Show of Force (14 page)

mortar, a grenade launcher, and three .50-caliber machine guns. When they were traveling in excess of twenty-five knots, they were impressive to any VC they happened to be chasing, but they provided little protection from the elements, not to mention enemy fire. If David managed to board a boat dry, he found himself wet before they were away from dockside.

He and Mezey generally rode one of these open PBR's. On occasion they went in one of the Swift boats, which were even faster and had enclosed cabins. But more of the latter were being turned over to the South Vietnamese Navy, and the Americans took what they were allowed. So far, it was not the type of tour he thought he had written orders for.

“I think maybe we've got what we've been looking for, David.” It was Phil Mezey's voice calling over the water, just returning from a conference downriver.

“Anything could be better than what we've been doing so far,” . David answered. He had been supervising ammunition storage, and had found himself wondering why the hell the Navy was bothering to send them ammunition. David stepped in front of the sailor waiting for the line from Mezey's boat. He caught it easily as it snaked through the air, and looped it around the forward cleat. As the boat swung its stern in David took that line also.

“Right here. I think the answer's right here.” Mezey swung off the ugly little PER onto the dock, waving a sheaf of papers. “There's some heavy troop concentrations up toward the border, and the Big Z thinks maybe they're building up for an offensive north of Saigon. Believe it or not, he thinks the best way to search for them is from the river. He's warned the generals that if they start sending reconnaissance aircraft and ground patrols in, all they're going to do is convince the VC to stay low until they're good and ready. And Washington can't stand any more surprises.”

“And he picked us?”

“Well, not really. I kind of volunteered our services. I explained that we hadn't lost any boats. Our squadron was full and in excellent condition, and we knew that territory near the border like the back of our hand.”

“Shit,” David laughed, “we're in such damn good shape because we haven't seen any action. We haven't even scraped any paint. And, Christ, Phil, we haven't been within twenty miles of the border. That's a maze up there.”

“You're right each time, David, my boy, but there has to be a first time for everything. We saddle up at first light tomorrow.” He slapped David on the rump. “Come on, we have a bit of organizing to do,” he said gleefully. “And by the way, they're even loaning us a little fire support, our very own ASPB, the battleship of the Mekong,” he laughed, "to do whatever we want with it, as long as we return it in the same shape as we get it." They were slower, heavily armed boats used for fire support for other small craft, such as the PBR's, and they wallowed along looking very much like the Civil War
Monitor.
A very hot sun hung high in the afternoon sky. There was almost no breeze in the stifling air, and the helmets and flak jackets were increasingly uncomfortable. The group moved at the speed of the slowest craft, the heavily armed ASPB. Two Swift boats patrolled ahead. They were looking for any sign of the ambushes that the VC favored when they knew the river-boats were on the prowl.

The thick green jungle was set off by the brown water of the river, which moved ever so slowly toward the rich delta, far to the southeast of their little group. The river was a bit narrower upstream, through it would sometimes just as surprisingly open up as they came around a bend. Smaller rivers entered the main stream from under the dense vegetation. But, as some of them had learned in the past, these little rivers were sometimes just estuaries that went back a short distance and ended abruptly with a wire stretched, across to stop unwary boats.

They were now in unfamiliar territory, and David spent much of his time memorizing passing landmarks. This would help a good deal if they found themselves going the other way at high speed. If trouble occurred ahead, they would just have to take their chances.

David had just lifted his binoculars to his eyes to scan the jungle forward and to his left when the river erupted. The sound of the actual explosion came after the mine had detonated. A nearby PER was lifting into the air. Water was hurled up around the craft, but he could still see the bow separate as it began it? descent, almost in slow motion. The .50-caliber in the bow and the sailor manning it went in another direction. The other members of the crew were not to be seen as the remains of the boat settled back to the brown water.

It must have been shallow there to cause so much upward force, he thought. The boat he was riding immediately cut out of the formation to close the wreckage. “Scatter,” came the order from Mezey over the' radio, almost at the same time that the boats were independently changing their courses and speeds to confuse enemy gunners. The most important thing was to be one step ahead of the VC, who were likely ready to set off the next mine.

“We have two of the crew, Phil,” David called over the radio.

“Don't hang around. There's more than one of those mines in the water if the VC have been doing their homework.” And at his last word, another was set off just ahead of one of the forward PBR's, not quite close enough to damage the craft severely. Water cascaded down on the little craft as the wheel was thrown over by a frightened sailor. “Look out for each other,” called Mezey instantly on the radio as a boat almost collided with the one that had just missed being sunk.

Another mine exploded, this time twenty yards behind David's boat. Mezey called for speed and the small craft lifted their bows perceptibly as the General Motors geared diesel engines forced the waterjet-powered boats through the water. Another explosion, no mine this time, went off near his boat. David was at the radio instantly, “Mortars,” he shouted, “from the starboard bank, I think.”

The water came alive with exploding mortar rounds. The air was also filled with machine-gun and rifle fire, all of it from starboard. The boats now were on their own. As they came under fire, each helmsman followed his own nose, paying attention only to where the other boats were. The gunners poured their fire in the direction of the enemy, at the same time trying to avoid hitting each other.

“I'm heading five hundred yards upriver with half the squadron,” Mezey called. “You take the others down, and we'll try to get them in a pincer. Get that battleship here as fast as you can. They've got some heavy stuff in there. We're catching bazooka fire.” And he began ticking off the numbers of the boats that would stay with him. David didn't need to say anything to his own group. They all heard the order and their numbers at the same time, and they would pick their own way back around the bend.

As they rounded the corner below the ambush area, the ASPB was moving toward them as fast as it could. David gave the hand signal that would turn his boats back. They roared back upriver again at full speed, resuming fire as they came into range of the jungle hideout. Mezey was doing the same from the opposite direction.

They sped into even heavier fire this time, obviously from a large group on shore. They had not seen a human being yet, and had no idea whether or not their return fire was effective. Now that both groups of the squadron had taken the time to settle down, their guns were concentrated into one narrow section of the jungle. The battleship now began to fire its 20-mm. shells into the undergrowth at a rapid rate, cutting out trees where the .50-calibers on the small boats had only been chopping down limbs.

And as suddenly as it started, the water around them was free from explosions and bullets. How long they had been firing with no return they didn't know. “Cease fire, cease fire,” came Mezey's voice over the radio. He called out the numbers of two of the boats. “David, you and the rest cover us while we go in to check them out. That seemed to be a company-sized attack with all those weapons. They can't get away that fast.”

David watched the shoreline until half a dozen men from the three craft had disappeared into the undergrowth. When he surveyed the group of boats, only one other was inoperable. It had taken a mortar round that had slowed it long enough for a second one to finish it off. The PER was floating on the other side of the river, smoking, the holes in it gradually filling with water. Many of the other boats, including his own, showed the effects of multiple small-arms fire, but they were all effective. Casualties, with the exceptions of the two sunken craft, were relatively light.

It wasn't long before Mezey returned to his boat, moving it out in the water next to David's. “You wouldn't believe it if you saw it. Christ, we chopped up everything in an area the size of a football field and there's not a body in there. We found some blood, so there must have been some hits, but there wasn't a soul there—just vanished.” He shook his head, “Everything we've heard about them is true. Hit and run. Hit and run. The little buggers sure know how to scare the hell out of a man, though.” He paused for a moment, a finger to his lips. “What's that?” He cupped his ear and turned his head slightly.

David shook his head. He didn't know what to listen for.

“Listen.” There were some muted sounds, engines. It was coming from upriver. “That sounds like diesels.” He listened again. The sounds were no louder, but it seemed there were more engines. “Son of a bitch! I'll bet they've got boats up there. They were just sent down to see how many we were and scare us away at the same time.” He nodded at David. "Let's go. They must have something bigger to hide if they wanted to chase us away that bad."

It was a loose formation, at best, that moved cautiously up the river. Mezey had probably been almost upon them when he feinted upriver before turning back for his attack. There had been a couple of sharp jogs in the river's course at that point. They could have been either farther on or under camouflage at the edge of the bank, but they were certainly gone now. The air was as still as it had been all day, but just a touch of diesel smell lingered.

They had no idea how many boats there were, or how well they were armed. They did not want to fall into another ambush, no matter how little time the VC would have to set it up. So, Mezey had them move at about the same fifteen-knot speed as the
Monitor-style
battleship. Not a word was said over the radio between the boats. Mezey had called into his headquarters to report VC contact and asked for aircraft on standby in case they caught up to anything worthwhile.

David Charles had spread his charts out on the deck of his boat. He noted they were getting closer to the border, the no-man's area that they weren't supposed to cross. Too often, it served as a hiding place for their enemy. Less" than ten miles ahead was Cambodia. He also noted the river would widen in less than a mile, a good place to fight the VC if they could catch them.

Their enemy had the same idea. They were greeted by two native-style boats as they rounded a bend and entered the wide shallow section of the river. They were shallow craft, motorized vessels moving at a slow pace as if on the way to market. But at approximately two hundred yards, after each had fired initial mortar rounds, their sterns settled back in the water and their engines opened up to full speed. They came directly at the Americans, still firing the mortars inaccurately, but pouring streams of machine-gun fire into the nearest boat.

As the wheel of his own PBR was thrown over, David briefly saw more of the craft going away from them. This attack was intended to slow them just long enough to make good the escape of the main VC force.

The VC boats actually came up to and passed the lead boats in the squadron, raking them with small .arms, their machine guns maintaining fire directly into the PBR's. Only the closest boat could return the fire, for the ones in back were afraid of hitting their friends. Now, the forward PBR's began to concentrate their own .50-calibers. Both of the attackers were zigzagging as best they could, their fire limited to tail gunners as they passed the rear PBR's.

One of them slowed, obviously damaged by the machine-gun fire from half a dozen American boats. At this point the lumbering battleship picked it up with the 20-mm. shells, and the craft began to splinter before their eyes. Smoke lifted from its stern as it lurched sideways, presenting a perfect target. Then flames began to spread across the decks. Its remaining crew leaped over the side through the still intense machine-gun fire, hoping to reach the safety of the shore. Then the guns of both the battleship and the PBR's concentrated on the other. It also had begun to slow down. As the 20-mm. shells again found their mark, a thunderous explosion rocked the river, tearing the VC craft apart, flinging large chunks through the air. When the water settled, nothing remained to indicate that a boat had been there just seconds before.

This second time the squadron wasn't as lucky. The inability to concentrate their fire until the VC were far enough from friendly craft had taken a toll. Two of the boats were rapidly taking on water and two others had been seriously damaged. Personnel casualties required the squadron to bunch up for a moment.

As he came close to Mezey's badly damaged boat, he saw his friend stretched out on the stern, two of his crew hovering over him. David brought his own boat close enough to jump onto the other.

Mezey looked up at him, face contorted with pain. “Damn it, David, they've done just what we didn't want. The main body's heading for the border, and we're licking our wounds.” David knelt beside him, as a corpsman from another craft bandaged both wounded legs. “Take half a dozen boats in the best shape and enough men to handle some extra weapons and go after those mothers. They've got something they're hiding to pull a stunt like that.”

“Right,” David responded, without questioning the orders. “Are you sure you're going to be all right on the way back?” he queried.

“Yeah. I'd love to go, but you're going to have enough problems without a goddamn cripple on your hands. I'll go back with the damaged boats.” He looked at his ragged fleet, the one he had so willingly volunteered only the day before. “Keep the rest a mile or two behind you, along with the battleship. You may need them if you run into any more of this shit.” He grinned up at David. “Remember, this is what you cut those orders for. Get your ass in gear and get out of here.”