by Barry Sadler
This is a book of fiction. All the names, characters and events portrayed in this book are Fictional and any resemblance to real people and incidents are purely coincidental.
CASCA #8 Soldier of Fortune
Casca Ebooks are published by arrangement with the copyright holder
Copyright © 1983 by Barry Sadler
Cover: Greg Brantley
Brooke Luckock
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Table of Contents
FOREWORD
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Continuing Casca’s adventures, book 9 The Sentinel
FOREWORD
These are the continuing stories of the life of the man known as Casca Longinus, the Roman legionnaire who thrust the fatal lance into the side of Jesus at the Mount of Golgotha and for that crime was condemned by Jesus to wander the earth, unable to die until the Second Coming. Some years ago Casca met a Dr. Goldman at the Eighth Field Hospital in Vietnam. There he began to tell the doctor of his odyssey through the pages of history. Over the years he has periodically met with the doctor to continue his story. There is a sympathetic relationship between the two men that enables Dr. Goldman to experience all that has happened to Casca, to feel his pain and hate, his loves and passions.
For Dr. Goldman, perhaps the strangest thing of all about his sometimes unwanted visitor is the terrible sadness of Casca's isolation. Most people think that life without end would be a blessing. But Goldman has learned through Casca that to go through the centuries never being able to stay in one place for more than a few years, watching those you care for grow old and die, never to have a child of your own blood to raise is a curse. And the words of Jesus were a constant reminder: "Soldier, you are content with what you are, then that you shall remain until we meet again," condemning Casca to an existence of endless conflict, to wage battle and know the horrible suffering of endless bloodshed and war until some day in the unknown future Casca would be permitted to die.
For now, we only know through Dr. Goldman that Casca still lives and walks the earth searching for his own finality, doing that which he was cursed to do: "Fight." This is the story of one of his more contemporary adventures. Dr. Goldman has had many letters asking about what Casca is doing now, in our time. We can't tell you where he is today, but not very long ago, shortly after Vietnam, he was involved in an episode that will be related in the following pages. Casca is not a monster or genius; he is an ordinary man trapped in an extraordinary circumstance. He is with us today and will be here long after we the readers have turned to dust.
Through him we can perhaps learn how we would have reacted under the same conditions, since we are permitted to see that which he has seen and feel all that he has felt. As Dr. Goldman has told us, Casca is all men and as man has always been (locked in an eternal struggle not only with time but also with himself). He is as modern as today and as timeless as the past. Casca is and will be for unknown centuries to come "The Eternal Mercenary," or as you shall soon see, eternity's "SOLDIER OF FORTUNE."
PROLOGUE
For Casca the years since he had disappeared from the Eighth Field Hospital in Nha Trang were confusing ones. It had grown more difficult and more expensive to acquire papers. After his first meeting with Goldman, he chose to leave before he had to answer any questions about his condition. That was a circumstance he was used to. It had been fairly easy to lose himself in the thousands of faceless GIs who saturated the cities, though he was surprised that there had been no attempt to find him. He couldn't have known, of course, that his files had been destroyed by Major Goldman and Colonel Landries. As far as the hospital was concerned, he had never been brought in. Therefore, to the Army he was simply listed as "missing in action" (presumed dead).
It took a little to make contact with a man who would help him. He had befriended old Phang, the Kamserai chieftain from Cambodia, several years before. Phang made him a gift of enough money to get out of the country and reach Singapore.
Once there, Casca went back into the only line of work he really knew and was qualified for, one where clients didn't ask too many questions and were content to leave you alone as long as the job was done.
It also put him into contact with people who could acquire identification papers that would stand up under close scrutiny. For the right amount of money, documents could be inserted into files to prove that you were born wherever you said you were. For now his papers said that he was born in Kuala Lumpur and had the right to claim Malayan citizenship. That provided him with a valid passport and documents that enabled him to get through the morass of modern customs and emigration departments. One thing he had learned long before was that as long as you had the right papers, you would seldom be asked for any other proof.
CHAPTER ONE
Nationalist China's hatred for anything communist is exceeded only by its love and respect for money.
In the great room of a fine house in Taipei City on the island of Formosa, the capital of the last outpost for the former forces of the Kuomintang of Generalissimo Chiang Kaishek, an old man sat, his family gathered before him, his shoulders heavily burdened with impending decision.
Money, thought Lin Pao Lieh, has been the solution for so many problems in the past that perhaps it may serve again for this one.
Lin Pao sighed, weary with the responsibility of many years of serving as the head of one of the great merchant families of China. In silence, their features softened in proper deference, the lesser members of his large family waited for him to speak, waited for his decision as to the answer to a problem of family honor.
His aged eyes surveyed the room slowly, as if the answer might lie somewhere inside the four walls. His eyes rested on a prized possession, the carved figure of a Bodhisattva. The physical and spiritual power, the compassion and knowledge, fairly emanated from this sculpture of a person who in some future life will become a Buddha. The sculpture itself had been made by the infamous Kuan Lin in the Sung dynasty between 960 and 1280 and had come into Lin Pao's possession through the thankful hands of a man he'd aided in fleeing the terrors of communism.
In Lin's mind, the man had been gracious to the point of foolishness, but refusing the gift might have caused the man embarrassment, and so it was his to cherish now. He studied its outstretched arm, held there in the traditional gesture of teaching, and it reminded him that his own limb must soon point to his nephew in judgment.
His eyes moved now to the west wall, landing on the original painting of doves and pear blossoms. It had been painted on paper instead of the traditional silk and was said to have inspired at least a dozen of China's most famous poets. One of them, he recalled, had written words that had brought him great comfort in times of stress. What were they? It was becoming exceedingly more difficult to remember things. Now they c
ame: "Again the snow scented air calls me from dreams, and again the doves on a small branch in my courtyard swell their chests with spring." Such beautiful lines, he thought.
The old eyes moved now to the silken clad figure that knelt before him, head bowed. His decision had been made.
"Han, you bring me no joy. You were and are eternally responsible for those in your care, and you have failed." His voice, soft at first, had risen somewhat.
"You should have foreseen the necessity to depart Cambodia with your goods and family long before now. Your eagerness to make a profit from a desperate people does you no honor. You forget what it was like when we left the mainland. You were but a boy, and I carried you, the son of my brother who remained there to fight, in my arms. You and your sister were all that I carried; all else was left behind. Wealth all our family behind. Land, wealth ....all that our family had gathered for over two hundred years was gone. Yet I carried you, as you are my brother's son, and family must come before all else." Lin rested for a moment and then continued.
"All that survived of our family afterward joined their few possessions together, and again we have built a name that is respected throughout all Asia. From Hong Kong to Port Moresby, the name of Pao is respected. Now you have caused us dishonor that must, and will be, erased. You left members of our family behind while saving your miserable self and your money." Lin looked again to the peaceful painting of the doves, composing himself in its serenity.
"This is my judgment. You will take all that you've saved, if necessary adding to it the resources of our family, and use it to rescue those you left behind. Spend it wisely; do not be niggardly. Bring our people to me, and you will be redeemed. Fail in this matter, and the kindest fate you could enjoy would be my permission to die by your own hand." Lin waved his arms in a gesture of dismissal.
"Go now! Leave my eyes until you have need of my assistance in whatever plan you arrive at."
Lin Pao Lieh, scion of an ancient house of merchants, leaned back and closed his eyes. It is a burden to be so old, he thought, but if Han fails, it shall be his failure, not mine, and the honor of the house will continue.
While his family knelt around him, Lin Pao nodded as old men will do and fell asleep. The family bowed and departed silently, leaving the elder to his dreams.
For Han, the responsibility placed on him was not one that gave him peace. He knew that he had failed when he'd left Cambodia without his nephews and their children, but what could he have done? Surely the old man knew that time had been of the essence if he was to salvage anything at all. Lin's decision had been unfair as far as Han was concerned, but the old man's word was law, and Han knew that he must obey, even to the death. But for now, solutions must be found to prevent that degree of self-finalization.
Han returned to his own house and went immediately to his office. Something must be done, he thought. How to get them out? It would be futile to try bribing a Khmer Rouge official; the fanatic communists did not appreciate an honest bribe. No! The only answer was that someone would have to chance going in after them and bring them out. But who? And how? Where could he find the men for such a job?
Han racked his brain. Suddenly there came a thought. Perhaps someone in the Nationalist Chinese Army would know of a man desperate and greedy enough to attempt leading such a mission as this.
He reached for the file of names he'd brought with him from Cambodia. Quickly scanning name after name, he suddenly stopped. Ah, yes. One Major Shan of the Nationalist Chinese equivalent of American G 2. Major Shan! An interesting man, if he remembered correctly. One who also had an appreciation of the finer things in life, but sadly, not the means to enjoy them.
"Well, Major Shan," he said aloud, "this may be a fortunate day for you ... and for me."
He dialed the number. The phone rang, and on the other end a voice answered, informing Han that he was speaking to the main office of the Military Security and Intelligence Ministry, a dreaded branch of the government. But, he thought, so much the better.
Han addressed himself courteously to the faceless voice on the other end of the phone. One never knew to whom one might be speaking in cases like this. Best to be careful with one's manners. He asked the voice if the honorable Major Shan was available to speak to this unworthy person and apologized for interrupting the faceless voice's duty by asking such a poor favor. The voice replied in a like manner, politely, for he too was unsure of whom he was speaking to, and in a job like this, many important people called regularly. It was therefore obvious that the best way to avoid offending was to be politely correct at all times and in all matters. After all, the Chinese system had not changed so much that a lesser ranking soldier could not be shot for not showing proper respect to his superiors. This attitude, as in the old days, served to keep people calling this number, or answering it, on their best behavior at all times. Nowhere in the government or military were people more polite and better mannered than at the security levels.
"Ah, Major Shan," said the silk clad voice of Han. "It is so good of you to take the time to speak to me. I remember with great fondness and pleasure your brief visit to our house in Phnom Penh last year."
Shan, by means of his military position, had been the willing agent in delivering several extremely valuable art pieces from Taiwan to an anxious buyer in Singapore. The major had profited well from that journey, as both recalled, and once more politeness was the order of the day. A meeting was agreed on.
That evening the mist rolled in from the straits separating Taiwan and her people from the military giant that watched and waited across the narrow waters.
Major Shan approached Han's home in the damp night. The house was lit only by the glow of an occasional lamp. The lamps, types found only in the Orient, with a thick glow to them and the light limited to only the immediate surroundings, were currently being disturbed by an occasional moth attempting suicide by beating its brains out, continuously battering its fragile head into the globe until achieving its purpose.
Shan had taken public purveyance until he was within a few city blocks of the merchant Han's residence. Again, one never knew who was watching whom; best to take no chances. This night might prove to be very profitable, if his previous association with the merchant had been any kind of an example.
The major, an honored and highly decorated officer of the Ministry of Security, came to a stop in front of a leering devil dog and a number that said he'd arrived at the gate to Han's home. He straightened his tunic and rang the bell. The door opened immediately, and an elderly Tonkinese amah bade him to enter.
The old woman, from the northern provinces of what was once known as Cochin China, led Major Shan across a courtyard that had been considered ancient when Shan's father's father was a young man. Now with the meticulous care of the centuries devoted to maintaining this one small area it was perfect, in the manner of well raked gravel and the set of the individual rocks, placed like waiting sentinels, content that they would remain when all else had passed. There was perfection, too, in the small pond where golden carp moved lazily and the miniature trees that had seen more years than many nations ever would. He thought, for a place like this, to be able to call this garden one's own would be truly all that a man could ever desire. For to be able to call such a garden one's own, one must already have everything else that is important to a graceful life. This Han, this fat merchant, must be something more than he appears.
The old woman led Shan to an open room, faced on three sides by the most expensive calligraphy screens he'd ever seen and on the other by the exquisite ancient garden.
Han rose, dressed in white robes: white, the color of spirits and the sign of mourning and great sorrow.
Ah, thought Shan. This man has great problems, and great problems require expensive solutions.
Han bade the major sit and poured, with his own hand, the welcoming cup of rice wine. As they knelt, each sizing up the other, weighing the balance and strength that the other might possess, reminiscences f
ollowed of their first brief association.
Had the good major been pleased with their last meeting? That was good. One should always have pleasant memories. Would the honorable major be averse to performing a small service once again for this unworthy merchant who could offer nothing but his friendship and gratitude and ... perhaps just this one small gift?
Han reached to his front and pushed toward the major a small teak chest the size of a cigar box, beautifully carved with emblems of the T'ang dynasty, its teak black with age but the gold leaf of the intertwining dragons as bright as if it had been put on this very day. Shan bowed and took a deep breath to contain his excitement and steady his hand.
With difficulty he opened the box, catching his breath suddenly and blinking his eyes in disbelief. Inside were a rainbow of gems of every color and size. Sapphires, bluer than the eyes of a White Russian prostitute, deep colored blood red rubies from the temples of Cambodia or perhaps even Angkor Wat, emeralds from across the sea, Ming green and sparkling.
"Ah," breathed the major. "What service may this poor ignorant soldier perform for the great and honorable merchant?" He was performing kowtow as he would have in the old days to a prince of the court of the last Emperor of the Dragons.
No matter the service requested, the price had been agreed on and the necessity for subterfuge noted. Han wiped the nervous perspiration from his brow and explained his problem and the need to resolve it. Men! Han needed men to carry out his mission. Where could they be found? Money was no problem. What the major held in his hands was his, and all other expenses would be paid by Han himself. Could the major help this poor and desperate one?
Major Shan nodded. "Yes," he affirmed to the pleading figure of Han. "Yes, I may know just the man to perform a contract such as this for you. His background and associations fit admirably with your purposes. I have used him and his associates more than once on missions that could have proved embarrassing if any of my people were found to be involved. He's an American, or at least he had been with the American forces at the time I first met him, though he now claims Malaysian citizenship. His manner is such, that he took it upon himself to assist in the evacuation of two Vietnamese nationals just hours before the communist forces moved in. It seems that this man forced an English pilot to fly to a small field outside of Saigon, where they picked up two of his friends. One, a former South Vietnamese ranger named Van Tran Tich, and the other, a disreputable looking savage that he calls, for some unknown reason, George. I believe he said that the latter was known as a Montagnard from the highlands, something similar to our own Taiwanese aborigines. This long nosed American, or whatever he is, has the most excellent of qualifications for our purposes. He has been exceedingly well trained in the art of war and is an expert in most every way of changing one's way of living. Personally, he gave me the distinct impression that he had a death wish and is therefore probably condemned to live a very long and most interesting life, almost as if he had a destiny to do so. But he has many contacts in the area you wish to enter, this due to his long association with the Kamserai, the displaced Cambodian bandits who operated out of South Vietnam and conducted raids back into Cambodia for the Americans before the Yankees were allowed to enter that country themselves."
