Page 126 of Cry Havoc

Not making it out was a distinct possibility.

Get your head back in the game, Tom.

Did the enemy see you fall from the helo?

Unlikely. Otherwise, you would be a prisoner. Or you’d be dead.

Were Quinn and the rest of the team alive? The pilots?

The enemy would execute those who couldn’t move and take prisoner those who could.

Quinn would never allow himself to be captured. If they had him, he must be in bad shape.

Should I try and find the crash site in the dark?

Moving in the jungle at night was not advisable. It was next to impossible not to make noise—noise that would alert a waiting enemy to your presence. The jungle did not choose sides.

The jungle is neutral.

Even if he did manage to find an enemy encampment, its sentries would hear him coming and snatch his soul before he knew what hit him.

As difficult as it was, he needed to sit tight and move at first light.

I’m coming, Quinn.

It would be early nautical twilight in a few hours, not that it would make much difference beneath the triple canopy. As soon as the sun was high enough that light began to filter through from above, he would work his way to the crash site.

Crash site. Where the hell was it?

He remembered dangling under the Kingbee when he saw the downed bird and made the decision to cut himself free. He would find it. He was good in the woods.

He thought he could smell it, the distinctive odor of burning fuel. That would help guide him. There was another smell too, one he pushed from his mind, the unforgettable odor of charred flesh.

Would the enemy wait for him?

No, they don’t know you are here.

Might they set up an ambush for a rescue and recovery mission in the morning?

Possibly. But, in all likelihood, they would take this win and move any prisoners north, knowing that come sunup, the skies would be stacked with American airpower.

If any crash survivors had been captured, the NVA would have guarded them through the night and would be moving soon.

They would take the Ho Chi Minh Trail.

Tom ran through the options in his head.

Can you find them, kill a sentry, take his weapon? Can you rescue them?

What gear do you have?

Tom took stock of his situation, stopping every few moments to listen.

If you listen, the jungle will tell you things.

His second- and third-line gear had all been torn away as he was pulled through the trees under the helo. His RPD had been sacrificed to the gods of the jungle as had his Frank & Warren Survival Ax. His Browning had been ripped away, and the Randall knife he had used to cut himself free of the chopper was missing as well. He did have one claymore strapped to his chest. That was something. His URC-10 emergency radio and code book were gone but he still had the .22 caliber High Standard pistol in its holster. How many rounds were left? He pulled the pistol from its holster in the dark, removed the magazine, and pushed down on the top, feeling only the follower; there were no rounds to unload and count. The magazine was empty. By feel, he confirmed there was one in the chamber.Okay, one. Better than zero.Still, a .22 caliber pistol was not going to do much against a company of NVA or Pathet Lao.

You’ve got the claymore.