Page 80 of Cry Havoc

They had become hostages, held under the watch of Vietnamese combatants in civilian clothes. She could tell their leader was nervous. She had overheard whispered conversations with someone she assumed was his second in command, whose behavior seemed erratic. His eyes darted from hostage to hostage, and she could see he was sweating profusely. Most concerning was that his finger kept going to the trigger of his weapon. They had apparently believed that this was to be a party for U.S. and South Vietnamese military officers, which clearly it was not. Now they were not sure what to do. Killing them all and moving to the next target seemed to be the most likely choice. If the second in command got his way, she feared that is exactly what was going to happen.

Ella held her father’s hand tighter.

What was going on? Saigon was relatively safe when compared to the rest of the country. This could not be an NVA attack, could it? The men pointing rifles at her did not look like NVA.

She caught one insurgent eyeing her longingly. Even though her golden mini shift dress with a chiffon overlay and sequined top was stylish and graceful without being overly revealing, she now wished she had something to cover her bare arms.

Her father was dressed for the occasion in a white linen dinner jacket with a cotton voile shirt and black satin bow tie. A matching satin stripe ran down the leg of his black dress pants. Everyone had donned their very best to bring in a new year of good fortune.

It struck her that regardless of what else was happening in the city, no matter where the bombs and bullets were striking that night, thesymbolism of communist insurgents gunning down Vietnamese capitalist traitors in dinner jackets and cocktail dresses at the top of the Majestic was apropos to their cause.

She counted eight captors. All had rifles that looked like AKs.

After another hushed consultation with their leader, the smaller anxious man started shouting in Vietnamese.

“Move, move!”

One of them let off a volley of fully automatic fire over their heads, herding the frightened civilians toward the far railing that overlooked the Saigon River.

She screamed as she was separated from her father, rough hands forcing her to her knees along with the others.

Her fingers found the jade amulet at her neck. She closed her eyes and whispered a prayer.

Please, Mother, protect us.

She opened her eyes to the sound of more gunfire.

At first, she thought their captors had begun executions, but the gunfire was farther behind them and somewhat muffled.

She heard confusion, the scuffling of feet, and contradictory orders that were hard to make out over the shouting.

What was happening?

Stay strong, Ella. No matter what happens, stay strong.

She turned her head in time to see the door to the roof fly open. A Vietnamese man was propelled through it as though shot from a cannon.

He was immediately filled with what she swore were at least a dozen bullets. One caught him in his head. She saw it snap back and then watched as his body dropped to the floor.

Behind the dead Vietnamese man flowed someone different. He was followed by a second and then a third. They were not Vietnamese. They were American. They had weapons as well. And they used them.

She heard their shouts in Vietnamese, French, and English.

“Get down!”

“Stay down!”

The first man stepped to the right of the door and then angled forward moving toward her, firing as he went, his shots tearing into the upper chest cavities and heads of her tormentors. The end of his rifle exploded in a violent concussion of fire with each press of the trigger.

The next man angled left, moving and firing a shorter weapon that looked futuristic.

The third took less of an angle than the first man but veered slightly right as well. He was firing a weapon she had seen in American gangster movies.

They looked like predators. They had found their prey.

They continued moving and firing until all the captors were down. They then calmly advanced and put additional shots into the downed men’s heads.

“Clear on this side,” the first man called. His voice seemed familiar.