Page 28 of Cry Havoc (Tom Reece #1)
Saigon, Vietnam
Their plane taxied to a more secluded section of the runway and lowered the ramp. It was like opening the door to a furnace. The heat mixed with the fumes of jet fuel and AVGAS, washing through the cargo hold like a tsunami.
“Welcome to Saigon,” Quinn said. He was speaking as much to Tom as to their prisoner, who sat across the cargo hold in leg shackles. His hands were handcuffed to an aluminum bar that supported a canvas bench seat that ran lengthwise down the hull of the airframe.
Amiuh looked nervous.
“You okay, buddy?” Tom asked.
Amiuh shook his head.
“No trust Vietnamese.”
“I know. All we have to do is drop this guy off and sign him away at the interrogation facility. After that we’ll stop in to see Chief SOG, but as soon as that’s done, we’ll hop a lift back to Da Nang.
We still have three days of R&R. Without this fucker to babysit we’ll figure out how to get you home for a few days to see your family. ”
Amiuh’s face lit up at the thought.
“Thank you, Tommy-son,” he said, bowing his head.
“Don’t worry, we’ll get you home,” Tom said, grabbing his green seabag duffel from the seat next to him.
The prisoner was clad in an American flight suit so as to not draw too much attention. The entire hour and a half flight he had only rocked back and forth whispering a barely audible, “Lam Nut Bau troi, Rung chuyen Trai Dat.”
Quinn stood and stretched.
“You need water?” he asked the prisoner.
“Lam Nut Bau troi, Rung chuyen Trai Dat.”
“Guess not.”
Quinn led the way out the back of the aircraft carrying an Army duffel followed by the two MPs who held the prisoner. Tom and Amiuh took up rear security.
They were met by a man in a starched Republic of Vietnam uniform at the base of the ramp.
The olive-green jacket with captain’s shoulder boards was worn over a white shirt and black tie.
A row of ribbons was pinned above the left breast pocket.
His matching dress cap with black visor, gold band, and ARVN officer crest was positioned squarely on his head.
His eyes were hidden behind aviator sunglasses.
“I am Captain Lam and will be taking custody of the prisoner,” he said in heavily Vietnamese-accented English, motioning for two ARVN guards with M16 rifles.
Tom took in the ARVN CJ3B-J4 Mitsubishi jeep and six-wheeled deuce and a half cargo truck behind him outfitted with two M60 machine guns.
Tom’s hand instinctively touched the pistol in his right front pocket in response to being surrounded by so much firepower.
Six .25 caliber rounds were a far cry from the Hi-Power he carried in the field, but it was better than nothing.
The small Browning Model 1905 .25 APC was called a cathouse gun and was primarily carried by SOG men when they ventured off base to bars and brothels.
Looking at the firepower on the six-by, Tom thought he should have opted for something bigger.
“We have orders to turn him over to the CMIC,” Quinn said.
When the captain snapped his fingers, a junior officer appeared at his side holding out a sheet of paper.
Quinn took it and handed it back.
“That’s in Vietnamese. Can’t read it.”
The captain was about to say something else when a green U.S. Army Willys jeep followed by an M39 5-ton 6×6 truck veered from the runway and came to a stop beside them. A tall man in a beige suit hopped from the passenger side of the open-air jeep and approached the men at the back of the C-130.
“You were expected hours ago,” he said. Without waiting for a response, he turned to the captain and said something in Vietnamese.
They went back and forth in Vietnamese a few times before he turned back to the Americans and their prisoner.
“I’m Dan Eldridge. State Department. I am assigned as a liaison to MACV.”
“I’m Frank Quinn. This is Tom Reece and Amiuh.”
“Pleasure, gentlemen.”
He removed his straw fedora hat and fanned his face, even though he wasn’t sweating.
How is he not sweating in that suit? Tom wondered.
His hair was a lighter blond than Tom’s, slicked back on the sides and longer on top, giving the impression that he spent way too much time on it than one should in a conflict zone.
He turned to the captain, who was talking with his subordinate.
“I’ve got the jeep and the truck,” he said, pointing to the monstrous vehicle to his rear. “We can turn him over to the ARVN guards but escort him to the CMIC. I’ll just need you to fill out some paperwork and then your job will be done.”
Quinn looked at the convoy and ARVN guards and then back at Tom, who shrugged. Prisoner escort duty was not something they were overly familiar with.
“All right, Captain,” Quinn said to the ARVN officer. “He’s all yours. We’ll convoy with you back to CMIC.”
The captain curtly nodded and turned to four ARVN guards standing by the Vietnamese cargo truck. They doubled-timed it to the prisoner. The American MPs handed over the keys to the leg shackles and handcuffs.
“That should do it,” Eldridge said. “Sergeant Quinn, Petty Officer Reece, you are welcome to ride with me.”
“I’ll ride with Amiuh in the truck,” Tom said. “Quinn, have fun, buddy.”
As the senior man, Quinn resigned himself to riding in the jeep with their new State Department friend.
Tom, Amiuh, and their two MPs waved to the driver and climbed aboard the trail M39 five-ton truck.
This one had been painted black with Eve of Destruction written on the side in white.
The original wood paneling had been replaced with metal plating.
Tom had noticed a lot of cargo trucks had been modified following an ambush the previous September of an 8th Transportation Group convoy along Route 19 between Qui Nhon and Pleiku in the Central Highlands.
NVA and Viet Cong forces killed seven U.S.
servicemen, wounded seventeen, and destroyed thirty vehicles.
After that attack, the ever-resourceful American GI had adapted.
Sandbags had been placed along the steel bumper and fenders to protect the engine.
Although these types of cargo trucks were only approved to carry M60s, the men who braved the roads knew what to do with that order and began outfitting their vehicles with the most lethal weaponry they could get their hands on.
Cargo trucks were turned into gun trucks.
A thin GI in a flak jacket and helmet manned the dual M2 Browning .50 caliber machine guns affixed to a swivel mount in the bed.
“How’s it going?” Tom asked.
“Good, sir.”
“I’m not a sir,” Tom replied.
“Good,” he said, this time dropping the “sir” and smiling. He crushed his cigarette on the cabin of the truck and flicked the filter onto the runway. He then slammed his hand down twice on the roof, letting the driver know they were loaded.
Tom watched Quinn take his seat in the back of the jeep and turn to look at the trail vehicle as the convoy lurched forward toward Saigon.