Page 8 of Cry Havoc

“How much of a lead do we have?”

“About a klick.”

“Roger, Covey.”

Quinn turned to the SEAL.

“Let me know when you need a spell.”

“I got him,” Tom said.

Quinn signaled the direction of travel to the rest of the team before pumping his closed fist up and down, which meant to double time—di di mau.

The team knew that Covey was clearing their path to extract. They were going to make it.

“Talk to us, Covey. What do you see?” Quinn said into his handset as they continued through the jungle.

“Banking left over your target box. Looks clear. Kingbees fifteen mikes out. Skyraider will be here in six. Keep moving, Havoc.”

Quinn keyed his mike twice in acknowledgment.

Tom had carried wounded comrades before. It didn’t get easier. He tried to block out Sau’s groaning in his ear over the ringing caused by the claymore detonation and gunfire, trusting his team to provide security. His focus was on maneuvering around trees and root systems that threatened to trip him up and avoiding two-step pit vipers and cobras that could be coiled up on the other side of any decaying log.

The detritus-tinged heat of the day began to give way to the chill of the night. The smell of decaying plants, rotting logs, and stagnant water lingered in his nostrils even as he forced air out of his nose in a losing attempt to fight off the constant infiltration of gnats, flies, and mosquitos looking for any open orifice or uncovered skin to exploit. Tom could not tell if it was sweat running down his back or if it was Sau’s leaking blood. It was probably both.

One foot after the other, Tom. Think of those beers at Phu Bai. Think of getting Sau to the docs.

Tom crashed into another hasty perimeter. Quinn was at the far side on the radio. The team had formed a circle. Through the foliage, Tom caught sight of the clearing.

We’re going to make it.

Don’t get cocky.

It’s not over until you touch down at Phu Bai.

Tom checked Sau’s pulse. Weak. He pulled up the Montagnard’s shirt. Gray intestines had slipped out around the gauze. The Montagnard’s face was ashen.

You are not dead yet, Sau. Fight for me,Tom pleaded as he poured water from his canteen on the intestines. He stuffed them back inside his teammate and followed with additional gauze.

Quinn turned and took a knee. The grizzled warrior didn’t need to ask how Sau was. He knew. It didn’t look good.

“Covey is going to talk the Skyraider onto the NVA to our six,” he said. “Kingbees are about four minutes out. There’s enough room here to land so we won’t have to come out on strings.”

Tom unsnapped one of two buttons holding a side of the leather flap over his Rolex and swung it to the side: 1855. 6:55 p.m.

“It’s getting dark,” he said.

“They’ll be here,” Quinn responded.

The South Vietnamese 219th Helicopter Squadron was based in Da Nang. Piloting their camouflaged unmarked H-34 Kingbee choppers, they were fearless. Most had personal reasons for flying, and the United States government paid them an extra $25 every time they inserted or extracted a team across the fence. That added up. The old helicopter with its huge nine-cylinder Curtis-Wright R-1820-B4 piston engine, similar to those that had once powered the B-17 Flying Fortress, could soak up enemy rounds even as its overhead linesleaked pink hydraulic fluid. As long as they kept leaking you knew they had not run dry. It was when they stopped leaking that you had to worry. Armed with a single .30 caliber machine gun mounted in its lone starboard side door, the H-34 was the helo you wanted to see coming when the odds were against you. With its distinctive bulbus nose cone that acted as armor and unique raised cockpit, the Kingbee stood out amongst its contemporaries in what some were calling The Helicopter War.

Tom nodded as Quinn and Hiep went to brief the team.

An A-1 screamed by overhead, offset of the team, on its approach, the reverberations of its engine echoing through the jungle in its wake. The Skyraider would keep the NVA at bay. Havoc was going to get out of there.

The sheer size of the NVA element was concerning.An entire fucking company? And what of the Pathet Lao flanking them in what appeared to be a suicide run?That was new.

There had to be a mole at Phu Bai, Da Nang, or Saigon. Somone had sold them out.