Page 70 of Cry Havoc (Tom Reece #1)

The Soviet single-barreled belt-fed KPV heavy machine gun was designed to be pulled via its two-wheeled carriage assembly and set up in remote locations, like the side of a mountain.

The entire system could be broken down into smaller parts for transport and then put together again in short order.

The large-caliber weapon rested on its mount and sat atop a sturdy tripod.

A seat covered in white canvas, stained almost brown with dirt and grime, allowed a gunner to manipulate the substantial system and quickly adjust for elevation and windage.

It was pointed skyward when Tom slid behind the controls.

Thoughts of Quinn fueled him.

The gutting. The fire.

Not now, Tom. There will be time to mourn. Hiep and three other Americans are still there. Get back to Phu Bai and organize a rescue.

Tom kept running, unencumbered by the weight of his usual op gear.

He knew they would track him and quickly realize they were following—not a team, squad, or platoon—but a single man. They would throw everything against him. And they knew exactly where he was going. There was only one choice: south.

His ribs burned and sent spikes of pain throughout his body, pain that was nothing compared to what Quinn just went though.

Quinn.

Put it out of your mind.

Get back to Phu Bai or they all die.

He had seen at least three Americans. Were there more? How long would they be there?

They might be transporting them north right now. They would certainly move them out of the camp as soon as possible.

You are too impetuous, Tom. You needed to exercise patience and logic. You did neither.

If you had let them beat Quinn, maybe he would have survived.

You killed him by taking that shot.

Who was the white man?

Soviet advisor, probably.

Could he have been a mercenary? Possibly.

No, he had to be a Soviet.

Come back with an assault team and kill him.

You better move!

You are leaving so much sign, you will not be hard to track.

Tom heard the barking of dogs.

He needed to slow them down.

Tom stopped and pulled the claymore from his satchel, attached the time fuse, and listened, forcing himself to wait.

Be patient.

There, that bark was close.

Tom initiated the time fuse.

Two minutes.

He ran, newly invigorated.

Had he timed it right?

It felt that way.

An explosion reverberated through the jungle.

He heard a man screaming.

Make up time in the chaos.

You are Havoc.

Should I hit the trail?

No, they will likely be on it, moving into positions to flank or ambush.

Tom needed them to think he was headed in the direction of the crash site. That would be the natural play. The NVA would assume he was making a run for the crash site in the hopes that he could make contact with U.S. forces working to recover the helo and bodies of the dead.

You will never make it.

I know.

I have another destination in mind.

He kept running.

What are the enemy assumptions?

That you are going to the crash site and that you are MACV-SOG.

They don’t know you are a Frogman.

Get to the water.

Tom’s map study indicated that there was a river, about 10 klicks from his current location—the Sepon River, which he knew eventually formed a natural border between Laos and South Vietnam.

With the recent rains, and with some luck, he could find a closer tributary that was flowing into it.

The trick would be making the NVA continue to believe he was going for the crash site.

How do I do that?

You need to trick the dogs.

The trackers would already think he was making a dash for the downed helo.

Tom needed to confirm that bias. The rains would help.

If he could survive long enough for the afternoon monsoon to cleanse the earth, he could make them think the dogs had lost the scent.

To do that, he needed to find a tributary.

He heard shouting in Vietnamese to his right. They must have pushed down the Trail quickly, hoping to flank him. Then came the bullets, ripping through the jungle behind him.

They must be hearing you. They can’t see you.

He slowed his pace.

Don’t give away your exact position by firing.

Not yet.

Tom was traveling slightly downhill. The Ho Chi Minh Trail was to his right. He could hear the NVA moving down toward him. Tom stopped and looked for targets.

Wonder if these things work? he thought, removing the two stick grenades from his bag.

He heard movement. It was closer now. The NVA were coming quickly.

Here it goes.

Tom yanked the wax string pull cord to arm the grenade and then hurled it through the jungle toward the approaching soldiers.

Is it going to blow up?

Tom had his answer a second later, hearing the detonation and feeling the concussive effect against his back as he ran another 20 yards deeper into the jungle.

He stopped, armed the last grenade, and threw it toward the enemy’s left flank.

Another explosion echoed through the trees.

He kept running.

Glad I cut back on the cigarettes.

Tom’s plan required that he put some distance between him and his pursuers.

He sprinted through the bare patches of jungle that the Montagnards avoided—fearing them haunted by spirits—only to disappear back under the triple canopy held back by the wait-a-minute vines and attacked by thorns that tore his clothing and exposed skin.

He felt the high elephant grass slice into his hands as he pushed past the vines that thwarted his advance.

He heard the rumbling of thunder followed by rain.

Keep running.

His feet trampled ferns that could have hidden venomous serpents.

Snakes. One bite from the wrong reptile and all this ends in just a few steps.

Run, Tom!

His legs burned from the exertion, and his ribs reminded him they were broken with every breath and step. The pain also told him he was still alive. As long as there was pain, he was still in the fight.

How long can you go?

As far and as long as it takes.

There it was, up ahead. A stream. No time to look back at his map.

He charged through the water, up the opposite bank, and continued about 60 yards farther.

He stopped, dropped a shredded glove, pulled off his hat, and hurled it ahead.

He then walked backward, returning to the stream.

It wouldn’t fool an experienced tracker, but the smell would fool the dogs, and the rain would wash away the sign.

That rain was coming down harder now.

Standing midstream with the water rushing halfway up his calves, he looked at his path leading into the creek and then up the other side. He wondered how much time it would buy him? He needed more rain.

You can only control what you can control, and right now you need to follow this creek to the Sepon River.

Tom took off at a sprint, moving downstream through the water.

He fell, got up, and fell again, the rocks unstable under his feet.

Keep going.

He stayed in the center of the tributary, making good time without thorns and vines attacking him at every step.

Was that a klick? Two klicks?

Don’t stop to estimate distance to the river. You are going in the right direction.

The stream started getting deeper and then widened into an even deeper pool. A roar from downstream indicated that a rapid was just ahead.

Tom slowed his sprint and waded farther out, pushing off the bottom to propel himself into a sidestroke, struggling to stay afloat with the chest rig, satchel, and canteen.

When he reached the other side, he realized that it was not rapids making the noise. It was a waterfall.

The water got shallower as he approached the lip of the drop, and Tom used a rock to brace himself and evaluate the distance to the pool below.

It looked to be about 40 feet, which was doable, unless there were rocks just beneath the surface.

He had jumped from plenty of cliffs in Colorado and Idaho in his youth, but one always checked the depth and ensured there were no hidden rocks before hurling oneself off a ledge.

He would not have that luxury this time.

You could climb down.

Too sheer and slick.

You could go into the jungle and portage around.

If the dogs were working the banks this far downstream, they will pick up my scent and confirm I am moving toward the Sepon River.

You have to jump.

Tom pulled the canteen off, unscrewed the cap, and let the water take it over the drop.

Next, he removed the satchel, stuffing an extra magazine along with what gear he could into his pockets.

He then threw the bag filled with magazines over the falls, watching it impact the pool below.

It didn’t look like it hit anything beneath the surface.

He then removed his chest rig and threw it over as well, aiming just to the right of where the satchel had landed in an attempt to discern if there was a rock in that particular location. It did not appear so.

Tom then moved the AK to his left side to keep it away from his broken ribs.

Hold on to this fucking rifle, he told himself.

Here we go. Three. Two. One.

Tom lifted his feet and let the current pull him from behind the rock to the crest of the falls. He planted his feet and propelled himself into the abyss.