Page 6 of Cry Havoc (Tom Reece #1)

He looked up to see a monstrous helo. It appeared to fall from the sky in a maneuver called a Falling Yellow Leaf, in which they autorotated in a downward spiral out of the clouds to drop as quickly as possible into an LZ. The first time Tom had been aboard for the maneuver he almost threw up.

The Kingbee came to a hover and settled to earth, its powerful rotor wash beating down the dense, thick elephant grass.

The H-34 landed so that its only door faced the ridgeline to the west, giving the door gunner a clear line of fire into what was unknown territory.

Tom was halfway to the helo when he heard the machine gun open up.

“Contact!”

A second later an RPG ripped under the tail of the helo, impacting the ground and showering Tom’s squad with dirt.

He heard shouting in Vietnamese as the helo lifted off just as a second RPG sailed under its fuselage.

Tom’s element reversed course and sprinted to the relative safety of the tree line as the first mortars impacted the LZ.

The mortars didn’t even need to bracket, Tom thought. They knew we would come here and were already sighted in.

Motherfuckers.

All they had to do was wait another minute and we would have been dead.

The enemy’s impatience had cost them.

Tom could hear Covey on the radio talking with the Skyraider, directing them toward the new threat on the opposite side of the clearing. The calm with which the airborne assets communicated was always in stark contrast to the chaos on the ground.

“Havoc, this is Covey, marking contact with rockets for Skyraider. Move five hundred meters to the southeast. Pickup on strings.”

Quinn keyed his handset twice as he led the patrol to their new extraction point.

With Covey and the A-1s making passes at both enemy elements, Havoc was in direct comms with the Kingbees.

“Drop the ropes,” Quinn said when they could hear one of the big birds hovering just above the trees.

A sandbag attached to a thick 120-foot rope fell through the canopy and crashed to the jungle floor.

It was followed by three more—all from the single right-side door.

All four operators hanging from the helo’s starboard side created a weight imbalance that increased the flying challenges for the Kingbee pilot.

“See you for beers at Phu Bai,” Quinn told Tom with a smile before turning to lead his squad farther into the jungle under the second helo that hovered over the canopy about 75 meters east.

Tom lay Sau on the ground and tied a Swiss seat around his unconscious friend’s waist and legs while Tuan and Mang held security. They could hear the A-1s pounding the enemy with cluster bombs, napalm, 250-pounders, 500-pounders, and their 20mm cannons.

“Kingbee, I have one wounded. He’s strapped in,” Tom said into his handset.

“Roger, Havoc,” came the reply in heavily Vietnamese-accented English. It was a voice Tom recognized—Captain An, a pilot who had hauled Havoc out under fire on multiple occasions.

Tom had purchased many a beer for An in the Phu Bai Green Beret Lounge following missions across the fence. He prayed he would be able to do so again tonight.

Tom quickly tied his own Swiss seat and then motioned to Mang and Tuan to do the same while he held security. Tom would be the last in his squad to clip into the rope that would haul them out of the jungle.

Almost there.

He felt a bullet impact the radio on his back, followed by two more in quick succession, putting him in the dirt. It felt like he had been hit three times with a sledgehammer. He scrambled to his feet.

Mang and Tuan, though attached to the strings, returned fire with their CAR-15s.

Tom pivoted and began raking the jungle with the RPD.

He could tell that the helo was taking rounds as the NVA fired through the canopy. Even though the enemy couldn’t see the Kingbee, they could hear it.

The giant helicopter began moving, dragging the three ’Yards through the jungle.

You are going to get left behind, Tom.

The radio was awash in Vietnamese from the pilots at the same time his Montagnards were yelling at him to clip in.

Tom ran to catch up to the remaining rope as it slid through the jungle.

Grabbing it with his left hand, he struggled to attach with his D-ring, his eyes darting between the black carabiner, the rope, and the jungle.

An NVA soldier emerged from the trees. Tom let go of the D-ring and grasped his M79.

Pushing the safety forward, he fired a flechette round directly into the neck and face of the enemy soldier—the steel darts removing his head from his body and dropping him instantly.

Tom reloaded the RPD and let loose another 125 rounds into the jungle before turning to sprint toward the rope moving farther away through the trees. Bullets whizzed past, the distinctive green NVA tracers resembling lasers on a trajectory of death.

He reached for the rope. Missed, increased his speed and tried again.

Got it.

Clipping in, he keyed his mike and shouted, “Go, go, go! Di di mau! Di di mau!”

Green enemy tracers continued to zip through the jungle as the helo picked up speed, dropping slightly as it did so, dragging their marionettes on strings into the dirt before gaining speed and altitude.

The gunshots began to fade, only to be replaced by the sound of branches cracking as the four teammates were hauled through the trees.

A limb caught the shoulder strap of Tom’s pack, tearing it away and whipping him upside down.

He was now inverted, being pulled through the upper reaches of the canopy, smashing through the thick foliage.

Tom felt the sling of his RPD violently twist around his neck, cutting off his oxygen supply. He frantically tried to pull it away only to be obstructed by his web gear, which slid down around his chest and face. His head hit the trunk of a tree and bounced him to the side.

His equipment was catching on everything.

He was getting torn apart.

You need to breathe.

Tom forced his right hand away from the sling at his throat and dug the fingers of his left hand between his neck and the leather in a vain attempt to create space for air. He smashed off another tree. The sling twisted tighter. A sharp branch slashed across his chin.

His hand found the handle of his Randall. He hit the snap with this thumb and unsheathed the blade, immediately slicing through the sling where it attached to the weapon.

Don’t stab yourself or you will never hear the end of it.

He felt one side of the weapon give way, but the weight of the machine gun just yanked his head to the side as he crashed through branches.

This extract is going to kill us all.

Upside down hurtling through the canopy as the aircraft continued to rise, he found what he thought was the second sling attachment point and cut it away. The pressure continued to build. Tom realized he had sliced through a part of his web gear.

Find the fucking sling!

With the blood flow to his brain restricted, he cut away anything that felt like the sling as the darkness began to creep in around his vision.

You are going to black out and die upside down dangling from this damn bird.

No, you’re not.

He found the other sling attachment point and sawed through it until he felt the RPD fall toward earth. Grabbing the leather sling still attached to his neck, he twisted it off, desperately sucking in precious oxygen as he attempted to right himself.

He felt the rope catch, pinning his leg against a thick branch, the pressure building as the rope strained under the force of the Kingbee’s engine.

The jungle was not going to give him up without a fight.

Just as he felt his femur about to snap, the branch splintered with a thunderous crack, propelling Tom through the upper reaches of the canopy.

He held fast to his knife as his web gear was ripped away before he was pulled above the trees into the evening mist.

Gasping for breath, he twisted his head and counted his men dangling from the other strings. Sau looked like a dead man, but he remained attached. Mang had lost his CAR-15, but he and Tuan were upright and alive.

Tom swiveled his head to look for the second helo expecting to see Quinn and his three ’Yards suspended beneath it.

The sky was clear. Tom’s helicopter was the only one in the air.

He frantically scanned the jungle floor.

No!

Heart sinking, he saw the flames of a downed helo.

Kingbee down.

Quinn.

With his head dangling mere feet above the trees, he felt the H-34 begin to gain altitude and glanced up at the underside of the extraction bird.

Quinn is on the ground. His squad is on the ground.

They are probably dead.

But maybe not.

Never leave a man behind.

See you for beers at Phu Bai.

Tom looked back to the smoke of the burning Kingbee and made his decision.

He curled his body in an inverted sit up and lashed out with his knife.

His first slash missed the string. The helo began to lift higher.

Last chance. He summoned his final ounce of strength and pulled his body upright.

Reaching up with his knife, he sliced through the lifeline connecting him to salvation and plummeted into the Laotian jungle.