Page 21 of Cry Havoc (Tom Reece #1)

Da Nang, South Vietnam

TOM LOOKED DOWN AT his new stainless-steel Rolex, unsure if the noise that had roused him from his slumber was incoming mortars or the throbbing in his head. It was after noon.

The dive watch was attached to a black nylon band with two brass snaps on either side of the case. He would have to get a leather cover for it and possibly pick up a custom Olongapo stainless bracelet in the Philippines at some point.

He almost felt bad for taking the new timepiece off a fellow operator. Almost. That was another card lesson he had taken from his father. You always paid and, just as importantly, collected your debts.

They had taken a taxi into the city and celebrated the win into the early-morning hours. This was R&R after all.

It took Tom a moment to realize that the pounding was coming both from his head and from Quinn’s fist knocking on the door to his room in House 22, the infamous SOG Da Nang safe house, though Tom was now certain it was a safe house in name only.

It was more like a private club located in the city on 22 Le Loi Street.

The French-style villa, guarded by Chinese Nung security personnel, was part hotel and part bar, a place where the members of MACV-SOG could let off some steam away from base without having to worry their antics might result in them being locked in the brig and court-martialed.

The SEAL pulled on well-worn jeans and a dark blue T-shirt.

He stepped into his Converse All Stars, ensured his blade was secured horizontally along the back of his belt and that his Browning Model 1905 .

25 ACP pistol was in condition three. Without a holster you did not keep a round in the pipe.

He then splashed some water on his face before joining Quinn in the hall.

“I’m hungry,” the Army NCO said. “We’ll grab a snack on the street and then hit China Beach for burgers.”

Tom pretended to shield his eyes and slid his Ray-Ban Wayfarers into place.

“Turn off that shirt.”

“Too bright?” Quinn asked, running his hand down his thick chest over a gold Hawaiian shirt adorned with brown sailboats and hula dancers. He wore beige slacks and brown leather Alden boots that appeared more beat-up than the jungle boots he wore on missions.

“Not if you want to blind the bad guys.”

“Let’s eat,” Quinn said with a smile, donning black Cool-Ray sunglasses.

They stumbled out of House 22 and found Quinn’s favorite street vendor, who set up just across the road from the safe house to take advantage of the clientele in need of a quick bite.

They ordered com bình dan and chose a combination of rice, pork, soup, and pickled vegetables.

Tom practiced his Vietnamese by haggling with the vendor and then paid more than the agreed-upon price as a thank-you.

The mama-san would be the perfect enemy asset, watching and possibly photographing those coming and going from House 22, but her food was so good no one said anything.

Plus, there were plenty of other buildings within line of sight that the NVA’s General Department of Defense Intelligence could use to surveil the building.

It was a beautiful day, and with some food in their stomachs to tide them over, it was time to hit the coast.

The two operators hopped a Lambretta three-wheeled taxi for a harrowing ride to China Beach.

They showed the gate guard their military IDs and after passing through a few layers of concertina wire were soon drinking cold beers and waiting on burgers in front of a shack with a sign reading CHINA BEACH SURF CLUB.

Beach chairs were haphazardly strewn about the sand, occupied by service members in various stages of intoxication turning deep shades of red in the blazing sun.

Tom and Quinn sat on a wooden bench, their backs resting against a table made from a plank of scrap plywood, looking out to sea.

“How you guys doin’?” asked a man approaching in red shorts and flip-flops. He had the toned body of a swimmer and blond uncombed hair well out of military regulations.

“Better now,” Tom said.

“Rough night?”

“From what I remember.”

“Well, welcome to China Beach. You here on R&R?”

“Actually, we are. Unexpected R&R.”

“Hey, take what you can get. I got boards over there if you are interested. Quiet day today. A bit closed out,” he said, looking at the swells.

“Sharks out there?” Quinn asked.

“Hell, man, sharks for sure, barracudas bigger than me, but I’d be more worried about sea snakes.”

“Sea snakes?”

“Yeah, lethal. Craig Vente, Navy corpsman, caught one when it brushed his leg the other day. He grabbed it by the back of the head and surfed in with it. Killed it on the beach with a piece of driftwood. We skinned it and grilled it up. With a little salt and pepper, it tasted like chicken. The skin’s over there,” he said, pointing to a dried snakeskin nailed to the wall of the surf shack.

“You work here?” Tom asked.

“Yeah, I was a Navy storekeeper, but when they found out I could surf they assigned me here to help the lifeguards. Too many soldiers getting drunk and almost drowning. Getting blown up by Charlie is one thing in the ’Nam, but no one wants to write that letter to parents saying their kid died drunk at the beach.

So I built the surf shack, got a grill, and set up shop. ”

“I should have joined the Navy,” Quinn said, taking a sip of his beer.

“Bruce Blandy shaped that one on the far right,” the man said, pointing to a large board leaning against the far side of the shack.

“He built himself a shop in an abandoned amphibious landing vehicle to make boards out of whatever he could scrounge. He’s gotten creative.

Jerry Shine smuggled another in from Hawaii. He almost went to mast for it.”

“You have quite the assortment,” Tom said, turning to eye the boards.

“It’s not bad for ’Nam. Have a couple Hobie’s and a Dextra shaped by Dale Velzy. Those are popular. Got a Bing and Rick board over there too.”

“Rick Stoner?” Tom asked.

“Yeah, you know him?”

“I worked for White Owl Surf Shop in Santa Barbara to help pay for school. Learned about blowing blanks, glassing, glossing, shaping. Wasn’t much in the way of board shapers on the central coast, so I’d drive south on long weekends.

A buddy at Owls hooked me up with Stoner, who had started Rick’s Surfboards in Hermosa while working as a lifeguard.

Velzy taught him how to shape boards in the fifties. ”

“Yeah, man, Stoner’s a legend. He and Bing Copeland enlisted in the Coast Guard to get stationed in Hawaii so they could surf. They sure pulled one over on Uncle Sam.”

“He told me about that,” Tom said, smiling at the memory.

“Who knows how many people he plucked from the surf as an LA County lifeguard. A true waterman.”

“With what he taught me, I started shaping boards in my dorm room. That didn’t go over well with the other residents, so I got a small place on the beach and started shaping in my garage.”

“Everyone shaping today owes a debt of gratitude to Stoner,” the surfer acknowledged.

“The most generous man I’ve ever met,” Tom said. “Taught me so much about the sea.”

“How’s he doing?” the man asked.

“Last I saw, he, his family, and business were all doing great. Met his son before I enlisted. Mike. That kid was on a board before his second birthday. Hope to get back to Hermosa after the war. Rick would love to hear about this place.”

“We’ve got his Barry Kanaiaupuni model right over there.”

“That’s pretty new. How did that get over here?”

“Hell if I know, man. This war is crazy.”

“True.”

“Well, if you see Stoner before I do, give him one of our cards,” the man said, handing Tom a worn and dirty business card with frayed edges that read:

China Beach

B?I M? KHê

H?I QUáN TRUOT NUóC

Surf Club

DANANG Vietnam

Membership Card

For 1968 of

Honorary Member

“And if you go out, be careful. Charlie don’t surf, but Charlie still shoots. One day they might get lucky.”

“Thanks. Who should I say said hello?”

“Larry. Larry Martin.”

“Thanks, Larry. I’m Tom Reece. This is Frank Quinn.”

The three men shook hands.

“Come back when we get a tropical storm to the east. That’s when you want to surf this break.”

“I’ll keep it in mind.”

A Vietnamese waitress delivered two huge cheeseburgers and fries.

“Enjoy your sliders and beers,” Larry said.

He left them to it and went back to the shade of his makeshift shack.

“Nice fella,” said Quinn. “Fucking Navy. Lifeguards. Surf shops.”

“It’s not for everyone,” Tom said, taking a bite of his burger. “Now this is proper hangover food. Greasy. Perfect. I guess that’s what got me to SOG.”

“Greasy burgers?”

“No, the Navy. Someone in Saigon wanted a SEAL who had jungle experience assigned to CCN to advise on riverine ops. NVA was using rivers and streams hidden by the triple canopy jungle to raft supplies south. CIA had a mission to booby-trap fifty-five-gallon fuel barrels being smuggled into the south via the river system. SOG and CIA brought me in to advise. I had done the SAS exchange program, so I’d been through their jungle warfare phase in Malaya, had two tours in ’Nam working the rivers and deltas, and had been to DLI for Vietnamese. ”

“Did it work?”

“It did, but the Agency had a Nung who could barely swim on the hook for it, so I ended up doing more than advising. Launched out of Eagle Mountain just north of Phu Bai. Went in with RT Idaho. Took three days to get to the river, but I’ll tell you, there must have been hundreds of fuel drums floating south with NVA barrel tenders on wooden rafts positioned every hundred yards or so.

They had no idea we were there. They felt safe, yapping away in Vietnamese, laughing and joking.

Looked like a scene out of Huck Finn. We observed for a day waiting for it to get dark and getting the timing down between barrel tenders.

I re-camoed my face and went in with just my Browning. ”

“Did you have fins?”

“Oh yeah, otherwise I never would have gotten that barrel to shore.”