Page 63 of Cry Havoc (Tom Reece #1)

EVEN MOVING SLOWLY, IT did not take long to find the crash site.

Tom used the smell, stopping every few minutes to assess his surroundings.

The light breeze brought with it the nauseating odor of roasted human bodies; the muscles, skin, and fats reminiscent of roasted pork while burning hair, spinal fluids, organs, and blood carried with them a putrid, coppery-metallic stink.

Tom spit, trying to rid his mouth of the taste that he knew came from the bodies of his dead friends.

The closer he got, the stronger the smell became.

He desperately wanted to get upwind of the noxious fumes, but he forced himself to continue moving deliberately.

He would be no use to any survivors if he was dead, if in fact there were any survivors.

He saw the tail rotor first. It had snapped off as the bird came down and was suspended in the canopy above.

He stopped and listened for any unnatural sounds, his eyes scanning ahead looking for anything that did not belong.

He pushed forward. The odor was even stronger now. He was close.

Think of it as just smoke, not the bodies of your teammates.

Quinn.

No.

Tom pushed the thought from his mind.

If they had all died, there is a good chance the enemy is set up on the crash site.

He paused again, a stronger gust of wind overwhelming him with the scent of death. He bent over and retched. Dry heaves followed, and he placed his hand against a tree to steady himself.

Well, if the NVA is here, they fucking heard that. Dammit.

Without any water, Tom cleared his mouth the best he could.

You are close. Angle out of this downwind approach.

What the fuck are you doing, Tom? Wait for extract. Birds are probably spinning up now. Are you going to take on an NVA company with a claymore, one round of .22, and a Swiss Army Knife?

If I have to.

He inched forward. If the enemy had set up, he would know it soon.

Then he caught sight of the corner of the fuselage.

Keep it slow. Even if the NVA are not waiting in ambush, they may have left behind booby traps.

A larger portion of the fuselage came into view.

Steady.

The SEAL crept forward and angled farther to the right, cautiously placing each step before shifting his weight onto his front foot.

The body of the large Kingbee was remarkably intact for having sustained an explosion and the ensuing fires that consumed it. It was on its side; the crew chief’s torso was visible, burnt to a crisp, his lower body crushed under the mammoth beast.

Tom continued to angle toward the front of the aircraft. The plexiglas windscreen was shattered, and he could clearly see the two pilots inside, still strapped in their seats. Their charred skeletons were smoldering.

Tom fought the urge to vomit again.

Keep it together.

Where are the strings? he wondered, as he scanned the scene for the ropes that had pulled Quinn, Hiep, Phe, and Hoahn out on extract.

Did they burn?

Did the crew chief manage to cut them away?

Were they still alive in the jungle?

Had they been captured?

Then he saw a body.

It had been sliced in half by the rotor.

It was Phe.

The Montagnard’s weapon was gone, but that did not necessarily mean that the enemy had confiscated it. The rifle could have easily been lost at any point during the extraction and subsequent crash.

Then he saw another body. This one was not burned or disfigured from the crash.

Hoahn.

He had been executed with a bullet to the head. Tom had seen enough head shots to know what they looked like.

There could be more bodies scattered in the jungle.

Find them.

Tom forced himself to move in an arc around the downed bird, looking for bodies and tracks.

When he was directly north of Hoahn’s body, he saw the sign.

“There is always a sign.” It was a lesson he had learned long ago in the mountains of Colorado.

There is always a sign.

He knelt.

Two sets of bare feet, one larger than the other.

Quinn and Hiep.

They had survived. Tom was sure of it.

There were other signs as well: tracks from sandals and canvas boots worn by the NVA.

They had taken Quinn’s and Hiep’s boots and were forcing them to march barefoot to make it harder to escape.

The right side of the larger bare footprint was slightly dragging.

Quinn was hurt.

Tom looked ahead to the north into the dense foliage, weighed his options, and then moved off in pursuit.