Page 85 of Cry Havoc (Tom Reece #1)

LONGTAIL BOATS WERE MORE canoe than boat in Tom’s way of thinking. If he had not trained up for a mission in the Mekong using the unstable boats, there is no way he could have piloted it.

The boat was not steered using a traditional tiller and rudder.

Rather, rotating the engine on a mount adjusted the pitch of the long driveshaft and propeller, which thereby regulated the angle of its thrust to change directions.

Thrust vectoring, along with the movement of the boat, combined with the torque of the heavy engine and long propeller shaft, made the long, narrow boat naturally want to spin.

It had taken Tom and his fellow SEALs weeks of practice in the Mekong in front of their base of operations, where more than a few of them capsized, to get comfortable piloting the unique craft.

Helming was a delicate dance that required strength, balance, and finesse.

“Stay down in the front!” Tom yelled to Serrano over the growl of the engine as they sped over the water, passing longtail boats, larger ferries, floating markets, and kitchens illuminated by strands of bulbs resembling Christmas lights.

Tom felt the wind and spray in his face as he pushed the boat to its limit.

Where would they go?

They are not as skilled as you are in the longtail. That means they are going to want to get off the water.

Find them before they do.

Tom saw a longtail boat ahead turn down a canal off the main river.

There!

He passed Serrano the MPL sub gun and increased his speed.

“Plan?” Serrano yelled back.

“Still making it up!” Tom responded, narrowly missing a longtail boat coming from the opposite direction. Right-of-way rules and passing port side to port side on Bangkok’s waterways was obviously optional.

“If you get a shot, take him out!” Tom yelled.

Tom cut left into the adjoining canal in pursuit, almost capsizing when they cut across the wake of a larger boat packed with passengers.

“There they are!”

Tom increased his speed.

Twenty yards away.

Tom watched the driver turn and extend his arm, sending a burst of gunfire in their direction.

Ineffective.

He can’t possibly reload while driving. Now is your time.

Tom pushed the boat harder, cutting across the canal around another boat coming at them and then back toward their prey. He adjusted his weight while pivoting the engine on its mount.

“Hold on!”

Tom rammed the target vessel just forward of its driver, forcing it into a vacant moored market boat.

The Russian’s longtail turned on its side as it connected with the moored boat, dumping an unconscious Dvornikov into the brown water of the canal. Serrano dove in after him.

As their craft righted, Tom saw the security man make a frantic grab for the rocking market boat, hanging on to its side and pulling himself up.

Tom used his boat’s momentum and leaned into the natural tendency of the longtail to spin.

As the boat twisted, he leaned down on the lever attached to the engine, made a slight adjustment, and brought the driveshaft and spinning propeller out of the water, raking it across the upper legs of the man trying desperately to escape.

Tom heard screams of anguish as the spinning screw cut through the muscles, tendons, and nerves on the back of his upper thigh.

“Tom!” Serrano managed, struggling with Dvornikov’s unconscious, limp body in the water. He had him in a headlock and was using his left arm to stay afloat.

Tom cut the engine, stopping the rotation of the driveshaft, and used it as a lifeline for Serrano, who grabbed it with his left hand.

The boat continued to rotate, its bow bumping into the floating market where the wounded man flailed. He was attempting to pull himself onto the market to escape, legs now useless with their connective muscles cut through to the bone.

Tom grabbed him by the neck and yanked him backward onto the boat, pinning him to the deck. The SEAL noted he had a leather satchel slung across his body.

As Tom’s hand went to the back of his belt for the EK knife to slit the man’s throat, he stopped. The man looked familiar. He had seen him before.

As blood from the man’s wounds seeped onto the deck, Tom heard Serrano shout from the water.

“Tom!”

He had worked his way up the driveshaft and was hanging off the stern.

“A little help.”

Tom extracted his EK blade but instead of slitting the man’s throat he turned the blade around and smashed him three times in the temple, putting him out. He then cut the leather satchel from his body and tossed it out of reach.

He sheathed his blade and turned to help Serrano. Tom held Dvornikov against the side of the boat while Serrano pulled himself in. The two Americans then braced themselves, careful not to capsize the unstable watercraft, and hauled Dvornikov over the side.

“Now what?” Serrano asked, catching his breath and looking at the two unconscious men lying on the boat’s deck.

“Hold us here,” Tom said, pointing to the edge of the floating market.

Serrano held them fast as Tom jumped onto the market. The SEAL looked up, drew his blade, and sliced strips of the makeshift cloth roof before walking to the bow and cutting a length of rotting rope that held it to the side of the canal. He then ran back and slid into the longtail boat.

“Help me with this,” he said to Serrano, handing him a strip of cloth.

Tom went to work using his strip as a tourniquet above the bleeding wound on the man’s right leg.

Serrano did the same to the left.

Tom then pushed him over and used the line he had cut to secure the man’s hands and feet.

Tom then rolled him back over and studied his face.

“I don’t think he’s going to make it,” Serrano said.

Tom did not respond.

“Tom, did you hear me? We need to get out of here. Let’s get to the trawler and get to international waters. Tom?”

But Tom wasn’t listening. He was staring into the face of the security man. A strand of lightbulbs suspended from the floating market illuminated his face.

“Tom? Tom? What is it?”

“I know this guy. He’s the bastard who gutted Quinn.”