Page 124 of Cry Havoc
CHAPTER 43
Laos
May 1968
TOM AWOKE IN THEdarkness.
Compromise. Firefight. Extraction. Helo down. Quinn.
He started by moving his fingers and toes. He could feel them both, which was a good sign. Then he slowly bent his knees and elbows. More good news. Both worked. He felt a throbbing in his left arm and reached across his body.
That’s going to need stitches.
Touching the deep slice also made him aware that his right-hand glove was gone. He brought his hands together. The left glove was ripped almost to shreds, but he decided to keep it, as any protection from the thorns and razor-sharp elephant grass of the jungle was better than nothing.
None of his bones seemed to be broken. The tree branches of the triple canopy had slowed his fall.
He deliberately pushed himself to a sitting position and winced in pain. Broken right rib.Shit.How many? He felt across his body with his left hand. At least one. Maybe two. If that was all, he was the luckiest son of a bitch in ’Nam.
You are not in ’Nam. You are in Laos.
How long have you been on the ground?
He twisted his left wrist and ran his thumb across the acrylic crystal of his Submariner. The leather cover had been ripped away and the acrylic was scratched, but the faint glow from the tritium on the still-sweeping second hand confirmed that the watch was working. It was just after three thirty. It was a no-date Rolex, so he could not be certain of the day, but there was no way that twenty-four hours had passed, was there?
Was anyone coming?
It’s pitch black. Our helos will be up in the morning looking for us. They won’t fly at night without intel.
Tom had only inserted via helo in the dark once, and it almost ended in disaster. It was one of the scariest moments of his time in Southeast Asia. Until today.
Now for the moment of truth.
Tom moved his head up and down, then from side to side. He rotated it first one way, then the other. He touched the right side of his neck, behind his ear where the assassin’s bullet had entered. He traced its trajectory down and over to his spine.
Being in the best shape of his life probably helped him survive the fall. His months of recuperation in Saigon had made him strong.
In the hospital, he was forced to cut out the cigarettes and booze, which he reluctantly admitted had aided his healing. Nurse Maxwell had put Tom on a strict regimen of diet and exercise. She was fierce in his defense, so much so that even Serrano didn’t want to end up on her bad side. The venerable CIA man had refused to smuggle any contraband into the infirmary.
Tom felt like he could use a smoke and a drink now.
Nurse Maxwell had encouraged him to push harder in physical therapy and kept him on schedule. As he started to drive himself more intensely in the hospital’s rebab clinic, she would replace the dessert on his meal tray with extra chicken or fish for additional protein.
It took Tom a week to find out her first name was Loelia.
After two weeks of basic exercises, when he could stand without help, she arrived early one morning and roused him from his restless slumber.
“Get up.”
“Where are we going?”
“You’ll see.”
A car was waiting that took them to Cercle Sportif. Serrano had arranged it.
“They have the best pool in Saigon,”she explained.“We can use it before they open the club.”
“I need to see it.”
