Page 71 of Cry Havoc (Tom Reece #1)

TOM HIT HARD, THE cold water instantly engulfing him.

The AK was ripped from his grasp on impact, causing the wood stock to smash into the side of his head. As it was slung, he managed to claw it back as he kicked for the surface, thankful he had not passed out from the pain that jolted from his ribs and threatened to incapacitate him.

Just think about Quinn.

He kicked himself to the far side of the pool and crawled to shallow water near the bank to take stock of his gear and injuries.

He inspected the AK and ensured the magazine was still there and locked in place. He then checked to make sure there was a round in the chamber.

Tom felt the side of his head where the stock had made contact. There was no blood, but he could already feel a welt rising.

Pushing himself to his knees, he surveyed the contents of his pockets.

The extra AK mag was gone, as were his signal flare and NVA blade.

He had managed to retain his mirror, Swiss Army Knife, and map, which he used to gauge his location.

He twisted his wrist to look at the Waltham compass on his watch strap.

The tributary was still taking him southeast.

I must be close.

He looked back at the roaring falls above him, half expecting to see a group of NVA with AKs appear at its brink.

The creek was much deeper here with the rains and multiple tributaries feeding it as it approached its terminus at the Sepon River.

He stumbled back into the current, and when the water hit his waist, he let it sweep him away. He stayed on his back in the swiftly moving water, feet out in front of him as he had learned in the rivers of the West, fending off rocks and thankful for the swim instruction from Loelia Maxwell.

Maxwell. Would he ever see her again? He had tucked her address away in his footlocker in Phu Bai.

And he thought about Ella.

If he died in this river, would she ever know? Would it matter?

Stay focused, or you will not see either of them again, Tom thought.

The current spit him through several rapids and then widened into a marsh.

Almost there, Tom thought, as he worked his way toward the protection of the reeds, bamboo, and mangroves.

He continued to move southeast, slower now that he knew he was approaching a river that was used as a transportation corridor.

In much the same way as he moved in the jungle, Tom pulled himself through the wetlands, stopping every few minutes to scan ahead and behind, listen, smell, and feel before pushing onward, careful not to disturb the egrets, herons, cormorants, and kingfishers that called the marshland home.

It was dusk by the time he pulled himself to the edge of the Sepon, the mosquitoes attacking every patch of exposed skin, his ears, eyes, nostrils, and mouth with a vengeance.

Hidden in the reeds he watched as various watercraft floated south: two wooden rowboats, a sampan, and a smattering of Laotian basket boats—unique round craft constructed of woven bamboo, coconut oil, sap, and tar—primarily used by fishermen to check their nets.

None were full of NVA soldiers searching for an American on the run.

Should he steal one?

And kill innocent fishermen? That was not an option.

Swim out into the center of the river with his AK?

That would not work well. Maybe if he came across a village downstream, he could liberate one.

For now, he would stick to his plan. If his pursuers were moving toward the downed helo there was no need to deviate.

Tom waited until the boats had all moved on and the sun had dropped below the horizon.

He waited longer still until the reds and oranges left the world in darkness and let his eyes adjust to the night.

It was only then that Tom pushed himself into the current and pulled himself south.

He stayed near the shore, sometimes using the reeds and root systems that extended into the water to pull himself downriver.

He remained ready to duck beneath the surface and into the reeds and mangroves if he heard an engine or saw a searchlight.

At daybreak he pulled himself onto the bank and hid in a thicket of bamboo. Warming himself in the sun, he fell into a fitful sleep before an afternoon deluge woke him and soaked him again to the bone.

After sundown, when the river traffic dissipated, he once again slipped into the water and continued south.

How long until he crossed into South Vietnam?

He estimated it was about 30 miles to the border. The twists and turns of the river would add to that assessment.

He figured that he could make it to South Vietnam in three days if he continued his slow downstream journey at night.

On the second day, he pulled himself into the reeds once again, trying not to dwell on the creatures with whom he shared the wet environment.

He was fairly certain that the lethal Peron’s sea snake was a saltwater snake, which gave him some comfort, though he still had to worry about the many-banded krait, a highly venomous snake that preferred marshes.

Not long after he had hidden himself in a clump of bamboo, he was awakened by a loud splash.

He told himself it could be a fish jumping or a bird diving for a meal.

There was no way it could be the Siamese crocodile that he knew were partial to slow-moving rivers and marshlands.

He checked the status of his AK, well aware that he was not at the top of the food chain, before falling back asleep.

An engine woke him before the afternoon rains.

Tom opened his eyes from a dream in which Nurse Maxwell was just ahead of him in a pool that seemed to never end.

Every time Tom looked up from his stroke she had moved farther away.

When he finally reached the pool’s edge, he grasped it and looked up.

A woman was standing on the pool deck above him, only it was not Maxwell.

It was Ella and she was holding a Makarov.

Tom’s eyes followed the sampan. This was not a fishing boat, and the men inside were not fishermen. Though they did not wear the uniform of the NVA, it was clear from their AKs that they were soldiers. They were alert, searching the banks. Were they looking for him?

Tom was tempted to slide into the water but convinced himself to stay put. Movement would attract the eye. Trust your camouflage.

After they passed by, Tom did not fall back asleep. Instead, he kept watching the river. Other sampans and basket boats floated by, though none were filled with soldiers.

You are close, Tom. Final push tonight.

He knew the river would pass into South Vietnam just north of Phu Bai. The trick would be exiting the river at the right place and then not getting shot by South Vietnamese or American forces.

The rains returned well before sunset. Tom forced himself to stay in his reed and bamboo enclosure until the skies were dark. He then slipped back into the river and kept moving south. Two hours later a sliver of a moon appeared.

Almost there. Keep going.

He swam until the point of exhaustion and then moved closer to shore, using the roots to pull himself forward. He thought of Quinn, Hiep, and the other Americans he had seen in the depot. He rotated between pulling himself along close to shore and then moving out into the current and swimming.

They are counting on you. The ones that are alive.

The moon drifted across the heavens and then dropped below the horizon, the sky beginning to warm with the soft blue light of an emerging dawn.

This time, Tom stayed in the water and kept moving.

Push it, Tom. Those POWs are counting on you. You have to be close.

The sun hovered just above the horizon when a sampan rounded a bend in the river. Tom did not notice it in time to duck into the reeds, and as it passed mid-river, it was evident that the men onboard had seen him.

They were not soldiers, but they would most certainly report an American with an AK swimming south.

No stopping now.

Two more basket boats appeared; fishermen checking their nets. They stared at him in disbelief.

He checked his watch and compass. It was just after 9:00 a.m. The river was taking him southeast. When he lifted his head, he saw the bridge.

Two hundred yards ahead, a wood-and-steel-beam structure, that was probably a remnant of French colonial rule, spanned the river. Tom wondered if it had been constructed in Laos or South Vietnam as both had been part of French Indochina.

You will know soon enough.

He swam toward it, coming ashore at river right, crawling through the mud and into the tree line. He felt chilled, but he was sweating. A fever? He would be surprised if he didn’t have malaria.

He worked himself up the embankment so that he was on the west side of the bridge with a good view of the packed dirt road.

If you see Pathet Lao or NVA, you did not go far enough, and you are getting back in that river tonight.

You are about to die, Tom.

No, not yet. You can keep going. Always one more klick.

He heard trucks approaching an hour later.

As they passed, he could see that they were cargo trucks. They were packed with soldiers. On the door of the green vehicles was a flag. It was yellow with three horizontal red stripes. It was the flag of South Vietnam.

Rather than step out and get shot, Tom decided to strip off his shirt and ditch his AK so as not to look like a Viet Cong guerrilla.

Forty-five minutes later another convoy approached. This one was distinctly American. A Playboy Bunny logo was painted on the driver’s side door.

Tom stepped into the road in front of the lead vehicle, arms outstretched to his sides to show he was not armed.

The convoy came to a halt. A gunner on dual .50s behind the cab of the lead truck had Tom dead in his sights.

A man in the passenger seat leaned out the window, a thick cigar between his lips.

“Who the fuck are you?” he asked, in a thick southern drawl.

“Tom Reece. Petty Officer. U.S. Navy.” Tom’s voice was hoarse and strained.

The soldier looked at his driver, perplexed by the lone shirtless American standing before them. He then stuck his head back out the window.

“Come forward, but don’t make any sudden moves that might get you killed.”

Tom walked until he was just off the front right fender of the lead truck. The .50 gunner in a flak jacket and unbuckled helmet was chewing bubble gum and blowing bubbles.

“All right ‘Navy,’ ” the soldier said. “What’s the capital of Texas?”

“It’s not Dallas,” Tom replied.

“Hardy, don’t shoot him,” the man yelled up to the .50 gunner.

“Yes, Sergeant.”

The man looked Tom up and down. “You look like shit.”

“Thanks.”

He opened the door and stepped down onto the red clay.

“Medic,” he yelled into the cargo bay without taking his eyes off Tom. “And somebody bring down some food and water.”

“And a cigarette,” Tom said.

“And a cigarette,” the soldier yelled.

Tom heard the steel tailgate crash open and the sound of soldiers moving in the cargo hold. He felt his body begin to give out after his days of exertion.

A canteen appeared, and Tom slugged down a few sips of water. It was followed by a cigarette and a Zippo.

Tom lit the smoke and noticed a soldier opening a meat and gravy C-rat with a P38 can opener.

“I’m Sergeant Leiter,” the lead soldier said, tipping his helmet back on his head, still astonished by Tom’s appearance. “You lost? A POW or something?”

“More of the ‘or something’ variety,” Tom said. “Where are you guys headed?”

“Khe Sanh.”

“I’m going to need you to take a detour.”