Page 156 of Cry Havoc

He recognized Phu Bai airport and then the Republic of Vietnam Training Center below, noting the high fence that separated it from FOB 1. As the Huey settled onto the pad, Tom spotted Backhaus in a tiger stripe camo uniform leaning against his command vehicle, a rusted-out 1940s-era Land Rover still sporting the bullet holes and dents of conflicts past. Barely visible were the faded “clasped hands” of USAID sandwiched between stars and stripes on the door. He was smoking a pipe, his GermanShepherd sitting obediently at his side. Another man was with him. A man in civilian clothes with a leather satchel worn crossbody.

Tom instinctively ducked as he moved beyond the rotor wash, an olive drab seabag in his left hand. The three men waited until the slick lifted off for its return flight to Da Nang.

“Sir,” Tom said, acknowledging Backhaus and shaking his hand.

“I believe you know Nick Serrano,” the colonel said, with an ominous edge to his Finnish accent.

“I do,” Tom said, shaking the CIA man’s hand.

“Welcome back, Tom. How are you feeling?” Serrano asked.

“I’m good to go. Ready to get back across the fence with a team.”

That neither man affirmed his statement was concerning.

“Before we talk about your future, Mr. Serrano has some business to discuss,” Colonel Backhaus said. “Toss your bag in the back and climb in. I’ll drop you at the Lounge.”

Tom was joined by Backhaus’s dog in the back of the Rover as the colonel drove them across Highway 1 and through the gate onto the FOB. Stacks of sandbags lined the dirt road as they passed bunkhouses, team houses—one blaring “We Gotta Get Out of this Place” by The Animals—the command bunker, post office, operations shack, intel, supply, comms, mess hall, and officers’ quarters before pulling to a stop in front of the Green Beret Lounge.

“Are you joining us, Colonel?” Tom asked, as he hopped from the vehicle.

“Not today, son. Come see me later.”

“Yes, sir.”

The club was quiet at midday. Part biker bar and part pool hall, the Green Beret Lounge was the unofficial headquarters of FOB 1 SOG Recon Teams. Black leather stools were nestled against a long wood bar with a red leather top. Behind it, two barmaids tended a well-stocked selection of liquor, flanked by two naked pinup girl posters. One of the barmaidswas preoccupied feeding peanuts to a pet gibbon monkey that would let out a banshee-like screech when it wanted another.

Christmas lights were strung overhead, and war trophies covered the walls. A large plaque from the 1st Special Forces Group in Okinawa commemorating the contributions of Detachment A Team 214 hung next to an NVA flag, stained with blood from the last man to carry it. The mesmerizing psychedelic melody of the Crazy World of Arthur Brown’s “Fire” hummed from the jukebox.

A mama-san emerged from a back room and served burgers and fries prepared by a chef who had once worked at the Imperial Hotel in Hanoi to two men playing Liar’s Dice at a table in the corner. When Tilt and Spider saw Tom, they scooped up their drinks and made their way over to welcome him back while Serrano approached the bar.

“Still no Coke?” Tom asked.

“Only Dr Pepper. Nothing’s changed,” Tilt said, holding up a drink he clearly believed was inferior to Coca-Cola. “How are we supposed to win a war when we can’t even get a Coke?”

Spider took a swig of Biere Larue. “Missed you around here, Tom. Are you taking a team?”

“We’ll see. I’m going to talk to the old man about it later today.”

“You’re ready. Too many teams disappearing. It’s a shit show. We need experienced One-Zeros.”

“Thanks, Spider. Drinks on me later tonight.”

“Deal,” Spider said.

The two veteran SOG operators returned to their burgers and dice while Tom made his way to Serrano, who had settled in at the most secluded table available. As Tom walked across the bar, he noticed four SF soldiers he did not recognize. They were drinking and speaking German in a hushed conversation in what he discerned was an East German dialect. Green Berets from Berlin.

Tom joined Serrano and took a seat.

“Is Black Label okay?” Serrano asked.

“Perfect,” Tom said, picking up his can of Carling Black Label beer. “What are we drinking to?”

“That’s tricky,” Serrano said.

“How about, to those no longer with us,” Tom said, holding up his red and black steel can.

“We owe them our today,” Serrano said.