Heirs of Cain

by Tom Wallace

  “Goddamn, what a mess,” one of Collins’s men said.

  “Served the little gook motherfucker right,” said another.

  Collins looked down at what seconds before had been a human face, but was now a grotesque mixture of dark red blood, flesh, brain matter, and bone fragments. He pushed his foot against what remained of the dead man’s head. It rolled to the side like the broken head on a child’s doll. Several teeth worked their way through a glob of thickening blood and dropped to the ground.

  It was his first confirmed kill, although he suspected there had been others. In combat you didn’t always know for certain. Combat is chaotic, given to sudden bursts of high energy and uncontrolled madness. Bullets fly, bodies fall. Which bullet kills what enemy is not always clear. Accurate scorecards are impossible to keep. More often than not, the killer is as random as the victim. Seldom is the equation clean and simple. But with this kill there could be no question, no doubt. He had squeezed the trigger, seen the bullet do its damage, and watched the target fall.

  Collins felt total exhilaration. He also felt a strange calm inside, a sense of detachment, like he was standing outside the scene looking in. There was no voice inside his head pleading for compassion, for empathy. Those were signs of weakness, and in this moment, in the searing heat and dust of some shitty gook village, he understood with clear certainty that weakness did not reside within him.

  He possessed the stone-cold heart of a killer.

  “First kill, sir?”

  The voice coming from behind him sounded as if it were coming from another planet.

  “First kill, sir?” the voice repeated.

  Collins didn’t answer; there was no need. Numbers didn’t matter. Something inside him had been set free, some force that had no need for numbers. At that moment he knew what he was going to do, what he was condemned to do: create new and terrible numbers.

  The mathematics of death.

  Cain had been born at that moment, although neither Collins nor Lucas would know it for many months. That first tour of duty in Nam only fertilized the egg; birth wouldn’t occur until well into his second tour. It was then that his unparalleled ability to kill manifested itself in ways no one could have anticipated; it was during his second tour that Cain grew to manhood. Somewhere in those Vietnam jungles, Captain Michael James Collins shed his own persona like a snake shedding its skin.

  Cain was born.

  And quickly became a legend, a myth, more feared than any predator in those jungles. U.S. soldiers spoke of him with hushed reverence, invoking his name as if he were a deity. To them, he was godlike. A man above all rules, immune to the stings of conscience, a killer without remorse. Stories of his kills wove their way from the DMZ to the Delta. Much of his legend was fueled by the “midnight missions,” those solitary excursions into the jungle darkness, where, using only his bare hands, he sometimes killed a dozen or more of the enemy before returning to base camp at sunrise.

  Among the Viet Cong, Cain’s legend took on a powerful, even sinister force. They saw him as a demon spirit, indestructible, immune to death. He was the shadow that awaited them in the night. He was their nightmare come to life.

  Lucas was the first to recognize the change, later noting that he saw it more in Collins’s eyes rather than his actions. At certain moments, Lucas said, those blue eyes turned gray, revealing something dark, hidden, empty. They were, Lucas sensed, the eyes of a jungle predator: cold and keen, brutal, cunning, and savage.

  In late 1967 Lucas needed those predator eyes, those killing skills. He had been ordered back to Washington, where he was put into place to oversee a new operation, one that would eventually replace the infamous Phoenix Project. This new project would be highly covert and even more secretive than its predecessor.

  The Phoenix Project, also known as Operation Phoenix, was born deep within the belly of the CIA in the mid-1960s. It was designed to identify and “neutralize”—capture, induce to surrender, kill, or otherwise disrupt—anyone supporting the Viet Cong or pro-Communist sympathizers. The operation was introduced as the Intelligence Coordination and Exploitation program (ICEX). Among those running the program was legendary CIA spook Ted Shackley, the CIA Saigon station chief, and Shackley’s long-time friend, General Lucas White.

  From its inception, Operation Phoenix was nothing less than an assassination program. Its mission was to cripple the Viet Cong by killing influential local village and hamlet leaders, such as mayors, teachers, and doctors. Guerrillas from the North, or any leader suspected of aiding the South’s parallel government, were also deemed legitimate targets for assassination.

  Operation Phoenix was a natural successor to an earlier CIA black op—Project Pale Horse. Named for a passage from the Book of Revelation, Project Pale Horse ran for six years, operating primarily in the northeastern provinces of Laos, where it proved to be so effective against Soviet KGB and Red Chinese military advisors that a $50,000 bounty was placed on the head of the Pale Horse commander.

  Pale Horse eventually ran its course, giving way to Operation Phoenix, which proved to be both efficient and highly controversial. Before Operation Phoenix was turned over to the South Vietnamese and spiraled out of control, the estimated death toll exceeded 40,000.

  Operation Phoenix was, in the eye of one critic, “the most indiscriminate and massive program of political murder since the Nazi death camps in World War Two.”

  “Maybe so,” Lucas commented to Shackley and Westmoreland upon reading that assessment. “But no one can say we weren’t effective.”

  With Phoenix flaming out, the need for a new operation became a high priority matter for the generals running the war. Big wars always contain smaller, secret wars, and Vietnam was no different. Thus, the plan for a new assassination operation went into effect. It was to be known as Project Armageddon. Lucas, because of his close association with both Pale Horse and Phoenix, was the natural choice to head the operation.

  Lucas wholeheartedly believed in the project and was only too willing to oversee it. In Collins, he had the perfect instructor. Who better to teach the art of killing than a man with a doctorate in death?

  “You don’t need me, Lucas,” Collins had argued at the time. “I’m needed here, in-country. This is where I can do the most good.”

  “You’ll return, my boy. I promise.” Lucas countered. “And when you do, you won’t be alone. You’ll bring your heirs with you.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Come with me, my boy. Let us make full use of your special talent.”

  Collins went with Lucas, reluctantly leaving Vietnam for the first time in two years. The real world held no interest for him anymore; his home was the jungle. That’s where he wanted to be—needed to be. That’s where Cain had come of age. Where he had carved out his legend.

  He declined a lengthy leave, arguing in favor of immediate reassignment. Lucas was more than happy to oblige. The school, or “Shop,” as it was called, officially began operations in February 1968.

  Lucas and Collins spent many weeks carefully screening potential candidates. More than one hundred were given initial consideration. Of that number, after further screening, fewer than half were called in for an interview. None were told the true purpose of the interview, or the nature of the project. That would happen only after acceptance.

  That first class, which convened in the snows at Aberdeen Proving Grounds in Maryland, consisted of thirteen men, ranging in rank from captain to private first class. All had served at least one hitch in Vietnam. Nine were Army, three Marines, one Navy. There were six Caucasians, four blacks, two Puerto Ricans, and one Native American Indian.

  Of that original group, only six survived the cut.

  Collins could remember every face, every code name. He had taught them, christened them, unleashed them. Now, four decades later, he could see them clearly, as if they were standing in front of him. Cardinal, Snake, Deke, Rafe and Moon.

  The heirs of Cain.

  Bu
t it was the Indian, standing slightly apart—always—from the others, arms folded, black eyes burning, that he saw most clearly. Dwight David Rainwater.

  Seneca.

  From the beginning, Seneca had been a different animal in every way. He never sought comradeship, never forged alliances, never relied on a fellow soldier. He was a lone wolf trapped in a pack. There were other differences, as well. He had instincts the others could never acquire. Natural instincts. While they were learning various killing techniques, he was honing skills that somehow seemed innate. Skills that accompanied him from the womb. But the biggest difference was his thirst for blood. While the others wondered, In the end, will I be able to do this? Seneca never doubted himself or his ability to kill. He knew.

  Collins saw a madness in Seneca that went beyond what was needed. Assassins kill, but they don’t have to be crazy. Collins argued strongly for Seneca’s dismissal from the Shop, but Lucas adamantly refused the request. After all, Lucas reasoned, Seneca was precisely what was needed: the perfect killing machine. No guilt, no hesitation, no conscience. What more could you want in an assassin?

  Seneca would stay.

  “Okay, Lucas, have it your way,” Collins said. “But someday you’ll regret it.”

  “That’s a risk I’m willing to take,” Lucas responded.

  “It’s not a risk, Lucas. It’s a certainty.”

  Now, after all these years, that day had arrived.

  As the afternoon shadows began to sweep through the room, Collins stood in front of the mirror and studied his naked body. It had held up well. The muscle tone, the definition, the strength—he looked good. Better than most men half his age. Except for the two scars—one on his left shoulder, one on his right side—he looked no worse for wear than he had twenty-five years ago.

  He still had the predator’s body.

  The predator’s mentality.

  He stared at his face in the mirror, beyond his own cold blue-gray eyes, into the deepest recesses of his own being. Into the darkness of his heart.

  He smiled.

  Blood time was about to begin.

  His time.

  Vietnam, November 1967

  The jungle heat attached itself to the skin like a blanket of fire. Mosquitoes and other insects swarmed with impunity. Silence screamed.

  Cain leaned against a large tree, waiting until the sun moved beyond the jungle canopy, waiting until darkness fell.

  Waiting for blood time to begin.

  His time.

  This was the first of what would become legendary midnight missions. On this night, the ultimate assassin made his debut. The night predator was unleashed. In the deep jungle darkness was the genesis of Cain’s legend.

  He knew, even at this moment, that he was entering into a different realm. That from this night onward, his life would be changed forever. That once he began the killing, there was no turning back.

  Cain would be more assassin than soldier. A ghost. A shadow among shadows.

  Lucas had approached him with the idea, arguing that certain types of “nocturnal killings” were more valuable and would carry more weight. They would, he contended, make a “more emphatic” statement, play on the “enemy’s psyche” like a nightmare come true.

  “I will find you targets,” Lucas said. “Get you locations. You, with those marvelous skills of yours, will do the rest.”

  “Your confidence is reassuring, Lucas.”

  “My boy, the level of confidence I have in you does not come close to matching your talent,” Lucas answered. “As I have said on many occasions, what you have is a very unique gift indeed.”

  “Has this been cleared?”

  Lucas chuckled. “My boy, this is Vietnam. Nothing needs to be cleared. If we want to do it, we simply proceed.”

  Cain’s first two targets were a North Vietnamese captain and the mayor of Da Lat, a small village west of Cam Ranh. The mayor, a distant cousin of Vietnam’s flamboyant vice president Nguyen Cao Key, was a CIA asset who had been supplying the North with valuable U.S. military intelligence plans for almost a year. The two men had a 3:00 a.m. meeting scheduled in the back room of a small bar right off the main street.

  Cain left Cam Ranh Bay by chopper and was dropped off in a clearing three kilometers from Da Lat. He worked his way through the jungle, eventually reaching the edge of the village an hour before sunset. There, back against the big tree, he waited until darkness fell. Until he was merely one more shadow in the night.

  His two targets weren’t alone. A third man, armed with a machine gun, stood watch outside the back entrance. Cain was not surprised at seeing an extra body at the site; his faith in the accuracy of Army intel had long ago given way to doubt and skepticism. That led to Cain’s first Golden Rule: never put your fate in the hands of others.

  The sentry leaned his weapon against the building, took out a pack of cigarettes, extracted one, and put it in his mouth. As he reached into his shirt pocket to take out a box of matches, Cain closed in quickly from behind. He delivered a sharp blow to the man’s throat, then a second blow to the neck. The man grunted, stumbled, and dropped to one knee. He was dead by the time his second knee touched the ground, his neck broken by a savage snap of the head.

  Cain rolled the man’s body behind a large barrel, laid the machine gun in a flower bed, then slowly opened a screen door. As he moved down the narrow hallway, he could hear the sound of laughter coming from a small room to his left. He eased forward until he could see the two men. They were sitting at a table, each with a large paper cup in hand. An almost-empty bottle of Jim Beam rested on the table between them.

  Perhaps it was the shock of seeing a black-face intruder coming at them like a crazed panther, or maybe it was the alcohol fog that denied movement, but neither man rose from his chair when Cain entered the room. The man dressed in military clothing fumbled his cup while reaching for his pistol. Cain went for him first, hitting him across the bridge of his nose with a judo chop. Blood spurted from the damaged nose, spraying the table and the Jim Beam. Cain moved behind the captain and snapped his head violently to the right, instantly ending his life.

  The mayor sat frozen, immobilized by fear, eyes wide. He seemed incapable of moving, even as Cain reached out and grabbed him by the throat. His mouth moved, but no sounds came out.

  Cain’s large right hand increased the pressure on the mayor’s throat, cutting off his air passage. Next, Cain pinched the mayor’s nostrils, eliminated the breathing process entirely. The panicked mayor began to violently thrash his lower body, kicking the table and knocking over the bottle of Jim Beam.

  Cain looked the mayor squarely in the eyes and smiled. As the man continued his futile struggle to free himself, Cain tightened his grip. After several seconds, he removed his fingers from the mayor’s nose.

  “I have one question for you,” Cain whispered. “Answer it and I’ll let you live. Answer by nodding or shaking your head. Got it?”

  The mayor, gasping for air, his eyes wide and filled with tears, quickly nodded.

  “Someone has been giving you top secret intelligence. Is that someone CIA?”

  The mayor shook his head.

  “Army?”

  A quick nod.

  “Out of Saigon?”

  Another nod.

  “Dooley?”

  Shake.

  “Maddox?”

  A nod.

  “You’re an honest man for a politician. I like that,” Cain said as he snapped the man’s neck. “But I’m not.”

  Two days later, Cain met with Lucas and Westmoreland in Saigon. Neither man was surprised when Cain told them what he had learned.

  “We have suspected it for some time now,” General Westmoreland said. “This simply confirms those suspicions.”

  “Colonel Maddox has always valued money over duty,” Lucas added. “He’s not the first, and he won’t be the last.”

  “This war is unlike any we’ve engaged in before,” Westmoreland said. “It’s certainly fa
r different from the ones I have fought in—World War Two and Korea. The enemy here is strange and complex, but that’s only part of it. I have been here four years now, yet I have no concrete answer. And certainly no concrete solution.”

  “The opportunity for corruption is the biggest difference I see,” Lucas said. “Hell, there are more two-legged snakes walking around in this country than there are snakes crawling on the ground. On both sides. I doubt God could tell the saints from the sinners in this country. Colonel Maddox is one bandit among many, and a small one at that.”

  Westmoreland sighed. “I’m afraid you’re right, Lucas. This war, this country—it’s a breeding ground for criminal behavior.”

  After Westmoreland departed, Lucas filled a glass with Chivas Regal and took a long drink. He moved to the window, stood there silently for several seconds, then turned back toward Cain.

  “I know what you are thinking, and the answer to your question is no,” he said. “Maddox will be handled properly, in a military manner. I say that with some reluctance because my instinct is to let you have him. He’s committed treason, been a traitor, and for that he should pay the ultimate price. But … in this instance, that would not be the prudent action to take.”

  Lucas set his glass down and moved next to Cain. “Are you okay with your new role? Are you at peace with it?”

  “I’m a soldier, Lucas. Killing goes with the territory.”

  “Yes … but—”

  “Relax, Lucas. It’s blood time, and blood time is my time.”

  Collins needed but two stops before finding a link to Deke’s whereabouts—a place called The Blues Cave on Chicago’s Southside. The owner, a rotund white man with large saucer eyes and a hideous hairpiece, was the chatty type, only too willing to provide information.

  “Listen. Ask anybody about Big Lonnie. They’ll tell you I don’t want trouble with no one. But the big son of a bitch is just plain bad news. Has been ever since I’ve known him, and that’s been more years than I care to remember. I tried to get along with him, keep the peace, but not anymore. Now I don’t give a shit about him, so long as he stays out of my way.”