by Robin Moore
Rodriguez watched the guards pile haphazardly into the truck. The officer screamed orders to the two guards on the gate. The guards swung the gate inward and the personnel carrier raced toward it. Instantly, Rodriguez and his little squad went into action. As the troop-filled vehicle tore out of the gate and turned right into the rutted street, four hand grenades arched toward it. They burst almost simultaneously in a violent, ripping explosion. The vehicle, suddenly awash in shredded bodies rocked wildly and fell back on its torn-up wheels.
Before the two gate guards could get their rifles off their shoulders they were cut down by one of the Tais with a Schmeisser submachine gun, and Rodriguez and his men rushed inside the electric plant. Two of the Tais took the guards’ positions, holding levelled submachine guns, their belts hanging with grenades whose pins had been straightened for instant pulling.
More guards fell out of the barracks to see what was happening and were instantly ripped apart with submachine-gun rounds. A Tai tribesman ran to the barracks, pulled two grenades and tossed them into the building. Moments later the guardhouse erupted. Rodriguez made for the large generators in the main plant, his two Tais beside him. They burst into the huge generator room. They saw no one. Rodriguez went to work. Packing charges around the shafts of motors and generators, and inside the generators against the electric windings, he tied the explosive circuit together with detonating cord. In five minutes Rodriguez had all three generators ready to blow. Unreeling det cord as he went, he ran from the generator barn. He set a minute-delay time fuse into the explosive cord and then sprinted for the gate.
The Tais followed Rodriguez as he crossed the road and railroad tracks and fell into the ditch on the other side. Moments later the deafening explosion shook the plant, the concussion waves rocking the five men in the ditch, knocking their wind out.
The town of Hang Mang went black. Not an electric light burned in the province. It would be weeks before standby power could be generated, and a year before the minimal power supplied by the plant could be restored. The five saboteurs shoved fresh magazines into their submachine guns and headed for the rally point.
Brick Smith, Luy, and a 12-man assault squad were crowded into one of the three shacks that made up their primary MSS. The other two squads had a shack each. It was almost 10:00. Although this was the first time Smith had seen the bridge, every one of his men had walked across it and studied it during the past month. All knew every move they would make during the operation and had rehearsed it on mock-ups of the bridge and terrain over and over again. The brightly illuminated structure with its six guards—two at each end and two in the middle—must have seemed to the company in charge of its security an absurdly safe installation.
The guard company barracks was situated only fifty yards from the north end of the bridge. It always housed a complement of 40 soldiers and a lieutenant. To insure maximum alertness the guards on the bridge were relieved every four hours.
Smith’s biggest worry was a successful demolition job. It was an old-style steel and concrete T-beam bridge supported in the middle of the river by a heavy concrete piling. The only way to blow it quickly and produce maximum damage was by use of pressure charges. A line of TNT blocks across the center width of the two spans, which reached from the piling to the two banks, would cut and tilt them into the river. To insure this maximum damage Smith had planned to stretch a third line of TNT blocks across the middle of the bridge above the piling. This would weaken the span at the center so that when the bridge was cut the broken spans would tear off from the pilings and slide into the river. Thus the heavy coastal boat traffic dependent on the river to get to the sea would also be blocked. With the lack of heavy construction facilities the river, as well as the main route south, would be blocked indefinately and it would take months to even get a road-traffic bridge rebuilt.
Smith and Rodriguez had discussed the plan for over a month and Rodriguez had once risked going down and walking across the bridge. The use of pressure charges was the quickest way they could figure out to do the job. But the job would require more than six hundred pounds of TNT, a prohibitive load for guerrillas to carry in. Therefore tamping was a necessity. Enough tamping piled on top of and around TNT directs and concentrates the full explosive force of the charge straight down. None of the destructive force is dissipated into the air in concussion or shock waves. With tamping the amount of TNT required to cut the reinforced concrete of the bridge into Hang Mang would be reduced by 50 per cent. But how could they prepare and carry sandbags to the bridge?
Smith had quickly come up with the answer. Now, as he grimly thought over what he had to do the sudden dull explosion in the distance roused him. Just a few more moments. His tribesmen were grinning in anticipation. Smith got to his feet. Four of his men, carrying heavy tripod-mounted German Solothurn MG-34 machine guns with maximum range of two thousand yards, were ready to pick up their thirty-five pounds of weapons and ammunition and rush for their positions. Another four men in the next fishing shack, armed with Russian 7.62 RPD heavy machine guns, were also ready. These guns had been transported part by part to the fishing shacks and silently reassembled in the dark. The assault force with Schmeissers, Russian AK’s, Swedish K’s and other foreign makes of submachine guns were also set to go. Smith, his pack heavy with explosives, and six of his men similarly burdened were ready to rush onto the bridge as soon as it was clear. He had been practicing for three weeks and had cut down the time from twenty-nine minutes on his first attempt on the mock-up to the required eleven minutes.
They waited tensely, minute by minute. Suddenly all the lights on the bridge went out and moments later another detonation vibrated in the air.
The eight heavy-machine-gun crews charged into the darkness for their positions. There was just enough light coming from the starlit sky to make out the single-story guard company headquarters. As Smith and his explosive carriers ran out of the shack, the assault force was already rushing the bridge. Submachine-gun fire crackled as the trained Tai tribesmen gained the bridge and began gunning down the guards. The guards at the far end of the bridge began firing back and a brief sharp firefight ensued. One montagnard twisted to the ground, dropping his weapon.
Then the deep-throated roaring of eight heavy machine guns blasted the night. The guards running from their barracks were instantly cut down and the machine gunners continued to pour their heavy fire through the flimsy barracks walls. With the last of the bridge guards disposed of, Smith began setting out his explosive squares, lacing detonation cord through them and binding them tightly together. First a solid line of TNT was placed across the southernmost span. Then the tribesmen dragged the bodies of the six guards to it and tamped them over the TNT. Meanwhile the heavy-machine-gun firing had ceased and only an occasional pistol or rifle shot marred the stillness of the night.
As Smith exactingly placed his charges along the center of the bridge, his Tais came up behind him, dragging bloody, tattered bodies and laying them across the explosive blocks. Soon the first line of explosive blocks was buried under a heavy heap of corpses. As Smith moved back to place the final line of charges, the center charges were quickly tamped with the bodies of the slaughtered guard company.
Massive firing suddenly broke out north of the bridge, about a mile up the road. Unruffled, Smith worked methodically. Finally the last of the charges was set. He stretched the detonating cord along the road to the north for fifty yards until he was opposite the bullet-frayed guard barracks.
The Tais continued to pile the torn corpses on the final line of explosives. When the tribesmen ran out of dead guards Smith made a last hurried inspection of the tamped charges. There were one hundred and ten pounds of TNT blocks across each of the three widths of the bridge that had to be cut, or a total of three hundred and thirty pounds in all. A twisted grin spread across his face as he estimated there must be more than one thousand pounds of bodies for each hundred pounds of TNT. A comfortable margin. The best tamped demolition job he’d ev
er performed.
The firing to the north was still resounding through the night, illumination flares lighting up the sky. Smith yelled an order to his tribesmen and instantly they left the bridge, carrying their dead comrade and helping two tribesmen who had been wounded.
Frenchy and his ambush should have pulled back already, Smith thought worriedly as the firing up the road continued. At least a full battalion was available to move down the road and Frenchy’s two platoons would be no match for them.
Luy was close to Smith as he spliced a two-minute time fuse into the end of the det cord. He pulled the pin, placed an arm around Luy, and hurried her away.
The montagnards led the way along the path leading westwards from the road. They were heading straight for the mountains. Smith counted the seconds as they trotted and turned in time to witness the flash of the tremendous explosion he had set.
While the concussion of three hundred and thirty pounds of TNT detonating should have been enough to blow them all off their feet, the Communist guard company had done their final job well. Only a dull shock wave could be felt through the ground. Smith was confident that the tremendous shattering power of the TNT had been driven through the entire bridge.
“Hey, Luy, you want to go back and see how we did?”
She shook her head vehemently, a shocked look on her face.
As the firefight to the north waned, Smith’s expression became set.
“OK, keep moving fast,” he ordered, and the Tai tribesmen resumed pushing for the hills.
By the luminous dial of Smith’s wrist watch it was thirty minutes after midnight when the point man of the first squad was challenged and identified himself. They filed into the rally point and immediately saw that Frenchy’s ambush platoon had not been as lucky as they. By flashlight Frenchy was working on gunshot wounds. Smith saw several still bodies laid out and other men, on litters, lying quietly.
Frenchy looked up from his work. “Did the bridge go OK, sir?”
“Sounded that way to me. Thanks for the time—we needed it.”
“My two platoons hit a reinforced company. They did a hellofa job. We must have killed 20 enemy on our mines alone. Pinned them down and shot the shit out of them. Grenades—the works. My problem was to get the Tais out of there while we still had the advantage. They wanted to go in for an all-out massacre.”
“How many casualties did you take?”
“We only lost three dead. A couple more may die, I’m afraid. I’ve got seven wounded. Those Commies were really hitting us. They must have something like our M-79, ’cause we were getting damned accurate incoming grenades.”
“See anything of the others?”
Frenchy shook his head. “Sergeant Trung here has been getting a hellofa lot of interesting radio traffic.”
Smith hunted up Trung. The Vietnamese communications man was ecstatic.
“Dai-uy! All over, they don’t know what’s hitting them. Only battery sets working now because no electricity. I pick up many calls. What you Americans say? The Communists all fuck up!”
While Trung was monitoring his radio set he kept one eye on the electronic device in front of him whose green scope showed an unbroken white line across the middle of it. Frenchy frequently looked up from his work to stare at the glowing tube. Smith never took his eyes from it.
Every few moments Trung threw a switch on the box that caused the line to dance and then settle back to a constant horizontal. Smith and his three squads had been at the rally point for half an hour when, at one of Trung’s switchovers, the white line became an oscillating vertical series of peaks and valleys.
“Dai-uy!” Trung exclaimed. “Station two!”
Frenchy and Smith stared at the scope. “Lots of metal,” Smith commented.
“Looks like a platoon or larger, sir,” said Frenchy. “Coming through the north pass we used two hours ago to get here.”
“They know we’re up here by now.”
They studied the glowing pattern in the dark. “I’d say they’re right in the killing zone now, sir,” the medic said.
“Let ’ em have it, Trung?”
Trung pressed a button on the side of the set. Instantly a tearing explosion ripped through the air two miles to the northeast. Frenchy, Smith, and Trung stared at the scope. Even peaks and valleys appeared.
“All that metal is lying pretty quiet now, sir,” said Frenchy.
“Should be. Two and a half feet of solid shrapnel from two feet to four and a half feet above the ground for a distance of one hundred meters. That would cut down anything.”
A few pips moved in the otherwise stable pattern. “Looks like a few of them might be alive to wonder what happened,” said Frenchy. “Trung, switch back to the main route.”
Trung toggled the switch and the unbroken white line again cut across the green glow of the face of the tube.
It was another hour before Rodriguez and his montagnards arrived at the RP from the southeast. The team now lacked only DePorta and Vo.
“At least we know Major DePorta’s mission was a success,” said Rodriguez. Everyone was silent. The orders were to pull out of the RP by 4:00 A.M. in order to have two full hours of darkness to reach the mountainous jungle of Tai territory.
“Dai-uy! Dai-uy!”
Smith turned to see the green glow almost obscured by the vertically oscillating white line. “Christ! Armor!”
Rodriguez chuckled. “We got ten three-and-a-half-inch armor-piercing rockets ready to slice up the road.” The demolitions sergeant studied the active green and white tube. He looked at the second hand of his watch and back to the tube. “Let’s give them about two minutes and then we’ll let go. Between the rockets and our high-power claymore mines we ought to knock off half the column.”
The guerrilla warfare experts stared from the scope to their watches and back. At the end of two minutes, with the white agitations still filling the screen, Rodriguez said, “What do you think, sir?”
“Hit!” Smith rasped.
Trung touched the button. The night opened up with white flame to the north. Sharp explosions pierced the silence. The rumbling detonations continued and the glow from the electronically ambushed column became more brilliant as gas tanks and ammunition exploded. Batcat’s men at the RP stared at the brightly lit sky to the north, shaking their heads in awe. This was the biggest ambush of its kind ever tried. Its success looked to be phenomenal.
“Madre Dios!” Rodriguez gasped.
After a few moments they looked back at the scope. It glowed a dull green with no white line at all. “We blew up our detector with the column,” Smith said.
They were still staring at the glow in the sky when Major DePorta and Lieutenant Vo finally arrived. They had found it wise after their rendezvous to leave their bicycles and walk cross-country.
DePorta allowed a few moments for boisterous greetings. Then, in commanding tones, he said, “OK, no critiques now. Let’s get back to headquarters. We’ve got less than two hours before daylight. And we don’t want to be anywhere around when the Communists come out of shock.”
The Tai tribesmen took turns carrying their dead and wounded as they trudged back into the hills, intoxicated with their victory. The Americans constantly had to quiet them down.
By daylight they were in dense mountainous jungle. As Luy and Brick walked together up to Batcat’s headquarters the Tai girl occasionally smiled happily at him, and clutched his hand.
Just at dusk the guerrilla party reached the outer defenses and were escorted back to the camp.
DePorta, Smith, Rodriguez, and Vo headed for Sergeant Everett’s radio center. Pierrot remained with the wounded. Ossidian and the assistant medic, Sergeant Lin, were standing by the radios waiting for them.
“How are the results coming in?” Smith asked.
“Just monitored a broadcast from Hanoi, sir,” Everett replied. “Lin says they’re accusing the United States and South Vietnam of bombing Hang Mang and the industrial complex.”
“Have you heard from Alton or Artie?” DePorta asked.
“Captain Buckingham reports they carried out all their missions but lost one American demo sergeant KIA,” Everett answered. “Captain Locke carried out all his assignments. Four assassinations successful. Considerable destruction of Viet Cong equipment. Locke estimates 30 enemy KIA in ambushes they set. Not bad, sir!”
“Hanoi is paralyzed with fear,” Lin went on.
“Any news from Hang Mang?”
“Toc says we were successful, sir,” Lin replied. “Four people were killed with the political chief and the building is destroyed. There is no electricity and no communications. The police and Army have been arresting everyone on the streets, even dragging them from their houses.”
“Anything on the bridge?” Smith asked.
“Toc heard rumors that it was destroyed. There are also rumors that the bridge guard company deserted to a man.”
“Well,” DePorta said to the men of Batcat, “now we are like in a submarine. We have shot our torpedoes and we go to the bottom and hide quietly. We will wait at least a month before thinking about another operation. Everybody just rest and stay hidden. We will see much enemy air surveillance. Everett and Trung will monitor all radio stations.”
DePorta clasped and unclasped his hands. “We have now given the Communists just a little preview of what they’re in for. If they want to keep a war going we will give them one right where they live.”
