Jamie Fredric
Sacrifice of One
For All Those Who Served
“Uncommon Valor Was A Common Virtue.”
Prologue
The Mu Gia Pass is a mountain pass in the Annamite Range between northern Vietnam and Laos, and the principal point of entry into the Ho Chi Minh Trail through Laos. All around the Pass the NVA (North Vietnamese Army) had built up air defenses with AAA (anti-aircraft artillery). Both entrances are now protected by SAM-2s (surface-to-air missiles), making air support for Grant Stevens and his SEAL Team practically nil.
From nearly twenty-eight thousand feet, with their DZ (drop zone) thirty miles away from the intended target, they made their jump from a C-130 Hercules.
This HAHO jump was one of the highest, most difficult, and dangerous for the SEALs. It was a mission for which each man had volunteered. They were attempting the rescue of five American POWs.
The United States government had these men officially listed as MIAs. Recent intel gathered by the CIA indicates they are, in fact, POWs. Their recent transfer from Thai Hoa to the Mu Gia Pass location prompted a plan for their rescue.
Why these five men were never declared as POWs by the North Vietnamese mattered little to the SEALs. Their mission was to bring them home.
Their LZ was a small clearing on a plateau above Mu Gia Pass, about one klick west of the compound identified by the CIA. If all went as planned, and if luck stayed on their side, a Huey gunship would extract them from inside the compound.
Taking a chance by calling in a chopper was a risky move, to be sure, but it was the fastest way for extraction. And not knowing the condition of the POWs, it was imperative to get them out without a dangerous trek back through the jungle. If a chopper couldn’t land, or if disaster struck, only then would the jungle become their last chance for survival.
The temperature was hovering around fifty-five degrees when the SEALs’ boots hit the ground. This evening had been specifically chosen for their mission. The weather, light cloud coverage, and no moon were all the right conditions.
Already dressed in full camouflage with green paint streaking their faces, they gathered up their chutes and rucksacks, then ran to the edge of the jungle, quickly burying the jump gear. They took some time to let their eyes grow more accustomed to the darkness, and allowing their senses to tune into the sounds of the Vietnam jungle.
They each checked their equipment: pencil flares, H.E. (high explosive) hand grenades, extra clips of fifty rounds each for their Uzis, a .45 with silencer and two extra clips, medical kit with atropine, quinine tablets, flashlight, and water.
Grant took a reading from his compass, glanced around, then motioned his men forward. There’d be no stopping until they reached the camp and the POWs. They lowered their NVGs (night vision goggles).
Tall trees formed a thick canopy over the forest. During daytime hours, perhaps only slivers of sunlight could filter through. Heavy vines dipped low to the ground. Some reattached themselves to trees on the opposite side, criss-crossing the forest. Different varieties of palms, ferns, and moss covered the jungle floor. The smells of decaying plant matter and dead animals permeated the air.
Navigating through the dense foliage would be tricky and dangerous, at best, but they had to be exceptionally wary of other hazards, natural to the environment. Snakes. King cobras, kraits, and bamboo vipers, any one of which could cause paralysis or death. There were centipedes and scorpions, harder to see, but still dangerous.
But this was to be the SEALs intended route. They dared not follow any paths, where the chance of walking into booby-traps increased dramatically. Hidden and disguised, the traps were meant to maim or kill in a heartbeat. Even though they’d probably make better time along a beaten down path, they couldn’t take that risk with so much at stake.
Separating from one another, they moved slowly, methodically, as they followed a small stream. This was the same stream that meandered through their LZ. It eventually flowed over a limestone cliff, tumbling down into the Mu Gia Pass.
Somewhere in the distance, south and southeast of their position, there was a muffled sound of gunfire and rumblings from explosions, sounding like distant thunder. Two months earlier, in January, the VC had recaptured all the territory it had lost during the previous dry season. President Thieu declared the Paris Peace Accord was no longer in effect. Another dry season offensive had begun.
Unlike the chaos beginning again in South Vietnam, the SEALs were facing absolute quiet ahead of them. Grant began to worry. He didn’t like the feeling gnawing at his insides. Could the intel be completely inaccurate? Is it possible the POWs are no longer being held at the compound? Or maybe they were never there.
According to the coordinates given to him, Grant determined the compound was less than two hundred yards from their present position. He signaled for his men, and one by one, they gathered around him. They’d stay closer together until the compound came into view.
By now they had expected to hear something, anything, from the compound, even at this late hour. The silence was eerie… but more than anything, it was unsettling.
Continuing forward, their senses went into overdrive. Now, more than ever, they’d have to be aware of booby-traps set around the camp. Whether there were prisoners inside or not, the possibility was still very real.
The hundred fifty yards they just covered seemed to take hours. Finally, Grant held up his fist, bringing everyone to a stop. He motioned them to him. He flipped up the NVGs, then looked through a Starlighter.
In a small clearing ahead, no bigger than a half football field wide and half again as deep, were two huts, one slightly larger than the other. They were constructed from bamboo, with palm fronds covering the roofs. Both were raised off the ground about three feet. There still wasn’t any sign of movement.
Grant brushed a hand across his forehead and eyes, wiping away beads of sweat, part from the humidity and part from a past mission flashing through his mind.
Only a few years earlier he and Chief Kilborn parachuted behind enemy lines into North Vietnam. An exploding booby-trap threw them into a “hell hole” where POWs had been held at one time. It wasn’t until the U.S. airstrike was over, that they were able to scramble out of the pit, then hustle back through the jungle to their extraction site.
Moving the scope, he looked for any sign of an underground prison, usually nothing more than a filthy pit with a bamboo “gate” covering the opening. A bad feeling started coursing through his body. Could this be another trap like the one he and Kilborn had run into?
His men were all shaking their heads. No activity had been seen. Grant had no choice. He signaled, sending two of his men to search the back of the small compound.
Stowing the scope in his rucksack, he flipped down the NVGs. He and the other four men started forward slowly, watching the ground, watching the compound, watching the ground. Finally, they were just outside the perimeter. Still nothing. If they didn’t find any POWs, or any trace they’d even been here, he was going to Langley and personally beat the shit out of the bastard who fed them wrong intel.
Still no sign of guards. This wasn’t good. Grant’s eyes searched along the perimeter, systematically looking for any tripwires. He motioned for his men to separate and start into the compound with him.