Page 43 of Cry Havoc

“One of the Delta One-Zeros you met last night, Gary Stedman, told me something years ago when we were running ops into the An Lao Valley. We were back at Nha Trang after a particularly nasty firefight that should have killed us both and he said, ‘Training gives you an edge, but luck will wield the sword.’?”

“Just like poker.”

“I guess so.”

Quinn paused, gathering his thoughts.

“You know, the closer you are to the war the less the politics matters,” he said. “It was probably that way for our fathers too. But then came Hiroshima and Nagasaki. We suddenly had the power of gods. American identity is tied to this war, Tom. How we emerge will put us on the path for the future we deserve.”

“You a philosopher now? What does that mean?”

“It means war is our most primitive instinct. Well, a close second behind sex. America is the dying god. She’ll be replaced. It’s only a question of what will replace her? The Soviets? A new America that’s America in name only? I mean look at this place. What do you see?”

Tom scanned the beach, taking in the scene.

“Some soldiers trying to have a good time before they go back to the jungle.”

“But deeper. The hierarchy, the authority of the garrison military in the States is just an illusion. Long hair, ripped uniforms, drinking, smoking pot; that’s what we gravitate toward beyond the eyes of the parade grounds and air-conditioned halls of the Pentagon. War is our ritual.” Quinn paused. “That’s only partly the booze talking.”

“You get wiser when you drink.”

Quinn laughed.

“There is something else,” he said.

“What is it?”

“We are losing too many guys.”

“It’s war.”

“It’s more than that.”

“What do you mean?”

“When I was with Project Delta our teams didn’t just vanish. We were smaller, harder to infiltrate. SOG has gotten too big. Too much command and control. Too many teams disappearing across the fence.”

“You think we’re compromised?”

“I’m certain of it. There is a mole in Saigon, probably in the Special Exploitation Directorate, which is now called STD—Special Technical Directorate—a South Vietnamese SOG contingent. Their command-and-control staff know too much about what we are doing in Laos.”

“STD,” Tom said, shaking his head. “Someone has a sense of humor. Have you voiced your concerns up the chain?”

“More times than I can count. The brass is all about working with our Vietnamese counterparts, no matter what it means for us on the ground.”

Tom waited until the waitress delivered two new cold beers and removed their empty cans before speaking.

“Quinn, I wasn’t entirely honest in the CO’s office.”

“Who gives a fuck?” Quinn said, pulling the pop top from his beer can and tossing it on the table.

“Well, I’d feel better if you knew.”

“Knew what?”

“The real reason my dad was in Vietnam at the end of the war.”

“What’s that?”