The Red Stock Company

By T. Roy Jackson

The Vietnam war is coming to an end. The US military is drawing down its
troops, when it discovers Soviet Advisors, and a very large weapon, moving
down the Ho Chi Minh Trail. Packed with attack and counter attacks, searches
sneaks, and snatch n grabs of the enemy.
Spies in Vladivostok, and south Vietnam, the US discovers more than just a
secret weapon, including POWs in Siberia.
Back in America The Red Stock Company, goes public.
Unhappy with the Governments war efforts, it decides to deal with policies in
its own way, forming its own mercenary group.
Follow the Beginnings of The Red Stock Company in this first book, by T. Roy
Jackson. From the steps of Wall Street, to the rice paddies of Vietnam, to the
dark streets of Vladivostok, to the political power center of D.C. Together the
cold war is mixed with the Vietnam War, and people of power come together
to form this new and powerful company.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Aug 19, 2011
• ISBN: 9781465348500

T. Roy Jackson

Roy Jackson, lives in Oklahoma with his wife and three boys, where he works for a major travel company. He enjoys country living.

Book preview

Copyright © 2011 by T. Roy Jackson.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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Contents

Prologue

Vietnam, Southwest of Chau Doc, near Cambodian border June 1972

Chapter 1

Vietnam September 1972

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Across the Cambodian Border in a Tunnel, North of Chau Doc

In a Test Lab in Eastern Siberia

Chapter 4

Can Tho

CIA Headquarters, Saigon

Ho Chi Min Trail at the Border of Cambodia

Can Tho Navy Base

Saigon

Chapter 5

Mekong River, Near Cambodian Border

Siberia

Can Tho S2 Office

Bac Ling’s

Cambodia Near the Vietnam Border

Can Tho

Chapter 6

Siberia

Saigon

Siberia

Saigon

Can Tho

North of Cho Moi

Saigon

Can Tho

Chapter 7

Can Tho

Village of Ap Hi Lingdo

Village Northwest of Choi Moi

Ap Hi Lingdo

Chapter 8

Can Tho

Siberia

Washington

Saigon

East of Can Tho

Be Sec

Village on Mekong

Can Tho

Can Tho

Chapter 9

Siberia

Cu Lou Tay Island

Mekong River, South of Cu Lou Tay Island

Can Tho

Watchtower

Vladivostok

Chapter 10

An Goc Foa

Chapter 11

Washington

Cu Lou Tay Island

Village West of Saigon

Can Tho

Watchtower

Siberia

Village in Delta

Vladivostok

Chapter 12

Can Tho

Village West of Choi Moi

Siberia

Ba Sec River

Vladivostok

Siberia

Chapter 13

Can Tho

Siberia

In a Tunnel Near Cambodia Border

Cu Lou Tay Island

Can Tho

Chapter 14

Can Tho

Siberia

Cu Lou Tay Island

Can Tho

Vladivostok

Chapter 15

Washington

Siberia

North of Cu Lou Tay Island

Can Tho

Washington

Ton Go Wee

Siberia

Can Tho

Chapter 16

Watchtower

Siberia

Can Tho

Watchtower

Cu Lou Tay Island

Ton Goo We

Siberia

Can Tho

Chapter 17

Siberia

Vladivostok

Watchtower

Can Tho

Vladivostok

Village off the Ba Sec

Chapter 18

Siberia

Can Tho

Cambodia

Can Tho

Cambodia

Chapter 19

Cou Lou Tay Island

Vladivostok

Cambodia

Siberia

South Vietnam

Hill 87

Vladivostok

Cambodia

Vladivostok

Hill 87

Chapter 20

Cu Lou Tay Island

Cambodia

Vladivostok

Cambodia

Vladivostok

Can Tho

Cambodia

Saigon

Can Tho

Vladivostok

Cambodia

Chapter 21

Vladivostok

Cambodia

Vladivostok

Can Tho

NSA Listening Post Can Tho

Saigon

Cambodia

Can Tho

Sea of Japan

Chapter 22

New York

Cambodia

Vladivostok

Cambodia

Vladivostok

Cambodia

Can Tho

Sea of Japan

Chapter 23

Can Tho

Chapter 24

Vladivostok

Can Tho

Saigon, CIA Headquarters, U.S. Embassy Building

Can Tho

Vladivostok

Chapter 25

West of Can Tho

Washington

West of Can Tho

Can Tho

Vladivostok

West of Can Tho

Vladivostok

Can Tho

West of Can Tho

Vladivostok

Can Tho

Chapter 26

West of Can Tho

Vladivostok

West of Can Tho

Can Tho

Vladivostok

West of Can Tho

Chapter 27

Vladivostok

West of Can Tho

Vladivostok

West of Can Tho

Ba Sec West of Can Tho

Chapter 28

Can Tho

West of Can Tho

Village West of Can Tho

Vladivostok

Can Tho

Vladivostok

Can Tho

Can Tho

Saigon

Cambodia

Sea of Japan

Chapter 29

New York Times Building, New York

Julesburg, Colorado

Vladivostok

Virginia

JAG Headquarters, Washington D.C.

Chapter 30

New York Times Building, New York

Washington, D.C.

Fort Bragg, South Carolina

Can Tho

Chapter 31

Check Point Charlie, Berlin

Chapter 32

Moscow, Soviet Union June 1973

Julesburg, Colorado

PROLOGUE

Vietnam, Southwest of Chau Doc,

near Cambodian border

June 1972

T he Huey, a UH-53, lifted off hill 230, the largest hill between the Mekong and Ba Sec Rivers at the Cambodian-Vietnam border. Lieutenant Drew waved so long to the men on board. The heavy downdraft, created by the chopper, dissipated as it turned toward Chau Doc and lifted out of the small airfield. As the whirlwind from the rotors subdued, the heat of the Vietnamese summer returned. Drew soon felt the heat on the small airfield again.

The chopper was the last to leave of eight. It was paired up with one other chopper; together they carried Special Forces Team Iowa. The other six choppers were gunships assigned to protect the SF Team as they infiltrated Cambodia. All eight choppers would turn into Cambodia, at the right time, between here and Chau Doc. Three Americans and five South Vietnam Special Forces Tigers made up Iowa. The three Americans had been to Cambodia three times, and only lost two Vietnamese on those trips. Those were considered good trips because a lot of times teams came back with most of its units shot up, dead, or missing.

Now, again the team is trying its luck against the forces of war; it would be their training that would bring them home intact. In a week, Drew would know how it went, if they last that long. Most didn’t. He tucked his head to the heat and remembered his own return last time out. It wasn’t a good return. He wished the team a silent prayer of good luck, as it headed into Cambodia, to watch the Ho Chi Min trails and attack the enemy on its home turf.

Lt. Drew sighed at the heat of Vietnam and turned his thoughts to the new team; he needed to get trained before they went back in. The choppers disappeared over the tree line, and the airfield grew quiet. It reminded him of going in and how quiet it was when the choppers left you there. He again wished he would be going soon, but his team, North Dakota, was shot up last time out and would be training the new Vietnamese troops for the next two weeks. He then wondered how many of Iowa team would be coming back alive. Not a lot of teams have come back whole over the years.

For years, the Army Special Forces had gone into Cambodia and Laos trying to stop the illegal advance of men and supplies on the Ho Chi Min trail. But every road and trail they shut down, it seemed the enemy opened two. Every time a bulldozer or truck park was destroyed, it seemed another would open. The worst thing about this fight across the border was, they had to do it so quietly. No one could know they were intercepting illegal shipments illegally.

All’s fair in love and war, Lt. Drew thought as he walked away from the airfield back into the main compound. Why did this war have so many rules the United States was trying to follow? Why couldn’t they just point their finger at the NVA and have the world put a stop to the illegal shipments of supplies? These questions frustrated Drew, pissed him off.

The camp was named Camp Watchtower; it was made up of a small artillery firing area and some housing sitting on top of hill 230. A command bunker made up the HQ, dug deep inside the top of the hill. Inside the command bunker, the South Vietnamese army brass was busy learning how to take over this sector of the war. On the far side of the command bunker was an officers’ club. If you were Special Forces, this is where you ate, drank, and shared your deepest thought with peers, your warrior brothers. Many nights were spent in tears here, the men showing their emotion of the death of a fellow warrior or an entire team sometimes, but outside the O club, the emotions of a lost comrade were not tears, only action.

Watchtower was located only seven miles from the Cambodian border. One of the last camps to occupy Special Forces Teams. It was slated for handover to full South control by the end of the year. It had three hundred yards of clearing around the perimeter barb wire. Nearly four hundred ARVN troops supported the base and the SF details that were stationed here.

Lieutenant Simmons, a tall Texan and number one of North Dakota, stood outside the officers’ club. He had been inside taking in a few suds when he heard the choppers spooling up. He set his beer down long enough to go outside and watch Iowa disappear into the western sky. He also wished them luck, in silence. A prayer to the god of war was more what he spoke as the chopper flew away. The place was quiet, only the heat from the sun and a hot breeze were all his senses could pick up. Much like getting off the chopper in the middle of the jungle. The silence deafening, the heat choking you. He knew in twenty minutes Iowa would be on the ground experiencing this. He knew they would do fine, they were trained, they had been there before, their Zero was a good leader, and they worked well together.

Simmons was ready to go in and finish his beer when he seen Drew coming up the road to the officers’ club. He decided to wait for his Zero, his commanding officer, leader of North Dakota. I see you got Iowa off on a good foot, Simmons said as Drew got close.

Yeah, Drew agreed. Just anxious to get over the border. Drew told his number one why he had seen Iowa Team off.

I know what you mean. Too bad we lost all our Vietnamese last time out, or we would be going this week.

That’s war, just thank God it wasn’t us. Who knows Zip—Simmons’s nickname—we might just get to go home at the end of the year.

Yeah, we might, Zip answered Drew. He could tell Drew was hurt as he spoke. Too bad many won’t.

Inside, Simmons returned to his beer, sitting next to Noroki, the number two of North Dakota. His glass was near empty. Drew ordered a beer himself, and the three started talking business.

Noroki, did you get a good slot for tomorrow at the shooting field? Drew asked after taking a pull on his beer.

We got the field at 1500, Noroki told his team leader.

Fifteen hundred, Drew repeated, memorizing the time. Do the others know? he asked, referring to the Vietnamese they were training.

Yes, Noroki answered.

Fifteen’s a good time for tough live fire training, Drew said, thinking of tomorrow’s schedule. The heat will make it tough for us to perform, get the Vietnamese to really step it up, to keep up with us.

Hopefully, soon we’ll be back across the border, Noroki said. The other two just nodded in agreement, hoping the same thing.

To Iowa. Drew held his bear aloft in a toast. All three took a pull on their beer, wishing Iowa the best, hoping they too would be going soon.

Iowa landed in Cambodia in a small clearing picked out earlier by their Zero as he flew over in a single-engine covey rider airplane a few days earlier. The covey rider was the air patrol that the SF Teams talked to. Covey was their link to safety, extraction, and air support. The team waited for the choppers to clear out, all was silent and hot. The heat came over the men instantly; in no time their skin was glistening with sweat. Ten minutes and the men huddled in a small defensive perimeter, listening. All was quiet; they were alone.

The Zero turned on the radio he carried and held the handset to his ear. Covey Rider, this is Iowa, we are alone. Okay, he whispered into the mic, careful to be calm and not letting his voice carry into the jungle around him. He then switched rucks with the number two man in the squad, the third in chain of command. The number two man carried the radio, the rest of the mission. The Zero just held the radio going in so if the landing zone is hot, he could call the choppers back without having to find his radioman.

The team moved northeast. A South Vietnamese Tiger led the way up a seventy-foot, sixty-degree-angle hill. At the top, the Zero took a compass reading, and the team moved west, along the ridgeline. They stayed low enough from the top so the NVA could not through grenades down on them. The rear man walked with his back to the rest, trying to erase the team’s trail. The movement was painstakingly slow and hot.

They walked for about an hour when the point man stopped and held his hand out, palm down. He then moved it back and forth, indicating a trail. The Zero moved up alone to the point’s side and took a look. It was a trail, about twenty feet below them. The Zero marked it on his map, took a note of which way it was heading, and then moved back with the rest of the team.

They discussed setting up here and decided to do so. It was a perfect spot for looking down on the enemy as they passed, maybe even get some pictures while they were doing it. The trail wasn’t on any maps, and it would be good to watch what was coming down this trail. It would also be a good idea to map the trail, find out where it led in both directions, but that would come later, if they had the chance.

Soon the team was spread out along the trail, about five yards apart, the trail about ten yards below them. They only had their web gear with them; the rest of their gear was stashed at a rally point about two hundred meters away. The number two man had the radio; the team never left their weapon or radio out of reach. The Zero ate a cracker and cheese and fiddled with his camera as he waited for the enemy to come walking by.

The first patrol came by at about 1100, it was a small unit of three VC in their black pajamas. They each carried AK-47s, a canteen, and small ammo or food pouches on their hips. One of the men carried a small radio with a two-mile range in these hills though it probably only had a range of about a half mile. They were soon gone; the Zero getting a few pictures of them with his Nokia camera.

The three weren’t a big deal, just a small force, probably probing for enemy and watching for bombed-out roads so others would know about it.

The Zero put his head against his rifle and lowered it, closing his eyes to the heat. He sat and wondered if he was wasting his time. Was this trail going to see any activity today? He rose up and looked down the trail, it was wide enough for a single truck to maneuver along it. He could see about a hundred feet to his right as the trail rose up over a hillock in the side of the mountain they were on. To the Zero’s left, he could see about fifty feet as the trail moved downhill rapidly.

At about 1300 a second force came walking by the Zero; this one was larger than the first. Nine NVA regulars; he counted all caring AKs, water, and one caring a large radio like the one his number two was toting. He watched and snapped a few pics as the enemy walked by. He contemplated attacking them, but then he and his guys would be made, and that could be a bad move. Stay as low as possible, let the B-52s come in later, and hit the trail, he concluded. The men passed without incident, which meant his men were still hid.

As the time passed, the Zero thought about his family back home—just a brother and a mom and dad, it was all. He wondered what they were up to. Sleeping at this time, he reasoned. He checked his watch and decided that he would only watch the trail until 1800 and then gather the men to find a place to bed down for the night.

The Zero was busy checking the notes he had recorded earlier when he heard a Vietnamese conversation coming from up the hill to his right. He could not understand it, but he listened just the same. Fourteen hundred, he recorded on his pad, and he began to write what he saw coming along the trail.

The sound of the men moving along the trail was a busy conversation. Like a lot of work was being done. Iowa was frozen in their position, the Zero knew. Now to see who is on this trail, the Zero thought he raised the camera up to take a few more pics. Soon the first Vietnamese could be seen; he was an old man, it looked, wearing an NVA uniform. He carried a walking stick, called a song, in one hand, an AK-47 in the other, and had web gear like a Marine would have. He was followed by three others, also dressed in NVA uniforms. The Zero watched as the men passed; they were small, frail men, the tallest only five seven. Then a second set of men came into view. They were white men, with round eyes, and tall. At first the Zero thought they were American POWs, but why were they not chained or bound? The NVA had no gun trained on them, and the three carried their own weapons. Were they Americans? He did not know. They were as white as him!

Soon, the three were out of sight; and four more big men, white with round eyes, came over the hillock into view. The Zero snapped a few pics and watched as they passed, meandering down the trail. One of them spoke up; it was a language he did not understand. They talked a little more, and he figured it out. They were Russians. What the hell were Russians doing this far south?

The Zero hesitated, would this be worth shooting at? Actually killing Russians. That would make him a real hero back at the O club. Then he thought of one better, what if he could capture one and take him home. That would be a real scream for the papers. He snapped another picture of the men as they disappeared down the trail.

Then came a bicycle with extra big tires on it. To either side of it was tied a metal cylinder. The Zero did not know what this was; he snapped a picture and watched for what came next. Four NVA were caring a doubled song with a wicker basket. Rice? he questioned and snapped another picture. Then another set of NVA came up over the hillock. They pushed a cart, what was on it, he could not tell? He snapped the best picture he could. Maybe the intel guys would know after they get a look at the pictures. Another set of NVA moved across his position, caring a large barrel. Then a cart with two large truck wheels. He snapped pictures of these also. The parade lasted for about twenty minutes. The Zero used up all the film he had in the camera as he snapped pictures of what the NVA were taking to the south.

This would be something to report to headquarters, Drew thought as the parade continued. He was wondering how much longer the procession would last when, down his line, he heard a loud cry from a Vietnamese. Was it one of his? He did not know. He waited, bringing his gun to bear. A second later, he heard gunfire. His team was made. He had to shoot, peel, and break contact. How contact was made? He did not know, but he had to act or risk losing his men.

The Zero rose and shot a three-round burst at the fire zone of the trail he was watching. He then looked down the trail to assess the situation; he could only hear gunfire, AKs, and M-16s were going off.

Loading… , one of his men yelled. He guessed it was his number two. He was in the middle of the pack and had the Swedish K-9; he would need a reload before his number one who carried the belt-fed M-60 machine gun.

Firefly, Firefly, Firefly, the Zero yelled, telling the unit it was time to move to the rally point.

The Zero let out a long burst from his own Swedish K-9 and then dropped into a low crouch and peeled. He hoped his short burst paralyzed the enemy long enough to let his men escape to the rally point where they could get their rucks on and clear the area.

The rally point was located two hundred yards away, halfway up the hill of the ridgeline the men were following when they found the trail. The Zero and two Tigers made it to the rally point first. One of them was the point man, the other was the interpreter. The Zero was relieved to see the two most important Tigers made it back in one piece. The Zero and the point man began talking of what to do, using the interpreter to communicate.

After affirming the point man could lead them, the Zero began asking himself a number of questions that only he could answer. Call for extraction? Stay and hide?

Soon the rest of the team was gathered, putting on rucks and talking about what to do next. After getting his ruck on, the number one began talking to his Zero. I stayed after the shooting stopped, he said in a heavy low voice. I did not see any coming after us. The number one was the last one to the rally point.

Doesn’t mean they’re not getting organized to come after us, the Zero answered.

The team was quiet now; they were busy getting some water down and getting all their gear together. They knew the Zero had a decision to make, and he would make the right one. They let him think. A moment later, the team was saddled up, filled with water, and ready to move out. They waited for the Zero to tell them what to do.

The Zero stopped looking at his map. The nearest extraction point was straight down the hill and five hundred meters east. He decided not to head there. The team would not get to the extraction point until tomorrow. If they went now, they would have to sit in a bowl until morning, and that was very dangerous.

We move up this hill and over the ridgeline, he pointed. Move a little west and halfway down the hill, then find a place to sleep for the night.

The men said nothing; they only shook their heads in agreement. He was the Zero, and his decision was right. They had already talked about leaving, but none wanted that. They could evade, then watch the trail again, or search for something else. This they discussed, and now the Zero made up his mind.

It was after dark when the men, from Team North Dakota, left the O club. It was called the O club not because officers attended it but because that’s what the name was, not that officers actually visited the place. There weren’t many officers at Watchtower. The owner of the place was a former Special Forces officer himself who decide to stay in country and serve his fellow warriors. He was the highest-ranking person in the place, unless the camp commander came in.

Drew, Simmons, and Noroki had not spent the whole time there drinking but talking to other Team Zeroes, listening to other teams tell them stories of their experiences across the border, and sharing theirs. Morris, a number one from Nevada Team, spent a lot of time talking to Drew about training new guys. It was all in translation, he explained to Drew. If you could not communicate, it would take twice as long for you to get started, twice as long to get an action down, and twice as long to correct something that is wrong. These times exponentially multiplied your training time.

The team also spent some time debating if they should take additional medical supplies into the field as opposed to more rations or ammo. Drew’s idea was, it seemed when you were hit, you were hit more than once, and more medical supplies would cover more wounds. The team never did agree on what was best, but decided to take his own ruck, making sure ammo was the priority and that the medical supplies were located in the same spot in each kit.

As the team was walking to their team room, a loud whistle came from off in the distance, the men knew what it was before it hit the ground. The whistle grew louder and was followed by a very large explosion that came from the airfield. Mortar attacks were common in this neck of the woods. The three lay in the dirt to assess what was going on. They were not too concerned as of right now, these mortarings usually only lasted a minute or two. Mostly for the NVA or VC to shake the camp up. A second explosion soon followed the first. The three were hiding their faces in the dirt during the explosion.

When the second blast subsided, the three were up together and ran for their team room to get their weapons, just in case this was an attack. As they ran, a number of explosions blasted near the airfield. As the three barged into their room, they continued to hear blasts coming from the airfield. They knew they were not safe in this room and only stayed in it long enough to get their weapons and ammo pouches. Soon they were back outside, heading for a bunker. Gunfire now sounded along with the blasts at the airfield, and they now knew that this was not just another mortar attack to stir the camp up.

As the team headed for the nearest bunker, a siren sounded. The VC were spotted crossing the perimeter, moving across the cleared area. The perimeter of the base was beginning to light up now with green phosphorus flares falling from the sky. The green flares floated down out of the sky giving the men a lot of vision of the camp. Someone was yelling, The north, they are trying to breach the north perimeter. Quickly, the team headed off that way, receiving fire over their heads as they went. They passed the command bunker, and Major Reynolds was sticking his head out.

What’s going on? Reynolds demanded. Iowa Team were the first Americans he’d seen scurrying around the camp.

The VC are attacking the north perimeter, sir, Drew shot back as he headed that way. He did not even slow his pace as he ran in front of his other team members.

Major Reynolds was in charge of Watchtower. He turned to his counterpart, Jeily, the Vietnamese commander, who was following him out of the bunker. Get your men up, this could be the big one.

Drew, Simmons, and Noroki slid into a sandbagged area on the north perimeter. The place was lit by green flares falling from the sky and spotlights facing out toward the perimeter of Watchtowers. The three had not fired a shot yet, they were waiting for a sure target. They looked across the barb wire to the open field. It was covered with VC crawling to the perimeter wire. They could see many of them had satchel charges to blow a hole in the perimeter fence. They watched a machine gun nest open up on them repeatedly. Nothing they could do but wait until the enemies were in closer to give more accurate fire. Their job was to protect the fence line and the camp. Let the nests cover the outer perimeter.

A large explosion went off, then another out in the field. One of the VC had set off a mine. The explosion was much more powerful than a normal mine though, assuring Drew what he guessed. The VC did have satchel charges strapped to their backs, and there was no doubt the charges would blow a hole right through the wire. If they ever got that close.

He checked his weapon, a Swedish K-9 with a thirty-mag clip and a second thirty-mag taped to it upside down, for a fast reload, just like in the field. He looked at his teammates and smiled. Almost turkey time. He grinned with enough enthusiasm to get the other two smiling.

As Drew and the others in the sandbag berm watched the approaching VC, Morris slid in next to Drew. Not much happening to the east, which was where he was assigned. Heard the enemy was heading this way. He smiled like the cat that ate the canary.

They look like a bunch of ants out there, marching to their death, Noroki said, informing Morris he was in the right place.

The shelling had stopped for now. Just the VC on the perimeter, now. They were getting close, belly-crawling to the wire. Within five minutes of the first explosion, the first sapper was close enough to toss his satchel charge at the wire. It exploded with a bright flash, throwing hot shrapnel, hitting anyone within twenty yards.

The bright flash blinded the men guarding the camp for a moment, and that was when the VC darted into the wire. Drew could see shadows moving into and out of the light, but it was hard to get a good shot off. A second sapper team now did the same thing farther down the fence line. Seconds later, a third sapper team made it to the perimeter and blew a third hole in the fence line. The VC had breached the perimeter in three different places.

Reynolds was busy helping Jeily disperse forces around the camp. They had a major fuel fire at the airfield and many wounded from the mortars that needed to be moved. He also was trying to eye the map, see which scout units were out and how to get them back in to help with the camp’s defense.

The VC were being cut down as they came across the wire. But they still came, not caring about their own being, only caring about the cause. These VC were being joined by well-trained and very well-equipped NVA regulars. They followed the path marked by the VC across the field at a full run to minimize their losses, and they were pouring into the camp through the three holes.

The closest breach in the wire from Drew, Morris, Simmons, and Noroki was only twenty yards away. They took shots at the enemy now as they came through the fence line. Many they hit; many made it to the shadows and were gone, slipping away into the camp. The darkness became a friend to the VC and NVA as many of the enemies were quick to find cover from the trench by jumping into an unused mortar hole or an old trench line. Before long, there were enough enemy inside the perimeter to set up a defense line.

Simmons and Zip stopped shooting long enough to change mags. As they did, Morris yelled, I’m hit.

I got him, Zip yelled. He dropped the mag in place and lifted his weapon over the sand berm and emptied it. He then went to help Morris. Morris had been hit in the chest, a sunken chest wound. Zip had to get it plugged and move Morris to a hospital. Morris was already spitting blood.

Zip reached over and tugged on Noroki’s pant leg. He’s got to move, we’ll lose him. Noroki nodded and tapped Drew on the shoulder. Drew knew what was up; he had heard Zip yell at Noroki, I’ll cover, you two move him. In a moment, Zip and Noroki had Morris up and were moving him to the camp hospital, Drew followed providing rear security.

The night was hot and sticky. Iowa was in a thick of trees about halfway down the two-hundred-foot hill they were on. The team sat against tree trunks and shrubs, passed out leaning against their satchels. The night was dark; no moon showed in the sky above the triple canopy jungle. Under the canopy the night was black as a cave.

The Zero sat upright to the sound of a breaking twig. In the darkness he looked for his number two; he could only see a deeper black spot where his radioman sat. The trees were rustling up the hill. Did the NVA track them here? Do they know where we are? Have they been tracking us since the trail incident? A million thoughts went through his head.

The rustling got louder; the enemy closed. How close, no, he did not know. The Zero moved to his right to get on the radio. He knew there was no covey in the sky, and he would have to call the base for extraction. There was radio already set to the base frequency in case such an emergency came up.

Iowa’s number two was already awake when the Zero moved to his side. The Zero hit his shoulder on the handset of the radio, took it, and placed it to his ear. He then stopped and listened. The rustling of the trees got even closer. He knew his men were all awake, and if they weren’t, he wasn’t about to make a sound, waking them. They would be awake soon enough. Again he wondered if the enemy knew their position.

A twig snapped to the number one’s left. He could tell from the sound it was not far from him. It was a loud snap and could not have been more than ten yards away. He trained his M-60 machine gun that direction, his one-hundred-round belt ready to fly through the gun and at the enemy. He listened, waited for a VC or NVA to step in front of him, where he would have no choice but to pull the trigger and wax him. Silence was everything now. You’re a tree, a part of nature. If they could not hear you, they would probably not notice you. They could not see you unless they stepped on you. The number one waited, straining his eyes to see into the pitch-blackness.

The team could now hear rustling trees and leaves and bushes all round them, a company of VC or NVA had moved right on top of them, only feet, inches maybe away. No one could tell how close the NVA were except by sound. No one moved, twitched. If the NVA knew the position of the team, the team would be found; but if the NVA were guessing they were in this area, then the team had a chance. The latter is what the Zero was hoping for as he sat frozen.

A single NVA stepped from a tree; the number two and Zero could see his legs, two very black shades outlined by the dark night. They dare not look up at the guy, never make eye contact. In this darkness, that’s what would give them away, the whites of their eyes. The man took two quick steps, like he stumbled. Then he righted himself; he seemed to kick and shuffle his feet. He moved on, only a few inches from the Zero’s position. The VC was so close the Zero could feel the wind of the man’s boot when he stumbled, or did the man actually kick him? He was not for sure.

The Zero thought about what the NVA tripped over. He had checked the ground out before lying down, and there was nothing there to trip on. Then he realized he had moved closer to his number two; that put the NVA right on top of his ruck. The stupid NVA had just tripped over his ruck strap and didn’t even know it. Another couple of inches closer and the guy would have walked right over the ruck. It was good he did not put it up against the tree, like he had planned. And even better that he had moved to his right to get on the radio or else the NVA would have tripped over him.

The rustling and noise the company of NVA made moving through the area lasted only a few minutes; to the team, it seemed like an eternity. It was like a windstorm coming through; the damage it could have caused, you could only have guessed while listening to it. Waiting for it to pass, you sat with doubts of fear and anxiety of what kind of harm it could bring you.

Everyone’s heart was in their throat, and nobody said anything after the enemy had moved off, just in case there were stragglers left behind. They just thanked their lucky stars the night was as black as it was and the team picked this little area of undergrowth to sleep in. Nobody slept good the rest of the night, they all woke intermittently to any sound, thinking they heard another VC. The Zero never went back to sleep that night.

Reynolds was outside the command bunker in the sandbag area around it, watching the firefight. He had taken out two VC already, only thirty yards from where he stood. He had not seen this much action in almost three years when he last went to Laos. Almost three years ago, he shook his head at the thought. He’d forgot how fast battle was, or was he just getting slow? He watched as the fighting at the north part of the base got heavier. He knew he was taking heavy losses. He did a numbers check in his head just to get an idea of how many men he did have available. Over three hundred South Vietnamese army regulars plus the Tigers on stand down. But how many VCs were being tossed at him? He could only count them as they fell. He saw two but knew there were a lot more.

Reynolds could see gunshots coming from the team housing. An explosion ripped what he thought was the officer housing building. He would have to pick his stuff up out of the mess later. He wondered how many of his men got out. More shooting from that direction got his attention. He turned to Jeily. Get some men over there, and clear that area, and put a strong force around the supply buildings. We don’t need the supplies blown up or stolen.

The NVA came through the trenches on the north side of the camp like lightning. They killed everyone in their way, sometimes their own. If they came across a body and was not sure if it was dead or not, they shot it again. Soon the NVA had captured the machine gun nests and had them turned into the camp.

After getting Morris to the field hospital, Drew, Noroki, and Zip returned to the command post to get an update. They could see tracers and gunfire all around the camp as they ran to the command bunker. Reynolds met them with urgency. It looks like we’re fighting them in the housing area and they have a stronghold on the north perimeter fence. We’re setting up a stronghold here with a line to supply. Looks like we might just have a Gettysburg right here.

That makes us the Yanks, Drew said and moved to take up a position. The mortar area continued to fire phosphorus flares into the sky.

Reynolds took a look around the sandbag area and counted about two dozen South Vietnamese regulars. He only hoped that the NVA did not rush the command center all at once, or else it would be a Gettysburg.

The Zero of Iowa Team was eating cheese and crackers and drinking some water from his canteen when his number two woke up. The dawn was just breaking, and the night was over. No enemy had come their way since the company they had last night passed their position. The Zero held his canteen up as if to toast cheers when his number two looked his way. The number two grinned from ear to ear, knowing that the team just made it out of last night by the skin of their teeth.

We’re moving to extract, the Zero said. Last night was too close for comfort. The enemy knows either we’re here or we’re in the middle of a large force camping around this area. He went on explaining his position on the matter.

The number two agreed, they did have contact and they did have the sight of a new trail. They can give intel the position and have the air force guys bomb it. That was the plan, and come back later and see the damage or get assigned somewhere else and see what they could see.

It wasn’t long when the Zero could hear the sound of the covey plane overhead. He turned his frequency to the covey rider’s and called him. After a short explanation of the situation at Watchtower, the Zero understood the base came first. There will be no pickup anytime soon. They began to evade, moving in a round-about way to an extraction point three klicks away.

The team moved all day, calling three times for extract. Each time the Zero called, all the choppers were busy protecting Watchtower. Before long, it was night, and the team found yet another place to bed down. The night passed with no incident.

By noon the third day, there was a chopper coming in for them. It took them straight to camp Watchtower, and the men joined in the fight to save it. After the battle at Watchtower, Iowa’s Zero turned in his film and made his report of what he saw while watching the trail. The team never got the steak dinner the teams were entitled to after coming in from the field. After the battle for Watchtower, they cleaned up their gear and went to Saigon. Soon all the SF SOG units would be together in the SOG area hotel, getting ready for redeployment in country to help training or shipped back to the States. Most would go back to the States.

The battle for Watchtower lasted for two days. For two days, the American airpower and Special Forces on the ground fought with the ARVN to push the NVA and Vietcong out of the camp’s perimeter and chased them into the surrounding hills. Nearly all the Americans defending the camp were injured or killed in the battle. Fifty South Vietnamese were killed, and two hundred injured. The Vietcong and NVA lost over seven hundred dead, the U.S. army guessed there were twice as many wounded.

Lt. Drew and Maj. Reynolds were the only two SF men in the camp that were not wounded in some way. They begged the army to give them an extension when they learned the camp would be turned over immediately to the South. They wanted to train the South in tracking and camp defense. They were told they should have already done that. The army will not risk any more American army personnel needlessly. In other words, the brass in Washington did not want its boys subject to the half-ass perimeter defense of the South. They also did not want any more egg on their face from undue loss of life, the camp had plenty of South for defense. It was up to the ARVN to earn their country now.

CHAPTER 1

Vietnam

September 1972

H igh above the South China Sea, an RD-5, the navy’s version of the DC-6, dipped its wing into a slow right-hand turn. The warriors it carried were talked about by many of the fighting men in this war, but little was truly known about them. Most of the talk was hearsay and rumors, picked up by ears, hearing parts of stories being told in a bar or command center. These warriors themselves hardly spoke of their own duty, rarely mentioned what tasks they carried out in their war against the North Vietnamese Army and Vietcong. Maybe from humbleness? Maybe because they knew they were the best at what they did and had no reason to brag.

They operated mostly in the south, the delta, using the many rivers to get to and from their missions. They were tough and rugged men and capable of surviving and operating in any element. The enemy called them the green-faced men and were terrified of them. They were afraid that these men would come and steal them away at night, never to be seen again. These fighting men are Navy SEALs, and they conducted some of the most secret operations of the Vietnam War.

SEAL Team 2, Seventh Platoon, was made up of fourteen men divided into two squads, Alpha and Bravo. Lt Timothy A. Horton was the commander of the platoon and leader of Alpha Squad. He was a tall man, almost six three and had been in the teams for almost eight years. He had two tours under his belt, the first dated back to September ’66 and lasted until March ’67. His second tour was October ’68 through April ’69. This tour, like the others, would last six months also, if not cut short due to troop withdrawal by the United States government. He was one of the last UDT members before they were officially switched names to SEALs. He himself came over from UDT 21. After his second tour, he was moved into a two-year training assignment where he taught new tadpoles how to become warriors like himself, growing them into full-fledged SEALs. Disciplined, thorough, team player, one who puts his team ahead of himself, Horton was a full-time SEAL, eating, drinking, and dreaming wardom and leading his team from the front.

Next in command of SEAL Team 2, Seventh Platoon, and leader of Bravo Squad was a man who graduated from Annapolis. But instead of choosing a desk job, he chose the way of a warrior. He had to challenge himself, push himself to pass BUD/S. He was a slightly younger man and had been a SEAL for almost six years, Lt. Peter Greg. He was a slim, lean man with an Oxford look to him. He led the team in PT every morning at 0500. He had always been a runner, but not much of a weight lifter, like some of the others in the platoon. This gave him thighs so large he had to wear pants two sizes larger than his waist size. He played soccer in high school and had joined the navy soccer team while at Annapolis and in between tours to Nam. This allowed him to run two to four miles a day more than the rest of the platoon and gave him the nickname Pele, which his soccer mates used more than his teammates.

Greg’s sharp pointy nose aimed at the floor of the plane as he tried to sleep. His dark narrow eyes, he tried to keep closed, and he made himself dose off, but it wasn’t working. He had been trying to sleep since the plane took off twenty-two hours ago from Andrew’s AFB, but the buzz of the plane’s engines had made it almost impossible for him to sleep. The only sleep he had managed was an hour of it in Okinawa and a half hour in Alaska while they refueled and changed flight crews.

The plane’s engines buzzed through the cabin, causing it to vibrate and shake the men like they were in vibrating La-Z-Boys, but they really sat in silk sling seats fastened to poles, which were fastened to the frame of the aircraft. They were comfortable for the first thirty minutes, but then when the men decided to try to doze, they realized there was no place to lay their heads. There was no way to really relax, but this was the navy and there is no requirement for the navy to provide relaxation, only transport.

Horton turned and put his mouth to Greg’s ear. Remember the first time we came in this place? he asked over the roar of the engines. The two were part of SEAL Team 2, Fourth Platoon then, the first platoon of Team 2 to go to Nam.

Yeah, we hit the ground with our packs strapped to our backs and our favorite gun out, locked and loaded, Greg shouted over the roar of the engines. He looked around to see who was listening. He smiled, remembering the event as if it were yesterday.

Then he and Horton had been a part of Navy SEAL Team 2, Fourth Platoon, and were the first of the East Coast platoons to go to Nam. The day was hot as usual for the country, and after the slow-moving RD-5 set down, the whole squad left the airplane fanning out and taking defensive positions, only to find themselves in the middle of an army base landing strip, good guys all around.

They were talked about for a long time by the people on that base. Stuff like I wonder what VIP just came in or That plane must have some real important equipment on it for those men to do that. All they knew back then was they were in a hostile country and the enemy was out there somewhere.

Horton looked one at a time at his men. Straight across the aisle from him was the first man to arrive to the platoon when the navy added it over a year ago, Boatswain Second Mate Rick Riemann. He was a smaller guy, five foot eight, 145 pounds, when he got to the teams. From a distance, he looked much taller than he was because his body was so well proportioned. He was a good-looking man with a GQ look to him. He was the best point man on the team, able to find his way through the woods like a bloodhound.

He grew up in upper Minnesota. There his father owned a canoeing guide service through all the lakes up by the Canadian border. At age eight, he was told to lead the way from the boat ramp at Big John Lake to Eagle’s Nest, twelve miles away. He was able to lead his dad right to it, having only been there once. His dad continued to teach him how to find his way through the woods until he became a guide himself at the age of sixteen.

In his senior year in high school, his father died while on a hunting trip. His gun misfired while he was climbing out of a tree. After that, he and his mother moved to Chicago to live with relatives. He missed the woods, hunting, and outdoors and thought about a career that would let him do all three. His first choice was army, Special Forces, but he had been talked out of going into it by his uncle and joined the navy instead. He earned the nickname Snoop because of the way he could find his way through anything.

Next to him sat Signalman Mark Shea. He and Riemann were on the same boat team during hell week while in BUD/S. Mark had spent most of his time in UDT 18 surveying the coast of North Vietnam before joining the team ten months ago. While in Nam, he earned the nickname Shea-boom because of his enthusiasm in blowing things up. While surveying the coast, he encountered the enemy almost nightly but never had to use his rifle. The enemy was usually asleep, instead of guarding the coast, or never detected his team while surveying the coast right under the beach guard’s nose.

Shea and Riemann worked well together and were inseparable. They drank together, trained together you would have thought they were twins after getting to know them.

Machinist Mate Second Class Norm Peterson was a red-headed, freckle-faced joker. He pranked every chance he got and earned a simple nickname, Joker. They called him this because of the way he laughed, bobbing up and down, like the joker in the old Batman TV series. When not acting up, he was good at shooting and thinking when under pressure. He could also fix or rig anything mechanical. He grew up in the woods of Tennessee with a gun, always working on broken-down cars with his brothers, cousins, uncles, and dad. When he shot, he rarely missed. He was the best shooter Horton had seen coming out of BUD/S.

Norm’s red lips parted into a broad smile. Surely he was reminiscing about a prank he had pulled, or maybe he was thinking of one. Horton looked down at his boots to see if his boot strings were tied together while he slept earlier. No, they were still tied in the double knot; he tied them in. He looked back at Norm and returned the grin.

Coxswain Henry Mckay, Hank as he liked to be called, was a large, muscular bodybuilder. He trained, he drank, he worked out with weights. He would be assigned the heavier guns on most missions, Horton thought. He was so strong he had the ability to move through the woods with an extra load like a butterfly. He was a well-kept man, no tattoos were on his muscles, like most bodybuilders that stretched when they flexed. His Mohawk hairdo was his trademark, his mother was full Hopi Indian, and since he could not wear his hair long, he put his own style to it. The name Hopi also meant peace, or most peaceful one, and Hank was very peaceful until he was enraged, then he became a very controlled fighting warrior. He was the biggest man on the plane, standing six feet four, weighing over two twenty. Horton only hoped he was never injured so he had to be carried because he did not know who would be able to.

Horton thought about Hank’s strength. He was a hulk of a man, the only man he’d seen with his own two eyes lift a Volkswagen Bug’s rear tires off the ground. One of the few power lifters to make it through BUD/S hell week. Most muscle men who entered the navy’s UDT training walked away during hell week, quitting. They may have enjoyed working out and the aching, sore muscles that came with it, but they could not handle the self-mutilation of hell week. The bumps, the bruises, the fractures. The denying of self to fulfill evolution after evolution of torment.

Next to Hank sat Jon Landeer. His dark complexion and deep brown eyes were shooter’s eyes, but the buck teeth he never had fixed as a teen hid both features. He was the most gullible and teased most by Joker of the group. Joker gave him the nickname Beaver the first time he saw him, and the name stuck. Beaver had already let his hair begin to grow out as it would do in country, living in the village of Can Tho, the back almost touching his shoulders. Despite his overbite, he was able to learn Vietnamese better than the other men on the team. Only Horton and Greg knew it better, but they had studied it two other times in their previous tours.

Shane Larami sat behind Hank and Landeer. He stretched as he woke up from a long, vibrated nap. The reduction in engine speed had woke him. He knew Nam was getting close; Horton could see it in his face as he stirred to life. Shane looked around to see who else had dosed off. He nudged Jon Landeer, and Jon removed his head from Hank’s shoulder.

Shane was trained as a navy medic while the others were going through hell week. He was appointed by the navy to be the platoon’s medic, and he enjoyed this role more than being with Marines. The team was tighter than the Marine platoon. When he was around, these guys he felt safe when called upon. He did not start training with the men until the team was formed, and he was the last in, but he caught on quick and learned his role fast. Because of his medical training, the men called him Doc; all medics in the teams were called Doc. He would be the one to patch up any holes the men received from the enemy while in the field. He was as old as Horton and Greg, twenty-eight. He also already had four years of tours with the Marines. Two of those tours in Nam. He, Horton, and Greg were also the only ones married. All three missed and worried about their families, hoping to see them again.

Radio Seaman Mike Kelly joined the navy hoping he would like being at sea. After a short tour aboard the USS Samuel S. Jackson, he decided life on ship was too confined and took the test for a new program the navy was putting together. The program was tougher than he was told, but while training, all he had to do was think about ship life, and that gave him the strength to make it into the teams. He wasn’t the most talented of the team members and always had to strive, many times failing before accomplishing the goals set before him. Nothing seemed to come easy to him. Despite finishing last in many of the obstacle runs or swim races, he never quit, nor did he ever let one of his swim buddies down. He earned the nickname Tug because he was the most like the little engine that could. He was a real leader of no-quitting attitude.

Engine Man Roman Gonzalez left college to join the navy. It didn’t take but a couple of days for him to earn the nickname Gonzilla because of his last name and his love for iguanas and other lizards. He was tired of sitting in a classroom and was too patriotic to run from the war or protest it, so he joined. He chose it over the army and air force because the army lived in tents, dirt and mud. He decided against the air force because, unless you were a pilot, you were a nothing. The Marines, he never thought about joining them, they all came back in body bags. Little did he know that in the middle of hell week, he would have traded the navy for any of them. He had no sleep for three days, was covered in sand, and was doing the things he tried to avoid by dodging the army. He almost quit that week, but his personality had two characteristics that kept him from giving up. One was, I started something therefore I must finish it attitude instilled by his father. And two, his commitment to a team. He told all the guys We will do this, we can do this we, we, we.

Seaman Derrick Webber—Web most guys called him—was Roman Gonzalez’s shipmate in BUD/S. Web did not quit because Gonzilla did not quit. He and Gonzilla were best friends. They now sat next to each other on their way to war for the first time. It was rare to have two people from the same boat team during hell week in the same platoon, and this team had two sets of them. Odd, Horton thought.

William Willie Tessler was another man that did not have the best athletic ability but had to strive and push his way through BUD/S. He was a small man, only five eight and 130 pounds when he joined the teams, but grew to five nine and one hundred