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  “Yes, sir!”

  “Lots of good-looking Greek girls in Alexandria,” Col. Randal said. “I’ll make sure Brandy never goes near there. Not a great place for your mom to turn up.”

  “Roger,” Lt. Seaborn said. “Then I can anticipate you shall have no need of my services during Rommel’s current counterattack, Colonel?”

  “That’s right,” Col. Randal said. “Where is your grandfather, anyway? Haven’t heard from him.”

  “London, sir.”

  “What’s the Razor doing there, Randy?”

  “Joining White’s Club.”

  • • •

  CAPTAIN LIONEL CHATTERHORN, FORMERLY OF SCOTLAND YARD SPECIAL BRANCH AND the elite Vulnerable Points Wing, Field Security Police, was on crutches. Lately, at his request, he had been serving as a patrol leader for Desert Patrol—he had an excellent record as a field commander.

  “What’s the prognosis, Captain?” Colonel John Randal asked.

  “Couple of weeks, sir,” Capt. Chatterhorn said. “The doctor says I should be ready for full duty then.”

  “I don’t think so,” Col. Randal said.

  “Possibly I was mistaken, sir,” Capt. Chatterhorn said. “Four weeks.”

  “I’m returning you to limited duty right now,” Col. Randal said. “We never got around to doing that security review for RFHQ. The Razor is setting up an office here, the general is setting up one as well and Veronica Paige is in the process of expanding MI-9. All of those are classified operations. We can’t wait any longer.”

  “My pleasure, Colonel,” Capt. Chatterhorn said. “I was afraid you were going to relieve me from commanding my patrol due to my injury.”

  “Not with your record, Lionel,” Col. Randal said. “However, I do want you to take as much time off as possible while you’re coming up with our new security plan—spend time in town, relax. That’s an order.

  “I’ll put you back on patrol as soon as you’re good to go.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  Walking him to the door, Col. Randal said, “Rumor is Dudley Clarke has a secure site guarded by a tribe of natives who speak no known language. That way a spy can’t bribe ’em to find out what’s going on at the site. Maybe you ought to get us some of those natives for RFHQ.”

  “How would we give them orders, sir?” Capt. Chatterhorn asked. “Or, how would they report a security breach?”

  “Maybe you could teach ’em English.”

  “Would that not defeat the purpose, sir?”

  “Can’t believe one word that comes out of A-Force,” Col. Randal said. “Lying is in their job description.”

  • • •

  Sergeant Major Mike “March or Die” Mikkalis, DSM, MM, arrived. He reported straightaway to Colonel John Randal.

  “How did you find the experience of being Duck Patrol Leader?” Col. Randal asked.

  “You were at your best,” Sgt. Maj. Mikkalis said, “the day you dreamed that one up, Colonel. We raided somewhere almost every night.

  “Earthquake McGoon would take me up in the Kingfisher float plane. We would select a target. After dark, Warthog would set sail to our release point; Duck Patrol went ashore, mined the road, set up an ambush or shot up a roadhouse, then returned to the King Duck to do it all over again the next night somewhere else.”

  “That’s the way to do it,” Col. Randal said.

  “A DUKW can carry up to a 105 howitzer, but no one was ever going to give Frank Polanski one,” Sgt. Maj. Mikkalis said. “So he experimented with captured guns—finally hit on the Cannone da 47/39, called the ‘Little Elephant.’ Austrian design manufactured by the Italians. Roll up on a roadhouse, reduce it to rubble with four or five high-explosive rounds and go home.”

  “Was Butch unhappy when I sent him to relieve you from Duck Patrol?” Col. Randal asked. “Turned down the job when I offered it to him before you took command.”

  “The Headhunter has been raiding out of Lieutenant Seaborn’s MAS boats almost all the way to Tripoli—real Commando strike from the sea unannounced and unexpected-like, then disappear-in-the-dark-of-night work, sir. Even had one of his teams stationed on a submarine for a time,” Sgt. Maj. Mikkalis said.

  “He did not want to give that assignment up, but after a couple of missions to familiarize himself with what we were doing, Lieutenant Hoolihan saw possibilities with the combination of DUKWs, gun jeeps and the Little Elephant, sir.”

  “I’ll go ride with him some night,” Col. Randal said. “I’d like to see Frank’s cannon in action.”

  “Why did you pull me off the King Duck, sir?” Sgt. Mikkalis asked. “I was beginning to fine-tune my operational rhythm when I received your recall. Should be a lot of thin-skinned vehicles running down the coast road now that Rommel has gone back on the attack—the perfect set-up for Duck Patrol.”

  “An intake of fifty volunteers from the U.S. is arriving shortly,” Col. Randal said. “Mad Dog’s wounded—I need you to take charge of training until he’s fit for duty.”

  “Rest easy, Colonel, never give the new troops another thought,” Sgt. Maj. Mikkalis said. “Training them will be like a vacation. Life on the King Duck is no pleasure cruise; roughest ship I ever sailed on in any weather.”

  “Warthog Finley loves his LCT,” Col. Randal said.

  “No one else does, sir.”

  “Take a couple of weeks off, Sergeant Major,” Col. Randal said. “It’ll be a while before Travis McCloud gets back here.

  “Enjoy yourself.”

  “You positive you want me to take leave,” Sgt. Maj. Mikkalis said, “with the Germans driving on Alexandria, sir?”

  “Roger that,” Col. Randal said. “Maybe you don’t want to go to Alexandria.”

  “The Headhunter said you recommended it to him,” Sgt. Maj. Mikkalis said. “What gives, Colonel?”

  “Your mother isn’t in Cairo.”

  • • •

  King said, “You are not going to believe this, Chief. Lady Seaborn and Ensign Hamilton drove through the gate with a truckload of mannequins aboard one of Major Merritt’s 30-cwts. Three more trucks have what appear to be Arab tents stacked in the back. What is this all about?”

  Colonel John Randal was studying the map in the suite he shared with Major the Lady Jane Seaborn, memorizing every detail of the proposed Area of Operations (AO) that the remnant of Desert Patrol was going to be operating in. He said, “Illusionists make things disappear and appear according to The Great Teddy—what you see in the back of those trucks is an armored brigade of brand new American Grant tanks. The mannequins are the crew—got to use your imagination.”

  King said, “Things are getting stranger and stranger around here.”

  “May just be getting warmed up in the weird department,” Col. Randal said.

  “You and I won’t be traveling out with the convoy. We’ll jump in and link up later. Why don’t you take a few days off, King.”

  “Negative,” the Merc said. “Might miss out on what happens next. Besides, Chief, a major counterattack is in progress—in case you failed to notice.”

  “At least hit the town in Cairo the next two or three nights,” Col. Randal said. “That’s an order.”

  “Can do.”

  Waldo Treywick came in. “Colonel, got a minute? I could use some advice.”

  “What kind of advice, Mr. Treywick?”

  “Joe says it’s time to diversify our portfolio . . .”

  “King,” Col. Randal ordered. “Take up your post. Don’t let anyone other than Lady Jane come in until I finish my meeting with Mr. Treywick.”

  “Wilco.”

  “OK,” Col. Randal said after the Merc left the room. “I can’t imagine any investment advice you’d want from me, but take it from the top.”

  “You know Joe took them correspondence courses,” Waldo said. “‘The problem is the solution,’ remember?”

  “How could I forget?”

  “Well,” Waldo said, “one business course Joe took said
the most important rule of wealth management is to spread out your risk across a number a’ different asset classes—real estate bein’ one of ’em.”

  “That makes sense,” Col. Randal said.

  “Me and Joe got most of our assets tied up in the basement of the U.S. Embassy in downtown Kenya in crates labeled ‘Property of the U.S. Marshals Service,’” Waldo said. “And, it bein’ gold coins and bars, there’s a hitch—private ownership of gold is illegal in the States under current law—the Gold Reserve Act of 1934 to be specific.”

  “That is a problem,” Col. Randal said, accepting one of Waldo’s thin, custom-rolled cigars and sticking it between his front teeth.

  “Transportin’ the crates is gonna be risky too,” Waldo said. “We can’t insure somethin’ we ain’t supposed to have, and only a fool would put a load a’ uninsured gold on a ship that might get itself sunk by a German submarine.”

  “Hard,” Col. Randal said, “being a millionaire.”

  “Who’da ever thunk it,” Waldo said. “Almost as dangerous as huntin’ bad cat. You gotta make a bunch a’ decisions, lotta in’s, lotta out’s, and like your unofficial Roger’s Rangers rule says best, ‘Don’t Forget Nothin’.’”

  Col. Randal said, “That is important.”

  “Like I mentioned to you before, Colonel,” Waldo said, “we also got us a vault full-a’ precious stones in the Beverly Hills Bank, and we think right now might be a good time to sell a few to get some liquidity so we can diversify.

  “Me and Joe like raw land.”

  “I see,” Col. Randal said, which meant he did not have a clue where Waldo was going with this conversation.

  “Joe says there’s a Jap scare out on the West Coast,” Waldo said. “Folks is expectin’ to be invaded by the ‘Yellow Peril’ at any minute. Not too long ago a Nip submarine surfaced in plain view to shell a couple a’ targets with its deck gun, which didn’t do much for the locals’ morale.

  “I heard about it,” Col. Randal said.

  “The way you make money in real estate is to buy low and sell high,” Waldo said. “Ever since Pearl Harbor, land values in California along the coastline has done dropped right off the chart—lotsa sellers and ain’t no purchasers. Joe’s course he took said when that happens it’s what you call a ‘buyer’s market,’ which means it’s a buyin’ signal.

  “The best time to invest in land, accordin’ to Joe, is ‘when the blood runs red in the streets,’” Waldo said. “I don’t think he means real blood . . .”

  “Sounds like you two have the concept of real estate investing nailed, Mr. Treywick,” Col. Randal said. “What’s your question?”

  “My question is two questions,” Waldo said. “Could Joe and I take some leave after we get done fightin’ off Rommel in this next scrape so we can go to California to take a look at some property we might want to buy?”

  “Sure,” Col. Randal said. “Shove off right now if you like. Have a good trip. What’s the second question?”

  “You know we ain’t goin’ off leavin’ you in the middle of a battle to make money, Colonel,” Waldo said. “But after it’s done run its course, since you growed up out there, could you recommend some good areas along the California coast we might oughta take a look at?”

  Col. Randal said, “Love to.”

  • • •

  Colonel John Randal was sitting out by the suite’s private pool reading a

  book. He looked up when Major the Lady Jane Seaborn came out in one of her French cut swimsuits—this one was white. He wondered what his blood pressure was at that exact moment.

  “What are you reading, John?”

  “Infantry Attacks,” Col. Randal said. “Captain McKoy checked it out of the Cairo Public Library. He said there were hardly any other names on the card. Hadn’t been checked out in over three years.”

  “Only you would be reading a book on tactics no one else has any interest in,” Lady Jane laughed. “Who’s the author?”

  “Erwin Rommel.”

  7

  LITTLE BLOODY LATE

  Lieutenant Pamala Plum-Martin was in the front seat at the stick of the KING Duck’s 02SU Kingfisher floatplane. Wearing a brightly colored, oversized Hawaiian shirt, Earthquake McGoon was sitting directly behind her in the observer/gunner’s seat looking over her shoulder. She was getting a check ride in Raiding Forces’ newest airplane—and for once, it really was new. With the exception of the Hudson, all their other special operations aircraft were castoffs no one else wanted.

  This particular Kingfisher was the personal aircraft of Vice Admiral Sir Randolph “Razor” Ransom, VC, KCB, DSO, OBE, DSC. He had loaned it to Acting Provisional Sub-Lieutenant Skipper Warthog Finley, OBE, RNPS, for use on the Landing Craft Tank (LCT) King Duck. Sometime in the near future, the floatplane was going to be reported as “lost at sea,” and then the Razor could get a replacement more befitting the Deputy Director Naval Operations (Irregular) and Warthog would have his own off-the-books scout plane.

  Colonel John Randal and Wing Commander Ronald Gordon, aka “Flash Bang,” were squeezed in the two tiny passenger seats in line behind the pilots. The Kingfisher had been designed to carry a single passenger, but the Razor’s had been modified to add another. The aircraft was en route to the King Duck. Tonight Col. Randal and W/Cdr. Gordon were going to observe Lieutenant Butch “Headhunter” Hoolihan, DSO, MC, MM, RM, lead a Duck Patrol raid on one of the Italian roadhouses, called casas di stradas, along the coastal highway, the Via Balbia.

  Col. Randal wanted to observe Frank Polanski’s 47/32 Little Elephant in action, and he was allowing W/Cdr. Gordon to tag along in the interest of improving inter-service cooperation with the RAF, which up until recently had been nonexistent. And more particularly, because the Wing Commander had recommended Lt. Plum-Martin for the Distinguished Service Order for her part in originating, planning and flying OPERATION BOMBSHELL missions, which had resulted in more than one hundred Luftwaffe and Regia Aeronautica pilots being killed to date.

  Airplanes can be replaced in a matter of days. To replace the loss of an experienced combat pilot with an equally experienced combat pilot requires a minimum of two years’ flight training and operational flying. OPERATION BOMBSHELL missions hurt the opposition. The RAF had finally begun to recognize that fact.

  W/Cdr. Gordon made a lot of friends in Raiding Forces when the Vargas Girl-looking Royal Marine pilot received her gong—she was wildly popular, highly respected and a superb pilot.

  Lt. Plum-Martin was one of the most-decorated aviators England had produced in the war to date. Even so, she was not allowed to wear RAF wings. Women were only authorized Air Transport Wings.

  Regulations were regulations—she had won the medals but had decided to follow Col. Randal’s example and never wore them.

  “Prepare to land,” Lt. Plum-Martin said over her shoulder. “King Duck in sight.”

  The floatplane splashed down and taxied to the ungainly LCT. A team of RNPS sailors swarmed all over the small craft, attaching cables for the crane to hoist it aboard as the pilots and passengers scrambled up the ladder to the deck of the ship.

  Skipper Warthog Finley ordered the LCT underway the instant the Kingfisher was recovered on board. The sun went down flaming scarlet, swallowed up by the turquoise Mediterranean. Night fell, and it was pitch-dark almost immediately.

  After two hours, the King Duck hove to. RNPS sailors swung into action preparing to launch Duck Patrol’s DUKWs. Skipper Finley ran a taut ship. He carried out drills every waking minute of the day and even after the evening meal—drills late into the night.

  At this point the King Duck was approximately four hundred miles behind the enemy lines—three miles off the beach where Duck Patrol planned to land.

  Lt. Hoolihan came up on the bridge. He briefed the mission: “We are launching in ten minutes, sir. You and the Wing Commander will be riding in Frank’s DUKW. Tonight is planned to be a quick in and out. We will land a light patrol consisting of two gun jeeps
and the Little Elephant mounted in a DUKW.

  “The gun jeeps will be unloaded by two crane DUKWs. Frank will transition his gun DUKW into wheel drive. Then, in company of the two jeeps, proceed inland to the Via Balbia approximately five hundred yards off the beach.

  “Once on the highway, the patrol will make a left-hand turn and proceed down the hardball for a mile to the objective—a casa di strada that we hope will not be expecting company.

  “Immediately upon arrival, Frank will shell the roadhouse. The gun jeeps will shoot up any enemy vehicles or other targets of opportunity that happen to be on the objective. Then our patrol will do an about-face, return to the pick-up point—seeding the road with camel chip mines as we go—reload the two gun jeeps and exfiltrate back to the King Duck.

  “Questions?”

  There were no questions.

  “In that case,” Lt. Hoolihan said, “see you on the beach, Colonel.”

  “Roger that, Butch.”

  W/Cdr. Gordon was beginning to have reservations about the wisdom of a RAF officer, particularly one on light duty because of an injured leg, the result of a recent crash—his fifth—accompanying a Commando raid. It is one thing to roll in on a target with all guns blazing, pull out and fly away home. Tonight was going to be up close and personal.

  Home was a long way off.

  “Lighten up, Ronnie,” Col. Randal said, sensing the pilot’s apprehension as they were making their way to Frank Polanski’s gun DUKW for the run ashore. “The Headhunter’s one of my most trusted officers. We’ve served together a long time.”

  “Colonel,” W/Cdr. Gordon said, “that is no reason at all for me to take comfort.”

  Col. Randal said, “You could have a point.”

  Skipper Finley was supervising the preparation for the launch. As usual, Warthog had the stub of a nasty-looking cigar clenched in his jaw. He was walking down the line of DUKWs inspecting each one with a critical eye. The captain of a ship underway is a king, the master of the universe.

  Skipper Finley never let anyone aboard the King Duck ever forget it.