The Special Forces Sergeant pulled the small rectangular Claymore mine from its pouch. Though he couldn’t see the Soviet-built truck, he smelled its fumes. The distinctive low rasp of its diesel engine spewed a heavy, acrid odor that hung under the dense jungle canopy for hundreds of yards.
Unwinding the detonation wire, he sensed the vehicle coming closer, absent of any light in this the darkest of nights. He rested on his boots ready to spring, the mine in one hand and its detonator in the other. A warm rush of air and dust washed over him as the vehicle passed, and he leapt to the road running alongside it.
With just enough taut in the wire, he began to twirl the Claymore over his head like a lasso. He slowed a bit letting the truck get ahead. Timing it perfectly, midway through a twirl he released the Claymore, its wire unfurling as it clanked onto the rear deck between the legs of unsuspecting North Vietnamese Army soldiers.
Vanishing back into the bush, he waited a couple more seconds as more trucks passed, then clicked the detonator. Sparks and flame roared skyward as the truck disintegrated, raining molten metal and smoldering body parts down upon the hoods and roofs of the stunned column swerving to avoid smashing into the sizzling hulk.