander at.

  “No sense cranin’ your necks, folks. You won’t have any trouble spottin’ Randy. He just happens to be the very first navy officer ever to complete parachute school and is the only navy officer in the service a-wearin’ parachute wings on his chest right now. It’s right there above the Distinguished Service Cross he won on a Commando raid a while back.”

  The crowd immediately responded with a heavy round of applause.

  “I meant, what are you doing in England, Captain?” the MC pressed.

  “Oh, I’m over here, ah ... entertaining the troops.”

  “And how exactly do you do that?”

  “Oh . . . a-twirlin’ pistols, throwing knives, doing a little fancy rope work.”

  “Sounds exciting! How would you like to put on a demonstration for our audience tonight?”

  “Well, I’d be glad to, exceptin’ I don’t have my shootin’ irons or other gear with me.”

  “Captain, I am sure there are some pistols in this crowd.” Everyone laughed. Every officer in the room was wearing his issue sidearm. “Let’s get a couple up here, folks.”

  Two army lieutenants rushed up and offered their weapons.

  It’s a setup, Major Randal thought. They’re trying to humiliate the old cowboy.

  “Webley ,455s with four-inch barrels,” Captain McKoy observed wryly. “Lots of knockdown power, but about as well balanced as a primeval club. I’d rather try to twirl bowling balls.”

  “Well, old-timer, if you’re not up to it... “ the MC taunted.

  The crowd laughed; the Arizona Ranger looked dejected. Accidentally, it appeared, he touched a lever on the side of one of the Webleys; the revolver broke open and the bullets spilled out onto the floor. The drummer hit a cymbal. CRASH!

  The crowd started to laugh, but the merriment faded when they saw the white-haired gentleman get down on his knees and start to grope around for the shells.

  Major Randal felt a red-hot rage and started to get up, but stopped abruptly when Lady Jane reached over and put her hand on his leg to restrain him.

  Captain McKoy struggled to his feet and handed the MC the bullets; then he carefully unloaded the other pistol. The room had grown silent. This bad joke had gone too far.

  Somehow, again by accident it seemed, one of the ungainly Webley pistols flipped over on the captain’s finger as he handed over the last of the bullets. The drummer did a little roll as a joke. No one laughed.

  Then the other pistol did the same thing. Now they were both twirling in slow motion, barely making it up and over.

  The band kicked into a slow version of “Hot Time in the Old Town Tonight,” and as the twirling pistols on his fingers started to pick up spe
ed, the band increased its tempo. Suddenly, from out of nowhere, a huge, gleaming Bowie knife flashed in the air, and spinning pistols started to fly up and down as the old showman juggled all three.

  In seconds, the crowd was on its feet, screaming, “Fire, Fire, Fire!” each time the band came to the end of a stanza. The place was rocking.

  Just as suddenly as it had appeared, the knife vanished and the two pistols came tumbling down. The captain coolly caught them, reversed them, and offered both to the astonished master of ceremonies, butts first. When the announcer reached out to accept the Webleys, Captain McKoy suddenly did the “border reverse”—and the startled MC found himself looking down both barrels.

  The crowd cheered. Someone yelled, “Shoot the bastard!”

  This went on several times before the old Rough Rider relented and allowed the frustrated announcer to reclaim the handguns.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, let’s have a big round of applause for Captain Geronimo Joe McKoy. I, for one, am convinced he could have taught Wild Bill Hickok a few tricks.”

  The cowboy showman, not looking so old or pitiful anymore, waved to the audience and shouted, “Support your troops!”

  The crowd went wild.

  Major Randal was probably the only man in the room not on his feet cheering, clapping, and whistling. This was for the simple reason that Lady Jane had not removed her hand from his leg, even though by now it was clear that he no longer needed to be restrained.

  It dawned on him that he was having a really nice evening. He was a little concerned about one thing, though: He was reasonably confident, from the way his leg felt right that minute, that when Lady Jane did take her hand away, there was going to be a scorched handprint on the pant leg of his brand-new Pembroke’s tailored uniform. How was he going to explain that to Mr. Chatterley?

  ~ * ~

  SECRET SERVICE

  ~ * ~

  19

  CLOAK AND DAGGER

  MAJOR JOHN RANDAL WAS SITTING ON THE COUCH IN HIS SUITE at the Bradford Hotel, His butler, Chauncy, had thoughtfully provided him with the Sunday Times, the Sunday Dispatch, and the Daily Mail.

  The stories were all about the threat of invasion, the dogfights over southern England, the evacuation of children to Canada and the countryside, the hunt for Nazi Fifth Columnists (everyone seemed to be on the lookout for Nazis disguised in nuns’ habits, parachuting in to coordinate with the dreaded Fifth Column), the sinking of British ships, and the blackout that had been in effect from the first day Britain entered the war. Citizens throughout the UK were being exhorted to cope and to “just get on with it.” There was not a lot of good news.

  One writer addressed food rationing, complaining that “the rich could simply go to a restaurant...” Apparently, restaurants were not rationed. The Bradford sure did not seem to be.

  Which reminded Major Randal: He had to meet Jane downstairs for breakfast. Chauncy helped him into his Pembroke’s-cut blouse.

  “Beautiful blouse, sir.”

  “What’s your opinion of women in uniform, Chauncy?”

  “Ours is not to reason why, sir.”

  “Been giving it some thought, have you?”

  “Have a nice breakfast with Lady Seaborn, sir.”

  ~ * ~

  At that very moment, Captain Lady Jane Seaborn was sitting in the morning room off the main lobby with her nephew, Lieutenant Randy Seaborn. The two had always been exceptionally close.

  “How are you getting along with the major, Aunt Jane?”

  “I am not sure, actually, Randy.”

  “The two of you seemed to be hitting it off rather well last night. You make a great-looking couple.”

  “I am not totally convinced he is not simply being polite out of pity to a lonely widow.”

  “You are hardly pitiful, Aunt Jane.”

  “You spend a lot of time together late at night on the bridge of your boat. What’s he really like?”

  “The major likes horses, guns, sports, and girls, just like the rest of us. Only, we don’t understand his sports, nor he ours,” Lieutenant Seaborn said with a laugh. “What we talk about on the bridge at sea comes under the protection of sailor-to-sailor confidentiality That makes it private, Aunt Jane.”

  “Randy ... you know I’m your favorite relative.”

  “All I can tell you is the men all say the major is a great combat leader ... and he can surf.”

  “Whatever does that mean?”

  “We are not quite sure, but he mentions it now and again. Sometimes he will say, ‘The surf’s up,’ and that always means we’re going on a mission.”

  “John says that?”

  “Not exactly. What he says is: ‘Surf’s up, boys. Let’s go kill some bad guys.’ When you do something noteworthy, he calls you ‘stud.’ My personal favorite thing is when we go on a raid, the minute he comes back on board after being ashore, he always says to me, ‘Let’s get the hell out of Dodge, Randy.’”

  They both laughed.

  “Sounds like something out of a low-budget cowboy movie.”

  “We all like to hear him say it. I have to warn you, Aunt Jane, I think the major may be damaged goods.”

  “How do you mean, Randy?”

  “He brought his men out of Calais all right, but I’m not sure he made it home himself. The major laughs a lot, but not with his eyes. Sometimes he gets this faraway look. Only it is not like he is looking as much as he is listening for something out there.”

  “Like the Razor when he thinks no one is watching?”

  “Exactly.”

  Lady Jane continued. “Dudley Clarke told me John blew up a bridge outside of Calais that, had the Germans captured it, would have enabled them to roll right over the British Expeditionary Force trapped at Dunkirk before it could have been evacuated by sea. His action saved the army, but a lot of civilians on the bridge were killed when the demolitions went off. Dudley said it was one of the most courageous decisions he has ever known of a junior officer having to make. Do you think it bothers John?”

  “The major never mentions Calais,” her nephew responded, clearly not wanting to say much more about his boss on that subject. “Now, what I want you to tell me, Aunt Jane, is one good reason why you are not sure if he likes you.”

  “John keeps saying that I remind him of his old high school English teacher. The way he says it does not sound like a compliment.”

  Lieutenant Seaborn looked at his beautiful aunt and burst out laughing. Her cheeks turned rose-colored and she demanded angrily, “Randy Seaborn, why are you making fun of me?”

  “Did the major bother to mention that his high school English ‘student teacher,’ whatever that is, was the reigning Miss University of California at Los Angeles, and that he had a terrific crush on her?”

  “I love you, Randy.”

  “I love you too, Aunt Jane. We did not have this conversation.”

  “What’s so funny?” Major Randal asked as he strolled up to the table.

  “That is classified information protected under the Marine-to-sailor confidentiality act, or maybe covered by family privilege. Either way, we are not telling you, John,” Lady Jane said teasingly.

  “I see,” he said, which was what Major Randal always said when he did not have any idea what else to say.

  “I’m shoving off,” Lieutenant Seaborn announced. “Grandfather and I are meeting later for a working lunch.”

  “What are you and the Razor up to?”

  “Sir, we need at least two more watch officers. I am going to solicit Grandfather’s ideas on how to recruit. “

  “See if you can find a couple who can read a chart,” Major Randal teased. “By the way, I think I’ve come up with a solution to some of our navigation problems.”

  “Really, sir?”

  “What I’m about to say does not leave this table, is that clear? Here’s the plan: A few nights before we intend to raid a certain stretch of the French coast, we go over to the general target area and snatch
a pilot off the first fishing boat we can find and haul him back to Seaborn House.

  “The night of our actual operation, Randy, you sail the Arrow to within five miles of the target, then we bring the pilot up on the bridge, put a pistol to his head, show him the chart, and have him guide us in.”

  “Wow, that’s almost better than having radar, sir. Those fishermen know every nook and cranny of the coastline.” Lieutenant Seaborn sounded truly impressed. “Are you sure you’re not asking too much of me, to be able to navigate within five miles of our pinpoint?”