Page 23 of Cry Havoc (Tom Reece #1)

“WHAT?” QUINN ASKED, ALMOST spitting out a mouthful of beer.

“Back in the good ol’ days.”

“Your dad jumped in?”

“He did. He spoke French, was jump qualified, and was already working for the OSS.”

“So, without much time to plan they recruit Uncle Ho?”

“Essentially. His real name is Nguy?n Sinh Cung, though. He started using Ho Chi Minh in the late thirties. It translates as ‘he who enlightens’ or ‘bringer of light.’ He was born here but spent time in France, China, and the Soviet Union. He had rescued an American pilot years earlier and escorted him to China. That put him on our radar.”

“How do you know all this?”

“A former OSS agent named Charles Fenn visited us when I was a kid. Strange accent. I think he was in the process of moving from Hong Kong to England at the time but wanted to see my father. He’s a writer now.

He told me the story. He wanted me to know what my dad had done.

Granted, this is all well before Ho Chi Minh and Viet Minh were our enemy.

Fenn and my father recruited him. Gave him the code name Lucius. ”

“Why Lucius?”

“I don’t know.”

“So your dad trained and equipped the people we are fighting now?”

“To an extent. I saw a picture once. He was out of town, and I was going through boxes of his things in our attic. I didn’t know who it was at the time, but now I have no doubt. It’s him and Fenn with Ho Chi Minh and Vo Nguyen Giap.”

“You realize that if you get killed over here, he’d never forgive himself.”

“I’m not sure he thinks that way.”

“All dads think that way.”

“They were not in-country for long. The war ended in August. With the French ousted by the Japanese, the Viet Minh filled the void.”

“You are telling me the OSS, the precursor to the CIA, created the Viet Minh and Viet Cong?”

“Well, they certainly helped set the conditions.”

“I think I need something stronger than beer,” Quinn said, swirling what was left in the bottom of his can. “What happened next?”

“Things deteriorated from there. The Viet Minh, French, and Americans were all trying to figure it out in the wake of the Second World War. We decided to get out and leave it to the French and Viet Minh. Have you heard of Peter Dewey?”

“Can’t say the name rings a bell.”

“He was OSS. Like a lot of these guys, he was born to it: son of a congressman, boarding school in Switzerland, Yale, UVA law, became a journalist. He was recruited by none other than Wild Bill Donovan himself.”

“How did your dad get mixed up in all that?”

“Not exactly sure. Dewey jumped into southern France as part of an OSS team reporting on German troop movements. I don’t think my dad was there, but I can’t be certain.

Dewey eventually became the point man for OSS operations in ’Nam.

He was a lieutenant colonel, though positionally he was what we would call a CIA chief of station today. ”

“How does he play in?”

“He was shot and killed on his final day in-country. My dad was with him. He was the first casualty of the war in Vietnam. That was September 1945.”

“Jesus. And your dad never told you any of that?”

Tom shook his head.

“I would hear things from people who stopped by to see us in Colorado. Ostensibly they were there to see the man who owned the ranch where my dad was employed as the majordomo, but I got the sense a lot of them just wanted to see my father. I heard about Ho and the Deer Team from Fenn after he got into the booze. Like a lot of his generation my dad came home from the war and got to work. They had trained up for operations at Fort Pierce, Florida, so he went there first. He tried college through the GI Bill, which is where he met my mom. I get the impression that, after what he had done in the war, he felt trapped in a classroom. Then he got a job offer from the Poe family in Colorado, a family who certainly had OSS and CIA ties. William Poe put me through two years at UC Santa Barbara.”

“I thought you said you worked your way through school shaping surfboards.”

“I did. Kind of. I paid for the in-state tuition. Mr. Poe covered the out-of-state difference. It really wasn’t a big difference then.

I hear it’s getting worse now, but it felt like a lot to me at the time.

Told me that since I was in Colorado because of him, it was only fair that he picked up that part of the tab.

I think he was proud when I dropped out to go to ’Nam.

My dad was too, though it was hard to tell. My mom was devastated.”

“All moms are devastated. They lived through a world war. Watched their fathers and brothers march off to battle. They don’t want their sons dying in the jungle for this foolishness.”

“Or any foolishness.”

“So, you spent time in both Florida and Colorado?”

“I have some memories of Florida, but I grew up primarily in western Colorado. My dad was a worker; up before dawn and back after sunset. Large property. We had help; a Lakota Indian and his family lived on the property as well. They still do. I think I spent more time with him than my father.”

“Yeah?”

“It’s not that he wasn’t loving. He just came from a generation where kids were meant to be seen, not heard.

The ranch was a ways out of town, but we had frequent visitors.

Poe was a powerful man, so all sorts of people passed through that ranch.

The property even had a separate lodge for them.

My dad traveled with Mr. Poe frequently.

When I asked him why he had to be away so much, he said that men like Mr. Poe had a lot of enemies and that he was there as an extra set of eyes. ”

“Like security?”

“I guess so. My dad wasn’t big on explanations, though he lit up at the card table. Great memories of playing with him and my mom, fire keeping us warm on a cold winter night. My mom insisted we only speak German or French at the card table.”

“Are they still alive?”

“Yes. Working that same ranch. Mom teaches school in Gunnison County. She’s hoping I come back to finish college and do something safer.”

“Safer than this? That leaves a lot of open territory.”

“That it does.”

“Maybe that’s why we work well together.”

“How’s that?”

“I grew up in Minnesota. Family lore has it that our darker skin is from Dakota blood, but who really knows.”

“That why you carry the tomahawk?”

“That and the tie to the French and Indian War. Our tactics are not so different. Is the Lakota why you carry that blade in civies?” Quinn asked.

Tom tapped the back of his belt where he had affixed an EK Model 2 knife, a double-edged spear-point blade with a full tang and walnut grips weighted with lead for balance. He had modified the sheath to mount horizontally so it would be hidden by his shirt.

“Beats the little .25s they give us for R&R,” Tom said, referencing the small-caliber pistols he and Quinn both carried in their pockets.

“I don’t want to get shot with one.”

“I don’t want to get shot with anything.”

Tom reached behind his back, unsnapped a button with his thumb, and extracted the long, narrow blade. He handed it to Quinn.

“Interesting design. You don’t see too many of these.”

“Mr. Poe gave it to me when I enlisted. I got fairly good with blades on the ranch.”

“From the Lakota?”

“Yes, but also from some of our guests. A few of our visitors thought it would be a good idea to pass on some of what they learned in the OSS. I think they saw that my dad was torn and had decided to lock the experience away, at least from his family. They had me practicing the knife fighting techniques they had learned directly from William Fairbairn and Bill Sykes based on their experiences with the Shanghai Municipal Police in China before the war. That was all when my mom wasn’t looking.

Rex Applegate stopped by a few times as well.

He was quite a character. I guess it was a fairly unique way to grow up, but it was all I knew.

After high school I’d had enough of the mountains.

I felt the pull of the ocean, so off I went to California. ”

“It’s like you were bred for this,” Quinn said, handing the knife back.

“Maybe I was. What did your father do in the war?” Tom asked, resheathing and securing the sharp blade.

“Came into Normandy on a glider with the 82nd. Made it all the way to the Battle of the Bulge. He was wounded by an artillery shell. Then he froze to death. A man from his company came to visit us after the war. Told us the story. Wanted us to know. I never saw him again. I want to track him down when we are done with this mess, to learn more about my dad. My mom doesn’t talk about him.

It was tough for her after he died. Sent me to military school, which kept me out of trouble. ”

“The women of that generation were something else. Went right from the Great Depression into World War Two. Did she remarry?”

“She did. Nice guy. Was a clerk in the war. Went to work for the post office when he got back. Good job. I think I’ll do the same.”

“You? In the post office?”

“Why are you so surprised? Someday, this war, like all wars, is going to end.” His voice sounded almost sad. “Fuck it. Maybe I’ll stay here. Go to Thailand and open a bar.”

“Will your wife be on board with that?”

“Second wife. And it’s not going to last. I’d say divorce is imminent.”

“Sorry to hear that.”

“Marriage doesn’t seem compatible with SOG.”

“Good to know.”

“If you are looking for relationship advice.”

“I’m not.”

“Well, I’ll give it anyway. Be far away from ’Nam and even farther away from SOG before you even consider it. It’s not fair to them.”

“What’s not?”

“Having a mistress.”

“What do you mean?”

“SOG is that crazy, mysterious mistress you can’t stay away from. She’s not good for your wallet, your health, your liver, or your sanity, but you keep coming back for more. If you want to get married, stay away from SOG.”

“Good advice. Now, you want me to teach you how to surf or what?”

“You heard what Larry the lifeguard said about snakes and sharks.”

“Come on. The odds of getting munched by a shark are almost zero.”

“Key word—almost. If I stay out of the ocean and grab another beer the odds are exactly zero,” Quinn said.

“Suit yourself.”

Tom kicked off his Converse shoes, pulled his shirt over his head, and removed his jeans.

“What the hell are those?”

“UDT shorts.”

“They look uncomfortable as fuck.”

“They are.”

Tom grabbed the surfboard leaning against the bar.

“If you change your mind, you know where to find me.”

“Out amongst the waves. I know. If you catch a sea snake, I’ll grill it up. We are snake eaters after all. Cold beer will be waiting for you upon your return.”

Tom put the board under his arm and took a few steps toward the water when a loud rumble caught his attention.

A green military Harley-Davidson motorcycle pulled to a stop, and a uniformed captain dismounted, immediately zeroing in on the SOG operators.

“Sergeant Quinn?”

“Yeah.”

“Petty Officer Reece?”

“Guilty.”

“You’re wanted at headquarters.”

“Which headquarters?” Quinn asked.

“CCN.”

“What’s this about?”

“Your prisoner. He started talking.”

“That was the point of dropping him with you. Out of our hands now. What’s this got to do with us?”

“They need you to take him to the CMIC in Saigon.”

“What’s the CMIC?” Tom asked.

“Combined Military Interrogation Center.”

“Why?”

“It’s direct from Chief SOG.”

“Colonel Singlaub?”

“Yes.”

“What’s the prisoner saying?” Quinn asked.

“He keeps repeating, ‘Lam Nut Bau troi, Rung chuyen Trai Dat.’ ”

“What’s that mean?” Quinn asked, looking at Tom, who was already sliding back into his T-shirt and jeans.

“Strange,” Tom said.

“What is?”

“Lam Nut Bau troi, Rung chuyen Trai Dat translates as Crack the Sky, Shake the Earth.”