by Bob Mayer
Kane nodded. “Yeah. Between that and what the SAS did in Malaysia, the few times in modern history an insurgency was defeated.”
“You may know more about it than I,” Pope said. “The entire affair was very hush-hush.”
“I have the broad outline,” Kane said. “A communist insurgency in Oman was defeated by the government’s troops with the aid of the SAS. Not much more.”
“Communist guerillas were rebelling,” Pope began. “In the old days, who’d give a bum-fuck about Oman, eh? But oil? Righto. The Empire had been propping up the old Sultan for far too long. A slimy, selfish bastard who was a rallying point for the commies to direct the people against. We sponsored a coup and put his son in power. Who was younger but as much a despot. Thus, there was still unrest among the people, since little changed for them. Whitehall sent the SAS on the sly to assist the regime’s military. Of course, assist turned out to be fight the red bastards themselves.”
“That’s the way it goes,” Kane said. “You can’t lead your allies from the rear. Have to be out in front.”
Pope leaned forward slightly and lowered his voice, a slight slur in his words. “An element of SAS was garrisoned at a small fort that was a key position in protecting the capital and, more importantly, the Strait of Hormuz. Through which most of the world’s oil passes. There were nine SAS men with some native troops. Place called Mirbat. They were attacked by over five hundred communist guerrillas.”
Kane had the cup halfway to his mouth, but paused. “I heard something of the battle but not details. Run those numbers again?”
“Five hundred against nine.”
“That’s not good,” Kane said.
“Of course, they had a contingent of government troops they were technically supporting.”
“Go on.”
“It was a bloody mess, but the troopers acquitted themselves admirably. Except there were ten SAS there, not nine. Quinn was the tenth, but since he was New Zealand, he wasn’t officially counted. Post-battle, he was put in for a VC for gallantry but that was withdrawn when the Omani government made formal charges against him. It seems in the course of the battle he threatened the Sultan’s troops to get into the fight. Threatened them rather aggressively.”
“How aggressively?”
“He killed one to motivate the others.”
“That can work,” Kane acknowledged. “I can also see why the Sultan wouldn’t be happy.”
“The fighting had been intense for years,” Pope said, his words muddy from tea. “It was a rather brutal campaign. This Quinn killed one of the government’s soldiers to motivate the others to fight. It worked. The fort might have been overrun otherwise.”
Kane nodded for the old reporter to continue.
“That battle broke the back of the rebellion. The Sultan wanted Quinn to be turned over to pay for his crime, despite the fact he and his mates saved the regime. There was no way the SAS would give up one of their own, even a colonial, so they got him out of country. This was the end of ‘72. Apparently the SAS didn’t mourn his departure because he was considered a bit of a loose cannon prior to this event.
“The New Zealand government cashiered him from the service and denied him re-entry. A few months later Quinn surfaced in Boston doing nefarious deeds and making a name for himself in the underworld. Made his way here in ‘73. Worked his way up the ranks in the Cappucci organization rather quickly given his special skills and willingness to wield them. I would assume he’s a rather bitter man.” Done, Pope sipped his ‘tea’.
“That’s a pretty big change,” Kane said. “From SAS to mob enforcer.”
“Indeed,” Pope said, peering red-eyed at Kane over the reading glasses perched on his nose.
“Yeah, I see it,” Kane acknowledged.
“I’m not saying your current occupation at Marcelle is the same,” Pope said.
“Quinn’s been a step ahead of me,” Kane said. “More than a step. What about Alfonso Delgado?”
Pope waved his hand dismissively. “A captain in the Cappucci family. Which he wouldn’t be except he married the boss’s daughter. A bit of a dim bulb. Quinn is the one to worry about.” He put the cup down a bit too hard. “Have you perchance been wandering about trying to catch that Son of Sam fellow? You’ve had many the late night out.”
“No idea where to find him,” Kane said. “The cops have plenty of manpower on the job.”
“One of my mates at the Post told me there’s an interesting take on the Son of Sam name,” Pope said. “There’s a theory it means son of Uncle Sam. A Vietnam vet. The killer wore a fatigue jacket at one of the killings according to a witness.”
“Anything’s possible.”
“You carry a gun, I understand.”
Kane pushed aside his denim shirt. “Forty-five caliber, M1911. Semi-automatic pistol, not a revolver. Son of Sam uses a revolver. A special one.”
“You fancy guns?” Pope asked. His eyes were half-lidded, a long day of drinking and the heat taking a toll.
“They’re tools.”
“Why use that particular gun?”
“It’s personal for everyone. I’m used to the forty-five. I like that the magazine is in-line, not staggered. I prefer the larger round. After all, you don’t throw a gun at a person; it’s the bullet that does the damage. 1911 is the year it was invented. It’s still around which I view as a positive endorsement.”
“What about Son of Sam’s gun?” Pope leaned forward, intrigued. “I’ve read that he uses a .44 caliber bullet but nothing about it being special other than that. Pray tell, lad?”
“Off the record?” Kane asked. “No going to your friends at the Post?”
Pope closed his eyes and was silent for a few seconds and for a moment Kane thought he’d fallen asleep. The eyes flickered open. “Hamilton is spinning in his grave. All right. Off the record unless someone else verifies it. How does that sound?”
“Son of Sam uses a .44-caliber Charter Arms revolver,” Kane said. “Five round cylinder, single or double action and—“
Pope cut in. “What does that mean?”
“Means you can pull the trigger with the hammer forward, cocking it and firing with the trigger action. That’s double. Single is the hammer is already back and pulling the trigger fires. First way is less accurate. My .45 is single action. I need to have the hammer back to fire, thus it has a safety. Revolvers don’t have safeties. A smart person keeps the chamber under the hammer empty to avoid accidental discharge.”
Pope nodded, waiting.
Kane continued. “Some of the cops have latched on to the fact it’s the gun used by air marshals. They think that means it isn’t as powerful, because air marshals have to make sure their rounds don’t penetrate the skin of the aircraft. Depressurization.” Kane paused, memories of counter-terrorism training intruding. “But that’s because of the special bullets the marshals use. Put a hot load in a .44, it will punch through a car window or the door. But Son of Sam is using regular rounds. In his last outing he shot a girl that had gone to my old elementary school in the Bronx. She was sitting in car with a guy outside a club. Only reason the two of them are alive is he fired through the windshield. Bullets fragmented.”
“The Bayside shooting. You knew her?”
“Nah. It’s one of those weird connections in a city this big.”
“The city isn’t that big, William,” Pope said. “Trust me, lad. I learned that and if you haven’t yet, you will. Stories run deep here and often have strange ties. I asked my friend at the Post for the latest. One of Murdoch’s bloody gangaroos had a song, Jimi Hendrix’s Purple Haze, analyzed by some sort of audio expert. Claims there’s a hidden track repeating ‘help me Son of Sam’. Utter rubbish but, of course, they printed it. They’re making things up, considering Hendrix has been dead for years and the song was recorded a decade ago. Anything to sell papers.”
“Even the cops are grasping at straws,” Kane said.
“How so?”
“
They invited me to help,” Kane said. “That’s pretty desperate.”
“You underestimate yourself.” Pope reached across the table and briefly patted Kane on the arm. “Never do that. Leave that job to the many others waiting in line who are more than willing to do it for you.”
Kane didn’t respond.
“Anything else you care to share?” Pope finally asked.
“I wasn’t there long. My meeting didn’t go well. Mind if I ask you about something else?”
“Fire away, my friend. All I have is time and knowledge.”
“Do you know Thomas Marcelle?”
“Thomas ‘the Hammer’ Marcelle? The fire-breathing US Attorney? Or the revised Thomas Marcelle who walked away and hung his placard out to the highest bidder?”
“Same guy.”
“No, no, not the same,” Pope slurred. “No, no, no, lad. Marcelle was a power for good when he worked for the government.”
“And now?”
“And now he is a force for his clients,” Pope said. “Whoever they happen to be, which means whoever can pay the most.”
“His son’s death affected him,” Kane said.
“Perhaps,” Pope agreed. “Certainly, it was a factor.”
“’A factor’? What else happened?”
“I’d have to dig a bit,” Pope said. “While I remember much, not every facet is readily available in my frontal lobe. But there was a political angle to it, I believe. Some sort of stink at the time. I fear you are in deep waters, lad.”
“I’ve been there before,” Kane said.
Pope slumped back in his chair. Kane waited a minute, but the former reporter began to snore.
Kane walked around the table. The old man wasn’t heavy. He carried him to the master bedroom on the top floor facing Jane Street. Gingerly laid him down. Pulled his shoes off. Turned on the fan in the window.
Kane started to leave, then returned to the bed. He took Pope’s spectacles off, folded them, and placed them on the nightstand.
As he headed for the stairs he spotted a manual typewriter perched on a folding dinner tray with a stool underneath. In the dim light Kane glanced at the piece of paper inserted in the carriage.
It was blank, awaiting the first touch of finger to key.
Son of Sam Letter, April 1977
Blood and Family
Darkness and Death
Absolute Depravity
Return address on Son of Sam’s letter to Jimmy Breslin, April 1977
Monday, 21 July 1969
LONG BINH, SOUTH VIETNAM
Captain William Kane, United State Army Special Forces, takes shuffling, shackled steps into prison. As he and his comrades are processed, the eight Green Berets will not be the only prisoners in Long Binh Jail accused of murder. There are men here who’ve fragged their officers or NCOs. Those who’ve killed for reasons other than the war, such as robbery, rape, hate, revenge, and some because there was a weapon handy when they were drunk, or high and angry.
In essence, the rule is Uncle Sam brought them to Vietnam to kill, but only who and where and when Uncle Sam authorizes.
The Green Berets, however, will be the only ones held in LBJ whose crimes are classified.
Long Binh is the largest American base in Vietnam with over 60,000 personnel, essentially one out of every ten Americans in country. What those who are in the jungle, boots on the ground, call REMFs: rear echelon motherfuckers.
The prison is a collection of gray, cement buildings with tin roofs, surrounded by a cyclone fence topped with razor wire occupying a corner of the sprawling military complex. Guard towers with MPs manning machineguns dot the perimeter. Facing inward. Toward fellow Americans in a war zone. During the Tet Offensive earlier in the year, the VC and NVA were able to penetrate into Long Binh and cause a spectacular explosion at the ammo dump, but they didn’t attack the prison.
In a bare room, the Green Berets are ordered to take off their belts and shoelaces by a hard-faced Sergeant. Their small shaving kits are inspected as if they contain weapons. Two MPs have M-3 greaseguns at the ready as the Sergeant goes through the gear.
Someone in the next room begins whistling. A lively melody they’ve all heard and the irony is not lost.
The Sergeant is disconcerted for a moment. “Grab your stuff,” he orders.
They gather the meager supplies they’re authorized.
“Get in line.” The Sergeant enjoys ordering officers around. He points at the Colonel, the Fifth Special Forces Group commander, then to another sergeant waiting at a door. “You go with him.”
The Colonel pauses. “Stand for each other, men.”
The Colonel is pushed through the door. One by one, the others are taken away to solitary confinement. Kane is the last. The Sergeant appears nervous. He indicates the door through which the whistling is drifting. “There.”
Kane walks into an interrogation room.
A man sits on a small gray metal table. There are no chairs. Three Nung mercenaries in civilian clothes talk quietly among themselves in a corner.
The man wears unmarked khakis and black, blocky glasses with thick lenses. His face is red, whether from the sun, heat or drink? He smokes and the room reeks of it. A half-dozen cigarette stubs are mashed on the tabletop.
“Did you recognize the tune I was whistling, Captain Kane?”
“Bridge On The River Kwai.”
“It’s actually called Colonel Bogey’s March,” the man says.
“Who are you?”
“Name’s Trent.”
The door shuts behind Kane with a solid thud. The walls are lined with soundproofing.
“Technically you command the A-Team stationed at camp 8414,” Trent says. “You’re not part of Gamma.”
“You’re CIA,” Kane says.
The three Nungs cease talking and greedily watch.
“Why are they here?” Kane asks. Special Forces often employs Nungs, ethnic Chinese in Vietnam, who are willing to work for the highest bidder. The CIA also does that. As do the South Vietnamese, the Viet Cong and the NVA.
“Oh, don’t worry about them,” Trent says. “They don’t understand English. They serve other purposes. Here’s the way I see your situation. You were in the wrong place at the wrong time and helped out your Green Beret brethren. Bad luck, really. It should never have gone this far.”
“I agree with that last bit,” Kane says. He’s uncomfortable in jungle fatigues, no belt, his boots de-laced. His pants are loose, as he’s lost weight over the months of this tour of duty. It’s the first time in country he’s not armed.
“Do you know what Gamma does?” Trent asks. He chains another cigarette from the remains.
“Not my place to say.”
“You’re in here on murder charges, Captain,” Trent says. “You need to think about your place.”
“It’s classified,” Kane says.
“That’s right,” Trent agrees. “But you know what they do or else you’d never gotten involved. Your camp isn’t that large.”
Kane doesn’t reply.
“Of course, your team, separate from Gamma, has done its own covert missions. You’re part of MACV-SOG. Studies and Observation Group. So innocent sounding.”
Trent waits for something, but Kane doesn’t respond
“Still being honorable?” Trent wonders aloud. “Really? Got that West Point ethos? Duty, honor, country, etcetera?” He pauses a moment. Then continues. “Gamma is running recon into Cambodia. So we can bomb the fucking gooks coming down through what they view as a sanctuary. Hell, Kane, from your camp you can hear the bombs when they go off. Nothing like an Arc Light. B-52s are flying so high the gooks can’t see or hear them. First notice anyone gets of hell on earth is when things start going boom. I understand it sucks the air out of the lungs from those on the fringe. Obliterates those inside.”
“’Crack the sky and shake the earth’,” Kane mutters.
“What was that?”
“What someone told me it w
as like,” Kane says. “We’re not supposed to be bombing Cambodia.”
“No shit.” Trent smiles, revealing yellowing teeth. “General Abrams is one of the few with the clearance to know. I know. You know. Your fellow Green Berets in Gamma know. The pilots. Not many more. An illegal order straight from the fucking White House. Tricky Dick himself. Expanding the war without authorization. You see the problem?”
“I see your problem,” Kane says.
“Look around, Kane. This is much more your problem. This needs to go away. Who was the shooter? Give me the name, everyone else gets out of here today, and this never happened.”
“You don’t have that authority,” Kane says. “This is an Army matter.”
“True,” Trent admits. “You and your buddies are in here because General Abrams has a bug up his ass about Special Forces. Hates you fuckers. Regular army through and through. Which is why he’s losing this war.” Trent waits. Continues. “That movie, Bridge on the River Kwai. Remember it?”
“British commander in charge of POWs builds a railroad bridge for the Japanese,” Kane says. “It’s blown up.”
“A concise summary,” Trent says. “But think what it represents? Regular Army officer, in the name of honor and professionalism, does something unbelievably stupid, almost treasonous. Sort of like arresting one’s own men for killing the enemy. The last time I was at General Abrams HQ I heard singing coming from his hooch, and a mighty fine hooch it is. Air-conditioning and a wet bar. He had staff officers in there. Singing a spiritual. ‘He’s Got The Whole World In His Hands’. For entertainment. What does that tell you?” Trent twirls a finger next to head. “Nut job living in a different time, fighting the last war. But it’s the only one he has. So that’s a reality.”
Trent lights another cigarette from the remains. “You green beanies, you’re getting it. War has different. Hearts and minds. And bullets in the head. I am assuming it was a bullet to the head for Ngo. Right?”
