Page 92 of Cry Havoc (Tom Reece #1)
Saigon, Vietnam
NICK SERRANO SLIPPED INTO the booth across from Tom Reece with two beers in hand.
They were in Mama Bic’s bar on Tu Do Street, the unofficial Special Forces headquarters of the Vietnam War.
It was just afternoon, but it always felt like midnight in Mama Bic’s, where the lights were low, and the music pulsed.
If you did not look at your watch, you might think it was the witching hour.
Most senior CIA and State people, along with established journalists, avoided Mama Bic’s.
They tended to stick to the more upscale establishments that offered the same distractions, albeit at higher prices.
There was a class hierarchy in Vietnam amongst those who fought the war.
Mama Bic’s was the domain of snake eaters.
This section of the city never slept. Among the restaurants and cafés were bars, nightclubs, whorehouses, massage parlors, and tattoo studios.
Outside on the streets, pickpockets plied their trade as young GIs were distracted by swindlers, pimps, and entrepreneurial locals peddling anything the heart desired.
From sex and drugs to gold and diamonds, it was all available on Tu Do Street.
A soundtrack of competing rock and roll tunes blared from the bars and clubs, the sounds colliding in a battle none could win.
The crowded, smoke-filled Mama Bic’s was packed with GIs in uniform, a few South Vietnamese soldiers, even fewer lower-level embassy staffers venturing out for an adventure, the odd journalist who had not yet broken into the big-time, beautiful waitresses, and, of course, prostitutes.
Mama’s girls floated around the bar, enticing patrons into purchasing Saigon Tea, which really was just tea, regardless of what the exorbitant price tag suggested.
A band on stage from the Philippines played a bad cover version of “The End” by The Doors.
“How did you find me?” Tom asked.
“I’m CIA,” Serrano responded. “And there really are not that many places to check.”
“There are thousands of bars in Saigon.”
“But there is only one Mama Bic’s,” Serrano responded. He raised his beer in the direction of a domineering woman behind the bar.
Mama Bic was a force of nature. Everyone in SF circles either knew her or knew of her.
She ran her establishment with an iron fist, selling beer, liquor, and girls along with black market drugs and cigarettes.
If you needed a Rolex or a gun, she could supply you.
She passed no judgment; whatever you were looking for, she would find.
She also had the best-looking girls in Saigon.
She would even hide you from the MPs if you needed it.
In a war where coming home was not a guarantee, Mama Bic’s could be your last good time before Valhalla.
Working as a bar girl for Mama Bic was different from working in other bars.
She took care of her girls and had her own network of safe houses for them set up across the city.
She had a mind for business and operated in an area as gray as charcoal.
She had an arrangement to incentivize soldiers to bring her supplies from U.S.
bases in exchange for a night with one of her girls.
Mama Bic then sold the items on the black market at a serious markup.
Part of the agreement was that you could not pick the girl, the girl had to pick you.
It was well established that she had bought off the Viet Cong, so you did not need to worry about getting fragged while enjoying a beer in Mama Bic’s.
She was the most well-connected woman in Saigon.
Rumor had it that she was on the CIA payroll.
Mama Bic’s was more than a bar. It was a place to rendezvous with those involved in the darker side of special operations.
In the gloom of the dim lights, you could catch up with SF buddies and exchange news on who had been wounded, who had been killed, and who was missing in action, while also gathering information on various special projects.
It was a recruiting ground. You picked up more intel about special projects in Mama Bic’s than you did on any of the FOBs.
Tom was there searching for his next assignment.
Serrano knew exactly what he was doing and had tracked him down before he made any commitments.
“So, Dvornikov was returned to the Soviets?” Tom asked.
“He was. And the crew of the Pueblo will be released before the end of the year.”
“Well, that’s something. Though I can’t believe that fucker is free, and we still have POWs in Siberia.”
“The leak is plugged, Tom. The FBI arrested an NSA computer-type in Maryland with access to encryption keys.”
“Did he say why he did it?”
“The age-old reason,” Serrano said, nodding at a scantily clad bar girl swaying to the music on the dance floor.
“He should have just stopped by this place,” Tom said.
“Because of what you did, SOG Recon Teams stand a much higher chance of survival.”
“Well, it was never very good to begin with.”
“It’s a tough war, Tom.”
“And Eldridge?”
“You heard?”
“Yeah. Drowning. That was too good for that asshole,” Tom said, thinking of Amiuh’s dead body behind the wheel of the cargo truck.
“One might call it justice.”
“One might.”
“Listen, Tom. I know why you are here.”
“Yeah?”
“You are looking for another job. Don’t you feel like you have done enough in ’Nam?”
“Quinn gave everything for this country. So did Amiuh. I’ve lost too many good friends here.”
“And what? You want to be next? You want to join them? What is it with you?”
“I don’t know,” Tom said, looking into his beer as the cover band switched to an even worse rendition of “Break on Through.” “Maybe I’m trying to prove something.”
“To yourself?”
“Maybe. I don’t know. But I know what I’m good at.”
“That’s what I wanted to discuss with you.”
Tom took a swig of his beer.
“There’s another side of the Agency,” Serrano said.
“Oh, I’m now familiar,” Tom said.
“There’s more to it. God knows, we’ve made mistakes in Vietnam, an unacceptable number.
At the strategic level, we lost all credibility with Tet.
That was the beginning of the end. The American people don’t trust us.
They haven’t since Kennedy was killed. With Tet, we were all reminded that empires fall. ”
“If you are trying to cheer me up or talk me into something, you are doing a piss-poor job.”
“Someday this war is going to be remembered for the politicians in suits and in uniforms, for think tanks in the Beltway, for the lobbyists and businessmen who didn’t lose a single son in Vietnam. It will be remembered for the industry of war.”
“You should teach at Berkeley.”
“Eisenhower called it the ‘military-industrial complex,’ and I fear they have done irreparable harm not just to the United States, but to Southeast Asia as well.”
“With an optimistic outlook like that, why do you do it?”
“I can’t sing or dance.”
Tom couldn’t help but smile.
“What about Brémaud?” he asked.
“He’s too well connected, and we don’t yet know if he’s burned. He could be useful.”
“So, he lives?”
“That’s the intel world, Tom. You are going to have to get used to it.”
Tom shook his head.
“Not me. I’m going back to SOG.”
“You’re a SEAL. SOG was a temporary assignment.
What are you going to do—deploy back to the Mekong Delta or Rung Sat Special Zone and keep killing people?
You’ve done that. This war is lost. If you look back, we probably lost it before it began, but if there was any question—look at Tet. They lost, yet they won.”
“I think Ho Chi Minh had something to say about that.”
“He was right.”
“So, what are you doing here if you don’t believe in it? And don’t give me the ‘sing and dance’ routine.”
“The truth?” Serrano asked.
“That would be nice.”
“The truth is that it’s a higher calling.”
“You are telling me the CIA is like some sort of monastic order?”
“It’s not dissimilar. In fact, I’m starting up something new, a program for which I think you’d be perfect. We call it Phoenix.”
“Phoenix?”
“It’s designed to identify and eliminate the NVA and VC infrastructure in the South.”
“Eliminate?”
“You want to make a difference in this war, this is how you do it. But before you decide, I have another mission for you, one that utilizes your language skills, and one that I think will offer you some measure of justice.”
“Where?”
“Berlin.”
“I don’t have training for that. I haven’t even been to the Farm.”
“Don’t worry. This isn’t that kind of job.”