Page 68 of Cry Havoc (Tom Reece #1)

TOM MOVED BACK TO the road and continued to run northeast through the hammering rain.

Even with the somewhat awkward satchel, the kit was relatively lightweight compared to the heavy gear that Tom and all SOG operators carried on missions.

The NVA and Viet Cong were unencumbered by the weight of American equipment, which allowed them an advantage in maneuverability, one that Tom now shared.

He was in enemy clothing, carrying an enemy weapon, far behind enemy lines.

No one would think that a lone operator would be on the ground this deep inside Laos. That would make the enemy complacent. Tom would exploit it.

Tom’s boots pounded away at the asphalt, eating up the distance between him and his teammates, the downpour washing away all traces of his passing.

The rain stopped before midnight. Tom pushed on.

The potent smell of thuoc lao, a strong tobacco grown in the mountains of the north, forced him from the road three hours later. The smoke was carried on a light breeze, drifting over the earth as if preparing it for morning.

Tom dropped to a knee and froze, using all his senses to discern the source of the new odor, eyes peering ahead into the darkness.

The smoke was followed by a conversation in Vietnamese.

Not loud, but also not hushed, the words were carried over the wind to the American waiting in the night.

Tom guessed it was a sentry post or RON site a hundred meters or more ahead.

He slowly moved off the road and back to the protective embrace of the jungle.

There was no more he could do until daylight.

He put his back to the roots of a banyan tree that descended from the branches above.

The unique roots would eventually become new trees.

Tonight, they provided some comfort. Deep in the jungle, facing the trail, with the AK in his lap, Tom shut his eyes and was soon lulled to sleep by a chorus of insects and frogs, marking territory and attracting mates under the cover of a moonless night.

The jungle went silent just before dawn. Tom was instantly awake, but didn’t make any sudden moves, knowing that movement attracted attention.

Intruders?

Rain sprinkled through the canopy above. This rain was lighter than the monsoon of yesterday afternoon.

Tom stayed as still as he could, listening, smelling, watching. He stayed that way until the clouds and rain were replaced by rays of light.

Time to move.

He eased himself to his feet, doing his best to ignore his aching ribs, knowing that it did not come close to what Quinn must be experiencing.

Thirty yards into the jungle, with the Ho Chi Minh Trail on his left, Tom stopped every few minutes to assess the way ahead.

One of those pauses allowed him to see the guard tower before the sentry manning it saw him.

It was about 12 feet off the ground and attached to a layered system of barbed wire.

Tom adjusted his direction of travel and moved farther from the road. He needed higher ground.

Probably mines and booby traps here, Tom thought. Don’t rush.

He could hear Vietnamese voices through the trees. Was it a camp? A depot? Tom knew the NVA had numerous depots set up along the trail to service the flow of men, material, and machinery south. Convoys could stop, rest, refit, refuel, and then continue on their journey.

He hiked east, the ground slightly increasing in elevation, until he came to a stream and climbed up a small waterfall covered in ferns. At times, he could appreciate the natural beauty of the country even when it seemed everything in it was trying to kill him.

The creek continued east, but Tom stepped back onto the hillside, estimating that he had enough elevation to see into the camp.

Take it slow.

The morning’s light rain had stopped and been replaced by a thick mist.

Will I even be able to see through this?

Tom identified a rock outcropping and made his way to it through the moist, gray veil.

The mist protected him from the eyes below, but it also obscured his view of the camp. He could hear voices mixed with what sounded like a generator. Morning mist had a tendency to clear out quickly and without notice in the Laotian mountains.

What if it clears out and leaves you exposed on this hill?

One thing at a time, Tom. One thing at a time.

From the noise, he estimated he was about 200 yards from the camp, but it was hard to tell. He would just have to sit it out.

Patience.

He did not have to wait long.

The sun warmed the earth, causing the mist to dissipate, the gray haze gradually ceding the territory it had taken at daybreak, eventually revealing the camp below.

Tom was a bit farther away than he thought, somewhere between 200 and 250 yards.

The camp was a depot, cut into a jungle that looked like it might take it back at the first opportunity.

Various trees and foliage were sprinkled throughout, making it harder to see from the air.

Aboveground fuel tanks were set up at the far side of the compound.

They were attached to pipes that led toward the trail.

Thatched roofs protected them from overhead observation.

A longer thatched roof that resembled a longhouse shielded the six trucks that passed Tom the previous day.

It was the convoy that had picked up Quinn and Hiep.

Where are they?

They must be in one of the other thatched huts.

Tom could see two of the guard towers from his position but knew there must be at least two others masked by the canopy.

How many of these do they have along the trail? Tom wondered.

He pulled his map from the satchel and oriented himself. If his calculations were correct, he was well outside the SOG operations box, on the edge of the Annamite Mountain Range between Laos and North Vietnam.

Forty-five miles to the border of South Vietnam.

He made a notation on his map. As he was stuffing it back in his satchel, he heard commotion in the distance.

The door to one of the huts was thrown open, and a man was kicked off the raised platform into the dirt.

Quinn.

His hands were still tied behind his back, but his feet were now bound as well, and a strip of cloth was tied around his head, covering his eyes.

Hiep was thrown out after him with hands and feet tied.

He was blindfolded too. Behind them, three additional men were marched out at gunpoint.

They were dressed in black pajamas, hands and feet bound with cloth across their eyes.

They were taller than the NVA soldiers. Tom squinted.

There was no doubt. They were Americans.

Hiep and the three other Americans were lined up at the base of the steps leading up to the hut.

Another NVA soldier emerged and walked past the prisoners. He turned his AK around and swung it down like an ax, connecting with the back of Quinn’s head and putting him in the mud.

Tom settled into a stable seated firing position, pushed the selector lever down past the fully automatic setting to semiautomatic, ensured there was a round in the chamber, and moved the slider on the rear leaf sight to the 200-meter-mark.

Who knows if this thing is even sighted in?

He seated the butt of the stock in the pocket of his shoulder and dropped his cheek to the comb, finding the front sight.

If I’m at 200 yards and the rifle is adjusted to 200 meters, that’s just over 180 meters. With this angle, the round will go a little high. Compensate for the distance and the angle. Aim low.

Quinn attempted to push himself up and managed to get to all fours when his tormentor connected a kick to his solar plexus, putting him right back in the mud.

Tom could tell his friend was in bad shape. His left arm wasn’t working, and neither was his right leg.

Tom’s eye found the front sight.

Don’t do anything. You will get them all killed.

Hiep must have moved his head to allow him to see under the blindfold, because he charged out from the line, only to take the full force of the stock of the soldier’s AK to his face, sending him into the dirt. Another NVA soldier dragged him back into the lineup and put him on his knees.

The soldier beating Quinn pointed at Hiep and shouted something that Tom couldn’t understand at this distance, but it must have been an order to remove the blindfolds from Hiep and the Americans. The soldiers then forced the Americans to kneel.

The NVA leader was facing them, one foot on Quinn’s back. He was addressing the captives again. He then stepped back and aligned the butt of his rifle with Quinn’s head like he was judging the distance.

Fuck. They are going to kill him.

Tom’s finger went to the trigger.

As the soldier raised the rifle high over his head like an ax, Tom’s finger pressed back.

The bullet impacted the mud low and left.

Immediately the soldiers looked to the mountainside in confusion.

Adjust high and right.

Tom adjusted and put the next round into the soldier’s lower stomach.

Windage is good.

The soldier dropped his weapon and put both his hands to his midsection in disbelief.

Tom adjusted again and sent a third round that took the soldier in his upper chest.

He dropped to the ground on top of Quinn.

The compound erupted in pandemonium. Shouting in Vietnamese was followed by fully automatic fire from AKs aimed in Tom’s general direction, raking the hillside about 75 yards down and to the left of where he was hiding in the rocks.

They don’t know exactly where you are.

Yet.

You fire again, and they will pinpoint your position.

They kill you, then all this was for nothing.

What was that?

A tall white man with black hair in a khaki shirt and pants marched from a hut near the motor pool. He was pointing and shouting orders. He was carrying Quinn’s tomahawk.

Was he yelling in Russian?

It was impossible to tell over the gunfire.

A bullet hit the rock by Tom’s head, sending stone fragments into the left side of his face, a sliver lodging in his left eye.

Shit!