it looked like they might be right on the money.
Collins loosened his tie and unbuttoned the top button of his shirt. He’d just dispatched his grad assistant to the registrar’s office with the final grades. After she left, he opened a bottle of orange juice, picked up the phone, and dialed Lucas White’s number. Lucas answered on the first ring.
“All done with the dirty work,” Collins said.
“My boy, I’m afraid the dirty work is only beginning.”
Collins said nothing.
“Is it safe to assume you took time out from dispensing great works of literature to study the contents of the file I left with you?” Lucas asked.
“Haven’t opened it.”
“Why am I not surprised?” Lucas muttered.
“Because you know me.”
Such a response would have provoked an outburst from most military commanders. But Lucas White wasn’t like most commanders. He was unique, wise as an owl, pragmatic. He did what the situation demanded, always. His theory: whatever it takes is what you do. That pragmatism enabled him to understand and tolerate what others often referred to as “Cain’s fucking unorthodox ways.”
“Should you get a couple of free minutes, you might give it a quick glance,” Lucas said. “If for no other reason than to justify the expense and effort involved. And to please an old man. Will you do that for me?”
“I trained Seneca. There’s nothing about him I don’t already know.”
“I’m aware. But, please, humor me. Who knows? Even someone as omniscient as you might eventually stumble upon a hidden kernel of information. Stranger things have happened.”
“Enough, already, Lucas. I’ll look at the damn file.”
Such verbal sparring was old hat between the two men, and given their respective personalities, it was perhaps inevitable. It was their way of communicating, of bridging the wide gap separating them, of overcoming their many differences.
And there were many.
Lucas White was a by-the-book soldier, but one who could, when times dictated, bend enough to offer a certain amount of latitude. He could handle those soldiers who drove his fellow officers to early retirement, alcoholism, or both. Soldiers like Collins, who detested everything associated with by-the-book restrictions. The rebels, the hard cases.
There was another reason Lucas could be lenient toward this particular rebel: rebellion was typical for a career soldier’s children. Collins’s father, like Lucas, had been a thirty-five-year military man. Historically, military brats either followed closely in their father’s footsteps or rebelled completely. Seldom was there a middle ground when it came to children raised on military posts around the world. With them, it was either West Point or Haight Ashbury.
Collins rebelled. At least, initially. Later, drawn by some inexplicable pull—perhaps an ironic manifestation of his rebellious nature, Lucas concluded—he broke from his anti-war comrades and, at age seventeen, with his father’s blessing, signed up for a three-year hitch in the Army. The war in Vietnam was heating up, and within eight months after enlisting, Collins was sent into those jungles. It was there, during the final weeks of his first tour of duty in Nam, that his special “talent” became apparent.
The talent for killing.
A talent so enormous, so expert, that any commanding officer with the least bit of wisdom would gladly accommodate it, even if it meant accepting unmilitary behavior. Whatever it takes is what you do. After all, Lucas reasoned, men with such rare gifts are exempt from certain rules that apply to the mediocre among us.
“Jolly good,” said Lucas. “When you finish slogging your way through it, call if you have any questions.”
Collins was silent.
“Advise me as to your planned course of action,” Lucas added. “Most of all, be careful. And may God grant you his blessings.”
“Does God grant his blessings to killers, Lucas?”
This time it was Lucas who was silent.
Lucas
Collins loosened his tie and unbuttoned the top button of his shirt. He’d just dispatched his grad assistant to the registrar’s office with the final grades. After she left, he opened a bottle of orange juice, picked up the phone, and dialed Lucas White’s number. Lucas answered on the first ring.
“All done with the dirty work,” Collins said.
“My boy, I’m afraid the dirty work is only beginning.”
Collins said nothing.
“Is it safe to assume you took time out from dispensing great works of literature to study the contents of the file I left with you?” Lucas asked.
“Haven’t opened it.”
“Why am I not surprised?” Lucas muttered.
“Because you know me.”
Such a response would have provoked an outburst from most military commanders. But Lucas White wasn’t like most commanders. He was unique, wise as an owl, pragmatic. He did what the situation demanded, always. His theory: whatever it takes is what you do. That pragmatism enabled him to understand and tolerate what others often referred to as “Cain’s fucking unorthodox ways.”
“Should you get a couple of free minutes, you might give it a quick glance,” Lucas said. “If for no other reason than to justify the expense and effort involved. And to please an old man. Will you do that for me?”
“I trained Seneca. There’s nothing about him I don’t already know.”
“I’m aware. But, please, humor me. Who knows? Even someone as omniscient as you might eventually stumble upon a hidden kernel of information. Stranger things have happened.”
“Enough, already, Lucas. I’ll look at the damn file.”
Such verbal sparring was old hat between the two men, and given their respective personalities, it was perhaps inevitable. It was their way of communicating, of bridging the wide gap separating them, of overcoming their many differences.
And there were many.
Lucas White was a by-the-book soldier, but one who could, when times dictated, bend enough to offer a certain amount of latitude. He could handle those soldiers who drove his fellow officers to early retirement, alcoholism, or both. Soldiers like Collins, who detested everything associated with by-the-book restrictions. The rebels, the hard cases.
There was another reason Lucas could be lenient toward this particular rebel: rebellion was typical for a career soldier’s children. Collins’s father, like Lucas, had been a thirty-five-year military man. Historically, military brats either followed closely in their father’s footsteps or rebelled completely. Seldom was there a middle ground when it came to children raised on military posts around the world. With them, it was either West Point or Haight Ashbury.
Collins rebelled. At least, initially. Later, drawn by some inexplicable pull—perhaps an ironic manifestation of his rebellious nature, Lucas concluded—he broke from his anti-war comrades and, at age seventeen, with his father’s blessing, signed up for a three-year hitch in the Army. The war in Vietnam was heating up, and within eight months after enlisting, Collins was sent into those jungles. It was there, during the final weeks of his first tour of duty in Nam, that his special “talent” became apparent.
The talent for killing.
A talent so enormous, so expert, that any commanding officer with the least bit of wisdom would gladly accommodate it, even if it meant accepting unmilitary behavior. Whatever it takes is what you do. After all, Lucas reasoned, men with such rare gifts are exempt from certain rules that apply to the mediocre among us.
“Jolly good,” said Lucas. “When you finish slogging your way through it, call if you have any questions.”
Collins was silent.
“Advise me as to your planned course of action,” Lucas added. “Most of all, be careful. And may God grant you his blessings.”
“Does God grant his blessings to killers, Lucas?”
This time it was Lucas who was silent.
Lucas
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