Page 54 of Cry Havoc
Just as quickly, his eyes went to the plate before him: freshly grilledchicken breast, rice, and vegetables. An American Coca-Cola can was placed to the side.
Adrik’s eyes darted around the room. They were alone.
Unable to control himself, his hands went to the chicken, shoving it into his salivating mouth. There were no utensils. He scooped up handfuls of rice and vegetables, stuffing his cheeks to capacity.
An insanity overtook him as he feverishly devoured everything on the plate, finally bringing it to his lips to lick it clean. Dropping it to the floor, he grabbed the Coke and began guzzling it when he felt his stomach turn. His eyes widened as he fought to hold the feast down. He lost the battle, leaned to the side, and vomited.
When his stomach stopped convulsing, he sat back up, took a swig of the Coke, washed the sugary liquid around his mouth, and spit it on the floor before setting the can back in front of him.
The man across the table passed him a white handkerchief.
“Sergeant Voronin, I am Major Kirill Dvornikov of the GRU. How would you like to get out of here and come work for me?”
CHAPTER 15
Saigon, Vietnam
January 30, 1968
THE C-130 TOUCHED DOWNwithout incident at Tan Son Nhut Air Base in Saigon just before nine a.m. after a ninety-minute flight from Da Nang.
Among the rows of U.S. Air Force and Republic of Vietnam Air Force military aircraft were civilian planes belonging to Pan Am and Continental Airlines, Boeing 707s and Douglas DC-6s and DC-8s. Tom always had a hard time wrapping his head around the business of war.
Their plane taxied to a more secluded section of the runway and lowered the ramp. It was like opening the door to a furnace. The heat mixed with the fumes of jet fuel and AVGAS, washing through the cargo hold like a tsunami.
“Welcome to Saigon,” Quinn said. He was speaking as much to Tom as to their prisoner, who sat across the cargo hold in leg shackles. His hands were handcuffed to an aluminum bar that supported a canvas bench seat that ran lengthwise down the hull of the airframe.
Tom, Quinn, and Amiuh were dressed in civilian clothes. Their two MPs were armed with M16s and 1911 sidearms.
Amiuh looked nervous.
“You okay, buddy?” Tom asked.
Amiuh shook his head.
“No trust Vietnamese.”
“I know. All we have to do is drop this guy off and sign him away at the interrogation facility. After that we’ll stop in to see Chief SOG, but as soon as that’s done, we’ll hop a lift back to Da Nang. We still have three days of R&R. Without this fucker to babysit we’ll figure out how to get you home for a few days to see your family.”
Amiuh’s face lit up at the thought.
“Thank you, Tommy-son,” he said, bowing his head.
“Don’t worry, we’ll get you home,” Tom said, grabbing his green seabag duffel from the seat next to him.
The prisoner was clad in an American flight suit so as to not draw too much attention. The entire hour and a half flight he had only rocked back and forth whispering a barely audible,“Lam Nut Bau troi, Rung chuyen Trai Dat.”
Quinn stood and stretched.
“You need water?” he asked the prisoner.
“Lam Nut Bau troi, Rung chuyen Trai Dat.”
“Guess not.”
Quinn led the way out the back of the aircraft carrying an Army duffel followed by the two MPs who held the prisoner. Tom and Amiuh took up rear security.
They were met by a man in a starched Republic of Vietnam uniform at the base of the ramp. The olive-green jacket with captain’s shoulder boards was worn over a white shirt and black tie. A row of ribbons was pinned above the left breast pocket. His matching dress cap with black visor, gold band, and ARVN officer crest was positioned squarely on his head. His eyes were hidden behind aviator sunglasses.
