Page 5 of Cry Havoc (Tom Reece #1)

Quinn had called a hasty perimeter. Tom threw Sau to the ground and immediately started stuffing the stomach wound with gauze as Quinn quickly evaluated the wounded soldier while raising Covey on the radio.

They were moving into the wind, which was bad for tracking purposes, especially if the NVA had more dogs, but it was good for CS or smoke to mark locations as it would push that smoke back on the enemy.

“Covey, what’s the status on CAS?”

“Two F-4s inbound. Two mikes out.”

“Ordnance?”

“Napalm.”

Quinn prepped a smoke and threw it behind them.

“Marking,” he said into his handset.

“I identify white smoke,” came the reply from Covey.

“Have them put everything they have north of the smoke. How does our route look to extract?”

“Hard to tell through the clouds. Appears clear.”

“Good copy, Covey. We’re moving.”

Quinn looked at Tom, who had finished stuffing Sau’s stomach. There was nothing more they could do at the moment.

“Havoc, recommend you cross the stream,” came the composed voice over the radio. “Nothing moving on the other side, then di di mau south for half a klick. Then another klick to the clearing. I’ll guide you in.”

“You got him?” Quinn asked his One-One.

Quinn was shorter than Tom’s six feet but was thicker by a good margin. Three days of black stubble protruded through his camo face paint and blended with his Fu Manchu mustache that was well out of regulations.

Tom nodded.

“Hiep, tell them,” Quinn instructed their interpreter.

Hiep made his way around the inside of the small perimeter, whispering in the dialect of his tribe, one that was the primary language of Havoc’s Montagnards.

“Fuckers knew we were coming,” Tom said to his One-Zero.

Quinn nodded.

“Later. Right now, we move to extract.”

They heard the high-pitched howl of the F-4 Phantom’s twin engines when the main element was halfway across the stream.

Even though it impacted over 200 meters away, they felt the heat of the napalm wash over them as the sheets of fire torched the NVA below.

Napalm was one of the most feared and devastating weapons in the American arsenal.

Conceived and developed at Harvard University during the Second World War, the burning gelatin was brutal and horrific if one were on the receiving end.

As the second F-4 turned onto its glide path, Havoc heard the weapons of the NVA turn to the skies in a futile effort to bring one of their tormentors down.

Havoc worked their way into the jungle on the opposite side of the stream and heard the jets make another pass, this time on gun runs tearing up the NVA column with their 20mm cannons.

“Havoc, I don’t have eyes on your location. Keep moving toward extract. F-4s are Winchester. Spads inbound,” he said, referring to the A-1 Skyraider. “Ten mikes out. NVA has split into two elements and are still moving your direction.”

“How much of a lead do we have?”

“About a klick.”

“Roger, Covey.”

Quinn turned to the SEAL.

“Let me know when you need a spell.”

“I got him,” Tom said.

Quinn signaled the direction of travel to the rest of the team before pumping his closed fist up and down, which meant to double time—di di mau.

The team knew that Covey was clearing their path to extract. They were going to make it.

“Talk to us, Covey. What do you see?” Quinn said into his handset as they continued through the jungle.

“Banking left over your target box. Looks clear. Kingbees fifteen mikes out. Skyraider will be here in six. Keep moving, Havoc.”

Quinn keyed his mike twice in acknowledgment.

Tom had carried wounded comrades before.

It didn’t get easier. He tried to block out Sau’s groaning in his ear over the ringing caused by the claymore detonation and gunfire, trusting his team to provide security.

His focus was on maneuvering around trees and root systems that threatened to trip him up and avoiding two-step pit vipers and cobras that could be coiled up on the other side of any decaying log.

The detritus-tinged heat of the day began to give way to the chill of the night.

The smell of decaying plants, rotting logs, and stagnant water lingered in his nostrils even as he forced air out of his nose in a losing attempt to fight off the constant infiltration of gnats, flies, and mosquitos looking for any open orifice or uncovered skin to exploit.

Tom could not tell if it was sweat running down his back or if it was Sau’s leaking blood. It was probably both.

One foot after the other, Tom. Think of those beers at Phu Bai. Think of getting Sau to the docs.

Tom crashed into another hasty perimeter. Quinn was at the far side on the radio. The team had formed a circle. Through the foliage, Tom caught sight of the clearing.

We’re going to make it.

Don’t get cocky.

It’s not over until you touch down at Phu Bai.

Tom checked Sau’s pulse. Weak. He pulled up the Montagnard’s shirt. Gray intestines had slipped out around the gauze. The Montagnard’s face was ashen.

You are not dead yet, Sau. Fight for me, Tom pleaded as he poured water from his canteen on the intestines. He stuffed them back inside his teammate and followed with additional gauze.

Quinn turned and took a knee. The grizzled warrior didn’t need to ask how Sau was. He knew. It didn’t look good.

“Covey is going to talk the Skyraider onto the NVA to our six,” he said. “Kingbees are about four minutes out. There’s enough room here to land so we won’t have to come out on strings.”

Tom unsnapped one of two buttons holding a side of the leather flap over his Rolex and swung it to the side: 1855. 6:55 p.m.

“It’s getting dark,” he said.

“They’ll be here,” Quinn responded.

The South Vietnamese 219th Helicopter Squadron was based in Da Nang.

Piloting their camouflaged unmarked H-34 Kingbee choppers, they were fearless.

Most had personal reasons for flying, and the United States government paid them an extra $25 every time they inserted or extracted a team across the fence.

That added up. The old helicopter with its huge nine-cylinder Curtis-Wright R-1820-B4 piston engine, similar to those that had once powered the B-17 Flying Fortress, could soak up enemy rounds even as its overhead lines leaked pink hydraulic fluid.

As long as they kept leaking you knew they had not run dry.

It was when they stopped leaking that you had to worry.

Armed with a single .30 caliber machine gun mounted in its lone starboard side door, the H-34 was the helo you wanted to see coming when the odds were against you.

With its distinctive bulbus nose cone that acted as armor and unique raised cockpit, the Kingbee stood out amongst its contemporaries in what some were calling The Helicopter War.

Tom nodded as Quinn and Hiep went to brief the team.

An A-1 screamed by overhead, offset of the team, on its approach, the reverberations of its engine echoing through the jungle in its wake. The Skyraider would keep the NVA at bay. Havoc was going to get out of there.

The sheer size of the NVA element was concerning. An entire fucking company? And what of the Pathet Lao flanking them in what appeared to be a suicide run? That was new.

There had to be a mole at Phu Bai, Da Nang, or Saigon. Somone had sold them out.

Come on, Tom. You need to get out of here.

What was the old adage? You can’t control the wind, but you can control the cut of your sail. If he ever had kids, he would pass that bit of wisdom along.

Tom crept to the twelve o’clock of their perimeter—their direction of travel—and narrowed his eyes, assessing the clearing that was their LZ.

The A-1 made another pass to their six o’clock, dropping bombs that sounded to Tom like 500 pounders.

“Havoc, this is Covey. Kingbees are two mikes out. Mark your position.”

Tom looked back at Quinn, who was working his way around the inside of their perimeter making sure each member of the unit knew the plan.

He nodded at Tom, who then tapped the point man, an old ’Yard hunter named Tuan who had been at Dien Bien Phu, to let him know he was moving beyond the perimeter.

The Frogman snuck toward the clearing, RPD at the ready.

As he approached the edge of the tall elephant grass, he paused to look, listen, smell, and feel.

Did he catch the scent of something in the air? Or was it his imagination? The wind was swirling now. With the bugs still attacking his nostrils and the smell of decomposing rainforest mixed with the distinctive odor of charred bodies from the napalm, it was hard to tell.

He keyed his handset.

“Covey, this is Havoc, I mark you identify,” Tom said, pulling a VS17 panel from his cargo pocket.

His eyes continued to study the clearing.

“I identify orange panel,” came the reply from their eyes in the sky.

“Roger, request a low pass over the LZ. Tough to see through the grass.”

“Roger. Commencing pass.”

Tom could hear the twin push-pull engines of the unique-looking aircraft. The pilot passed so low Tom could make eye contact with him and his SF Covey Rider.

“Appear to be clear. Climbing to spot for CAS. Tossing you to Kingbees for extract.”

“Roger,” Tom replied over the radio as Quinn appeared at his side.

“What do you think?” Quinn asked.

“I think we are either lucky or dead.”

“I’d rather be lucky.”

“Yeah, me too.”

The distinctive whomp-whomp of the large Kingbees filled the air.

“Let’s go home. Squad two first,” Quinn said.

Tom nodded. The One-Zero was always the first off a helo on insertion and the last out on an extraction.

Tom turned and checked Sau’s pulse one more time. Even weaker.

Hold on, buddy.

Tom hoisted his ’Yard teammate onto his shoulders. The remaining members of his squad took point and rear security.