The Sharp End Page 9

  Lady Jane came out in a white, fluffy robe, not a stick of makeup, golden tan, mahogany hair swirling in the morning breeze—drop-dead gorgeous. She was carrying a tray with steaming cups of tea.

  “I ran into Ronnie having breakfast when I went down to the mess,” Lady Jane said. “He informed me you were up to your typical heroics last night. Did Duck Patrol encounter more than it bargained for?”

  Col. Randal said, “We did.”

  “Expect the unexpected,” Lady Jane said, quoting from Raiding Forces’ “Rules for Raiding.”

  “Now, how,” Col. Randal said, “am I supposed to do that?”

  “You wrote the rules,” Lady Jane laughed.

  “True—but I modified that one.”

  “John, may I ask you a personal question?”

  “Sure—fire away.”

  “Why is it that you strike me as not taking this latest Afrika Korps offensive seriously?” Lady Jane said. “You seem disinterested.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “You order almost every person you come in contact with to take time off or go on leave. Raiding Forces is on alert to deploy, we are already desperately under strength, and yet you are authorizing even more people to be away,” Lady Jane said. “Why, John?”

  “We’re not having this conversation,” Col. Randal said. “OK?”

  “My lips are sealed,” Lady Jane said, noting he did not use the word “classified”—which meant what she was about to hear was an opinion.

  “Rommel holds Benghazi,” Col. Randal said. “Let’s say he kicked off from there—not exactly sure where this counterattack started from—but let’s give him the benefit of the doubt. How far east is Tobruk?”

  “Two hundred thirty miles,” Lady Jane said, “more or less.”

  “Tanks hit a maintenance wall at approximately two hundred fifty,” Col. Randal said, “and that’s if they’re in perfect running order when they start out. Rommel’s aren’t—his saw hard service in CRUSADER.”

  “Maintenance ‘wall,’” Lady Jane said. “How do you know so much about tanks?”

  “That’s what happened at Calais,” Col. Randal said. “The 10th Panzer Division ground to a halt outside the town, broken down after having raced three hundred miles across France.”

  Lady Jane said, “But you destroyed the last . . .”

  “The panzers sure didn’t stop because my Swamp Fox Force people blew up a bridge,” Col. Randal said. “German engineers could have spanned that stream in a few hours.”

  “Fascinating,” Lady Jane said. “Rommel might reach Tobruk, possibly even capture it, but that will be as far as his tanks are able to travel without a lengthy pause for maintenance?”

  “That’s right,” Col. Randal said.

  “Why, then,” Lady Jane asked, “is there such a flap at GHQ over Rommel’s counterattack?”

  “I have no idea,” Col. Randal said.

  King came out to the pool carrying a phone with the cord trailing, “The general is on the line for you, Chief.”

  “Colonel Randal, sir.”

  “Colonel,” James “Baldie” Taylor said, “Dudley believes you cannot afford to wait until your convoy of gun jeeps arrives from Oasis X to carry out the operation I briefed you on. You do not even have the luxury to wait for the civilian trucks Sammy Sansom located to transport your men to the target area—we are out of time.

  “Your mission needs to be executed, at least in part, by daylight tomorrow—come up with a plan.”

  “Roger that, sir.”

  “What did Jim want?” Lady Jane asked.

  “We’re ordered to have the initial phase of Teddy’s deception in place by tomorrow morning,” Col. Randal said. “The military situation is . . . ‘deteriorating rapidly.’”

  “Extraordinary,” Lady Jane said. “Rommel is running his tanks into the ground and our side is panicking.”

  “My thought exactly,” Col. Randal said.

  “Teddy has to be five hundred miles from here,” Lady Jane said. “By dawn?”

  “That’s what the man said.” Col. Randal ordered, “King, have Karen, Pam and the wing commander report to me as soon as possible—if not sooner.”

  “On the way.”

  “Better have Ensign Hamilton up, too,” Col. Randal said. “He’s going to be stage managing this extravaganza.”

  “Anyone else, Chief?

  “That’s it for now—you sit in when they arrive.”

  When King had departed, Lady Jane said, “Our Command is so spooked—awkward. And more than a little disquieting.”

  “If GHQ had any guts,” Col. Randal said, “they’d let Rommel run free, unopposed. Then when his tanks hit the end of their string—kill him.”

  Lady Jane said, “Agreed.”

  Within minutes, Lieutenant Pamala Plum-Martin and Lieutenant Karen Montgomery arrived wearing their swimsuits and legwarmers. King had pulled them out of Rocky’s exercise class (Lady Jane was sitting it out today to spend the morning with Col. Randal). Wing Commander Ronald Gordon came in right after them. Ensign Teddy Hamilton arrived last.

  Col. Randal said, “Raiding Forces has been ordered to execute Ensign Hamilton’s deception operation to start at Beginning Morning Nautical Twilight tomorrow.

  “Pam, can you airdrop enough supplies to keep us going until a ground convoy can reach the target?”

  “Depends,” Lt. Plum-Martin said, “on what we have to transport.”

  “Arab tents, mainly,” Ens. Hamilton said. “A few other small handheld implements to make tank tracks, smoke pots and some inflatable tanks.”

  “Arab tents?” Col. Randal asked.

  “It is not really possible to hide anything in the desert, sir,” Ens. Hamilton said. “You can only make an object look like something else.

  “Also, it is important for us to think like our enemy—Rommel. He makes cars look like trucks and trucks look like tanks, and he hides his tanks in Arab tents.

  “We set up our own tents, then make artificial tank tracks leading up to each one. When the enemy aerial reconnaissance sees it from the air—hey, presto—Mr. Desert Fox will believe a brigade of British armor has miraculously appeared on his flank because that is exactly what he would do—hide his panzers in Arab tents.”

  Col. Randal said, “Makes sense.”

  The Vargas Girl-looking Royal Marine said, “To deliver the materials and drop the parachutists will require more than our Hudson—you will be dropping every available man, correct?”

  “Negative,” Col. Randal said. “Plan for no more than twenty jumpers.”

  “In that case, John,” Lt. Plum-Martin said, “we should be able to accomplish our mission with two more Hudsons for the initial drop—possibly another after Teddy shows me exactly what it is we will have to fly in on follow-up drops.”

  “Can you make that happen, Wing Commander?” Col. Randal asked.

  “I take it this is a high priority mission?” W/Cdr. Gordon asked.

  “Field Marshal Auchinleck personally authorized it,” Lady Jane said.

  “Hudsons are high in demand by VIPs but are relatively low-priority RAF combat support aircraft,” W/Cdr. Gordon said. “I am reasonably confident there shall be no problem securing the use of two of them on a limited, short-term basis.

  “You are going to have to find pilots,” W/Cdr. Gordon said. “Those are in critically short supply.”

  “Are you certified to fly a Hudson, Ronnie?” Col. Randal asked.

  “I am, Colonel.”

  “Then Pam can fly one and Earthquake McGoon the other—make it happen.”

  “My pleasure.”

  “Karen,” Col. Randal said, “can you have parachutes ready for the drop tonight?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Do you have enough chutes available to airdrop supplies, etc., until we can get our ground convoy on the scene? And we’re going to need to initiate an OPERATION LIMELIGHT-type mission simultaneously.”

  “In that case,
we shall need to make arrangements for more of the decommissioned parachutes mothballed at RAF Habbaniya to be flown to RFHQ, John.”

  “Am I permitted to inquire,” W/Cdr. Gordon asked, “what an ‘OPERATION LIMELIGHT-type mission’ might be?”

  “We drop parachutes weighted down by blocks of ice in enemy territory,” Col. Randal said. “The ice melts, the bad guys—or in this case, the local Arabs—will find empty parachutes, steal the silk and report the chutes to the Germans or Italians for a reward.

  “Gives the other side something to think about—where did the jumpers disappear to?”

  “That is brilliant,” W/Cdr. Gordon said. “RAF will order the decommissioned parachutes you require flown to RFHQ immediately. Simple enough to stage a training exercise for the flying school students at Habbaniya by having them fly a real transport mission.”

  “All right then,” Col. Randal said. “Let’s do this, people.”

  • • •

  Dusty from his desert travels, ex-Lieutenant Billy Jack Jaxx arrived at RFHQ. He immediately reported to Colonel John Randal in his suite. He found him in his small briefing area, studying the map.

  “You made it, Jack,” Col. Randal said. “Just in time.”

  “Not exactly, sir,” ex-Lt. Jaxx said. “I came on ahead when we received the alert for a new mission. The rest of the convoy is about a day behind.”

  “Glad you did,” Col. Randal said. “Some of us will be making a jump later tonight. The plan is to set up a diversion—dummy tanks. Try to get Rommel to take his eyes off the ball.

  “You can take a few days off for R&R or come with us—your call.”

  “I’ll be jumping in with you, Colonel,” ex-Lt. Jaxx said.

  “Hit the shower, get some rest,” Col. Randal said. “We’ll have lunch in Cairo with Jane.”

  “Yes, sir—I’d like that.”

  “By the way, you’re a free man, Jack—pardoned by the Texas governor,” Col. Randal said, tossing him the copy of the Austin Statesman newspaper. “How’s it feel to be called a hero?”

  “Not like I thought it would, sir.”

  “That’s a fact.”

  As ex-Lt. Jaxx was leaving, King came in, shutting the door behind him. That had never happened before. Col. Randal clicked on without knowing why.

  “This might not be the time, Chief,” King said. “I would like to discuss something not pertaining to current operations.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “When you have me take my post and fail to order me to shut the door, I can hear every word said in this room,” King said.

  Col. Randal stuck one of Waldo’s cigars between his teeth, “I know that.”

  “What I thought,” the Merc said. “Anyway, Chief, strictly off the record—I’m a Swiss national with some familiarity with international banking. I may have a solution to Captain McKoy and Waldo’s gold predicament.”

  “Really?”

  “Request your permission to discuss the subject with them,” King said.

  “Who do you need in this conversation?”

  “The captain,” King said, “Waldo, Lady Seaborn and you.”

  “In that case,” Col. Randal said, “let’s do it—get ’em up here. Have the Marine duty officer station one of the girls at the door. I’ll inform Jane her presence is requested.”

  When the Merc returned with Captain “Geronimo” Joe McKoy and Waldo, Col. Randal and Major the Lady Jane Seaborn were sitting in the living area. The men came in and took their seats. The door was firmly shut behind them.

  “OK,” Col. Randal said, “lay it out, King.”

  “As I understand it, Captain McKoy,” the Merc said, “you and Waldo are in possession of a number of gold bars stored in the U.S. Consulate in Kenya.”

  Capt. McKoy looked at the soldier of fortune with narrowed eyes. “Maybe so, maybe no.”

  “You are faced with a dilemma,” King said. “U.S. citizens are not allowed to own gold—FDR confiscated all of it in civilian hands in 1939. You may be rich, but there is no way to spend your money.

  “To complicate the problem, you have no sure method of transporting your gold to someplace completely safe from the Nazis.”

  “If a man had himself a bunch a’ gold,” Capt. McKoy said, “that would be a serious concern all right—between a rock and a hard spot.”

  “For the sake of argument,” King said, “if I were an American with a large stash of gold bars, what I would do is sell them to a Swiss bank. That way, I would have my money in hand; if I banked the gold, I would have to worry about the Germans crossing the border into Switzerland and nationalizing the banks.”

  “Can you do that?” Capt. McKoy asked. “Sell gold to a Swiss bank rather than deposit it?”

  “You can,” King said. “The trick is, make the arrangements through a third party, which allows you to remain anonymous. Then, when the bankers are standing by ready, deliver the gold to the bank. A branch bank will work fine—there is even one in Nairobi.

  “Immediately upon arrival, your shipment of gold will be inventoried. Total value can be established after each bar is inspected—the bank has to verify they are not buying bars of gold-painted lead.

  “Then, while you or your representative is physically present, the money agreed to will be wire-transferred to the bank or banks of your choice anywhere in the world.

  “That part will require finesse,” King said. “You want to avoid tax consequences.”

  Lady Jane said, “Leave that to me. The Seaborn family has legal counsel here in Cairo.”

  “How much would a bank be willing to pay us?” Waldo asked.

  “The current market rate for gold is $30 per ounce,” King said. “Every country in the world wants hard assets during time of war. The only asset more desirable is diamonds because the stones are portable.

  “Swiss banks have a catalog of clients who will snap up all the gold they can buy at a premium to the market rate—because almost no one is selling.”

  Capt. McKoy and Waldo glanced at each other.

  “What do you get out of this, King?” Capt. McKoy asked.

  “I pick the bank.”

  “Fair enough—make ’em kick you some back.”

  King smiled.

  Col. Randal said, “How much gold do you men have in that basement?”

  “Twenty-three five hundred-pound crates,” Capt. McKoy said, sounding embarrassed, “we made a big haul, John.”

  “Over five million dollars, U.S.,” Lady Jane said, momentarily stunned.

  “Not countin’,” Capt. McKoy said, “them sacks a’ gold coins.”

  “Yeah,” Waldo said. “There’s eleven of ’em double-bagged—about the size of sandbags. How do we work that out?”

  “Gold coins have a numismatic value to collectors—possibly worth more than your boxes of bars,” Lady Jane said, her green eyes sparkling with delight.

  “You two are rich as sultans!”

  “There’s been a lot a’ slips betwix’ the cup and the lip,” Capt. McKoy said.

  “Lady Jane, would you consider ramrodding the bank buyout and wire transfer deal accordin’ to the plan King laid out? Use your lawyer to be our straw man—kinda like the sound of that anonymous part. Get him to review the papers, handle our side a’ the negotiations and all?”

  “Oh, yes.”

  “Thank you, ma’am—feelin’ a lot better knowin’ you’re in the deal,” Waldo said. “International finance ain’t my normal forté.”

  “Negotiating with bankers,” Lady Jane said, “is like hunting man-eating lions, Mr. Treywick.”

  “The most important rule a’ huntin’ bad cat,” Waldo said, “is don’t get yourself ate.”

  “Exactly.”

  Capt. McKoy looked King dead in the eye, “It don’t take a genius to spot a goat in a flock a’ sheep. We sell ’em coins, you’re in for a cut from our side too—you’re our man, King.”

  The Merc said, “Affirmative.”

  “No wonder,�
�� Lady Jane laughed, “you chose to pass on returning to Abyssinia to be knighted by the Emperor, Mr. Treywick.”

  “Sounded like a trap,” Capt. McKoy said. “Smelled like a trap—we figured it was a trap.”

  Waldo said, “New-mist-o-matic?”

  • • •

  “Chief,” King called from his desk at the door to the suite, “a code word RED INDIAN message is on the way up marked ‘By Hand of Officer Only.’”

  Colonel John Randal looked up from the table where he was cleaning his pistols when Lieutenant Mandy Paige dashed in with the flimsy.

  “Phantom asked me to deliver this, John, since I happened to be in the Operations Room when it came in.”

  Col. Randal read:

  INTELLIGENCE INDICATES AXIS RAIL SYSTEM NOW UTILIZING RED INDIAN FOR COMMAND & CONTROL OF TRAIN TRAFFIC STOP INITIATE OPERATIONS TO SECURE STOP EXPEDITE EXPEDITE STOP 17F

  17F was Commander Ian Fleming—personal assistant to the chief of Naval Intelligence.

  “King,” Col. Randal ordered, “have Captain Stirling and Lieutenant Jaxx report to me ASAP.

  “Get Teddy up here too—hold him at your desk until I call for him.”

  “On the way, Chief.”

  “You want me to leave, John?” Lt. Mandy asked, clearly not wanting to.

  “You can stay,” Col. Randal said, knowing full well the girl had a long history of worming herself into any project she wanted to. The best way to deal with Lt. Mandy was to include her from the start.

  “This is a RED INDIAN—you’ve been partially read into the missions. What we’re getting ready to discuss is classified and you won’t talk about it with anyone not present—let me hear a wilco, Mandy.”

  “Understand and will comply,” Lt. Mandy flashed a beautiful, white-toothed smile—she liked being part of the team.

  King came in with Captain “Pyro” Percy Stirling and ex-Lieutenant Billy Jack Jaxx.

  Col. Randal said. “Percy, I don’t believe you’ve met Mandy Paige.”

  “The pleasure is mine, Mandy,” said Capt. Stirling. The 17/21 Lancers, the “Death or Glory Boys,” could be exceedingly charming when they chose.

  “Your reputation has certainly preceded you, Pyro,” Lt. Mandy said.