by Tom Wallace
Kate slammed the book into her bag, silently cursing Ivan and his brood for causing her such consternation. Were a bunch of dysfunctional Russians worth all this trouble, anyway? Probably not, although she damn sure couldn’t tell that to her lit class.
Without thinking, she opened the white package that had fallen onto the desk. Inside was a brown folder containing several pieces of correspondence. There were letters, photos, memos, all held together by a single paper clip. Frowning, she studied the bundle and wondered what in the world it could be. None of it looked related in any way to an English or literature class. Or to the college, for that matter. It was some strange-looking stuff, whatever it was.
She removed the first letter, laid the rest of the papers on the desk, and began reading.
THE WHITE HOUSE
Washington, D.C.
March 3, 1968
Dear Mickey,
Lucas White recently informed me that you have agreed to join us in our new project. I’m delighted. I don’t think he could have made a better choice. Your skills, your dedication to the cause of this great nation of ours, and your good work in the past are well-documented and appreciated. I am excited about the task we are undertaking. It is my firm belief that in today’s world there exists a need for what we are doing. These perilous times demand extraordinary action. The project you and Lucas are overseeing will help us maintain the strength to continue as a beacon of freedom and hope in the world.
I have made a firm commitment to the task at hand, and have full confidence that it will be successful.
Congratulations on your recent promotion to the rank of major. It is well-deserved.
LBJ
Kate read the letter again, slowly this time, finally letting her eyes come to rest on the scribbled initials near the bottom of the page. LBJ. Lyndon Baines Johnson, for christsakes. Only then did she make the connection—a long-gone president and Professor Michael Collins.
But what was the connection? When? At what point in time could the paths of these two men have possibly crossed? In what way? For what reasons? Her curiosity now in high gear, she dove deeper into the folder, holding her breath like a scholar who had directly stumbled onto a rare and ancient manuscript.
On top were twelve color photographs, two close-up face shots for each of six men. She thumbed through them quickly, looking for a picture of Collins. There weren’t any. Beneath the photos were more letters and other official-looking forms. She removed the clip holding them together, took the first letter, and began reading.
May 1, 1968
Mick:
I was happy to hear that the laborious task of interviewing potential candidates is nearly completed. As I told you in our Tuesday phone conversation, Rear Admiral Cunningham is sending three Seals he thinks can be of help. I trust you will judge their merits before making your final decision.
Plans here in Washington are being finalized. We will set up shop at Aberdeen Proving Grounds. Several alternate sites were proposed, but APG seems the most logical. Have you decided how many candidates will be needed? My feeling is no more than twenty. Of course, in that matter I will yield to your wishes. I should be finished here NLT Sunday, which means I’ll be available to help in the selection process should I be needed.
Please keep me apprised of the situation. I look forward to rejoining you soon.
Lucas
June 24, 1968
Mick:
Your list of thirteen looks good to me. I was particularly pleased to see that you included one of Cunningham’s men. That should make him happy, and keep him off my back. Whether we like to admit it or not, politics are always present, even in a project such as this.
Teach them well.
Lucas
July 2, 1968
Mick:
Orders are being cut at this moment for your return to Vietnam. You should have them by Friday. Sorry we had to rush things, but recent events have put a sense of urgency on everything. People are running around the War Room with blood in their eyes.
I’m sure you will be more than happy to return to those God-forsaken jungles. As for me, I have mixed emotions. When I think I fought alongside your father and will now be fighting alongside you, well, you can imagine how old that makes me feel. I’m not sure war is for old men. But duty calls, so you’ll be seeing my smiling face more than you care to.
One other matter. Some are wondering if six men are enough. Are you positive that’s all you’ll need? Remember, even our Savior needed twelve. Give this matter some consideration. If you are comfortable with six, we’ll proceed as planned. Please advise.
Lucas
January 25, 1969
Mick:
Just finished briefing Nixon’s people. They appear to be even more enthusiastic about the project than their predecessors were. I have a feeling the kind of work we’re doing is right up their alley. They seem to have a thirst for blood that many in LBJ’s crowd lacked. RN, the “Dark Prince,” is a man I’ve known for almost two decades, since he was a congressman. I’ve never much cared for the man, and I wouldn’t trust him under any set of circumstances. Having said that, I can’t argue with the enthusiasm he and his fellow henchmen showed when informed of this project. It almost rivaled that of the Kennedy brothers, and God knows JFK and Bobby certainly had an affinity for wet ops. As I have learned after many years in this business, you dance with certain devils in order to kill other devils.
I’ll see you in about a month.
Lucas
August 10, 1970
Mick:
Everyone here is raving about the success of Operation Clean Sweep. One CIA big shot called it state of the art. Jolly good show. The green light has been given for Operation Silent Night. It is my understanding that you plan to proceed within the next three weeks.
Keep me advised, and let me know if there is anything you or your men need. Lucas
P.S. As for that other matter, it is still under consideration.
March 3, 1971
Mick:
I have passed along your blueprint for Operation Fallen Angels. It is being met with near-unanimous approval. I must add, however, that I have some reservations, which I shall discuss with you in detail at a later date.
I ran into your father yesterday. He is doing well and sends his love.
Lucas
January 13,1972
Mick:
It is my understanding that Ted Shackley has informed you that Operation Fallen Angels is off. I’m sure he also informed you that I had the deciding vote and that I cast mine against proceeding. No doubt you are steaming—I know you well enough to know that.
My vote was cast not so much against the mission, but rather in consideration of your safety. I cannot convince myself that it’s anything less than a suicide mission. I simply don’t see how you and your men can get into Hanoi, do what needs to be done, then get out safely. And the logistics trouble me. How would you get to Hanoi in the first place? Up from the South, down from the North, from the West?
I can’t envision a route that eases my fears. Another stumbling block is accuracy of the targets’ whereabouts. Our people in intelligence tell us the North Vietnamese leaders have several command centers. Which one would you attack? Then we get to the matter of getting out once the task has been completed. For me, that’s the greatest cause for concern. I could hope for nothing more than the success of this mission, but not if it means sacrificing you and your men, which is precisely what I foresee as the ultimate end.
To be sure, the plan has much merit.
As you have suggested, the extermination of Giap, Dung, and the rest of the top echelon would most certainly cause great chaos among the North Vietnamese. However, my boy, I fear we are facing an enemy that relies less on upper-echelon leadership and more on an inner resolve that appears to be unbreakable. I offer as evidence the recent death of Ho. If anything, his loss has only served to further galvanize the will of the North Vietnamese people. It is a many-headed mo
nster we face. To cut off one, two, even three heads will not diminish their strength. You disagree, of course, and you can take comfort in the knowledge that yours is not the lone voice of protest. Many here in the Pentagon are in agreement with your assessment that a successful mission to Hanoi would bring a quick end to the conflict. You are a warrior; it is only natural for you to see resolution in military terms. I’ve become somewhat more cynical over the years. Military machinery is easier to defeat than a nation’s collective will. It has become clear to me that we have stumbled blindly into a pit of quicksand and that we must begin to extricate ourselves before we are completely swallowed up. Our nation is tearing itself apart because of the futility of what is happening over there. We cannot allow this situation to drag on much longer.
I’m sure my words are like poison to you. As one who also considers himself a warrior, I feel a certain contempt for my reluctance to OK the mission. I yearn for the old days, when things weren’t so complicated, when matters such as these were viewed in black and white. I wish I could tell you to go for it, but the truth is, we are in a no-win situation in Southeast Asia. We can eliminate Giap, we can eliminate his successor and his successor’s successor, but nothing would change. We would still be left to face a nation’s resolve. The French couldn’t defeat it, and neither can we.
Therefore, given my personal feelings for you and your men, given my gut-level feeling that even a successful mission would be for naught, Operation Fallen Angels is off. It is my judgment that the mission would ultimately prove to be futile. Just the way the Vietnam War is destined to be futile. This conflict will be decided not on the battlefield but in dark rooms by diplomats wearing expensive three-piece suits. That’s the reality.
Take care.
Lucas
Hands shaking, heart racing with excitement, Kate finished reading the last letter, put it down, and looked out the office window. Darkness had descended. Her plans for the night were shot. She didn’t care. What she had planned seemed terribly insignificant now. But this … this was intriguing, interesting.
She had stumbled into the past, a past involving the man she probably loved, and she wasn’t going to leave until she found out all she could.
Kate looked at the twelve photos, hoping she’d overlooked one of Collins. She desperately wanted to find one, to match the Collins who knew presidents with the Collins who taught Melville and Eliot and Conrad with such passion and force. A photo of him as a young man would help unlock the many secrets he kept hidden from everyone, including her. She needed something—anything—that would give her the key to his past.
But there was no picture, and that only added to the intrigue. So did the last letter, written by someone named Cain, which had a list of strange names. How did it fit into this fragment of history? And why was it marked EYES ONLY? She laid the pictures down, picked up the undated letter, and began reading.
Lucas:
As per your request, here are the names, code names, and hometowns of the six men I have chosen for our operation:
CAPT. Anthony Leon Taylor (Cardinal)-St. Louis
SSG. Dwight David Rainwater (Seneca)-Tulsa
SFC. Charles Grady Wilson (Snake)-Terre Haute
SFC. Raphael Diego Martinez (Rafe)-The Bronx
SFC. Derek Louis Jefferson (Deke)-Chicago
ENS. Douglas Martin Walker (Moon)-Oakland
There will be a seventh member, a young second lieutenant who possesses a remarkable talent for procuring and scrounging. His name is Andrew Tyler Waltz (code name: Houdini), from New York City.
I leave in your capable hands the task of pulling records and cutting orders. Hopefully, it can be done expeditiously. We need to get on our merry way. The jungle cries out for us.
Cain
Kate studied the faces of the six men in the photographs, trying to match them to the names in the letter. The Hispanic, the one with the dark hair and low forehead—surely that was Martinez. And the one with jet black hair and midnight eyes—he had the look of a Native American. That had to be Seneca. But the three Caucasians and the one black man—she couldn’t begin to make an accurate pairing of face to name. What about Cain? Who was he? Where did Collins fit into all this? What role did he play?
Kate leaned back and sighed. History as mystery. She hated it.
Derek Jefferson entered Butterfield’s through the back door, stopped briefly to say a few words to one of the singers waiting to perform, then climbed the stairs leading to a private room overlooking the bar area and dance floor. Leaning against the glass, he scanned the crowd, studying each face with deadly seriousness. Back and forth, his eyes moved slowly for a full five minutes, straining, searching for that one particular face.
His face.
The face of death.
As his eyes zeroed in on each male patron, his right hand came up and caressed the scar on his cheek. It was an involuntary action, perhaps even an unconscious one, something he did when he felt scared or threatened.
The scar. He was three years old when his drunken father plowed the car into an oncoming truck on the icy Dan Ryan Expressway. The old man died instantly, crushed behind the steering wheel. Jefferson’s older brother, Rudy, suffered massive head injuries resulting in permanent brain damage. Jefferson, alone in the back seat, was thrown through the windshield, a jagged piece of glass tearing a chunk of flesh from his cheek. The wound required seventy-six stitches and left him with a deep L-shaped scar.
“Has anyone been askin’ for me?” he asked one of the waitresses.
“No one’s interested in your sorry black ass,” she said, smiling.
“I’m serious. Has a white guy been in here askin’ about me?”
“You need to clean those big ears of yours, honey. Like I said, no one’s been inquiring about you—white, black, or pink.”
“You’re positive no one named Cain has been looking for me?”
“Not Cain, not Abel, not Moses, not sweet Jesus himself. No one has been asking about you.”
Jefferson began reviewing his options. To start with, he needed to keep a low profile, stay out of sight, go into hiding. That was imperative.
Okay, so maybe he was overreacting, making too much of nothing. After all, it had been dark; maybe it wasn’t him. Could as easily have been any one of a dozen guys with grudges.
But … if it was, or even if the slightest chance existed that it might have been him, there was only one prudent course to follow—get lost. He could stay with Trish; she was always good in times of trouble. But there was a down side to that. It was too obvious. That would be the first place anyone would think to check out. His best bet was to hide out in The Projects, maybe hang out with Ramon or Louis. He’d be safe there. No one would come looking for him in The Projects, least of all a white dude.
But this wasn’t just any white dude. This was …
He refused to think it, refused to let the name roll off his tongue. If he didn’t pronounce it, didn’t give it life, then maybe the man didn’t exist. Maybe silence would keep the man from being real. Maybe the man would disappear.
His hand pressed hard against the scar.
He had to piss.
The bathroom door in the private office was locked; that damn Giselle. She stayed in there forever, snortin’ that white powder up her nose, gettin’ high, gettin’ crazy. That’s one black bitch who had to go. Trouble all the way.
He walked down the stairs and into the hallway. Before opening the restroom door, he glanced over his shoulder, saw no one following him, then went inside.
There were four men in the restroom: two standing at urinals, one washing his hands, another sitting in one of the stalls. Although the need to relieve himself had reached the painful stage, he stayed by the door until the three men he could see walked out.
Only the man in the stall remained.
Jefferson couldn’t hold off any longer. The pain was becoming too great. He had to take care of business. To hell with the man in the stall.
He rushed to the urinal, unzipped, and with eyes closed, began relieving himself.
It was his first mistake of the night.
When he heard the restroom door open behind him, heard that first sound of movement, he should have reacted instinctively. He should have sensed trouble, felt the danger closing in, been ready.
Most of all, though, he should never have put himself in such a defenseless and vulnerable position. Any amateur knew better.
Almost instantly he felt the heavy weight of a man’s body pressing hard against his, felt the man’s forearm against the back of his neck, pushing forward with relentless force. Jefferson’s face smashed against the white porcelain wall, his body arched inward, bent freakishly at the lower back, his penis touching the wet, cold tile. He could feel his attacker’s right hand inside his jacket, feel the fingers extracting his .45 with the skill and expertise of a pickpocket.
In his panic, Jefferson sprayed urine everywhere.
“Zip it up, Deke, and come with me. Quietly. Don’t make me end it here. There’s no dignity in dying with your dick hanging out.”
The voice was frighteningly familiar.
“You’ve got it all wrong,” Jefferson stuttered. “You’ve got to listen to me.”
Jefferson, his pants soaked, overwhelmed by sheer terror, zipped his pants. The warm urine cooled as it ran down his legs. He worried about how he would smell once it dried.
By any set of standards, this had not been a pleasant piss.
“I’ll come with you, man,” he said. “I don’t want no trouble.” His voice was urgent, tight, panicky.
