Page 12 of Cry Havoc (Tom Reece #1)
South Vietnam
No messages were sent to CCN in Da Nang or MACV-SOG headquarters in Saigon for approvals or to coordinate insertions and extractions or preplan close air support.
These missions were completely off the books.
Other recon teams knew of the expeditions, which they labeled the Odd Couple’s Hunting Adventures but kept them quiet.
They would question the odd couple in detail over drinks in the team room upon their return, incorporating the lessons learned into their own teams’ standard operating procedures.
Frank Quinn and Tom Reece had become part of MACV-SOG lore.
Prior to venturing outside the wire, Quinn would write up a basic mission op order and leave it on his bunk in case of emergency.
It was labeled: UNODIR—Unless Otherwise Directed.
Tom had passed along the idea of UNODIR from his time working with the Sharkman of the Delta on a previous deployment.
Quinn loved it. This allowed them to circumvent the approval process up the chain of command.
They specifically framed these unauthorized missions as training ops, which in a sense they were, serving to keep their skills sharp between official missions north of the border.
These unapproved missions usually lasted less than twenty-four hours. That was enough time to work out kinks, return to base, adjust gear, and go out again the next day. Team Havoc was constantly adapting and evolving both their tactics and equipment. That is how one stayed alive in Southeast Asia.
Move, stop, listen.
They were just about to set up a RON site parallel to a trail when they smelled the smoke. Smoking in the jungle? It wouldn’t be the first time that a nicotine addiction had led to the death of an enemy combatant.
Quinn made the decision to approach.
Across the fence in Laos, the decision would have been different, but in Vietnam, so close to base, the risk of discovery was worth it.
It was closing in on last light, which meant that soon they would not be able to see their hands in front of their faces.
They crept slowly through the vines in the direction of the smoke.
The odor was getting stronger.
They slowed their pace.
Darkness was almost upon them. Tom judged they might have ten minutes of light left.
This was pushing it.
The SEAL caught sight of an NVA uniform through the vegetation. Was it the smoker? How many were with him? It was next to impossible to tell in the bush.
Tom saw Amiuh look back at his One-Zero. Quinn gave the hand signal to keep moving ahead, turning his head to ensure Tom got the message.
Tom nodded.
They could hear voices speaking in hushed Vietnamese.
Amiuh took another step and froze but signaled for Quinn and Tom to approach online.
How many, Tom wondered?
Sten guns and silenced High Standards were no match for a large force of NVA armed with AKs, SKSs, and RPDs, though there was something to be said for the element of surprise. This must be a small patrol, or Quinn would not have gestured them forward.
Just a few more minutes of light.
Tom saw Quinn take a knee just feet to Amiuh’s right.
He motioned for Tom to move up beside him.
Tom took it slow, deliberately choosing each foot placement until he was online with his teammates.
Then Tom saw them clearly.
Seven.
They looked like they were settling in for the night on the side of the trail.
Why did they feel so comfortable here?
They were all sitting down and had slung AKs except for one who carried a canvas satchel. An officer? A courier? Whoever he was, his only weapon was a handgun in a leather holster.
Quinn did not need to verbalize the plan. Both Amiuh and Tom knew: this hunting expedition had turned into a prisoner snatch.
Tom watched Quinn raise his Sten gun. Usually, they fired from the hip at muzzle flashes in the jungle. Having time to aim down their sights was the exception. Tom and Amiuh deliberately raised their Sten guns, mirroring Quinn’s movements.
First fielded by British commandos in 1941, the MK II Sten gun was a direct blowback, open-bolt, 9mm submachine gun with a distinctive thirty-two-round magazine that extended from the left side of the weapon.
Tom’s was one of the specially modified versions produced on the grounds of the Special Operations Executive’s Station IX in Welwyn, England, in 1943.
SOE commandos, much like MACV-SOG operators, found themselves in need of firearms that would allow them to silently dispatch sentries behind enemy lines.
The MK IIS—“S” for Special Purpose—resolved this issue with an integral suppressor shrouding the length of the barrel.
Tom often wondered if his was one of those dropped into occupied France for use by the Resistance.
He felt the thin canvas sling slide across his shoulder as his right eye focused through the rear circular aperture and found the large triangular front sight welded in place on the trunnion.
The Sten could be temperamental with magazines it didn’t like, which was why they had tested all their mags at the range. They had taken a hammer to those that did not feed well to avoid them being reissued at some point in the future.
Tom’s support hand gripped the magazine and mag well that protruded from the left side of the weapon, just as the commandos of the Special Operations Executive had two decades earlier.
The barrel shroud and silencer, even with a canvas wrap laced tightly with cord around it, tended to heat up when used on full auto.
He lined up the sights on the man to the far right.
Tom would work his way from right to left. Amiuh, from left to right. Quinn would focus on the middle.
Tom ensured he was on semiauto; his Sten’s silencer baffles would not last long on fully automatic. Precision and surprise would be critical. His finger rested on the trigger, waiting on his One-Zero to initiate.
The NVA officer had just filled his lungs with a long drag from his cigarette when Quinn’s bullet found its target, a man less than two feet from the smoker’s right. Tom and Amiuh sent their suppressed rounds an instant later.
This close, head shots were the order of the day.
It took a moment for the officer to realize that his escorts’ heads had vaporized almost instantaneously, showering both sides of his face with wet brain matter.
The lit cigarette dropped from his mouth into his lap.
He had begun to fumble with his holster when Quinn bolted from the tree line.
They were only about 15 feet away. The grizzled Army Special Forces soldier was on him in seconds.
The NVA officer was seated and took the full brunt of Quinn’s impact.
Quinn trapped the hand fumbling for the pistol as Tom delivered a front kick that caught the underside of the man’s chin, knocking him unconscious.
Amiuh stepped into the trail and took up security.
A POW meant that their secret hunting expeditions would come to the attention of senior-level leadership, but a live enemy officer was an intelligence coup. Maybe that would make up for Havoc’s approval violations.
What was this officer doing with a security detail this close to Phu Bai?
They would find out, if they managed to get him back to base alive.
Transporting prisoners was always fraught with issues.
Did you make them walk out or carry them out?
If you were with them overnight, what was the best way to keep them from screaming or trying to escape?
Did you assign one person to carry them, which took that person out of the fight, or two, which took two people off line?
They had experimented with tying rope to a prisoner’s feet, which allowed them to walk but not run.
The problem was that it slowed everyone down as they moved toward extract.
Being so close to the forward operating base, Quinn decided that he would carry the prisoner halfway and then switch out with Tom.
They blindfolded the NVA officer with a cravat, the yellow brain fats from his dead comrades that had showered his face soaking through the green cloth, and injected him with morphine to keep him subdued.
Tom made a mental note to always carry a syringe with some sort of tranquilizer in the future so no one on the team would have to part with their morphine.
In the fading light, they did not have time to go through the man’s canvas courier bag, so Tom slung it over his shoulder.
With Amiuh still holding security, the two Americans went through the pockets of the dead NVA and left three Eldest Son magazines in their victims’ web gear before moving off into the jungle.
It had been less than three minutes since the first shots were fired.
It was time to get back to base and find out what this courier and his security detail were doing so close to Phu Bai.