Airmen 12.Cry Havoc, page 21
part #12 of Airmen Series
“It might. But they’d be members of Nhu’s security force and if the coup is successful, I doubt they’ll live through it anyway.”
“That’s probably true. Nasty little buggers. They’ll fight to the end.”
“In a way, we might be preventing more bloodshed.”
“That’s a bit of a stretch.”
“I know where Bian and her father are being held. The Cholon Detention Facility.”
“How do you know that?”
“Conein found out.”
“Another favor?”
“More like a deal with the devil.”
“Sounds about right. What did he want?”
“Servitude.”
“I see. But Bian’s worth it?”
“For me, she is.”
“You’re a fool, Coyle.”
“I know you think that, but you’ve never been in love like I love Bian.”
“I wouldn’t say that.”
Coyle considered for a moment, then said, “The woman in Hanoi?”
“Yeah. And it didn’t turn out well.”
“I see. But you do understand how I feel?”
“Yeah. I do.”
“Will you help me?”
Granier considered the request, then said, “Yep.”
Choked up by his friend’s loyalty, Coyle watched as Granier reassembled and loaded both his weapons in less than two minutes. Granier would never admit to being Coyle’s friend, but it didn’t matter. Actions, not words were what counted. As he finished, Granier said, “You got a plan to get in?”
“Well, with all the chaos from the coup, I figured I could bluff my way in.”
“So, why do you need me?”
“I’m not very good at bluffing.”
“No. You’re not.”
After slipping the Colt into the holster on his web belt, Granier shouldered his rifle and grabbed his rucksack. “I’m gonna expect a couple of cold beers if we don’t die.”
“I'll give you a truckload.”
“No. Just two… I don’t want to develop a drinking problem.”
“That’s what you’re worried about… becoming an alcoholic?”
“Nah. I just don’t want to get fat.”
They left.
The streets were deserted as they drove through the city. Everyone in Saigon had expected something to happen and they knew from experience when to get out of the way. They could hear the distant explosions of the rebel artillery hammering the palace. The explosions seemed to follow one right after another. “Wouldn’t want to be underneath that,” said Coyle.
“Oh yeah… this is much better,” said Granier pointing to a roadblock up ahead.
Coyle pulled to a stop at the roadblock. A squad of soldiers pointed their weapons at the two Americans. “Any idea which side they’re on?” said Coyle.
“Nope,” said Granier. “But the odds are 50-50 in our favor.”
“You’re not helping.”
The officer in charge walked up to Coyle’s window and said something in Vietnamese. Coyle responded in French hoping the officer understood. He didn’t. “Now what?” said Granier.
Coyle pulled out a folded typewritten paper in English and handed it to the officer. “Orders from President Kennedy,” said Coyle tapping the signature on the bottom.
“Kennedy?” said the officer having heard the American president’s name on the television.
Coyle nodded. Granier joined him. The officer took the paper and walked over to a portable radio. Coyle and Granier watched through the windshield as the officer called someone and explained something as if referring to the paper. “What is that?” said Granier.
“A letter to my daughter.”
“So, that’s your signature at the bottom?”
“Yeah.”
“This should be interesting,” said Granier slipping his pistol from its holster and chambering a round while keeping it out of sight.
The officer returned, handed Coyle the letter, and waved them through the roadblock. Granier lowered the pistol’s trigger and slipped the weapon back into its holster. They drove away in silence avoiding eye contact with the soldiers... still unsure which side they were on.
As they entered the Cholon district, the architecture changed to more of a Chinese influence. “I wouldn’t have asked you to do this if there was any other way, Granier,” said Coyle.
“I figured,” said Granier.
“If Diem loses, Nhu could have all the prisoners executed as a final act of revenge.”
“I considered that.”
“I’ve got to get them out now before the end of the coup. I can’t risk waiting.”
“Coyle, you talk too much. I already said “yes.”
“Right. I’m just nervous.”
“You should be. I am the king of long shots, but this is just downright crazy.”
“You really think so?”
“Definitely.”
“Good to know. Just promise me… if I get her out but die in the process, you’ll make sure Bian and her father live.”
“I’ll do what I can.”
“No. Promise, Granier. I mean it.”
“Alright. I promise, Coyle. Bian and her father will live.”
“Good. That makes me feel better.”
Coyle turned onto a boulevard. Surrounded by a high wall, the Cholon Detention Facility was in the distance. Coyle drove a few more blocks, then pulled the car over and said, “So, what do you think? Short or long?”
“Well, long is better getting you inside, but once you’re in there ain’t nothing I can do. You’d be on your own. But if we go short and I go with you inside the building, we’re not going to know what we are facing once we try to escape,” said Granier.
“I can handle myself.”
“Yeah. You can. But what if Bian or her father are hurt and you have to help them? It’s gonna be hard to defend yourself inside the building.”
“I hadn’t thought about that.”
“There’s a lot of different variables. We just don’t know what we’re facing.”
“Sure would be nice to have one more person.”
“Yeah, we’ll if wishes were fishes…”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means we go short.”
“Alright,” said Coyle. “Any last words of advice?”
“If it goes bad and you can’t bluff our way in, we don’t stop for anything or anyone. The longer we’re in that building the better the odds we’re going to die and that includes Bian and her father. Just remember to keep moving and think like a bulldozer no matter what.”
“Okay. I can do that.”
“Let’s go then.”
Coyle put the car in gear and drove down the boulevard toward the detention compound. Granier opened his rucksack and removed as many magazines as he could carry in his pockets. He knew that bringing the rucksack would be a red flag to the guards at the compound. He clipped his sheathed bayonet to his web belt, then handed the remainder of the magazines to Coyle plus four hand grenades. “I don’t think these send the message that we come in peace,” said Coyle filling his pockets.
“No. They don’t. And that’s fine by me,” said Granier. “Give me your sidearm.”
Coyle pulled out his pistol and handed it to Granier. Granier chambered a round, then removed the magazine and added back an additional bullet so the gun had a total of eight rounds in it when he slid the magazine back into the handle. He handed the gun back to Coyle and did the same for his own pistol. “You got eight rounds in your first load. After that, you’ll only have seven when you reload,” said Granier.
“You assume I’m gonna count rounds as I shoot,” said Coyle.
“You’d better. This is the real deal, Coyle. Make every bullet count.”
Coyle stopped the car in front of the main gate in the compound perimeter wall. They stepped out and approached the two guards. Coyle pulled out the letter to his daughter and tried the same trick emphasizing Kennedy’s name and adding CIA. One of the guards radioed the commander inside the compound, then escorted Coyle and Granier inside.
Coyle and Granier walked across the compound to the building where they were met by the security commander, a captain just outside the entrance. The escorting guard handed the commander Coyle’s letter. He examined it for less than ten seconds before crumpling it up and tossing it on the ground. “Who are you?” said the commander.
“Your worst fucking nightmare if you don’t open that door,” said Granier with the meanest tone he could muster.
Coyle watched as if everything was in slow motion – the captain reached for his sidearm and the escort leveled his rifle. Coyle remembered Granier’s warning to keep moving no matter what. He reached for his sidearm, but the commander and escort were already dead from shots to the head from Granier’s pistol which he had drawn with lighting fast speed. They fell to the ground. Granier pivoted to face the perimeter wall gateway. The second guard at the gateway opened fire with his rifle. Bullets whizzed by Granier and Coyle barely missing them. Granier didn’t flinch. He leveled his pistol and squeezed off two rounds, both found their target – the gateway guard’s chest. He fell dead.
Granier didn’t stop. He kept moving like some sort of weird ballet. He grabbed the keychain from the commander’s belt, found the right key, opened the door slightly, then stepped to the side pulling Coyle with him. Someone inside fired off five shotgun rounds through the open doorway. Granier turned to Coyle and could see that he was amped up and ready to charge through the doorway. “Give it a couple of seconds, cowboy,” said Granier putting his arm out to prevent Coyle from doing something stupid.
Granier listened and heard the soldier inside sliding more shells into the shotgun’s receiver. Granier swung his pistol around and fired off four rounds without exposing his body in the doorway. He heard a groan and a thump. Granier reloaded and moved into the doorway to find a guard on the ground. His shotgun, an Ithaca 37 was laying on the floor next to him. The guard saw Granier’s silhouette in the doorway and reached for his weapon. Granier put a bullet in the guard’s head and he stopped moving. He was dead.
Holding his pistol at the ready, Coyle stepped inside ready to shoot anyone in sight. “There’ll be more,” said Granier picking up the shotgun, reloading it with shells, then handing it to Coyle. “There should be another keyring or two for the cell doors.”
Coyle searched the guard’s desk and found a large keyring with dozens of keys. “Got it… I think,” said Coyle.
Granier was studying a map of the facility. It was a strong-box design with each prisoner having a separate cell. In addition, there were interrogation rooms, a morgue, a kitchen, a communal toilet with showers for the guards, a barracks, and an armory. Only the commander had his own office with a separate toilet. “Jesus, this place is huge. There’s gotta be over a hundred cells,” said Granier.
“I’ll find her if it takes all day,” said Coyle.
“We don’t have all day. Whoever is left guarding this place has probably called for reinforcements. I figure we’ve got ten minutes tops before we’re surrounded.”
“Then what?”
“Then we die, Coyle. Get your ass moving and find your girl and her father. I’m gonna find the other guards before they find us.”
“Right. I’m on it.”
“Wait… give me two grenades.”
Coyle gave him the grenades, then moved into the hallway and called out for Bian drawing all sorts of attention. The prisoners in the surrounding cells called out begging to be released. “He’s never gonna make it,” said Granier shaking his head as he slipped the map into his pocket and moved down a different hallway leading the armory inside the building.
Rounding a corner, Granier closed in on the armory with caution. He had no idea how many guards were left, but he imagined at least a dozen for a facility that size. There were a lot of prisoners that needed tending. He froze when he saw a guard run into a doorway marked “Armory” in French. He moved closer, removed out the two grenades in his pockets, pulled the safety rings, and rolled them across the concrete floor and through the doorway. Three seconds later, there was a large explosion followed by another. A dazed guard missing an arm with his uniform and hair smoldering stepped into the doorway. His skin was blackened and crispy. Granier shot him in the head putting him out of his misery.
Granier stepped into the armory to find four dead and two seriously wounded guards. He finished off the wounded not wanting to leave any loose ends. He moved to the doorway and waited figuring that more guards would investigate the explosions. He was right. Two more guards entered the hallway. He shot them both in the head. They fell, dead.
He figured the surviving guards would be in defensive clusters but had no idea where. He pulled out the map and studied it. He moved back into the armory and found himself an undamaged Thompson submachine gun. He quickly field-stripped it and checked it for damage. There was none. He put it back together and loaded the first magazine. Granier hated using weapons that he had not personally checked. He knew he was being overly paranoid, but figured it was a good compulsion. He took four magazines for the Thompson and stuffed them in his pockets. He wanted to remove each of the bullets in the magazines and clean them, but he knew there was no time to feed such impulsions. Between the machine gun and pistol magazines, he was loaded down with ammunition. It would slow him down. Not a good thing, but better than running out of bullets in a firefight. He figured his load would get lighter the more guards he killed.
Coyle turned down another hallway and again called out for Bian and her father. And once again, the only response he received was more prisoners pleading to be released. He felt bad and considered opening some of the cell doors, but he also knew they would probably run out of the facility and be killed by the reinforcements he was sure were on their way. He was being merciful by keeping them locked up. If the coup was successful, most would be released anyway.
He turned down another corridor and again called out for Bian and her father. Within the din of prisoner voices, he heard his name being called in French, “Coyle, I’m here.”
It was a man’s voice and it was weak. Coyle kept calling out and moved closer each time he heard the man’s voice until he came to a cell door. He opened the food porthole and looked inside. Bian’s father was sitting on the floor. Coyle found the right key and opened the door. He rushed inside and cradled the man in his arms. “I am here to get you out,” said Coyle.
“Thank, Buddha,” said Captain Hoang, his clothes stained and ragged.
“Have you seen Bian?”
“Once. In an interrogation room, about a week ago, I think.”
“Do you know where she might be?”
“No. But they keep the women in another section of the prison. To the north.”
“Okay. That may help.”
“Do you have any water?”
“No, but I will find you some. Can you walk?”
“Yes, if you help me to my feet.”
Coyle helped him up, put an arm around his waist leaving his right hand to hold the pistol, and moved out of the cell. “If we get in a firefight, I am going to let go of you. Just drop to the floor and stay put. I’ll come back for you once it’s over,” said Coyle.
“Okay.”
They moved down the hallway and turned to the north at the next junction. Coyle knew that they would be an easy target if they encountered any of the surviving prison guards. He had heard the grenade explosions and gunfire within the building and assumed it was Granier doing what he did best… killing people. The only way Coyle knew that Granier was still alive was when he heard more gunfire. He considered trying to find Granier but knew that time was short. He pressed on with Captain Hoang keeping his pistol at the ready. “You should leave me and come back after you have found Bian,” said the captain.
“No. Bian would never forgive me if something happened to you. We should stay together,” said Coyle.
“I need a weapon. I can still fight.”
Coyle pulled a grenade from his pocket, handed it to the captain, and said, “Don’t blow us up.”
Granier turned the corner to enter a new corridor. He heard approaching footsteps and tried to determine how many soldiers were moving toward him. He couldn’t say for sure, but he was confident it was more than three. There was no cover in the corridor. He moved back around the corner of the hallway he had just come from. It was the best he could do. He had already chambered a round in the Thompson. It was ready to rock and roll. He listened as the footsteps grew louder. He figured the soldiers had moved into the corridor around the corner he was standing next to. He waited until the footsteps sounded like they were only a few yards away. He swung around and opened fire. His estimate was way off. Six guards were coming toward him. He sprayed an entire magazine – twenty-five bullets into the approaching mass. The front three fell dead from multiple bullet hits. Those behind were also hit but returned fire driving Granier back around the corner. He reloaded.
He could tell by their formation and discipline that they were elite troops. He was lucky he wasn’t hit. They had been unable to fire until their dead comrades had fallen out of their firing line. Granier had no such requirement. He just shot at anything that moved. He heard something hit the concrete and watched as a grenade rolled into the end of the corridor right in front of him. He hit the deck diving away from the grenade. His machine gun hit hard and slid away from him. The grenade exploded and he felt a searing pain in his left foot from hot shrapnel. He wanted to dig it out with his knife but knew there was no time. He sucked it up, drew his M1911 from its holster, and cocked the trigger. A bullet was already in the chamber.
The three remaining soldiers were all wounded but mobile. They charged around the corner with their guns leveled for a standing enemy. Granier was on his back on the floor and ready. They fired wildly, then tried to adjust their fire downward where Granier was lying. Granier aimed and fired fast – one bullet aimed at the center of the chest of each target. The three stumbled, then fell. Granier fired another round in each of their heads. He wasn’t taking any chances.
