Dragon Fire

By Robert Reynolds

A temporary truce has been agreed upon between South Vietnamese and Communist aggressor forces for Tet, the Vietnamese New Year. Similar initiatives have been tried in the past with little success.

During Tet 1968, the Communists initiated attacks along the entire length of the country, including direct assaults on major cities and military installations, small outposts and the American embassy, in Saigon.


With pathos and humor, Dragon Fire relates the exciting tale of a U.S. Navy security force tasked with safeguarding a cargo-offloading ramp near the only bridge leading into the city of Da Nang.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Dec 9, 2016
• ISBN: 9781365596957

Robert Reynolds

Based in Calgary, Robert is an emerging author who spends his days working in the oil and gas industry but has been a big fan of the spy thriller genre ever since his childhood when he read one of his grandfather's original James Bond paperbacks from the late 50's. He is married with a young daughter and when he's not day dreaming about dangerous adventures in exotic locales he enjoys running and other outdoor pursuits.

Book preview

Dragon Fire

Dragon Fire

Robert Reynolds

2016.  This is a work of fiction.  All names and characters are products of the author’s imagination.  Any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.  

Contents

Prologue

Without warning, crimson tracer rounds flew in from the rice plains below the Bridge Cargo Ramp.  A few of the workers heard the rounds whistle overhead as if a swarm of mosquitoes had buzzed in off the nearby marsh. There were plenty of them along the river, but usually the night breeze along the ramp and the diesel exhaust from the rough terrain forklifts, the cargo-hauling trucks and the sprayed fog from insecticide kept them at bay. In the thick dust and utter commotion of the machinery along the ramp, the tracers flew in unnoticed by most.

Smack!  Less visible rounds hit the center cross-timber halfway between the ground and the guard shack atop the tower, spitting wood slivers into the night. The shattered wood fragments scattered and fell silently onto the dusty earth.

Ping!  Another round ricocheted off a broken down armored personnel carrier sitting idle in the PDO staging area, causing Salamone to dive for cover.  Several more rounds rapidly clinked and clanked off the machine’s armor. 

Stay down, Smitty, Sal yelled to his buddy in the guard tower.  But Smith was already hunkered down after that first round hit the timber.  He wasn’t about to rise up for anything.  He had seen the first fiery crimson trails zip in from the rice paddies and had immediately taken cover.

Thunk!  Another slug buried itself in a sandbag that fronted the entrance gate’s guard shack, showering the guard with sand.  Others zipped and zinged across the cargo ramp, half a dozen of which ripped a semi straight line of small holes into the sheet metal side of the southernmost warehouse.  Upon hearing the rounds strike, a night laborer who had sneaked off to catch a nap in a darkened corner of the building, instinctively burrowed into the safety of a pile of burlap bags filled with long-grain rice.

INCOMING!

No one knew who shouted it, but everyone ran for cover as more rounds whistled in. 

Get down! Tompkins yelled.  Marley hit the dirt hard then crawled up safely behind the guard shack.

Them are live rounds! Marley stammered.

P03 Haskins, operating a rough terrain forklift wheeled around and made for the cover of an LST that sat moored with its massive bow gaping open on the ramp. Once safely inside the large cargo craft, Haskins jumped off the big machine and ducked for cover.  A few rounds raked along the side of the vessel, doing no damage other than chipping paint then ricocheting into the night.

Chaos ensued along the ramp with sailors running every which way seeking cover.  Several ran for the LST, a few fled to the warehouse and others took cover behind the nearest solid object they could find.  Some of the shipboard crew had broken out deck rifles and were firing the M14s off the LST’s bow toward the hostile forces in the rice paddies.  The weapons made odd little popping sounds, like children’s cap guns.  A gunship that had been dropping illumination flares beyond the south end of the air base was now making its way toward the bridge ramp. All of a sudden it let loose with a burst of rounds and a solid crimson line of tracers erupted from its guns, chewing up the earth below.

The field phone rang and Tompkins scooted into the guard shack to answer, making sure to keep his head down.

I saw tracers come in between me and the main entrance, Jonesy said. 

Jonesy was posted in the corner guard tower adjacent to the MACV compound, which housed I Corps Headquarters.  He was almost 100 yards down and far enough away that he could see the commotion, but not so close as to hear the panic.

We’re receiving incoming from off the paddies! Tompkins yelled into the field phone. 

Puff’s givin’ ‘em hell, Jonesy said, watching the AC-47 rake the dark rice fields with its fire.  Friendly troops had christened the menacing aircraft Puff, the Magic Dragon.

What’s going on down there? Jonesy said. 

Going on? Tompkins said incredulous, as he crouched behind the main guard shack. Charlie’s strafing us, that’s what’s going on!

No! Jonesy said, aghast.  "They can’t do that. This is Tet and they signed a truce."  

Well, someone needs to tell those dudes hiding in the rice paddies!

Part I

Chapter 1

Early on the day before Tet, the Lunar New Year, Petty Officer 3rd Class Robinson drove over to the Motorola repair shop on the Navy’s main base at Camp Tien Sha.  Once more, the radio had cut out on him and only a series of hard bumps on Doc Lap Street had managed to restore transmission.  He toyed with the squelch button, but it made little improvement.

I’m enroute to Camp Tien Sha to get this blasted thing fixed, he said, radioing in to the NSA Security Office located inside the White Elephant.  It was better to fix it now during the daytime than to take the patrol unit out of operation at night, especially now, with Vietnamese New Year looming.  

Roger that, Seaman Miller, the dispatcher said. Let me know when you get there and again, when you get back on the road. 

10-4, Robinson said.  Lately, the unit’s radio had been giving him trouble.  Not serious trouble, but he didn’t want to be caught having it go out late at night in some far part of town and he didn’t want it to go out of commission for others when they relieved him after his watch.  He could do it now and have it over and done with, confident the radio would work properly when needed.

He stopped at the intersection across from the MACV compound as a U.S. Army UH-1 arose off the helipad, stirring a cloud of red dust and whipping the weeds and tall grass along the pad’s perimeter.  The chopper lifted off and headed south over the rice plains.  The flat plains extended for miles, finally rising into the smoky haze along the foothills of the Annamite Cordillera.

Robinson pulled onto the highway, running parallel to the Bridge Cargo Ramp and its facilities for offloading, storing and delivering cargo for I Corps allied forces. From his guard tower, Jonesy, intent on watching the helicopter, didn’t notice the jeep as it passed and Smitty was too far away in his tower to see it. 

As he passed the ramp’s main gate Robinson saw Tompkins and Marley inspecting the honey wagon, the Vietnamese garbage truck that picked up trash and waste products.  He had that pleasure in earlier times before making rate and being promoted to patrolling the city and cargo truck routes to outlying military installations.  He still pulled occasional duty at the ramp, but those times were seldom now and as Petty Officer of the Watch, he could delegate inspection of the honey wagon to a subordinate.  On these sweltering days with the truck’s stench overpowering, he didn’t envy Tompkins and Marley. 

Fifty yards down the road, he tapped the horn as he passed the ramp’s exit gate.  Jacobs looked up and waved. They were cube mates back at Camp Carter and Jake was a good friend. 

Robinson passed over the new bridge with the wide river flowing strong and slow, meandering across the flood plain below.  When he had arrived in-country, only an old single-lane bridge had spanned the river and the lanes of traffic had to alternate their crossing.   Soon after, the U.S. military constructed the new bridge and alleviated the traffic problem.  Now, in the morning sun, he could see all the way downriver to the bay.

A short distance up the highway, the road branched, right to the expansive Navy Hospital, continued straight to the big Navy BX and the China Beach R&R Center, and veered left toward Monkey Mountain and the main Navy base at Camp Tien Sha, nestled at the foot of the mountain. He chose the latter.

He passed a vacant sand field on his left where only a few mornings before the men spotted a North Vietnamese Army flag flying as they came on duty.  The bright red flag with the yellow star had remained draped on a bamboo pole for a few hours, the Vietnamese locals afraid to take it down and the Americans refusing to venture into that field where it might be booby-trapped.  Furthermore, many of the local paupers defecated in that field and there was apprehension over booby-traps of a more earthy nature. Someone removed the flag during the day, but no one knew who chanced taking it down.  An old man in a cone-shaped straw hat squatted unashamedly in the field now.

He motored past the Covered Storage compound and its bank of refrigeration units and past the III Marine Amphibious Force compound that stood adjacent to the White Elephant, across the wide river.  A handful of men, sailors and soldiers alike, were scurrying down the dirt road to the Ferry Landing to catch a launch across the river into the city, although a few were simply heading to the houses of ill-repute that lined the road.  He could tell by their furtive glances who was up to no good.A Military Police jeep had just made a pass through there and turned onto the highway to head elsewhere, leaving would be miscreants to their indiscretions. 

A pretty girl dressed in a white ao dai, the Vietnamese traditional dress, had come up from the landing and was waiting alongside the highway to catch a ride to Camp Tien Sha.  Before he could decide to ask her if she wanted a ride, a tri-wheeled Lambretta pulled to the side of the road and she got in.  He remembered seeing her at work in the base library in times past.

A rickety old bus, dented and dinged, passed, coming up from the villages near Monkey Mountain.  An old woman clung to the top holding on for dear life lest her wooden crate with two live hens fall away.  The bus passed by in a rush. White clouds rested atop Monkey Mountain. It was a beautiful morning. 

As he approached the whitewashed entrance gate to Camp Tien Sha, he heard voices calling in cadence and he glanced to the side to see several Vietnamese men standing in formation inside the National Police Basic Training Center, across the road from the Navy base.  Soon the recruits would join the ranks of the White Mice, the local police who conveniently disappeared at the sign of trouble, but for now, they were simply learning the ropes and were thankful to have jobs that did not require combing the jungles for enemy soldiers.

He slowed at the gate and a USN Security Policeman waved him through.  He didn’t recognize the man, but it had been several months since he’d lived on Camp Tien Sha.  For an instant, seeing the old whitewashed French barracks where he’d once billeted neatly aligned beneath the tall pines, he felt as if he was coming home. 

It’s cutting in and out, he said when the repair technician asked him the problem.  Sometimes as much as a few minutes, then it comes back on. 

Did you try adjusting the squelch button? the man asked.

I did and it makes no difference, Robinson said.

I’ll take a look, the technician said, making room on his cluttered workbench.  He pulled the radio from the jeep, ran some tests and then soldered a couple wires. The hot metal gave off a soft hiss and a minute puff of white smoke.

That should do it, the technician said, giving Robinson the green light to go. 

That’s all? Robinson said.

Just a loose wire is all, the man said.  I put a drop of solder on that other wire, too.  Just in case.  You’re good to go now.

Robinson drove past his old barracks and made a quick stop at the laundry shop to say hello to Lan, his friend with one blind eye.  She had taught him Vietnamese phrases when he first arrived.  She smiled at seeing him, but the affable Lan smiled at everyone.

Do you remember my language? she said.

I remember most of it, he replied. 

I remember yours, too, she said, handing a bundle of laundry to a young sailor in denim dungarees.  The young man handed her some MPC notes.  She counted out his change.  He thanked her and trudged off with his fresh laundry beneath is arm. 

But you are much smarter and better at English than I will ever be with Vietnamese, Robinson said, a smile curling the corner of his mouth.

Perhaps, she said, but you will not need to know my language after you leave.

And if I stayed? he said.

No one stays that long, she said.  He was beginning his first extension on his tour of duty and already he had been here longer than most others he knew.

How is your family? he said.  She had shown him photographs and he was pleased she had allowed him into that part of her life.

It is thoughtful for you to ask, she said pleasantly, folding freshly laundered shirts; hand laundered in the bay along the rocky shore below the mountain.   

I do my own laundry now that I live at Camp Carter, he said.

There are no mamasans to do it for you?

They don’t wash it good like here, he said.

Bring it to me.

I don’t come here often.  That wouldn’t work.

"I corresponded to your