Three Kings

Reeves saw it, looking from his driver to his gunner with a frown. “Recognition flash,” he said in a low voice. “Anybody read that?”

“I think it’s Morse code, Lieutenant. Yes sir… that’s dot, dash, dot, dot… dot, dash, dot… I think they’re sending L.R.D.G., and it just repeats again.”

Reeves ran that through his head until it rang a very loud bell there-L.R.D. G… “Someone playing games tonight?” he said.

“What’s it mean, sir?”

“Can’t mean what I think it does. That’s the old Long Range Desert Group from the last war, the big war here in North Africa.” So he thought this was most likely someone getting cheeky from a supply helo that had run in fromMersaMatruh. Anyone who knew about the L.R.D. G. was most likely British out here, but it wasn’t very smart to play word games in a situation like this. And why hadn’t they heard about this helo run? Nothing had been scheduled. Perhaps they were going somewhere else, and just set down here because of the storm. He had it exactly right, though he wasn’t quite sure of himself just yet. So he got on the external speaker system again.

“Come forward and identify yourself. Nice and slow, please.” Then he took a risk and had his driver flash the headlights on his vehicle. It would give his position away, but the growl of those tanks behind him had his dander up, and he was willing to take the chance. Otherwise he was going to have to dismount a squad and have them advance on foot, which he now ordered anyway.

“Number three,” he said quickly in his headset command mike. “Dismount and advance.”

“Aye sir,” it was Sergeant Williams, and he had his men out the back exit ramp of his Dragon IFV, a squad of five fanning out, with two men to either side of the column and the Sergeant leading on point.

“I’d best handle this,” said Popski. “Have your men lie low.”

“I’ll come with you,” Fedorov insisted.

“Better you wait here, Captain.”

“No, I think I should come along. Lead the way, Major.”

A Major ranked a Captain in the army, but this man was navy-the bloody Russian Navy at that. A Captain was a bit of a demigod in the Navy, and this man had the ear of General Wavell himself, so Popski relented.

He stood up, still holding the signal lantern, and started off on foot, fearless. If this was the British Army then he should have nothing to fear, but he kept his right hand on his sidearm where it rode on his hip just the same.

Shadows loomed ahead in the blowing sand, like ghosts materializing on the wind. Then they became the more familiar shape and form of men… soldiers… weapons at the ready. He waited, confident and eager to see who was coming for dinner. When the squad came up they were well forward of Troyak’s Marines, which was just what Popski wanted. One false move here and the whole scene could erupt in a firefight that nobody wanted.

He saluted to the Sergeant, not headstrong enough to wait for him to do so first. He wanted to defuse the situation as quickly as possible.

“Major Peniakoff, Long Range Desert Group,” he said, noting the Sergeant’s shoulder patch and the black beret he wore. He was a Desert Rat, he knew at once, but what was the 7th Armored doing out here? These had to be the reinforcements that the Aussies had been hoping for.

The Sergeant returned his salute. “Major,” he said. “May I ask what you’re doing out here?”

“I’ve the same question, mate,” said Popski. “I suppose you lads are here for the Aussies and Giarabub. Well, you’ve come too far north. Siwa is off that way, well south of here. It’s to be expected in these damn sandstorms. Can’t see a bloody thing.”

He heard a tinny voice that sounded like it was coming over a radio, and the Sergeant pinched a spot on his field jacket collar and spoke quietly.

“A Major Peniakoff, sir. But he says he’s with the Long Range Desert Group.”

“That’s rather handy,” said Popski. There was something odd about this man and his equipment, though he could see he was of good British stock, and clearly a soldier in the 7th Division by his insignia. The uniform looked new, and unlike any he had seen, and the radio was a first. He could not see how this man could possibly have a wireless stowed in his field jacket.

“Chaps call me Popski,” he said. “Maybe you’ve heard the name? In any case, we’re out here on a search and rescue. The General’s plane has gone down, and we came in on…” He looked over his shoulder, hesitating.

“A helicopter,” said Fedorov, who had been studying the Sergeant very closely, noting every line and detail of his equipment and uniform. The collar microphone comm system had not escaped his notice, and now his heart was racing, his mind a whirlwind of possibilities in the blowing sand. No one from the British Army in 1940 could possibly have such equipment. No one… Who was this man?

“Popski,” he said. “Ask him what his unit is, please.”

“That’s clear enough,” Popski said in Russian, then he turned and smiled at the Sergeant.