Page 40 of Cry Havoc (Tom Reece #1)

ELLA DUBOIS WAS CERTAIN she was going to die.

They first heard automatic weapons barrages just after midnight, which they had all initially mistaken for fireworks.

Tet was a festive time in Vietnam; a time for forgiveness, for reunions, for settling debts and of new beginnings.

Then came the explosions and tracer fire.

They had looked out over Saigon from the Hotel Majestic rooftop bar as the city became a war zone.

Her father held her close. She knew he was weighing their options.

He had immediately placed a call to Nick Serrano of the American economic commission, but, after letting him know what was happening, the phones had gone dead.

Their plantation was about a forty-five-minute drive outside the city.

Was it safer to stay where they were? He had secured the two top-floor corner units of the hotel for Tet, one for him and one for Ella.

Even though they had other properties and holdings in the city, staying at the Majestic where they were hosting their company gathering was the most convenient.

Gaston had rented the bar for his thirty-five employees and their families in honor of the Lunar New Year, much to the chagrin of the war correspondents who enjoyed drinking and watching the conflict from their rooftop perch, with the occasional breeze from the Saigon River to keep them cool.

The previous year had been good to Gaston DuBois and his business.

Now, a new year was upon them, and he wanted to celebrate with those who had made it possible.

The four-story hotel had been a landmark since opening its doors in 1925.

It had once hosted a future president of the United States when, in 1951, a young congressman from Massachusetts named John Kennedy had met confidant Edmund Gullion on the roof for dinner.

The wise diplomat had counseled Kennedy that the French were going to lose Indochina to the communists and that, if we stepped in, the same would happen to the United States.

Ella had studied Kennedy’s trip to Vietnam in a course on international relations while at university in Paris.

Her class had listened to a radio interview he gave at the time.

She could recite his comments on combating communism almost word for word.

He had said that it was “not the export of arms or the show of armed might but the export of ideas, of techniques, and the rebirth of our traditional sympathy for and understanding of the desires of men to be free.” She could picture Kennedy on this very rooftop listening to Viet Minh artillery exploding in the distance, having just been lectured earlier in the day by French General Jean de Lattre de Tassigny, who had told the visiting dignitaries that in his estimation it was impossible for the French to lose the war.

Ella disliked spending time at the Majestic.

The pretentious journalists drinking and carousing until the early hours of the morning while a war raged in the distance only made her despise them, regardless of how they reported on the conflict.

She only relented tonight because her father was so adamant about celebrating their Vietnamese heritage with Tet.

Tiki flames and dim bulbs had illuminated the rooftop while young women in finely cut silk dresses served refreshments.

Gaston ensured that Moet the rules of war forbade the targeting of journalists as long as they were not active participants in military operations.

Any other options evaporated as the rooftop was flooded by men with guns.

They had become hostages, held under the watch of Vietnamese combatants in civilian clothes.

She could tell their leader was nervous.

She had overheard whispered conversations with someone she assumed was his second in command, whose behavior seemed erratic.

His eyes darted from hostage to hostage, and she could see he was sweating profusely.

Most concerning was that his finger kept going to the trigger of his weapon.

They had apparently believed that this was to be a party for U.S.

and South Vietnamese military officers, which clearly it was not.

Now they were not sure what to do. Killing them all and moving to the next target seemed to be the most likely choice.

If the second in command got his way, she feared that is exactly what was going to happen.

Ella held her father’s hand tighter.

What was going on? Saigon was relatively safe when compared to the rest of the country. This could not be an NVA attack, could it? The men pointing rifles at her did not look like NVA.

She caught one insurgent eyeing her longingly. Even though her golden mini shift dress with a chiffon overlay and sequined top was stylish and graceful without being overly revealing, she now wished she had something to cover her bare arms.

Her father was dressed for the occasion in a white linen dinner jacket with a cotton voile shirt and black satin bow tie. A matching satin stripe ran down the leg of his black dress pants. Everyone had donned their very best to bring in a new year of good fortune.

It struck her that regardless of what else was happening in the city, no matter where the bombs and bullets were striking that night, the symbolism of communist insurgents gunning down Vietnamese capitalist traitors in dinner jackets and cocktail dresses at the top of the Majestic was apropos to their cause.

She counted eight captors. All had rifles that looked like AKs.

After another hushed consultation with their leader, the smaller anxious man started shouting in Vietnamese.

“Move, move!”

One of them let off a volley of fully automatic fire over their heads, herding the frightened civilians toward the far railing that overlooked the Saigon River.

She screamed as she was separated from her father, rough hands forcing her to her knees along with the others.

Her fingers found the jade amulet at her neck. She closed her eyes and whispered a prayer.

Please, Mother, protect us.

She opened her eyes to the sound of more gunfire.

At first, she thought their captors had begun executions, but the gunfire was farther behind them and somewhat muffled.

She heard confusion, the scuffling of feet, and contradictory orders that were hard to make out over the shouting.

What was happening?

Stay strong, Ella. No matter what happens, stay strong.

She turned her head in time to see the door to the roof fly open. A Vietnamese man was propelled through it as though shot from a cannon.

He was immediately filled with what she swore were at least a dozen bullets. One caught him in his head. She saw it snap back and then watched as his body dropped to the floor.

Behind the dead Vietnamese man flowed someone different. He was followed by a second and then a third. They were not Vietnamese. They were American. They had weapons as well. And they used them.

She heard their shouts in Vietnamese, French, and English.

“Get down!”

“Stay down!”

The first man stepped to the right of the door and then angled forward moving toward her, firing as he went, his shots tearing into the upper chest cavities and heads of her tormentors. The end of his rifle exploded in a violent concussion of fire with each press of the trigger.

The next man angled left, moving and firing a shorter weapon that looked futuristic.

The third took less of an angle than the first man but veered slightly right as well. He was firing a weapon she had seen in American gangster movies.

They looked like predators. They had found their prey.

They continued moving and firing until all the captors were down. They then calmly advanced and put additional shots into the downed men’s heads.

“Clear on this side,” the first man called. His voice seemed familiar.

“Clear on the left,” the second man said.

“Clear here,” the third man said. She recognized him as Nick Serrano. She and her father had attended numerous meetings with him over the past year. What was he doing here with a gun? Wasn’t he a U.S. import control officer?

She looked back to the man closest to her. It was only then that she remembered him as the man she had met with Serrano at the government building that morning.

Dark blond hair, stubble, her age, maybe a little older. Strong. She especially remembered his deep blue eyes.

He approached and knelt next to her.

“My name’s Tom. We met yesterday afternoon. You’re going to be okay.”