They came from different corners of the world, many meeting face-to-face for the first time. They’d known each other by name, by reputation, through debriefs and whispers carried on desert winds. But when they finally gathered at The Four Green Fields—an Irish pub tucked near U.S. Special Operations Command in Tampa—there was no mistaking it: this was no ordinary reunion.
They were warriors, and they saw it in each other.
No handshake required.
And yet—every single one of them stood and offered one.
Their eyes recognized the ultra-warrior in each other.
This weekend was the 50th anniversary of Soldier of Fortune magazine, but it felt more like a tribal gathering. A reconnection of fighters—Marines, soldiers, a SEAL, a Delta Force legend, a drone designer, a weapons builder, an arms dealer, and a few folks who mumbled something about the Capitol Hill. Most had served in Iraq and Afghanistan. All were retired or semi-retired. None were done.
There was a British SAS female operative—calm, alert, and right at home. Nobody asked who invited her. No one needed to. The warrior grapevine runs deeper than any official guest list.
Two women—one younger, one older—spoke quietly in German at the edge of the room. I never caught their names. No one introduced them. They weren’t there for attention. Just present, sharp, observant. Like many in that room, they had a purpose they didn’t announce.
The drinks were real—Guinness, Smithwick, Kilkenny—and so were the whiskey toasts. To the fallen. To the scarred. To the stories that never made the evening news. And especially to the one person who has kept their voices alive in print: Susan Katz Keating.
Susan—my friend, and the heartbeat of Soldier of Fortune—didn’t just buy the magazine. She rescued its soul. A former Air Force MP, she knew what it meant to walk the wire, to fight bureaucracy with truth, and to keep the warfighter’s voice raw and unfiltered. In an age of safe headlines and sanitized narratives, Susan holds the line. And the warriors notice.
These warriors came to honor the magazine—but to recognize Susan, the person who honors them.
That’s why this crowd came. Not for the fanfare, but for the grit.
This wasn’t my usual Navy-Marine crew. This was further downrange, at the deep end of the pool, where the water is still. The kind of room where you don’t ask for stories—you wait until they offer one. Where silence is sacred and bullshit doesn’t survive five minutes.
Fifty years of Soldier of Fortune. In that dimly lit Irish pub, history didn’t just hang on the walls.
It stood beside you.
Raised a glass of Irish whiskey.
And gave a nod across the room.
