by Tom Wallace
Cain positioned his men for the wait. Less than an hour until blood time.
Outside, a rooster crowed. Daylight broke.
The first to arrive, an ARVN colonel, had the misfortune to open the door, turn and face Seneca. The man’s mouth dropped open, but he never had time to utter a sound. Seneca’s knife was swifter and more accurate than a rattlesnake’s strike. Four fierce thrusts were all it took to turn the colonel’s heart into a pin cushion.
Seconds later, three more arrived for the last sunrise meeting of their lives, two ARVN colonels and a Russian general. Deke and Cardinal took out the colonels—Deke with his knife, Cardinal with a piece of piano wire he picked up outside—while Cain easily killed the Russian by administering a judo chop to the Adam’s apple, then driving his fingers deep into the man’s throat.
A harrowing two minutes followed. Five men, all ARVN officers, entered the room single file. Two of the five carried AK-47 rifles. The weapons, of course, posed no threat of death, only noise. The men would be dead before ever having the opportunity to fire a killing shot. However, one of them could accidentally get off a round, and the noise from that blast would be as deadly as a bullet.
Single file was what made the dynamics somewhat problematic for Cain and his men. It was essential that the fifth and final man entered the room before the killing began. That meant for a fraction of a second the men would see their assassins, the surprise element lost. That reduced any margin for mistakes. For the mission to succeed, everything had to click perfectly.
If it didn’t, they were dead.
But this was their finest hour. This was the moment they would settle all debate about future operations. This would transform them into legends.
This was blood time in its most perfect form.
They weren’t about to fail.
By the time the fifth man was even with the door, the killing was under way. One step into the room, and two men were dead, the first taken out by Cardinal, the second by Snake. One step farther, and men three and four were falling. Seneca’s knife eliminated the third man; Deke’s machete lopped off the fourth man’s head and sent it rolling across the floor. The fifth man was not even three full steps into the room when he came eyeball to eyeball with Cain. For a brief moment, the man seemed torn between going for his rifle and screaming for help. He did neither. Cain drove his fist deep into the man’s solar plexus, effectively rendering him breathless and incapable of making a sound. Next, Cain grabbed the man’s head on both sides and gave a savage twist, quickly breaking his neck.
Snake and Cardinal disposed of the final two victims—an ARVN captain and the second Russian general—with no problems. Their weapon of choice was the machete. Both men had been impressed by what Deke accomplished with his.
Cain surveyed the scene. Eleven dead, not a sound made, no more than five minutes elapsed time.
It couldn’t have been done more efficiently.
Cain walked to the corner of the room, picked up a decapitated head, and set it at the center of the table. He then reached in his pocket, took out a playing card, the ace of spades, and propped it up in front of the dead man’s face.
Mission accomplished.
Lucas lay on the couch, the glass of Scotch resting on his chest, rising and falling with each breath. How much Scotch had he consumed? Too much. No, that wasn’t correct. Enough to kill the pain; not enough to erase the doubts.
There was never enough Scotch to erase the doubts. No matter how hard he tried to drown them in liquor and self-reproach, those doubts forever remained with him. If Operation Nightcrawlers failed to erase them, nothing could. Not Scotch, not time.
The first glimpse of sunlight cast a slim reed of light across Lucas’s desk. He let his weary eyes follow the light from the narrow opening in the curtains to the old desk, where the light hit directly on a framed picture of him standing with his arm on Cain’s shoulder. He had a smile on his face; Cain, as always, displayed no emotion.
Qui Nhon. Summer 1972. Behind them the blue South China Sea glistened like glass. The picture had been taken only weeks before Cain left Vietnam for the last time.
There was something about that photo. Something Lucas couldn’t remember. Something that made it special. But what? Cain, maybe? Something in those cold, unflinching eyes? That faraway look?
No, that wasn’t it. What, then? Lucas thought hard but couldn’t pin it down.
The ringing phone pierced the silence. Lucas rose on wobbly legs, walked to the desk, picked up the receiver.
“Yes,” he said.
Then listened.
“Not to worry, General Nichols,” Lucas said. “I wasn’t asleep.”
He sipped the Scotch and listened for several more seconds.
“Noon, your office, sounds fine. I’ll be there.”
He sat in the leather chair behind the desk, his head cupped in his hands. Tired. Goddamn, I’m so tired, so fucking tired of it all. When does it end? When do the wars and battles end?
The killing never ends, my boy. It just goes on and on.
Lucas picked up the photo, brought it to his lips, and kissed Cain. After staring at it for several more seconds, he set the photo down, angling it so the incoming sunlight also kissed Cain.
Suddenly, as if the light of God had provided the answer, Lucas realized what it was about the picture that had been troubling him.
It had been taken by Seneca.
Cain was the last member of the group to leave Vietnam, finally departing those bloody jungles forever in late 1972. Seneca, Deke, Snake, and Moon all rotated back to the states three months earlier, while Cardinal, the only one who would make the military his career, left two weeks after they did. The first to leave was Houdini, who, true to his gift for salesmanship, had somehow managed to finagle the last seat on a C-141 transport plane bound for Fort Lewis, Washington.
Cain remained behind at Lucas’s request to take care of a particularly delicate situation that had arisen within the South Vietnamese government. “A bit of in-house tidying up” was how Lucas phrased it.
Killing was what he meant.
“Who are the targets?” Cain asked.
“Hoang and Trung.”
“Consider it done.”
Lucas chuckled. “My boy, I never cease to marvel at your complete lack of curiosity.”
“Meaning?”
“Not once during any assignment I’ve given have you ever asked why. Aren’t you the least bit interested in the reason why a pair of fellow Homo sapiens must perish?”
“No.”
“Never?”
“Never.”
“A rare quality, I must say.”
“I don’t want to know why, Lucas. Why is irrelevant. Why is unnecessary information. Why is for someone else.”
“On this occasion I shall tell you why, if for no other reason than to annoy you. And despite your well-earned reputation for not tolerating foolish behavior, as your superior officer I retain the right to be annoying.”
“Annoy at your own risk, Lucas.”
Lucas chuckled, louder this time. “The aforementioned Hoang and Trung have been playing both ends against the middle for quite some time now. They drink from our river of money while at the same time drinking like camels from the monetary waters of our enemy. As you surely know, such double-dipping is frowned upon. Of course, we have been aware of these nefarious activities for more than two years and have used that knowledge to our full advantage. Fortunately for us, they are far more ambitious than skillful. ‘Eager incompetents’ is how I would classify this pair of numbskulls, who have been christened ‘Laurel and Hardy,’ and for good reason. As a result, they have passed along enough bad information, misinformation, and downright inaccurate information to confuse even the brainiest military strategist. However, with this war beginning to wind down, they are no longer useful. Furthermore, they need to be held accountable for past sins.”
“So they must die?”
“Like a bad vaudeville
act.”
“That’s all I needed to know, Lucas.”
Lucas nodded. “Your indifference to why is perhaps even more frightening than your ability to kill.”
Two days later, Hoang and Trung were dead. Cain put an end to their double-dipping, taking out both men in Saigon: Trung in a hotel room, where he was expecting to meet a Japanese prostitute, then Hoang in an alley behind a CIA-fronted bar.
They were his last two victims in that country, his “final acts of madness,” Lucas said.
At some level, Cain knew, Lucas was right. What he and his men had done during their time in the jungle bordered on madness. How could it be otherwise? In the eyes of most civilized people, killing indiscriminately, for whatever reason or cause, was the one unforgivable sin. Throughout history, nothing was deemed more sacred or valuable than human life. To rob another of his own existence was the ultimate theft, stealing from that person his present and his future.
But for Cain, the killing was justified. Always. This was war, and in war the object was to kill the enemy. To put him down before he took away your existence. To steal his present and future. There was nothing complex about it.
Also, nothing personal. This one element separated Cain from his men. Each of them, at various levels, felt something when they took another person’s life. With the exception of Seneca, who killed with glee and for the joy of tasting blood, that something might be sadness, relief, repulsion, or profound guilt. Not so for Cain. He was blessed with the capacity for indifference. To him the victims were faceless men, obstacles to overcome, roadblocks to success. If they had the misfortune to find themselves standing between him and his goal, they had to be removed. No questions asked, no second-guessing.
Lucas once asked Cain why he thought Seneca had such an unnatural thirst for blood. What part of Seneca had gone so haywire that it enabled him to actually enjoy the act of taking another person’s life? Was a part of his soul missing?
Of course Cain knew he, not Seneca, was the real subject of Lucas’s questions. Lucas had no interest in analyzing a man like Seneca, who was, in all likelihood, beyond understanding or comprehension. But Lucas was now—and always had been—intrigued by Cain’s ability to execute those “acts of madness” and yet be untouched by guilt or remorse.
What part of Cain is missing? Lucas silently wondered.
“The wall you have constructed for psychic protection must reach to the heavens,” Lucas once commented. “I have yet to decide if I envy you or if I’m appalled.”
“What would you have me do, Lucas? Brood deeply on each kill? Feel sympathy for the fallen?”
“My boy, I would be relieved to know you felt something.”
“Oh, I feel something, Lucas. Alive.”
“You are on the side of the angels,” Lucas said. “I can only hope that is your shield.”
“I am on the side of the living,” Cain answered.
“‘And there went out another horse that was red: and power was given to him that sat thereon to take peace from the earth, and that they should kill one another: and there was given unto him a great sword.’”
“You’re quoting Scripture now, Lucas?”
“The book of Revelation seems appropriate.”
“What do you want to hear from me, Lucas?”
“A heartbeat.”
Cain understood Lucas really sought a confession, a trace of remorse, perhaps a bit of sympathy for the dead. Repentance for past crimes committed. Anything that would make the great assassin more humane. But that wouldn’t happen. Couldn’t happen. What Lucas failed to comprehend was that the executioner must always remain neutral, numb to his actions, beyond feelings, humane or otherwise. The executioner must, ultimately, be more dead than his victims.
General David Nichols pushed back his chair, stood, and slowly walked to the coffee pot. He filled two Styrofoam cups with steaming coffee, started back to his desk, hesitated. “Do you want cream and sugar?” he asked.
Lucas White shook his head. “Black’s fine.”
Nichols handed the cup to Lucas. “You look like you haven’t slept for days.”
Lucas laughed softly. “These are busy times, uneasy times. Sleep is a casualty, I’m afraid.”
“Most of us were surprised when we heard you had come out of retirement. We figured it was ocean air, Chivas Regal, and ladies in distress for you. Easy living, easy women.”
“Ah, that does have a nice ring to it,” Lucas said. “Except for the easy women part. I’ve always found that gender to be anything but easy. Maybe when this business is concluded, I can live the scenario you’ve painted. But for now, I’m afraid the good life is on hold.”
Nichols picked up a pencil and began doodling. He drew a cross with the figure of a man hanging from it. Beneath the cross he wrote “Cain.”
Lucas looked at the rendering. “Not bad. You have some talent.”
Nichols drew a huge X over the drawing, wadded the paper into a ball, tossed it in the wastebasket.
“Why the fascination with Cain?” Lucas inquired.
“It’s impossible not to be fascinated with a man who has done the remarkable things he’s done.”
“That’s a very generous assessment.”
“What do you mean?”
“Most civilized people would be repulsed by what he’s done.”
Nichols nodded. “How many men do think he’s killed?”
“I wouldn’t presume to guess. Probably he doesn’t even know.” Lucas let out a soft sigh. “Too many, I would say. Far too many.”
Nichols resumed doodling, this time drawing a coffin with a man inside. When he drew the man’s eyes, he made a straight line, giving the dead man an Asian look. Under the coffin, he wrote “Charlie.”
Nichols looked at Lucas and smiled. “I met Snake once. At Fort Lewis, right after I rotated back to the states. He was working in a local pool hall at the time. He’d tell these wonderful stories. How Cain could take out three, four, even five men before they could react. How they never stood a chance. He said when it was happening Cain’s eyes were … Snake called them ‘Lucifer’s diamonds.’ He said only the devil could have eyes like that.”
“Snake always had a tendency toward hyperbole.”
“Do you discount the stories about Cain?”
Lucas smiled. “Not for an instant. In fact, he likely did much more than Snake was aware of. Rest easy, General. Cain’s legend is well-deserved.”
Nichols seemed relieved. He picked up his coffee cup and sipped. “I never killed a man. Two stints in Nam and I never even fired a shot. How’s that for helping the cause?”
“You did your duty,” Lucas said. “That’s all anyone can ask of a soldier.”
“When I think of what Cain did, what his men did, then compare that with what I did—what I didn’t do—I can’t help but feel like a fraud.”
“Pitting yourself against Cain is a sucker’s proposition. What he did was abnormal, an aberration. Even under combat circumstances.”
“What he did was …” Nichols struggled for the right words.
“Go insane,” Lucas interjected. “Five years in those jungles, taking God only knows how many lives—how could he not have gone mad? It’s a miracle he came back with any degree of sanity at all.”
“That’s it; that’s what makes him so damn intriguing. How can a man kill that often, that personally, and come back at all?”
“I can’t answer that. Maybe he was ordained to kill, just as Christ was ordained to die on the cross.”
“Ordained? By whom?”
Lucas shrugged. “All I can tell you is that Cain was born with a predator’s instincts. Predators kill. Today, tomorrow, forever. It’s what they do because that’s the hand nature dealt them.”
Nichols leaned back and propped his feet on the desk. He swirled the coffee cup in his hand. “Why did the Shop go out of business? I can’t help but believe that men with Cain’s experience and skills would have been useful to us in many way
s.”
Lucas handed his cup to Nichols and watched the younger general refill it. He had no interest in rehashing that bit of ancient history. His blood sizzled every time he did. But he could tell by Nichols’s interest that he wasn’t about to let the question go unanswered.
“Changing times, mainly,” Lucas said, taking the cup from Nichols. “After Nixon got the boot, there was a housecleaning mentality around Washington. Ford, Carter … they had no taste for what we did. Vietnam and Watergate had soured everything. So it was only a matter of time until they shut us down. A grave error, in my judgment. I told them so at the time, but nobody listened. To them I was only some old-line Cold War hawk looking to shed more blood. Well, given world events in the past quarter-century, it turns out I was right. Some of these terrorist leaders wouldn’t sleep so soundly at night if we were still in operation. That includes bin Laden. Believe me, General, they are novices compared to Cain.”
“Must have been disappointing for you when orders came to close the doors.”
“It was disappointing for all of us. Especially so for Cain. A man like that needs the action.”
“Are you telling me Cain just came home and that was it? He simply stopped? Seems to me an asset like that could still be useful.”
“I said the Shop was shut down. I didn’t say Cain stopped.”
“So, you did utilize him.”
Lucas leaned back in his chair. “There were occasions in the seventies and eighties when he applied his unique skills and talents to our benefit. Not many, but a few here and there. Special situations that required handling in a somewhat delicate manner. Certain obstacles best removed.”
“Wet ops,” Nichols said.
Lucas smiled. “I’m not at liberty to discuss such matters in detail, which I’m sure you can appreciate, General.”
“Of course.”