The Fair Trade Raid
by Millie Terry
In the pilot, Hitchcock is the driver for the anonymous casualty (whom I've named Benson here) and then Moffitt when he joins them. But after that, Hitchcock drives for Troy and Tully drives for Moffitt. No explanation is ever given for the switch, so this is an effort to clear that up. Thanks to Polly Cy from The Big Valley Writing Desk for the plot bunny. Despite her inexplicable preference for westerns, she has a soft spot for RP and apparently offered the idea to a couple of you. When no one took up the challenge, she passed it along to me. Polly, I hope you a) think I did justice to your idea, and b) see the light and get over the westerns, already!
I also wondered about Hitchcock's mysterious disappearing glasses. He doesn't seem to wear them with any consistency, so I had to ask why. I hope this explanation makes sense.
Everyone seems to use "Colonel Wilson," but that's fanon, not canon. As the proud owner of the complete set of DVDs, I can assure you all that Colonel Quint is the officer at the top of the RP's chain of command. Quint appeared in the pilot, had an uncredited appearance in Season 1's "Do or Die Raid" and appeared in the "Chase of Fire Raid."
Captain Boggs seems to be the only other recurring officer working with the Rats, appearing in a total of 5 episodes and referenced by name in several others
Secretary of War Henry Stimson served under four US Presidents: Taft, Hoover, Franklin Roosevelt, and Truman. This is the same Henry Stimson who shut down the State Department's "Black Chamber" code breaking unit with the stupendously idiotic statement, "Gentlemen don't read each others' mail." This action almost certainly contributed to the tragedy of Pearl Harbor, since the Black Chamber had cracked and routinely monitored Japanese diplomatic traffic. When Stimson disbanded them, the US was left "deaf and blind" regarding Japan's intentions.
Operation Torch. The Allied push into German and Italian-held North Africa from Morocco in the west, and Egypt in the east. November 8-16, 1942. The effort to take North Africa concluded successfully with Montgomery's 8th Army's moving into Tripoli on January 22, 1943.
Libya was considered by Mussolini to be an Italian colony, the so-called "Fourth Shore" of Italy.
Native Libyans were required to obtain a special "limited citizenship" award in order to get jobs, particularly in the military
Tripoli had a population of about 120,000, with more than a third being Italians
CHAPTER 1
The Allied camp was pretty much like all the others in this part of North Africa. It was semi-permanent, butted up against a smallish town whose narrow streets were choked with dogs and donkeys, hand-pulled carts and top-heavy trucks, men in desert robes and men in desert uniforms. Out of deference to the local Muslims, the troops who ventured into the coffee houses didn't demand alcohol, but they hadn't given up their beer and spirits entirely. A dozen or more temporary establishments had sprung up on the fringes of the town, winked at by the local headman and tolerated with tightly pressed lips and smoldering, resentful eyes by the Imam.
Sgt. Sam Troy got lucky and found his two privates in only the third one he checked. It was slightly better than the first two; its interior was dim and shadowy, and, thanks to a fan circling lazily near the ceiling, it was a scant but welcome ten degrees cooler than the outside. The thumping, wheezing compressor offered the promise that the beer might be cool at least, and cold with any luck. The owner had made a half-hearted effort to give the place an illusion of permanency. Empty oil drums topped with squares of wood scavenged from shipping crates and covered with pieces of stained cotton in a variety of patterns, were scattered around the cramped space. Pettigrew and Hitchcock were sprawled on a couple of folding chairs drawn up to one of these makeshift tables. Each held a bottle of beer, but as he approached, Troy could see that both were still capped. Apparently neither of them had the energy to open his beer, much less lift it and drink. Troy snagged one of his own and dragged over a nearby chair just before a red-faced corporal could plant his oversized rump in it.
They sat in silence for a minute or two, too tired to make the effort at conversation. In the last five weeks, they had been out on missions or patrol every day but one, and that day was spent enjoying the dubious hospitality of the Wehrmacht. Even before that, they had pulled constant duty in one form or another. Adding it in his head, Troy figured that they hadn't seen a cot, let alone a real meal, in somewhere around six weeks. Both privates' faces wore that stunned, blank look that spoke of total exhaustion. Even beneath its tan and several layers of dirt, Hitch's face was noticeably pale, and there were faint creases radiating from the corners of Tully's eyes and mouth, signaling a headache. Finally Hitchcock broke the silence.
"How'd it go with Colonel Quint, Sarge?" Behind his glasses, his blue eyes were rimmed with red and underlined with deep purple smudges, making their color stand out with startling clarity. "They sending us back out right away?"
"Nah, seems someone got a glimpse of you two sad sacks and decided we needed twenty-four hours recovery time." Actually, Colonel Quint had told him that he needed the men especially alert and sharp for their next mission, and gruffly ordered him to make sure that they all got some rest. Troy made an effort to see Hitchcock and Pettigrew from the colonel's perspective, and conceded that he might have a point. Both of them sported a variety of minor injuries, mostly but not completely healed, and moved with the heaviness of men who had tapped their last reserves of strength. Troy was completely unaware that he looked just as bad if not worse than the younger men. He had the smallish stature and wiry toughness of his parents' Greek ancestors, but he was whipcord thin, boiled down to nothing more than muscle and sinew, and his gray-blue eyes held an almost feral glitter. He forced his tense shoulders to relax and cautiously settled back in the rickety chair. He picked at the label of his bottle for a few moments before taking a long pull, and gave a satisfied sigh.
"So," he said casually. "What do you think of our new fourth now that he's been here a few weeks?" He gave every indication that the question was no more than idle curiosity, but his two privates knew better, and exchanged a quick look.
Uncharacteristically, it was Pettigrew who spoke up first. "They making his assignment permanent, Sarge?"
Troy shrugged, his non-answer, answer enough.
"He seems okay," Tully went on in his usual measured way. "There's nothing wrong with his guts, I'll give him that…"
Hearing an unspoken "but," Troy cocked an inquiring eyebrow.
Tully thoughtfully ran his hand through hair that was so caked with desert dust that it looked more sandy blond than light red. It had been about six weeks since any of them had had a haircut, too. He decided on directness. "But he's a lousy shot, Sarge. I just hope he doesn't get Hitch killed."
"Well, by your standards, we're all lousy shots. And shooting from a moving jeep is an acquired skill. He'll get better," Troy returned with half a grin. The grin disappeared, remembering absent teammates with less than perfect marksmanship. They had lost one just a couple weeks ago, which is how they'd ended up with their new British teammate. "I'll see about getting him some practice if we ever have any free time. What about you, Hitchcock? You're driving for him," the sergeant continued. "Any problems?"
"He's catching on," Mark Hitchcock said cautiously. Tully had already voiced his primary concern, the one he'd confided to him after that first mission. Besides, he hated it when Troy pulled one of these Q&A's. He never knew quite what the sergeant wanted from him, and it reminded him more than a little of some of his professors back home, the ones who were always trying to trip him up. "He picked up our signals right away, and I'm getting better at anticipating what he wants." He squirmed slightly under Troy's penetrating gaze.
Neither he nor Tully knew what Troy had done before the war, but whatever it was, it had allowed him to master the art of silent intimidation. After a few months of speculation, they had more or less decided that their CO was career military. His decisive bearing, that blunt, tough edge he brought to everything, his comfort around officers and enlisted men alike, and the ease with which he asserted command made it the most likely option. But then Colonel Quint had made that crack about "sweating out the draft," and since then the two privates had resumed their guessing game. Hitchcock half-seriously suggested commandant of a boys' reform school, while comic book aficionado Tully countered with the suggestion of a mild-mannered reporter at a large metropolitan newspaper. Hitch shook his head slightly, realizing that Troy was waiting with poorly concealed impatience for him to finish. "It's helpful to have someone who speaks German. His Arabic has come in handy a couple times already, too, and his knowledge of the area does make things easier out there."
Troy nodded. He knew the private well enough to catch the faint discomfort underlying the words, but not quite well enough to pinpoint the reason. He suspected, though, that it had something to do with Moffitt's profession. The kid always deflected mention of his college career with a smirk or a joke, never, ever discussing Yale, his studies, or the fact that he literally had to sneak off campus to sign up. Now he was teamed with a PhD, a PhD who tried repeatedly to engage him in intellectual discussions that Hitch wanted no part of. Troy didn't have to dig deep to see that the pairing was awkward, to say the least.
Troy did know that Hitchcock had burned a lot of bridges when he volunteered. The ruckus that followed had been notable enough to make it into the private's jacket.
Hitch had already been two weeks into his basic training when one of his professors had called the elder Hitchcock to report his son's absence from classes. The banker had quickly found out what his wayward son had done and rushed to Washington with the intention of extricating him from the clutches of the US Army. He'd dragged along Professor Something-or-other to help make the case that Mark was destined for far greater things than cannon fodder for the Nazis, scooping up representatives from the offices of both of Connecticut's senators along the way, just in case a bit of extra pressure was needed.
According to the notes in Hitch's file, that pressure was intense and it was determined. There was an acrimonious meeting with an Undersecretary from the War Department, the highest ranking person available since Marcus Hitchcock's former Yale classmate, Henry Stimson himself, had been out of the country. Had the blue-blooded Secretary of War been present, young Hitchcock would undoubtedly have been packed back to genteel serfdom in New Haven. As it was, the private was pulled from basic training in Georgia and brought to DC, where he was subjected to two full days' worth of harangues and threats. To his credit, he flatly refused to back down, and ultimately there was nothing that could be done, legally at least. He was eighteen, and his signature on the recruitment papers was binding. When Mark sensed that his father was about to move into the realm of extra-legal means, he fixed him with an unwinking stare and assured Marcus Aurelius Hitchcock the Fourth that should he survive the war, Marcus Aurelius Hitchcock the Fifth would cut off all contact with his father, who furthermore could forget about any possibility of a Marcus Aurelius Hitchcock the Sixth. He had a more than adequate trust fund set up by his late grandmother, and could live quite comfortably without his father's approval or support. He'd name any sons Jim or Bill or Bob or Ron or Doug or even Mortimer John. Anything but the detested Marcus Aurelius.
Ultimately, the youngster was allowed to board a transport back to Georgia, victorious but deeply mortified. Troy knew the kid was a brooder and could carry a grudge, and had to wonder if there could be trouble ahead if something about the Englishman stirred up old resentments. It didn't take much; in battle, a moment's hesitation or less than 100% confidence in your teammate could spell disaster.
"Is there a problem here, Hitch?" he asked, pinning the youngest team member with an intense stare.
"Nah," the youngest Rat shrugged.
"Is there going to be?" Troy pressed.
"You know me, Sarge. I can get along with anyone."
The smirk that accompanied this made Troy momentarily sympathize with Hitchcock, Senior. It was true enough that Hitch could, and usually did, get along with people, particularly when it came to the fairer sex. But the answer didn't reassure the sergeant. If anything, it made him even more uneasy. When Moffitt joined them a few minutes later, he kept a watchful eye on the pair, studying their interactions, what few there were. It was clear that Moffitt was trying his best to establish some sort of rapport with his driver, and equally clear that he was going about it all wrong. Hitch didn't want to exercise his brain, he wanted to turn it off for a while. Like Troy himself, and Moffitt too, Hitch's college experience had qualified him for officer training. And, also like Troy and Moffitt, he had declined. The Army offered him relative anonymity and a chance to be an ordinary guy. Hitch had jumped at the chance. For the first time in his life, he could sit around drinking beer and chewing the fat with his buddies. Heck, for the first time in his life he actually had buddies. His buddies. Not the useful friends chosen for him by his father. Not his shallow fraternity brothers back at Yale, who were more interested in getting drunk, chasing girls, and avoiding the war than academics. Hitch didn't particularly object to the first two, but the third, avoiding the war, outraged him.
Troy was only guessing at some of that, of course, but he was willing to bet that his guesses were pretty close to the mark. When the group broke up a few minutes later, Troy was no closer to deciding whether or not Hitch and Moffitt would be able to work together.
CHAPTER 2
Jack Moffitt gave a little huff, a barely noticeable exhalation of breath that signaled extreme frustration, as he watched Hitchcock and Pettigrew amble off in the direction of their tent. He'd just made yet another conversational overture to his blond driver, and received only a "Yes, Sgt. Moffitt, that's very interesting, Sgt. Moffitt," in reply. When Troy had introduced young Hitchcock as an "Ivy League" boy, he'd assumed that the two of them would have much in common. But no matter how hard he tried, the lad responded to his overtures in monosyllables or not at all.
It wasn't that Hitchcock was uncommunicative; he was still chatting away with Pettigrew as the two made their slow way to their tent. Not "Pettigrew," Moffitt reminded himself, "Tully." This American tradition of using Christian names was very odd. For the most part, Moffitt didn't even know the first names of his boyhood classmates or fellow students at the university. But for every rule there was an exception. Troy was "Sam," when he could remember at least, and Pettigrew was always "Tully," but Hitchcock was never "Mark." He answered to "Hitch," "Private," or "Hitchcock." Still another commonality he shared with the Englishman, and still another that didn't do one bit of good in establishing a genuine partnership.
Troy was looking quizzically at him, and he summoned up a smile.
"Give him a bit more time," Troy advised, correctly guessing the reason for the thoughtful look that had settled over Moffitt's lean features. "If Hitchcock doesn't come around soon, I'll have a talk with him."
"It's not a problem," Moffitt protested unconvincingly, hating the thought that he might be driving a wedge between Troy and the men he had commanded for nearly a year.
"It is," Troy contradicted. "We're a team or we're nothing. Now, let's go over what the Colonel told me. This one's going to be a doozy. A real killer." He winced as soon as the words left his lips, hoping that he hadn't just jinxed the thing.
"They want us to do what?" After more than two years in this bloody insane war, Moffitt thought he'd heard everything. "Break into the Classical Museum? Go after one of the world's greatest collections of Greco-Roman art? I won't do it, Troy, I won't steal or destroy artifacts."
"Will you keep it down?" Troy hissed, looking around. They were alone in the tent, but Moffitt's voice could easily carry beyond their canvas walls. "No one's suggesting that. We're not going to take anything out, we're going to take something in."
"Maybe you'd better explain it again," Moffitt said tightly.
Troy gestured to the chair Moffitt had risen from, and grumbling slightly, the British sergeant retook his seat.
"Okay, you know that Hitler is nutty about ancient mythology. All that Aryan superiority mumbo jumbo. He wants proof that the Germans are the original master race."
"I'm familiar with the subject," Moffitt replied, biting back a reminder that it was he who had educated Troy on it. Of course, if it didn't have anything to do with Ancient Greece, Troy tended to tune him out.
"Well, we're going to give him proof. The brains back in London have come up with a fake artifact, just the kind of thing to make little Adolf swoon and his heart go pit-a-pat. We want the Nazis to steal it and haul it back to Berlin."
"Because . . . " Moffitt prompted.
"Because the thing's got a bug. With a little bit of luck, Hitler will have them bring it to his office. If things go according to plan, we'll be able to hear everything that goes on in there."
Moffitt frowned, but the idea had a certain appeal. Most of the world's foremost experts on Near Eastern archaeology were British. Men like Leonard Wooley, Reginald Campbell Thompson, and Max Mallowan were working in the SOE or similar organizations. He knew all of them, and knew that they were more than capable of creating a plausible artifact.
"So what is the artifact?"
"A previously suppressed section of the V – V-something Manuscripts."
"Vedic. They're going to put a listening device on a manuscript?" His voice was laden with skepticism.
"Nah. They're going to build it into a special ornamental box the manuscript's kept in."
Moffitt's head swam. The technical barriers must have been daunting. All in all, it sounded more like something out of a Hollywood thriller than the real world. And yet, he admitted to himself, it was just the sort of lunatic plan the "Ministry of Ungentlemanly Warfare" was using with such success. And after all, what was being risked other than a couple sergeants and privates?
"How are they explaining it?" he asked curiously,
"The SOE outdid themselves on this one," Troy grinned. "According to the story they've cooked up, there's a secret chapter of the manuscript, one which specifically describes blond, blue-eyed Nordic invaders from modern day Germany and Scandinavia who became the founders of the new Aryan race."
"Have you ever noticed how few Germans really are blue-eyed blonds?" Moffitt asked. "Pity Hitchcock doesn't speak German. Think how useful he could be."
Troy grinned. True, Hitch didn't speak German, but according to his school records, he had taken advanced French as well as introductory level Spanish. In this part of North Africa, French was almost as useful as Arabic. But for now, he kept the information to himself. "So, according to the story they've concocted, the French found the missing chapter back in the late 1800s, and hid it to keep the Germans from knowing their 'true' history. Then the British found out and helped conceal the 'truth.' When the Arabs heard about it, they claimed it was a fake. Which is true, of course," Troy laughed. "Or would have been if any of this had actually happened in the first place. Command has phony'd up some communications between London and some of the local leaders, using a code we know the Germans have broken. They discuss the manuscript and finally agree that it must be destroyed before the Germans find it. But, the story goes, it's been hidden for so long that no one remembers exactly where in the museum to look. London ordered the local Arab resistance to search for it. They're sending London regular progress reports but they haven't 'found' it yet. The SOE has identified two possible storerooms where we can hide it. We're to go in and hide the thing, and as soon as we do, the underground will send a message that they've narrowed the location down to one of those two rooms. Hopefully, the Nazis will decide to move quickly, once the hiding place has been narrowed down."
Hollywood thriller was right, Moffitt thought. But at the same time, it was just the kind of thing Hitler would buy: conspiracies, secret proof of the Aryan myth, underhanded British, corrupt French, untrustworthy Arabs. Yes, Hitler would go for it, alright.
"I spent many hours in the Red Castle when I was a boy," he said, referring to the museum by the name that had been in use during his childhood. "And I know my way around as well as anyone. That lower level where the storerooms are is a regular rabbit warren. But I didn't really take notes for future burglaries."
"We've got everything we need," Troy assured him, tapping a bulging envelope. "Floor plans of the interior, grounds patrol and museum guard schedules, even extra keys. We should be able to get in and out quickly. But . . ."
"Ah, there's always a 'but,' isn't there?"
"Well, we're the only ones who know about the operation. We won't have any backup from our own guys, and if we're caught, we're on our own."
"Oh Troy, I say – "
"Don't." Troy held up his hand. "The first plan was to establish credibility by having us 'find' the thing and the Jerries catching us in the act. I was able to talk them out of that, at least."
"You do know that Tripoli is the hub for Rommel's entire supply chain, correct? And one of the most heavily fortified outposts in North Africa?"
"Yeah, but we're not trying to attack it. We just need to get to the museum, hide the package, get back out, and then let the Germans have the pleasure of finding it themselves."
Moffitt looked at the plan from every direction, and finally nodded. It was worth the risk. Besides, playing der Fuhrer for a fool appealed to sense of humor. He gave a smile with his nod of agreement.
"Tripoli should be lovely this time of year," he said lightly, and laughed at the expression of deep suspicion on the American sergeant's face. "No, really Troy. Late October and early November are the best times to visit. The temperature will be right around 65-70 degrees. Sunset around sixish and sunrise around eight, so there'll be cover of darkness for us to get in and out. All in all, the timing couldn't be better."
"Whatever you say, Professor. I guess I'll have to take your word for it. For now, at least." His glare promised retribution if Moffitt was stringing him along.
CHAPTER 3
It turned out that the timing actually could have been better. It was five days not one before the Rat Patrol left for Tripoli. Allied forces were planning a major offensive through North Africa, aimed at taking Tripoli, and opening up a staging area for an invasion of Europe through its "soft underbelly" in Italy. They would move east, while Montgomery's force would move west from Egypt, trapping the Germans between their two forces. Of course this information was highly classified, so the planners in the SOE had been unaware of the pending action. It was only at the last moment, when details of both operations went high enough to land on the same person's desk, that a red flag went up. When the general realized what had happened, both were quickly put on hold. It took London and Washington a couple of extra days to coordinate all the various actions and make sure the two ops wouldn't be interfering with or tripping over one another. Finally, Operation Torch and their own, much smaller Operation Wedding Present were greenlighted. With the usual need-to-know mentality, Troy wasn't informed of the planned offensive. All that he was told was that they had to get in, complete the mission, and get back to their own lines by the 8th of November.
The team put the extra time to good use, studying the museum's alarm system and committing its floor plan to memory. They practiced at night until all four of them could pace off distances with perfect accuracy and move smoothly through a practice course in complete darkness. Two of the store rooms on the lower level would be their target, and they couldn't risk one of the team stumbling into a breakable artifact or falling down the uneven stone steps. The stone walls of the lower level had many hidden cavities, and it was in one of these "abditories" that they would conceal the box.
When the plan was explained to Hitch and Tully, they responded with enthusiasm. Troy's reference to Tully's experiences running moonshine hadn't been a joke. The laconic young private had a larcenous streak and an oddball sense of humor that had him on board immediately. Hitchcock gave an amused half-smile and said he hoped word of his foray into cat burglary never reached his father's ears, but his slight smirk revealed that he was trying to figure out how to accomplish just that.
Rommel had allowed the Italians to continue their occupation of Tripoli and the surrounding areas, preferring to keep his troops free for ongoing military operations, so Moffitt's German would be little help. None of the four spoke Italian, although Moffitt understood a bit. Troy finally grudgingly admitted a basic familiarity with the language without explaining how, encouraging Hitchcock to allow that he had a vocabulary of a few hundred words. Most of them came from his boyhood music lessons and librettos from the operas his parents had dragged him to. He laughed that phrases like "volti subito" or "sempre staccato" wouldn't be terribly useful, although andante and risoluto might be helpful. He personally would be happy if there were an opportunity to use appassionato or con amore. Both Troy and Moffitt glared at him, and even Tully seemed to catch enough meaning to smile around his matchstick. Hitch and the sergeants decided to pool their meagre linguistic resources and used some of the extra time to coach Tully and pick up a few new phrases themselves. Understanding and being able to use basic orders like "Halt!" and "Drop your weapons!" could make a huge difference if they were spotted.
On the fifth day the "package" arrived, and they all huddled together in the Colonel's quarters to inspect it under the eagle eye of the British major who had delivered it. It was a large chest, larger than Troy had expected, roughly three feet by four feet and eighteen inches deep. The entire surface was inlaid with a complex geometric pattern of lapis, turquoise, carnelian, ivory, mother of pearl, and coral. Thin lines of copper, silver and gold were woven through the pattern. If Troy hadn't known that it had been produced a few weeks earlier, he would have sworn that he was looking at a genuine thousand year old artifact. Moffitt couldn't contain an expression of admiration at the forged manuscript. It was mostly script that was itself a work of art, but there were occasional illustrations as well, their colors artfully aged to honeyed golds and tans.
"The old boys have outdone themselves," Moffitt observed, brushing the edge of one of the large, folio-sized pages with the lightest of touches. It crumbled realistically, reinforcing the major's warning that the extreme fragility of the contents made careful handling essential. "I'm not sure I'd spot this as a fake if I found it."
"Where's the bug?" Tully asked curiously, studying the chest.
"Each surface is actually made up of two identical layers," the major explained. "The power cells are sandwiched in-between. Essentially, the walls and sides together form the battery. Or rather sets of batteries. We've got it wired so that as one set goes dead it activates the next one. Altogether there are eighteen sets, each good for just under thirty hours. That's about three weeks' worth."
"And the microphone?" Troy asked curiously.
The major's finger gently traced one of the copper threads. "It's built right into the mosaic pattern."
"What kind of range does it have?" Hitch asked, putting on his glasses and studying the surface.
"It will pick up conversations in about a 20 foot radius. It can transmit them a bit over two hundred yards. We'll still have to get an operative close to pick up the transmissions. But that's our job. You just get it hidden for us. But not too well, mind you," he half-warned with a smile. "Jerry has to be able to find it."
"Any chance the Germans will have the Italians do the searching?" Tully asked.
"Definitely not. Even if Hitler trusted the Eyties, Rommel doesn't. No, they'll take care of this themselves." He reached for the box. "Last chance for a look, gentlemen. I'm sealing it. The next time it's opened, the mechanism will set itself to 'stand by,' and the time after that triggers the microphone. Once it starts, it won't stop until all the batteries are dead, so don't decide you'd like another look. We'd much prefer that the clock doesn't start until it arrives in Berlin." The look he gave them stopped just short of a glare, making sure he got his message across.
"Now, your route. It's marked out on the maps."
"Sir," Tully said hesitantly. "Could I ask why we aren't approaching by water?"
The major hesitated for the briefest of moments. He couldn't give the real answer: that the coming invasion would include an amphibious landing. No one wanted to do anything that would call the Germans' attention to their coastal defenses. "A water approach is just too risky. Not so much for getting in as for getting back out." That had the merit of being true, as well. It just hadn't been the primary factor.
The four commandos exchanged looks of surprise. Generally speaking, the brass seemed to forget about their safety once the objective had been achieved. They weren't used to as much consideration being given to their extraction as to their insertion.
The major caught their startled expression and smiled grimly. He was tired of seeing good men wasted, left behind or abandoned. There may be a million more to replace them, but it was still wrong.
"We also thought the odds would be improved if you were able to link up with the local resistance. Our contact is called Ibrahim. He'll provide any help you might need. You'll rendezvous here," his finger tapped a spot on the map south of Tripoli. "Basic QAQ recognition code. You'll ask, 'Is this the road to Benghazi,' and he'll reply, 'No, you are too far west.' Then you'll ask, 'Can you show us the way?'"
"Sir, will this be in Italian? Arabic?" Moffitt asked.
"Either. English will be fine, too. Ibrahim speaks all three."
"Italian," Troy muttered under his breath. "Wouldn't you know." A few months back, his parents had passed along some of the letters they'd received from family back in Greece. His uncles and cousins had described how the Greeks had beaten back the Italians, only to find themselves facing German troops who intervened and completed the invasion. Once the Germans had subdued the Greeks, they brought back Italian and Bulgarian forces to run the occupation. The offense to Greek pride, always a highly sensitive thing, was huge, and made relations between the two traditional enemies even more strained than normal.
The major heard him.
"About a third of Tripoli's population is Italian, Sergeant. And the native Libyan citizens are required to take an oath of loyalty to Italy and be granted special citizenship status to get a job, join the army, I believe even do something as prosaic as drive a taxi cab."
"So why is it called the 'Castle'?" Tully asked.
"It really – " Moffitt caught himself, realizing too late that the question had been addressed to the major, but with a gesture of his hand, Llewellyn signaled him to continue.
"It really is a castle, Tully, or more properly, a fortress. It was originally a Roman site, some say maybe an even older Carthaginian site. It was built in about the first or second century. The Italians converted part of it to a museum just before the Great War, but its original purpose was to protect the city from invasion by sea."
"So it's built right on the water?" Troy asked.
"Exactly. The entrance used today is off Martyr's Square, but it is still possible to approach by water."
"Wow." Tully shook his head. Since arriving in North Africa, he'd seen things that stirred his Kentucky soul to its depths. Sometimes he'd get letters from some of his friends and buddies in England or the Pacific, but he doubted that even they would have the chance to wander freely through a 2000 year old building. Suddenly, the dangers of the mission seemed far less important than the opportunity to do just that, especially under the direction of a guide like the doc.
"Wow indeed," Moffitt murmured, his eyes briefly meeting the private's. They crinkled slightly in agreement, and a tiny connection was formed between the two.
The meeting went on a bit longer, breaking up just before midnight, as they memorized the details of their route. The first stages of their journey would be made during daylight, but once they approached German-occupied territory, they'd be traveling under cover of darkness. They had one last night for sleep, then they'd be on their way.
CHAPTER 4
They left an hour or so before dawn, in the back of a salmon pink Ford truck packed with boxes and their own crate. Necessity had taught them to sleep almost anywhere, but the constant bucking and swaying made it impossible for Troy to nod off. Hitch joked that the rough ride was the truck's way of exacting revenge for its color, one which any self-respecting military vehicle would be ashamed to wear in public. Ever precise and informative, Moffitt explained that the British Long Range Desert Groups had determined that the color blended almost perfectly with the pinkish haze of a desert dusk or dawn, effectively camouflaging them from both aerial and ground observation. That shut Hitch down, and he didn't so much as open his mouth again until midmorning, when travel became more hazardous and they stopped to eat and rest, holed up under camouflage nets.
Troy successfully managed not to sigh, but he couldn't hold back a shake of his head. The little joke had been the first sign of normalcy since their new team member had joined the unit. Whether Moffitt realized it or not, his pedantic explanation was not only unnecessary, it had held the faint flavor of a reprimand, particularly since Hitch and Tully already knew just about everything there was to know about military vehicles, including colors and camouflage. Moffitt had a sense of humor, Troy knew; a dry, sardonic wit that amused even as it bit. But Moffitt didn't allow it to surface during a mission and apparently preferred that his teammates do the same. Troy hadn't wanted to head out on a risky mission with these problems festering, but the war wasn't going to wait while Hitch got himself a thicker skin and Moffitt forget that this wasn't a classroom and Hitch wasn't his pupil.
They continued to travel north and east for another day, unconsciously tracing the route that the army would be taking in only another week or two. At the eastern border of the Allied lines, they left the truck and picked up two jeeps. None of the four had wanted to admit it, but they were uncomfortable with someone else driving. In their jeeps, they were more exposed but they felt more in control. For the next three days they traveled mostly at night, shifting course in a series of eastward and southward steps until they finally reached southern Tunisia at its narrowest point. They crossed into and out of the German-occupied territory in a matter of hours.
Up until now, their route had been general and flexible and their orders clear: work their way toward Libya and avoid being seen. It was a big desert, and its hundred thousand or so Bedouin inhabitants couldn't keep track of everyone who ventured into their territory. Now, though, they had entered Libya and their route had been carefully laid out for them. Moffitt navigated, bringing them to a stop about twenty miles from Tripoli's southern edge.
"We'll hold up here," Moffitt finally announced. "We're a bit early. I don't want to approach the rendezvous location before dark."
"And it's . . . where, again?" Tully asked.
"Maybe we should take a last look at the layout," Troy suggested. "Moffitt?"
Moffitt took out his knife and began drawing in the sand. "Here's the Mediterranean." The knife tip traced a broad concave curve. "And Tripoli. Martyr's Square is here." A small square was marked just below the coastline, near a cape in the northwestern side of the city, "And the museum is here." A small circle was marked just north of the square, right on the water. "We're here." Now the knife moved well below their destination. "And in-between our position and the city are the An Nasr forest and the zoo." The knife traced a largish rectangle. "That's where we'll leave the jeeps and meet Ibrahim and Sayed. They'll take us through the forest and into the city as far as the square. There are major roads that would get us there quickly, but I suspect they'll want to use the back alleys."
"I still don't believe it," Hitch said skeptically. "A forest?"
"Yes, indeed. A real forest, and a fairly large one, too. It's mostly scrub, and none of the trees get all that tall, but it offers plenty of places to hide the jeeps and lose anyone who might be following us. One of Ibrahim's friends will stay behind to guard them, and we'll pick them back up on our way out." He continued to draw in the sand, pausing just east of the museum. "And here's another interesting spot, which also dates back to Roman times. The Marcus Aurelius Arch."
Hitch choked and sputtered, and Tully had to slap him on the back a couple times.
"Sorry," he wheezed. "Swallowed wrong."
Troy eyed the Englishman, but there was nothing in his bland expression to indicate that he was aware of Hitchcock's full name. The little travelogue continued, as Moffitt pointed out more landmarks that would keep them on the right track if their guide didn't show. Clearly, he knew the city well, and Troy was pleased to see that Hitchcock didn't seem to begrudge him the role of expert. The British sergeant had actually traveled the streets and alleys going to and from their target, and Hitch and Tully clearly appreciated the value of his personal knowledge.
"What about the chest?" Troy asked. "We aren't going to have to carry it all that way, are we?"
Moffitt shrugged. "I imagine Ibrahim knows it's fragile and will have a cart of some sort, or even a donkey or two, so even if we have to walk, our artifact can ride." He sighed. "I don't know about you fellows, but I'd like to get a few hours' sleep."
Troy nodded. "Tully, Hitch, you bunk down, too. I'll take watch."
"I'll do it, Sarge," Hitch offered.
He glanced toward the crate in the back of the jeep. "You and Tully have been driving for days. Get some rest while you can, because there sure won't be time to nap once we get that thing hidden. We'll need to turn straight around and head back toward our lines, so I need you as fresh as possible. I can catch some shuteye in the jeep on the way."
It took no time at all to cover their jeeps with camouflage netting, and within minutes the three were sleeping peacefully. Troy kept a close eye on the sky and the horizon, all the while worrying about the upcoming mission.
Sam Troy had learned to school his features to calm confidence, but inside he sweated out each detail of each plan. This operation was even worse than usual, because he was still uneasy about the newcomer's influence on his team. Attention to every element of an operation was the best way to quell these attacks of nerves, so he welcomed the chance to do a final assessment in private.
The sun was just setting when Troy roused his men. He already had coffee ready, and poured out a cup for everyone. Hitch and Tully accepted theirs without comment, and even Moffitt took his without a word about the superiority of tea.
"I've been thinking," Troy said as they drank. "The description you gave us was helpful, Jack, but you're the only one who really knows the city. And if we split up, there's a better shot at getting at least some of us back to report. So, I think we need to have a plan in case we're separated." He looked at the three faces and saw frowns. "Tully, Hitch, and I don't know our way around, and in the dark it will be even harder. So, if we need to, Tully, you and I should stay with Ibrahim. He can help to find our way back through the city. Hitch, you stick with Moffitt. Your orders are to proceed with all due speed back to our lines without us." He captured Moffitt's eyes and held them in an intense gaze. "Since you already know the area, you and Hitch can get back to the rendezvous point without a guide."
"But Sarge . . ."
Troy stifled Hitchcock's incipient complaint with a shake of his head.
"Hitch, we have to play the percentages."
The private dropped his eyes. "It just wouldn't feel right, leaving you and Tully behind," he muttered. He glanced up for a brief moment, his eyes betraying his concern and uncertainty.
Surprisingly, it was Moffitt who spoke up in agreement.
"I agree with Hitch." Not Hitchcock. Even in such a tense moment, Troy noted the use of the nickname appreciatively. Maybe Moffitt was starting to catch on. "I don't like the idea of being separated. What was the quotation from your Confederate General Longstreet? At Gettysburg, when he didn't have Pickett's brigade available yet? He said it was . . . like . . . like . . ." He paused, searching his memory for the words.
"'Like going into battle with one boot off,'" Tully finished for him. "You a Civil War buff, Doc?"
"Arthur Freemantle's memoirs were required reading when I was a schoolboy. A good portion of his book deals with Gettysburg. He had a lot of respect for both Lee and General Longstreet."
"I've always been a J. L. Chamberlain fan, myself," Hitch piped up. "The 20th Maine? Little Round Top?"
"The perfect 'citizen soldier,'" Moffitt noted approvingly. "Scholar, leader, writer, tactician, husband and father . . . Too bad our Chamberlain wasn't made of the same stuff. This war might not have even been necessary if he hadn't trusted Hitler to keep his word."
"Chamberlain managed to hold off Colonel Oates, who was one of Longstreet's best," Tully offered.
"And outnumbered him by eight or nine to one," Hitch added.
"Thus proving the value of holding the high ground," Moffitt noted.
Troy watched the byplay in silence, feeling better about the mission with every word. The British sergeant had finally found some common ground with the two privates.
"Well," he finally interjected. "I don't want to split us up, but I do want to be prepared if it becomes necessary. So keep it in mind." He tossed the dregs of his coffee on the small fire. "How long should it take us to get to the rendezvous point, Moffitt?"
"We'll be moving slowly. Two hours. Perhaps as much as three."
He looked at his watch. "We rendezvous in just over three hours. It would be impolite to make our hosts wait. Let's shake it, gentlemen. Time's a wastin'."
Tully and Hitchcock always kept their jeeps running at peak efficiency, but even so they gave them a thorough going-over before signaling to the sergeants that they could move out. Troy dozed, the back of his mind figuring that they couldn't be moving more than six or eight miles per hour, in as close to silence as any mechanical device could come. On Moffitt's recommendation, they took a meandering route, avoiding any clear indication of their destination.
The green smudge of trees to the north confirmed at least part of Moffitt's story. There was definitely a forest or something darn close to it ahead of them. Like far-away mountains, the trees seemed no more than a tantalizing distant illusion for the next two hours. They never seemed to be any closer.
"I'm starting the think the damn things are just a mirage," Tully finally complained to Troy, getting a flash of white teeth in agreement.
But then Moffitt signaled them to stop.
"We're about fifteen minutes from the tree line," he called. "Ibrahim and Sayed will watch for us about a half mile in, so keep your eyes open. We don't want to miss them."
The drivers aimed their jeeps forward, resisting the impulse to speed up now that their destination was within reach, Hitchcock and Moffitt in the lead. Now the Americans could also tell that they were getting close, and after a quick word with Hitch, Moffitt jumped out to walk alongside the slow-moving vehicle. At the edge of the trees, he stepped ahead to lead the way on foot.
The trees swallowed them up, crowding them from all sides but not tall enough to form a canopy overhead. It was eerie, and the oddest forest any of the Americans had ever encountered. Tully, in particular, accustomed to the dense forests of burr oak and red maple back home in Kentucky, felt his scalp prickle and the hairs on his arms stand at attention.
They crept forward, and then, out of nowhere, an old man stepped out from behind the trees a dozen or so yards ahead. As they drew closer, they could see a pair of faded but alert brown eyes regarding them from a wrinkled face the color and texture of a walnut shell. He wore the traditional Sunnah beard, a tangle of wiry gray reaching nearly to the middle button of his blue and brown striped jalabiyyah.
Moffitt cleared his throat. "Is this the road to Benghazi?" he asked.
The old man said nothing, and Moffitt repeated the question in Arabic.
"No, my friend. You are too far west," a voice replied in English.
They whirled to see another man emerge from the trees, a young man with a mocking smile on his lips and an expression of sardonic amusement in his black-coffee eyes.
But what really caught their attention was that he wore the uniform of an Italian army lieutenant.
