Page 42 of Cry Havoc
“You might have been the first person to insert into Laos with fins; case of beer,” Quinn said, reminding the SEAL that any first meant that operator was on the hook to supply a case of beer for the team.
“Water was freezing, though,” Tom continued. “I didn’t expect it to be so damn cold. The barrel was also a bit heavier than I thought. I had to swim it to shore in the dark, replace the cap with one the Agency designed that was attached to an explosive device, and then swim the drum back out to put it in with the others without being seen.”
“Can’t believe you pulled that one off.”
“I honestly think the Agency was surprised as well. We detonated it when it arrived at their collection point, which was about three klicks south. Blew the fuel depot sky high. Came out on strings under Kingbees. All told, that op was seven days.”
“That’s a long one.”
“It felt like it. The mission being successful, they decided to keep me around for future maritime missions. Assigned me to you.”
“Glad they did. Cheers.”
Quinn looked out across the South China Sea.
“You know, you keep going northeast from here and you hit China,” he said.
“I know,” Tom responded.
Quinn shook his head.
“We aren’t just fighting the NVA here. We’re fighting China, the Soviet Union, Eastern Bloc countries, even Cuba. It’s like we are here so they can all take their shot.”
Tom listened as Quinn continued.
“This war, it’s not like our fathers’. It’s different. NVA wears uniforms,but the VC don’t. Pathet Lao don’t. In World War Two, those guys were there until they were wounded, died, or won. We are rotated through by the year, making no real progress.”
“McNamara is tracking the body count,” Tom offered.
“The body count is bullshit, and if it did mean anything, the enemy has a much higher tolerance for death. You know what they call the war in the North?”
“They call it the American War.”
“That’s right. But in Vietnamese the full translation is the War Against the Americans to Save the Nation. What does that tell you, Tom?”
The SEAL shook his head.
“It should tell us all that we are going to lose this one,” Quinn continued. “Like the colonists fighting the British in our revolution, the greatest military in the world at that point in history. And we won. Why? We were fightingforsomething, notagainstsomething. And we were on our home turf, fighting for our families, our land, our way of life.”
“If it’s a losing war, then why do you do it?” Tom asked.
“Same as we all do, I guess. The nation asked. We answered. Though I’m getting a little old for it.”
“You’re twenty-eight.”
“That’s ancient in SOG years. I’m old enough to remember when SOG stood for Special Operations Group. They changed it to Studies and Observations Group pretty quick. More bland. I haven’t been here since the beginning, the Colby years, but I was here for Shining Brass, White Star, Project Omega at Kontum, Hatchet Force, Snakebite, Project Delta. Doubt America will ever hear of SOG or Delta, which is fine by me.”
Tom studied his friend, wondering what he was getting at.
Quinn took another sip of beer.
“Life expectancy in SOG isn’t great. Life is a matter of inches in ’Nam.”
“Sometimes less,” Tom said, draining his beer and signaling the waitress for two more.
“You are either going to make it out or you’re not. Simple. Life is simple over here. Maybe that’s why we do it.”
“Maybe,” Tom said.
