BRIGHT AND EARLY THE NEXT MORNING MAJOR JOHN RANDAL was sitting alone in the breakfast room of the Bradford Hotel waiting for Major Lawrence “Larry” Grand, Chief of the Special Operations Executive Section D (Destruction), to meet him.
Since the hotel staff were going out of their way to treat him like a long-favored guest, he did not really feel alone. People flocked to his table: a waiter refilled his coffee cup; the doorman left his post and brought him an unsolicited newspaper; the concierge asked if he would like a bootblack to be summoned to give him a shine at the table; the manager inquired if the “evening dinner with Mrs. Seaborn” had been satisfactory. The lift operator even waved at him from across the lobby.
He was getting royal treatment, and he had no idea why.
Major Randal felt as though a time machine had taken him back to the eighteenth century as he looked around the luxurious dining room. Had it not been for the presence of RAF pilots and officers wearing modern Royal Tank Regiment insignia, the illusion would have been complete. The Bradford Hotel was a pleasant place to spend time.
“Morning, John. Sign your chit, the brigadier wants to see us straightaway,” the tall major ordered cheerfully as he strolled up to the table, a custom-rolled cigarette in an ivory holder clenched between his teeth.
As usual, Major Grand was impeccably dressed: He was wearing a Saville Row double-breasted, pale gray, pinstriped suit, his signature red carnation in the buttonhole. Topping off the ensemble with dark glasses, he looked, dressed, and acted exactly like the spymaster he was.
The two officers walked out of the Bradford, around the corner, and down the street to the St. Ermins, a building to which Captain the Lady Jane Seaborn had once taken Major Randal. The lift was as rickety as he remembered.
“Go right in, gentlemen, he is waiting for you,” the secretary informed them as they entered. “Nice to see you again, Major Randal. We are all quite proud of you, sir.”
Brigadier Colin Gubbins, Director of Operations for Special Operations Executive, bounded around his desk to shake hands. “Congratulations on a splendid operation, Major. You definitely obeyed our mandate to set Europe ablaze . . . ha ha! Good show, old boy!”
“Anyone ever find out what caused the lighthouse to go up like that?” Major Randal asked.
“Acetylene,” Major Grand explained, “fueled the light. Acetylene burns clean and is not known for its explosive qualities, but it is highly, highly flammable . . . I wish I had been there to see the fireworks.”
“Imagine Mount Everest up close, exploding.”
“Must have been impressive!”
“Very.”
“I know Lawrence has a full morning planned for you, Major, so I shall be brief,” Brigadier Gubbins interrupted, cutting straight to the business at hand.
“Strategic Raiding Forces has been tapped for a delicate operation of national importance, one fraught with extremely sensitive political ramifications. If you succeed, no one will ever acknowledge the operation took place. If you fail, it will be front-page news worldwide, and we shall deny we know you. In fact, we shall do our best to make the case you are a rogue mercenary operating freelance, presumably for profit.”
Major Randal immediately clicked on.
“Success means that you will save hundreds, if not thousands, of British servicemen’s lives and keep our side in the war a while longer. Failure means death or imprisonment in horrible conditions similar to, or worse than, Devil’s Island.” The brusque brigadier was boring holes in Major Randal with intense eyes that burned as bright as a fire-breathing dragon’s. “What say you?”
“Sounds like failure isn’t much of an option, sir,” Major Randal said. “With small-scale raiding it seldom is.”
Silence hung heavy in the room. “Good man! Failure not an option, I like that—positive thinking, what!”
They were out of the brigadier’s room almost as fast as when he and Lady Jane had paid their initial courtesy call. In the lift on the way down, Major Randal remarked, “My two meetings with Brigadier Gubbins together have not totaled ten minutes.”
“They say he is a wild one at his club, though,” Major Grand replied. “Has a reputation with the ladies.”
“Really?”
“Hates meetings!”
They proceeded straight to the major’s office next door at 2 Caxton Street. Major Grand did not waste time either. He launched into his briefing immediately.
“To refresh your memory, John, I command Section D, Special Operations Executive. The D stands for destruction, but sometimes we do other things too. Originally, Section D belonged to the Secret Intelligence Service, MI-6, who . . . ah, used to be my employer. Following a vicious backroom power struggle waged at the highest levels of government, Section D was uprooted and transferred to Special Operations Executive after SOE was given the charter to “set Europe ablaze.” SIS has remained a purely intelligence-gathering organization, which is their forte.
“A constant battle between the two secret services is being fought out in the thick-carpeted corridors and private, oak-paneled anterooms of Whitehall. One organization has been around three hundred years and the other has not even been around three hundred days, and—ah, well—some feel like Section D was hijacked from SIS in a coup d’etat, causing certain rather hard feelings from the cloak and dagger set at Broadway.
“The old-school SIS conduct clandestine intelligence operations of high sophistication, while SOE is experimenting with bombs disguised as horse droppings. The two cultures clash. One organization takes pains to avoid trouble; the other goes to equally great lengths to cause it.
“Strictly off the record, John, SOE is a frightful potpourri of amateurs, and it is immensely unpopular with the other intelligence services. Somehow we have managed to attract every crackpot in Europe, if not the entire world, to our ranks. SIS is trying to swallow us like a python, and neither the Navy nor the RAF wants to support our operations. Rather hard for one to imagine a worse mess, actually, but we have to press on, muddle through, keep a stiff upper lip, sort it out and all that rot.”
Major Randal said, “That’s not good.”
“Let me give you just the latest example of idiocy I have had to contend with. By official Royal Air Force estimate, in any given twenty-four-hour period, on average, 160 German medium bombers are dropping bombs over London. An elite German Pathfinder squadron made up of the Luftwaffe’s most experienced bomber pilots and navigators, called Kampfgeschwader 100, guides the bombers to their targets and then marks the targets for them with high-intensity magnesium air-to-ground flares.
“SOE pinpointed the Pathfinders’ airbase outside of Vannes in Brittany, and I developed a plan to ambush the Pathfinder pilots while in transit by bus from their hotel to their airfield prior to a mission.”
“Sounds like a great target,” Major Randal said. “That why I’m here?”
“No, what I am telling you is old news. We intended to use Free French parachutists for the job, had a team trained and ready to be dropped in. At the very last minute the RAF backed out, refusing us the use of their troop transport aircraft for the mission. The RAF decided, and I quote them as nearly as possible, ‘Seems unsportsmanlike to drop armed men in civilian clothes to attack members of a uniformed military force and is not the type of an operation with which the Royal Air Force wishes to associate itself.’
“Naturally we had no choice except to cancel the mission,” Major Grand concluded ruefully. “What say you, John?”
“Combat experienced pilots in one bunch are the ultimate high-grade target,” Major Randal said. “Exactly the kind I’m looking for.”
“Another example of inner-service intrigue—the Navy gave SOE a motor gunboat to do the same kind of cross-Channel stuff you have been doing with your yacht. Guess what? It caught fire and burned up during trials.
“SOE has yet to put a single agent ashore in France by sea, and the rumor is, if the Navy has its way, we never shall. No one actually believes a Royal Navy motor gunboat caught fire in harbor during broad daylight and burned up without some help.”
“You think the Navy sabotaged its own boat?”
“No comment. Naturally the Navy has been reluctant to provide us another MGB to incinerate.
“While the whole nation is being bombed into the Stone Age and standing by to be invaded, our response to the onslaught of the evil Nazi peril has been to ramp up inner-service rivalry to a previously unknown fever pitch. The regular military establishment clearly does not wish to support what they contemptuously refer to as ‘spy versus spy’ adventures. Actually, I do believe there are indeed some misguided individuals who would sabotage what they view as a competing service—hold that thought.”
“Roger.”
“Now, the reason I have been going to such lengths to bore you with this unhappy tale is because we are planning to send you into a situation where inner-service rivalry, local politics, private agendas, and other competing interests will be more of a direct threat to the success of your mission than the Axis Powers.”
“Are you serious?”
“Absolutely. Now, to the main point,” Major Grand declared. “Scattered around the globe, John, are a handful of neutral nations. Dotting the world’s oceans are islands claimed by these noncombatant countries. Those islands too small to be accorded colony status by the claiming nations are designated ‘protectorates.’ Most neutral protectorates have at least one port.
“At the outbreak of the war, a number of German and Italian ships were, in the normal course of their duties, caught docked in neutral ports, as were some of our own vessels. They all had to put to sea or face internment.
“Under international law, a ship from a combatant nation may not stay in a neutral port longer than seventy-two hours. If for any reason a ship from a combatant nation does not leave within the proscribed time, it is automatically interned in the port along with its crew for the duration of hostilities, no questions asked and no exceptions made.
“Off the Gold Coast in West Africa is located the tiny Portuguese protectorate of Rio Bonita. The island is so tiny it looks like a flyspeck on the map. Located on it is one little harbor town named San Pedro. Interned in San Pedro Harbor are three merchant ships, two Italian and one German.
“The German ship, Ems, has been of considerable interest to us. We put an agent aboard her, and he reported that she is powered by two 6-cylinder, 2-stroke MAN diesels that develop 3,820 horsepower each. John, that’s the exact same type of engine the Kriegsmarine uses to power its pocket battleships. Hmmm!
“The decks of the Ems are made of special reinforced steel. She carries gun mountings and is capable of doubling as an auxiliary cruiser. Her captain is a hardcore, fanatical, card-carrying member of the Nazi Party.
“The question we asked ourselves was, ‘Why would the Ems make a high-speed run straight to Rio Bonita on the first day of the war, over-stay the seventy-two-hour limit, and allow herself to be interned for the duration when she had been purpose-built and carefully pre-positioned to function as an armed commerce raider astride one of the most strategic sea-lanes in the world?’”
“Doesn’t make sense,” Major Randal said. “Burned a good asset.”
“Off West Africa are about fifty thousand square miles of ocean the Navy calls the ‘Southern Sea-Lane’ . . . The Royal Navy has only a handful of ships to patrol it, with the predictable result of the Navy being vastly overtaxed. We are losing a significant, and I do mean significant, number of our priceless merchant fleet to U-boats and surface raiders out there.
“Sometimes, in an attempt to fool the Germans, our merchantmen do not always stick strictly to the convoy system. On occasion we let captains sail alone, relying on speed and the element of surprise for protection. It is a mighty big ocean.
“We have even tried letting some of our merchant ships sail with sealed orders not to be opened until they were out to sea, like Royal Navy warships, to eliminate any possibility that ‘loose lips’ might actually ‘sink ships.’
“Nothing works. Whether in convoys or sailing singly with sealed orders, either the U-boats find and sink them or the armed commerce raiders show up and get them.
“It is painfully clear the Germans know each ship’s course and speed. Quite often, when the U-boats surface at night and attack a convoy so large the U-boats do not have enough time to sink them all before daylight, they simply go through the convoy and sink the ships with the highest-priority cargo. That tells us they know the name of the ships and what goods they are transporting.”
“The German navy must have a crystal ball.”
“Well, actually, they have a little help.” Major Grand continued. “Our Y-Service has located a high-speed radio signal emanating from San Pedro. The code-breaking boffins were able to read the signals and—bloody surprise—it was the sailing data of allied merchant ships sailing from ports located along the West Coast of Africa. The signal is sent in German navy code from a high-speed transmitter, which was an indication to us it might be coming from the Ems. Finally, the Y-Service triangulated the signal and confirmed our suspicions—the transmissions are originating from the Ems. No question about it.
“Suddenly it becomes clear. The ship intentionally sacrificed herself in order to establish a strategically located radio station in a safe harbor.”
“The Portuguese allow that?”
“No, the Kriegsmarine is running a clandestine operation. In accordance with international maritime law, the Portuguese made all three ships dismantle their radios as a condition of internment, and the vessels are currently subject to periodic inspection to make sure they stay dismantled. Theoretically, all radio traffic has to go through the port authorities in order to be transmitted. We believe the Portuguese do not have any idea the Germans have a secret radio hidden aboard the Ems.”
“How does the Ems obtain our shipping information?”
“That is the BIG question. We are going to be working on the answer, that’s for sure. As of this moment, all we know is that the signals are sent directly to the U-boats and commerce raiders at sea and they immediately act on the information. The transmissions are occurring three times per week as regular as clockwork. You could set that good-looking Rolex watch of yours by them.”
“What’s all this have to do with me?”
“Major, you are to expedite an immediate move of Strategic Raiding Forces to the port city of Accra in the Gold Coast colony. From there you will mount a cutting-out operation to board the Ems and the two Italian ships interned in the port of Rio Bonita, then sail them to international waters, where you will effect handover of all three ships to the Royal Navy.” Somehow, the British spymaster managed to make the whole idea sound sane.
“You want me,” Major Randal said, “to invade a neutral country to commit an act of piracy?”
“And you can never tell a soul,” Major Grand confirmed cheerfully as he fitted another custom-rolled cigarette into his ivory holder. “Sound like your cup of tea, John?”
“Why bring out the two Italian ships? Why not just take the Ems?”
“We suspect the Germans may have hidden a backup radio on one of the Italian ships in the event anything happens to the one on the Ems,” Major Grand replied. “Or in the unlikely event the locals discover the primary set on one of their periodic inspections.”
“In that case, why don’t you simply inform the Portuguese and have them shut down the Ems’s secret radio, and if the signals start back up again get the port authorities to search the Italian ships?”
“I am not at liberty to answer that question,” the SOE man responded vaguely. “I may or may not have direct knowledge of the exact reason. Sufficient to say, even if I do, am not authorized to discuss it with you at this time. Probably it would be fair to speculate MI-6 obtained the intelligence about the Ems from some source we cannot reveal to the Portuguese. And they would be certain to ask.”
“Just to get this straight, Major: British intelligence wants me to take Raiding Forces out to Africa without my having confidence you know all the answers about why you’re sending us?”
“Here is what I am authorized to tell you,” Major Grand explained carefully. “The Secret Intelligence Service has an operating agreement with Special Operations Executive in the Gold Coast. Our firm has a presence there, and since MI-6 does not, from time to time we perform certain tasks for them. Because of my, ah, former relationship with SIS, this one landed on my desk.
“Raiding Forces will be acting on behalf of, and with the full knowledge of, MI-6. In addition, this operation has been sanctioned at the very highest level of the government. That, by the way, John, will be confirmed to you in writing at some point before you proceed with the final execution of the mission.”
“You realize this could result in Portugal declaring war on Great Britain,” Major Randal pointed out. “Don’t we have enough problems already?”
Blowing a large smoke ring at the ceiling and then shooting another through it, Major Grand answered deadpan, “That is why you can never tell.”
“When is this supposed to happen?”
“You will be flying out to the Gold Coast tomorrow. Your men are going to be put on a fast troop transport to arrive there within a week to ten days.”
“In that case, I want my deputy commander, Terry Stone, to travel with me. Also, I will need one of my officers promoted to captain so he can take command of Raiding Forces during the troop movement.”
“You certainly don’t ask for much. That’s what I like about you, John. I shall make the arrangements straightaway. I shall have Captain Stone sent for immediately. Provide me the details on the officer you want promoted. Do not worry unduly about your troops. I intend to have a man on board the troop transport armed with the proper credentials to ensure that your people arrive in Accra thinking they have been on a pleasure cruise.”
“You’re a wild and crazy guy, Larry.”
“I was thinking the same about you, John.”
“Tell me the truth. Did the RAF actually say, ‘not sporting’ about ambushing those German Pathfinder pilots?”
“In truth, yes, they did.”
“You really think our side is trying to win?”
“Coming from an American volunteer who came to England’s aid in her darkest hour, I suppose that is a fair question. Since we are not having this conversation, I confess that from time to time we wonder the same thing around here. My best answer to you is that most of us are giving it everything we have.”
“In Raiding Forces our first rule is there ain’t no rules,” Major Randal said. “The old school tie network running this war needs to learn that fast.”
“Our side has to take the gloves off,” Major Grand agreed, nonchalantly inspecting the tip of his cigarette. “And that is exactly why we called on Raiding Forces, John. You do not ask many questions; you just go get the job done.
“Now, how would you like to tag along and observe firsthand a board and seize operation this very night to see how it’s done before you go out to Africa?”
“Love to.”