by Tom Wallace
DEDICATION:
For Julie Watson: No brother could have a better sister.
Published 2010 by Medallion Press, Inc.
The MEDALLION PRESS LOGO
is a registered trademark of Medallion Press, Inc.
If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment from this “stripped book.”
Copyright © 2010 by Tom Wallace
Cover design by James Tampa
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission of the publisher, except where permitted by law.
Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictionally. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Typeset in Adobe Garamond Pro
Printed in the United States of America
ISBN: 978-160542102-5
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
First Edition
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS:
The author wishes to thank Kerry Estevez, an early and ferocious champion of the book. Also, two superb and enlightening books by Joseph J. Trento—The Secret History of the CIA and Prelude to Terror: The Rogue CIA and the Legacy of America’s Private Intelligence Network—provided valuable insight into the darker involvement of the CIA during the Vietnam War. Thanks to Brooks Downing for guiding me through Florida. And a big thanks to the usual suspects, Amy Reynolds, Sarah Small, Wanda Underwood, Ed Watson, and Denny Slinker. And, always, Marilyn Underwood, my companion and confidante. Thanks to my editors, Emily Steele and Helen Rosburg, for smoothing out the wrinkles and pushing me to go the extra mile.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Nguyen Van Luc stood on the riverbank, shifting nervously from one foot to the other, watching intently as the small boat silently cut through the murky water. In the darkness, with the dense jungle at his back and a cold moon overhead, Nguyen, a notorious Vietnamese operative and black marketer, had but two things on his mind: pass along the message, and get away as quickly as possible.
He didn’t care for these men. Didn’t trust them. Most of all, though, he feared them.
Especially the leader, the one called Cain.
All Vietnamese, North or South, friend or foe, feared him.
Cain.
The fuckin’ man was a legend on both sides of the DMZ. A stone-cold assassin known for killing with his bare hands. A “Cain kill” was rumored to be so quick, so perfectly executed that the victim seldom experienced pain. It was also said that Cain never killed a man he couldn’t look squarely in the eyes.
Skeptics questioned whether this was the truth, or merely another fabrication of the U.S. mythmaking apparatus.
Not Nguyen. He knew it was true. He’d seen the man in action, killing with precision and cold indifference. Cain’s reputation was not built on falsehoods; it was built on body count.
Nguyen wanted nothing to do with a man like that.
With the boat only a few yards from shore, Nguyen lit a cigarette, took two deep drags, and then tossed it into the water. Rubbing his hands together, he squinted into the darkness, silently counting the men in the boat. Five. Oh, shit. Fear stabbed at his heart. That many here this time. Even that crazy goddamned Indian, the one called Seneca. This must be big.
He plucked another cigarette from the pack and tried to light it. He couldn’t. His shaking hands wouldn’t cooperate. Frustrated, he threw the cigarette into the water and watched it float away. As the boat finally slid into the bank and the men came into focus, Nguyen’s fear overwhelmed him. He felt the warm piss stream down his legs.
Nguyen forced a smile, stepped back, and watched as the men silently climbed out of the boat. They were dressed in dark pajamas, and their faces were painted black. Each one carried an M16, a machete—and a knife.
Together, Nguyen thought, they looked like five faces of death.
When all five men were on the bank, Nguyen quickly pulled the boat behind a mango tree and covered it with bamboo and grass. His task completed, he took a deep breath, tried to steady his nerves, and then turned to face the five assassins.
The one called Snake, wiry and wild-eyed, put a hand on Nguyen’s shoulder. Nguyen spun around, terrified, heart beating rapid-fire.
“Lucky, my man,” Snake said. “Good to see you. We had our doubts about the fidelity of your commitment to our side.”
“Not to worry. Lucky always on side of money.”
Snake snickered. “A true patriot, huh, Lucky?”
“Patriot, yes. Lucky a patriot for sure.”
Cain moved forward. “Did Houdini give you the map?”
“No need map.” He shook his head. “Lucky born near here. Village less than three kilometers away.”
“There’s supposed to be a map,” Cain said.
“Map in Lucky’s head.”
“Forget this shit, Cain,” Seneca said, stepping forward. “This ain’t playin’ out like we planned.”
“Yeah, Seneca’s right, man,” Deke said. “If this sorry slopehead is lyin’, we’re screwed. I may be just a dumb nigger from Chicago, but I ain’t stupid. No way we should go in blind.”
Holding up both hands, Lucky said, “I no lie. Village three kilometers west. Meeting in school building. Wife’s cousin work there. I know this area good.”
Nguyen looked into the faces of all five men, his eyes finally coming to rest on the one man who had remained silent, the only one who exhibited any degree of understanding or sympathy—the one called Cardinal. Nguyen’s scared eyes pleaded for a friend.
“What do you think, Cain?” Cardinal said, sensing Nguyen’s silent plea. “You trust him?”
“Trust him? No. Believe him? Yes. He has no reason to lie. He hates the North Vietnamese more than we do.”
“Yeah, and he hates us even more,” Seneca said. “I say, no way we go in. Houdini scrounged us a map. We use it, or we pull the plug.”
“We’re too close to pull out,” Cain said.
“Maybe we
should have brought Rafe and Moon,” Deke said. “Maybe we’re travelin’ light.”
“We don’t need them,” Cain responded. “We’re going in.”
“No fuckin’ way,” Seneca said.
Gray eyes narrowing, Cain moved two steps toward Seneca.
“With the gooks, you’ve got a chance,” he said, looking hard at Seneca. “With me, you don’t. Your call.”
The two men glared at each other for almost a minute. Seneca’s right hand touched his knife, his fingers dancing up and down the handle. The other four men watched, barely breathing, paralyzed, as though they stood in a minefield.
After several more seconds of thick silence, Seneca grinned slightly and then backed away. “Have it your way, Cain. You have the most stripes. And as we all know, stripes rule.”
“Don’t challenge me, Seneca. Ever.”
The Indian sneered, “Yes, sir, Captain.”
Cain grabbed Lucky by the arm and pulled him close.
“If one of my men dies—one—I’ll hunt you down like a dog. And when I find you—and I will find you—I’ll cut your gook heart out and feed it to your children. Then I’ll kill them. Understand?”
Trembling, Lucky nodded and backed away. “General White speak to me this morning. Say give message to you.”
“Lucas? What message?”
Lucky dug into his shirt pocket, took out a piece of wadded paper, unfolded it, and handed it to Cain.
Cain read it silently, then out loud. “Tuez le messager.”
He carefully folded the note, looked at Seneca, and gave a slight nod. Seneca pulled Lucky forward, flashed a quicksilver smile, and then plunged his knife into Lucky’s chest. Eyes wide and registering total and absolute terror, Lucky staggered toward the water, dropped to his knees, looked around quizzically, and then collapsed into a spreading pool of his own blood.
“Dumb little slant-eyed bastard wasn’t so lucky after all,” Seneca said, wiping blood from his knife.
“Wonder what’s in his head now,” Snake said, laughing. “Wonder if that map will guide him into gook heaven.”
“You believe gooks got their own heaven?” Deke asked.
“Nah, not really, ‘cause they ain’t got a soul.”
“All God’s children got a soul, Snake,” Deke said. “Even the gooks.”
“Yeah, and all rats have fleas,” Snake answered.
Deke bent down and began rummaging through Lucky’s pockets. He stood up, holding a wad of U.S. money. Most of the bills were hundreds.
“Goddamn. Look at this,” Deke said. “Must be ten grand here. Where’d a little dink monkey like him come up with this kind of scratch?”
“War’s a profitable enterprise,” Snake said. “Everybody knows that.”
“Yeah, profitable for everybody but the killers,” Cardinal answered.
“Here. Take some,” Deke said, offering a handful of bills to Snake.
“Money’s not what I want,” Snake said, moving toward the river’s edge. “What I want is to waste every dink in this fuckin’ shit-hole country. Every fuckin’ dink, regardless of what side he’s on. They’re all useless, chickenshit, untrustworthy slopeheads. I wouldn’t give you a drop of spit for any of them.”
Snake yanked Lucky’s body into a sitting position and, with a single swing of his machete, separated head from torso. He held up Lucky’s head, kissed his cheek, and then tossed the head into the river.
“Rest in pieces, Charles.”
The head hit the water and rolled over, eyes open and looking toward the night sky.
Deke said, “You is one cold motherfucker, Snake. One hard-hearted white dude.”
“Don’t pay to have a heart in this place,” Snake said.
“Pocket the money, Deke,” Cain ordered. “We need to move. It’s blood time.”
“My favorite time,” Deke said, stuffing the cash into his pocket.
Snake rolled Lucky’s body into the water. “One down. A million to go.”
Their destination: an old school building in the North Vietnamese village of Hoa Binh.
Their mission: kill nine high-level ARVN generals and two Russian advisers.
Operation Nightcrawlers.
The final test; a preview of coming attractions.
Arnie Moss cursed out loud. The phone was going to ring. Don’t ask him how he knew; he just did. And he was seldom wrong. Knowing when the blasted phone would ring was a special knack he’d had since he was a kid. His mom always told him his intuition was a blessing from God. He wasn’t so sure. A true gift, he felt, should extend beyond knowing when the phone would ring. If he only had the same ability with picking ponies at the racetrack or the Lotto numbers, he wouldn’t be stuck in this crappy job. He’d be on the inside looking out.
He especially didn’t want a phone call now. Not while he was watching a recording of Jack Nicklaus winning the 1986 Masters championship. Moss considered Jack the most incredible friggin’ golfer to ever stride down a fairway—Bobby Jones, Ben Hogan, Sam Snead, or Arnie notwithstanding. What the Golden Bear accomplished during his career swamped by a mile anything any of his predecessors had ever done. Or ever dreamed of doing. Sure, those other guys were great, but there is great and there is great. And Jack was the greatest of them all, even at age forty-six, when he won the Masters for the sixth time. The Golden Bear had the goods, which was all that counted. Jack Nicklaus was Michael friggin’ Jordan in golf shoes. The best of the best.
Ever.
But at this particular moment, Jack was in deep trouble. His second shot lay hidden behind a tree, his view of the green obstructed. Moss took some comfort in Jack’s predicament, in knowing the greatest golfer of all time could produce a hacker’s result. Right now Moss knew exactly how Jack felt.
Jack’s third shot, which he somehow managed to curve around the tree, landed on the edge of the green and rolled to within four feet of the cup. Quickly, Moss’s connection to the Golden Bear was broken. Watching, he could only shake his head in amazement, awe, and wonder. Jesus, how can one human body possess such extraordinary ability? Incredible. Simply incredible.
Ten seconds later, the phone rang.
Well, at least the caller had the decency to wait until after the Golden Bear‘s latest bit of magic.
“Pinewood Estates. Moss speaking.” He pulled the phone away from his ear and eyed the TV screen again. “What can I do for you?” he asked, hoping the answer would be short and sweet. He didn’t want to miss Jack’s hard-earned birdie putt.
What Moss heard wasn’t an answer. Indeed, what rattled his eardrum and caused him to flinch barely qualified as a man’s voice. It was shrill, high-pitched, and extremely loud. Obviously panicked, the caller threw out words in bunches, making absolutely no sense. In the background was hysterical screaming. Probably a woman’s, Moss guessed, although he wouldn’t swear to it. It could just as easily have been coming from a mortally wounded animal.
“Bungalow nine, hurry, the man’s been shot, looks like he’s dead, hurry, God, please hurry!”
Moss put the phone directly against his ear. “Slow down a little, willya? I can’t make out a word of what you’re saying.”
“He’s dead, been shot in the head, hurry!”
“Who’s dead?” A feeling of dread began to work its way up Moss’s spine. Jack’s golfing adventures had faded into the distance.
“Bungalow nine, please hurry!”
Moss could barely hear the man’s words above the woman’s screaming. “You said nine?”
“Yes. Oh, God, hurry!”
Moss processed the information. “Nine. That’s Taylor. And you say he’s dead?”
“Dead … yes.”
“Have you called 911?”
“No.”
“Well … hell … I guess I’d better do it.”
“Please, just hurry.”
“I’m on my way. Don’t touch or disturb anything. Hear me?”
“No, we won’t. Please hurry.”
Moss
placed the phone back on the receiver. Considering what he’d just been told, he was surprisingly calm—no fear, no panic at all. Fear, for him, was little more than an imposter once the unknown was revealed. Death he could handle. Death he had seen. Death he understood. But the unknown—that’s a different ball game. It was spooky and unsettling.
He dialed the police, gave them the details of what he’d been told, hung up, gave a nod as Jack sank his putt, then jumped into his battered red Pontiac.
Two minutes later, he walked into bungalow nine.
Three people were waiting in the living room. Two men stood on either end of the couch on which a woman sat and sobbed into a Kleenex. Moss noticed the woman’s raven black hair, the apparent result of a recent dye job. With her head down and eyes covered by tinted glasses, she looked to Moss like Roy Orbison. Not exactly a compliment, Moss knew, but … the truth is the truth. When she looked up, Moss found himself staring into the face of a woman who had seen her share of summers and was making one last attempt at outrunning the clock. It was a race, Moss decided, that she had lost long ago.
The two men stood still as statues, flanking her like a pair of gargoyles. They were similarly dressed, wearing khaki shorts, loose-fitting flowery shirts, sandals, black socks that stretched to their knees, and grim looks. Not natives of the South, Moss concluded—not with those threads and that chalky, pale skin. These were big city folks all the way. Quintessential snowbirds, retired, vacationing in the sun, living the easy life.
“He’s in the upstairs bathroom,” the man nearest Moss said, his voice quivering and barely audible. He started to say something else but hesitated, instead putting a hand on the woman’s shoulder.
She burst into louder sobs, sending a fresh stream of black mascara tears racing down her cheeks.
Moss hurried up the stairs and went straight to the bedroom. It was no trouble finding it; all of these bungalows had practically the same design. Connected to the master bedroom, the bathroom was to the left as he entered. He looked around the room. The bed was still made, the curtain closed. He noticed a dark spot he guessed to be a bloodstain on the comforter. The television was on, its volume turned all the way down. Moss glanced indifferently at the TV screen. Golden Bear Jack had pulled off another miraculous shot. This time, however, Moss wasn’t interested in Jack’s magic act.