Page 3 of Cry Havoc (Tom Reece #1)

A favorite aircraft amongst all SOG Teams was the slow and highly maneuverable A-1 Skyraider, a venerable single-prop plane of Korean War vintage that could carry more than its own weight in ordnance.

While jets typically had about fifteen minutes of loiter time and had difficulty dropping ordnance closer than 250 meters to a team in contact, the A-1 could provide support for over an hour.

It had an array that included cluster bombs, napalm, 250-pound white phosphorus munitions, and a 20mm cannon that could cut down the enemy within 5 meters of a SOG Team in contact.

This was extremely helpful as most contacts in the heavy jungle took place at distances of less than 20 feet.

All SOG operators at one time or another had prayed to hear the distinctive growl of a low-flying Skyraider screaming in just above the canopy.

Recon Teams out of FOB 1 were usually supported by A-1s from the 56th Special Operations Wing in Da Nang. They were the best in the business.

Havoc had made contact in eleven out of their last thirteen missions as a team. All of them had been wounded, but, so far, they had not had any fatalities. Tom knew that one day his Frogman luck would run out. All he could do was hope that day wasn’t upon them.

Did Dad ever feel like this, Tommy gun in hand, battling the Japanese in World War Two?

Dad didn’t have claymores.

Tom shifted his eyes to the right. Even though he was less than four feet from Mang Hai, their Montagnard team leader, Tom couldn’t see him.

Mang was Tom’s age but looked younger. He had been a replacement for Amiuh.

Tom missed Amiuh. Quinn still carried the Montagnard’s rosary in his pocket.

Amiuh’s wife had insisted upon it. His death had hit Quinn particularly hard.

Mang lived for one purpose: to kill NVA. The AK round that had grazed Mang’s scalp on their last mission only added fuel to his fire. The Montagnard hated the North Vietnamese more than the Americans did. Truth was, the ’Yards hated all Vietnamese. They had history.

Rain began to fall through the mist.

A part of the SEAL prayed they would continue on, none the wiser. Another part was itching to cut them all down. This was war, a war that had claimed too many of his friends.

It took all of Tom’s strength not to wipe away the sweat that crept down from under the green cravat do-rag that obscured his dark blond hair.

The salty liquid traversed over his camouflage face paint to sting his eyes.

He found that the cravat worked better for him than the boonie hat favored by Quinn.

He also liked the fact that the prop wash of an approaching helo wouldn’t blow it from his head.

Maybe we’re going to get lucky.

Then he heard the clacking.

NVA trackers would signal each other and the main element by tapping two pieces of bamboo together.

Perhaps the trackers didn’t have dogs.

Then Tom heard the barking.

Shit.

This is about to get western.

They had unclipped the phone cable tap and were fading back from the trail into the shadows of the jungle when the enemy patrol appeared, forcing them into their perimeter, behind the claymores.

They had covered their scent with a mixture of CS powder—a potent irritant—and black pepper as they respooled the wires attached to the communications lines along the trail.

The mixture was highly effective, though it did not work if the dogs had been fooled before.

Bloodhounds used by the NVA were smart. If they had previously encountered the countermeasure, they would stop before getting close enough for it to destroy their sense of smell.

Some would even circle around the concoction to pick up their quarry’s scent on the other side.

Tom prayed these were not those kinds of dogs.

The barking stopped. Tom shut his eyes and focused on his hearing.

A dog was moving around the countermeasure.

He slowed his breathing.

Steady…

Tom gently removed the integrally suppressed .

22 caliber High Standard H-D semiautomatic handgun from the holster on his belt.

The World War Two–era pistol had been modified by Bell Laboratories for the Office of Strategic Services, the predecessor to the CIA.

With the type of ammunition that made up the ten rounds in the magazine and one in the chamber, it suppressed the shot to 20 decibels, or the sound of a light cough.

The longer Tom’s team could go without revealing their exact location, the better.

Tom brought the pistol up as deliberately as he could. Havoc’s advantage was stealth. The NVA had to move to find them, making noise, while Havoc could remain still, silent, and camouflaged.

Get ready.

The barking was getting closer, now from the flank.

Havoc’s claymores were set up facing the Ho Chi Minh Trail, which was to Tom’s twelve o’clock. The dog was approaching from his right flank, so the .22 would have to do.

The barking stopped, but Reece could hear movement. An NVA tracker would not be far behind.

You won’t see him until he’s almost on you.

In SOG they treated the dogs the same way they treated the NVA, as an enemy to be dispatched.

From Tom’s position on the jungle floor, the dog appeared much larger than it actually was as it materialized out of the brush.

The hound registered the prone American at the same instant a .

22 caliber round left the pistol’s muzzle without so much as a whisper.

It was followed by four more. From experience Tom knew that dogs, and humans, could soak up a few rounds before going down.

The brown and black–colored bloodhound dropped inches from Tom’s face.

Sorry, friend.

What was not expected was for his handler to appear right behind him as quickly as he did.

The sound of the approaching dog had disguised the noise of the tracker.

Reeling in shock at the sight of his dead dog, the NVA soldier’s eyes went wide as the jungle floor came alive at his feet.

Tom put a .22 round into his neck and another in the underside of his chin. At the same instant, the man’s finger depressed the trigger of his Kalashnikov, sending a burst of 7.62 × 39mm rounds into the dirt just to the left of Tom’s head.

He stumbled and fell on top of the SEAL, who put two suppressed rounds into his temple and another through his ear. More than one SOG operator had been killed by men they believed were dead. Learn from the mistakes of the departed.

Once the shooting started, if you weren’t moving, you were dying. The NVA with their superior numbers would flank you in a heartbeat. Hence the toe poppers and frag grenade trip wires.

And now, the shooting had started. The jungle in front of Tom and his team erupted in automatic fire all concentrated in the direction of the dead dog and handler.

There was no need to yell “contact” or “fire in the hole.” Havoc knew what was coming next.

Tom depressed the claymore’s trigger, sending three volts of electricity down the firing wire into a blasting cap embedded in C4.

This caused the detonation of a shaped charge that propelled the embedded steel ball bearings into a directional sixty-degree arc of pain, tearing through the jungle foliage and the enemy marching through it.

The backblast felt as though it dislodged Tom’s teeth from his skull when the shock wave passed through his body, compressing his brain and internal organs in a nauseating surge of violence.

The concussion and smoke were accompanied by a barrage of dirt, rocks, leaves, roots, and branches that showered the Americans and their Montagnard teammates with the vestiges of death.

The explosion immediately robbed them of hearing, which quickly returned as a piercing ring that would follow them like devils on their shoulders.

It was as if the universe suddenly inverted and just as quickly set itself straight, now a few souls lighter.

Time to move.

One thing to do first.

Tom reached into his gas mask pouch and retrieved an AK mag, a special Eldest Son AK mag with a bullet six rounds down modified to contain a high explosive in place of gunpowder.

Certain to destroy the rifle firing it, the bullet was also capable of maiming or even killing the shooter.

Tom quickly removed a magazine from the dead man’s canvas chest rig, secured it in his gas mask pouch, and replaced it with the Eldest Son mag, making sure to refasten the wooden toggle.

Tom then slapped the Montagnards to his right and left. Staying as low as they could, they turned and moved through Quinn’s squad, setting up about 20 yards behind and offset in the direction of their primary extract point.

With any luck this was a small NVA element, and those claymores had decimated most of them.

Luck…

Was it bad luck that an NVA patrol had appeared on the road just as RT Havoc had been removing their wiretap? Or was it something else?

Recon Teams were disappearing with increasing frequency these days.

Not now, Tom, damn it.

You can discuss it with Quinn over beers in the Green Beret Lounge at Phu Bai.

But first you have to get to Phu Bai.

The jungle erupted in gunfire, most directed at the position Tom’s element had recently occupied.

They don’t know exactly where we are, not yet.

Good.

Tom could see Quinn’s element moving toward them, which meant they had less than three minutes before their five linked claymores detonated.

“Tommy-son, beaucoup VC. Charlie,” Mang whispered, pointing to the left flank.

Even though these were NVA, VC and Charlie had become colloquial terms for “enemy,” to include NVA and Pathet Lao.

If you see them, you better shoot first. Do not hesitate.