Page 78 of Cry Havoc (Tom Reece #1)
A mama-san emerged from a back room and served burgers and fries prepared by a chef who had once worked at the Imperial Hotel in Hanoi to two men playing Liar’s Dice at a table in the corner.
When Tilt and Spider saw Tom, they scooped up their drinks and made their way over to welcome him back while Serrano approached the bar.
“Still no Coke?” Tom asked.
“Only Dr Pepper. Nothing’s changed,” Tilt said, holding up a drink he clearly believed was inferior to Coca-Cola. “How are we supposed to win a war when we can’t even get a Coke?”
Spider took a swig of Biere Larue. “Missed you around here, Tom. Are you taking a team?”
“We’ll see. I’m going to talk to the old man about it later today.”
“You’re ready. Too many teams disappearing. It’s a shit show. We need experienced One-Zeros.”
“Thanks, Spider. Drinks on me later tonight.”
“Deal,” Spider said.
The two veteran SOG operators returned to their burgers and dice while Tom made his way to Serrano, who had settled in at the most secluded table available.
As Tom walked across the bar, he noticed four SF soldiers he did not recognize.
They were drinking and speaking German in a hushed conversation in what he discerned was an East German dialect. Green Berets from Berlin.
Tom joined Serrano and took a seat.
“Is Black Label okay?” Serrano asked.
“Perfect,” Tom said, picking up his can of Carling Black Label beer. “What are we drinking to?”
“That’s tricky,” Serrano said.
“How about, to those no longer with us,” Tom said, holding up his red and black steel can.
“We owe them our today,” Serrano said.
The two men took long sips.
“Now, what was so important that you would fly up to Phu Bai on the day I arrive fit for full duty?”
“You heard about Spike Team Idaho.”
“Yeah,” Tom said. “Back in May, Glen Lane, Robert Owen, and four indig disappeared without a trace.”
“I think I know why.”
Tom leaned forward.
“I’m listening.”
“Just before Tet, we picked up a burst radio transmission from Cholon but could not identify its exact point of origin. It did allow us to focus our signals collection resources on that section of Saigon. The night of your POW rescue mission we picked up another burst radio transmission and this time, because we were already monitoring, we were able to pinpoint its source—a private medical clinic run by a French doctor named Jean René Brémaud. He moved to Saigon from Hanoi in the 1950s and married into society circles. We put him under surveillance—all in-house with no MACV or Vietnamese involvement.”
“And?”
“And we sent a team into his office after hours.”
“You broke in?”
“Yes.”
“What did you find?”
“An R-354 hidden in a false wall.”
“R-354?”
“It’s a Soviet spy radio with a burst transmitter that sends messages in Morse code.”
“What did you do with it?”
“We left it there exactly as we found it. He’s part of a network, and we need them all.”
“Is he connected with the spy in MACV?”
“Yes, but not directly. We also photographed all his patient medical records and files. A name stood out. A patient who visited him with suspicious frequency, a woman named Lan Tri Phuong.”
“Maybe she just has a medical issue.”
“She is young and in good health.”
“Why was she visiting him?”
“The records say it was for STD testing.”
“Is that unusual?”
“It is when there is no corresponding lab work.”
“Interesting.”
“Also interesting is that her file had a false address. We had eyes on Brémaud and his clinic, so last month when Phuong had her next appointment, we started following her too.”
“And?”
“And we found her apartment, also in Cholon. It’s walking distance from the clinic. We put a team on her.”
Serrano reached into his leather satchel and slid a photograph across the table.
Tom set his beer down, his eyes searing into a face he knew.
“That fucking weasel. Eldridge. Son of a bitch. I knew I didn’t like that guy. Does State know?” Tom asked.
“Not yet.”
“Why?”
“There’s more.”
“Let me see if I have this straight so far. Eldridge is a State Department liaison to MACV, specifically to SOG, and he passes intel to this woman, what was her name?”
“Lan Tri Phuong.”
“Yeah, so she’s the cutout passing information to this doctor, who radios it to Hanoi?”
“We think Hanoi, but possibly Moscow.”
“Moscow? You think because it’s a Soviet radio he’s communicating with Moscow?”
“We don’t know.”
“And on the night of the POW mission, what happened?”
“As much as you guys tried to hide it, a request for air support was routed through Saigon, through MACV-SOG headquarters. We checked the logs. Eldridge was there. We were not following him at the time, so we don’t know what happened between that air request and the burst transmission from the clinic.
We do know that two hours after that air request, the burst transmission goes out. ”
“And we hit an empty camp.”
“That’s right.”
“But ST Idaho disappeared before the POW mission. Did you pick up a transmission out of Saigon then?”
“No. Your POW mission was time sensitive, so the doctor took a chance and used his radio to alert Hanoi. Hanoi then made sure that camp was a ghost town by the time you got there. We now know Brémaud communicates with someone else using a dead drop. The radio, even with its burst transmission, is too dangerous to use, so it is saved for emergency circumstances.”
“Like the POW mission.”
“Precisely. We assess that the dead drop is the preferred method of communication, which is how they compromised ST Idaho.”
“Fucking bastards.”
“I read your report; you saw a Russian in that camp. The man who killed Quinn.”
Tom nodded.
“And you saw three other Americans.”
“Yes.”
“Tom, I’m going to share something with you that no one else in Vietnam knows, not Backhaus, not Singlaub, not Abrams.”
“What?”
“I can’t divulge where it came from, because truthfully, I am not cleared to know. I can make assumptions and so can you, but it’s the information that matters. Even though it is unconfirmed, we have information that the Soviets are moving U.S. POWs to Siberia.”
“Motherfuckers. And you think the disappearing SOG Teams are part of that?”
“I do, but others as well, pilots certainly.”
“The three Americans I saw?”
“It’s a possibility, Tom.”
“So why don’t we grab Eldridge and this doctor, put the screws to them, and force the Soviets to give up our boys?”
“Because the Soviets will deny it and probably kill the POWs they have. We need a bigger fish to trade.”
“Who?”
“That’s where you come in.”
“Me? I’m a SEAL assigned to SOG. I’m about to take a team here in Phu Bai. Can I just pick up and go work for the Agency?”
Serrano again reached into his bag and removed a paper that he unfolded and pushed across the table to Tom.
“What’s this?”
“Orders from Colonel Singlaub, sheep dipping you over to CIA.”
The paper was plain and simple, an addendum, a new assignment with the Central Intelligence Agency.
“It’s dated today,” Tom noted.
“It is.”
Tom thought of Quinn against the tree and the tall Russian who gutted him.
“When do we leave?”
“I have a plane waiting.”
“Let’s go.”
“There is one more thing, something I didn’t want to tell you until you agreed to come over.”
“Oh?”
“I told you that Brémaud communicated using a dead drop.”
“Yeah, for another cutout who then probably takes the info out of country and passes it to a handler?”
“Yes, but the person we observed at the dead drop wasn’t just anyone. It was someone you know.”
“What? Who?”
“Ella DuBois.”