Chase Fulton Box Set

by Cap Daniels

  I was in awe. I never expected that the outrageous bunch of nicknames being thrown around would be historically significant. I thought these were old drinking buddies. I had no idea.

  “So, let’s go have some lunch and see if we can find a boat that nobody’s using for the afternoon,” Dr. Richter said.

  Everyone rose from his seat and started for the dining room. I leaned forward to crush out my cigar, but before I could press it into the ashtray, Beater grabbed my wrist with his bear trap hand. “Don’t you dare put that out, boy. Smoke it ‘til the hair burns off your hand, then eat the stump.”

  I quickly stuck the cigar back in my mouth and followed the crowd into the lobby. I thought someone would yell at us for smoking in the hotel, but nobody said a word as we wound our way through the old majestic building.

  6

  The Pitch

  We ate for almost two hours, and during this time my four new friends shared more stories about my parents. These stories served to both remind me how much I loved my parents, and to solidify my need to connect with what they were.

  That was a brilliant psychological play. The old guys knew exactly what they were doing by appealing to the emotion surrounding the loss of my family. It was the perfect pitch without sounding like a pitch. Those guys were good—very good.

  After lunch, we found ourselves aboard a gorgeous Morgan 452 sailing yacht. Emblazoned across the back of the boat was the word “Aegis.” Having spent most of my childhood in the Caribbean, I was no stranger to sailboats, but this one was special. I’d launched more than a few Hobie catamarans through the air and across the waves, but a yacht of this size was definitely out of my league. I was fascinated by everything about the yacht. The masts looked like telephone poles, and the winches were the size of paint cans. As magnificent as Dr. Richter’s airplane had been, to me, the Morgan was the more impressive machine.

  We motored down the Mackay River, past the St. Simons Light, and into St. Simons Sound with Ace at the wheel. It was quiet as we watched the seabirds drift on the afternoon breeze.

  “Come on up here, boy!”

  I didn’t hesitate. I took the wheel with confidence, determined to prove that I wasn’t as naïve on the water as they expected. The channel was well marked with red and green buoys that bobbed and cast ever-increasing wakes as the powerful current flowed past them. Even though I knew we were in no danger of running aground as long as we stayed between the buoys, I kept a close eye on the depth as we left the river and headed out into the Atlantic.

  The wind instrument showed a constant sixteen knots from the northeast. I pulled the throttle back and felt the yacht slow beneath my feet. Before I could ask if we were just going to continue motoring, Ace and Beater went to work hoisting the sails.

  As the sails went up and the engine fell silent, the roar of the diesel engine gave way to the sounds of the wind in the rigging and the rush of water gliding past the hull. The yacht heeled over and felt light and graceful under my grasp on the wheel. I hadn’t sailed in years, but the old feelings came rushing back as I held the yacht into the wind with the sails close-hauled. I liked the feeling. We sailed for an hour or so, wandering about in the depths of the Atlantic with the east coast of Georgia only a few miles to the west, but somehow, it felt like we were a million miles from the rest of the world.

  Dr. Richter said, “You’re a fine sailor, Mr. Fulton. Why don’t you let Ace drive a while so you and I can have a chat?”

  Ace took the wheel, and I followed Dr. Richter onto the foredeck and settled into a pair of teak chairs. I felt the boat start to turn to the south and watched the sails swing away from the centerline of the yacht. The heeling fell away as the yacht rolled gently into a downwind run, and the deck leveled beneath our feet. The wind fell to a light breeze and our seats became far more comfortable on the level deck.

  “So,” began Dr. Richter, “I’m sure all of this is a bit overwhelming for you. First you learn that your parents aren’t who and what you believed them to be. Then you’re introduced to a side of the world you probably never knew existed outside of a movie theater. Finally, while you’re trying to absorb all of that, you’re asked by four old guys who you barely know to become something that you don’t understand. I’m sure you have a lot of questions, so now’s the time to ask. I’ll answer as honestly and completely as I can.”

  He leaned back and pretended to be comfortable. In reality, I’d never seen him so immensely uncomfortable. I knew it wasn’t possible to outthink him, but for the first time in my life, I felt that I had some standing with Dr. Richter, and maybe, just maybe, I had something he wanted—perhaps even something he needed.

  I decided at that moment to never again let anyone or anything make me feel that I was less than completely in command of everything in my world. I was finished being a student of academia. At that moment, I became a student of reality. Those two worlds have almost nothing in common, they sometimes collide, but they never collaborate with each other. Academia and reality are never bedfellows. I did have questions by the bushel, but I would decide which ones would come then, and which would be saved for later, many of them for much later.

  I started where any rational party to an irrational negotiation would begin. “Just what is it you want me to do, Coach?”

  When I first started learning how to crouch behind home plate and sit relatively still while another human threw baseballs at me as hard as he could, I learned that there was nothing more important than having better balance than everyone else on the field. I learned when to lean forward on the balls of my feet and when to dig into the clay and make a stand to protect something worth protecting, be it home plate or my pitcher when an errant fastball brushed a little too close to a batter’s head.

  I decided that I would psychologically lean forward onto the balls of my feet and make it very clear that I was not off-balance. Dr. Richter quickly recognized my posturing. Even though I may have appeared confident in that moment, in truth, I was terrified out of my young, arrogant head. I would soon learn to harness that terror and turn it into something deadly.

  Dr. Richter looked up as if he were trying to decide how to form the words that would become his answer, but he didn’t hesitate more than a few seconds. “Mr. Fulton, I want you to kill everybody on this planet who doesn’t think freedom is the answer to everything that’s evil.”

  Holy shit. I didn’t expect that.

  I expected something patriotic, but nothing like that. He wanted me to kill people for him, and if not for him, for the same people he’d once served. Perhaps he was still their servant.

  Before I could convince my mouth to form real words, he continued. “I know, I know. You’re thinking you didn’t expect me to be so frank, but this is no time for bullshit, Chase. This is the time to make some tough decisions. My answer to your question was overly simple. In reality, what I want is for you to agree to forget who you are and who you thought you’d be when you grew up. I want you to forget that you’re a brilliant psychologist and that you lost a promising career as a Major League ball player. I want you to forget that you’re an orphan and stop believing that you’re alone in the world. I want you to become something invisible, invincible, and definitely and defiantly insane. I want you to volunteer to learn a set of skills that will turn your body and mind into something humanity needs and deserves, but something humanity has no stomach for knowing. I want you to disappear for a year, or maybe longer, so you can be taught by some of the best clandestine operators on Earth. I want you to learn to shoot while you’re bleeding, think while you’re terrified, run when your body tells you you can’t take another step, and most of all, Chase, I want you to learn to take the lives of other men who don’t deserve to continue breathing.”

  I did my best to keep my composure. In a voice that I wanted to sound far more confident than it actually was, I asked, “And you want me to do this for the CIA or the FBI or for whom?”

  “Oh, for God’s sake, none of the above.
You’ve got a lot to learn. The CIA and FBI don’t have assassins. They have operators who are bound by ridiculous rules, laws, and regulations. No, my boy. Rules, laws, and regulations are for people who allow their minds to be fettered by others who consider themselves morally superior. You won’t be getting a badge or credentials that’ll get you out of a speeding ticket. You’ll be working on the fringe of morality and legality. You’ll be paid very well for what you’ll learn to do. You’ll die a very wealthy man. Unfortunately, that death may come far sooner than you’d like, but that’s all part of the game we play. You see, you’re the perfect cocktail of brilliance and insanity that makes the best assassin. By the way, I don’t like that word, assassin. I prefer to think of people like us as problem solvers. The problems we solve are contrary attitudes and misguided beliefs. There are people on this Earth who would take your freedom and that of every American and piss on it before breakfast every day if the opportunity presented itself. Those are the people we extinguish. Those are the ideologies we erase. It’s the oldest, corniest story in the book, but we’re the good guys, and for the good guys to prosper, there have to be people who are willing to do what others can’t or won’t do to protect the freedom under which we all bask in this great country. Look around. You’re aboard a beautiful boat off the coast of one of the most beautiful islands of the greatest country that’s ever existed. Almost one hundred percent of Americans lack the stomach for what we do. Almost one hundred percent of them have no idea that we exist or that what we do is not only necessary, but crucial to the continuation of life as they know it.”

  He paused, lifted a glass I hadn’t realized was in his hand, and took a long appreciative swallow. Time stood still and simultaneously raced. I suddenly wished I had a drink.

  “So, who will I be working for?” I asked.

  “You’ll be working for the American people,” he said. “You’ll be paid mostly by the U.S. Government out of funds that are set aside for, well, let’s say less-than-usual situations. Occasionally, there are international pots of money floating around that need a place to land. A few especially interesting jobs pay a little more than others. You’ll never really know, and honestly, it doesn’t really matter.”

  His words were chosen carefully, but it was clear he wanted to tell me more. I decided to open the door a little wider for him. “Okay, let’s say that I’m in. When do I start, and who’s my boss?”

  Before beginning his answer, he enjoyed another long swallow. “You’ve already started. As far as a boss is concerned, you’ll be what most people call a contractor. You’ll be asked to do certain unthinkable things from time to time by people you’ll never meet. You’ll do those things and shortly thereafter, you’ll be paid very handsomely. It’s as simple as that.”

  I stammered a little. “But, I don’t have any training or skills like you’re talking about. I’ve never flown faster than the speed of sound. I’ve never beaten people up during interrogations. I’ve never listened for submarines. And I’ve certainly never shot down any Germans. What makes you think I can do any of this?”

  He smiled. “There was a time when none of us had ever done any of those things either, but we learned and we excelled. Tell me one thing in your life at which you have ever failed. Tell me one time when you let anyone outperform you at anything. Tell me the last time someone expected more of you than you could deliver.”

  I thought about it, but before I could answer, he said, “Never. That’s when. Never have any of those things happened. You aren’t common or ordinary. You’re elite, and you know it. Hell, you’ve known it all your life. It’s in your blood, just like it was in your parents’ blood.”

  At that moment, Beater came on deck with a carbon copy of whatever Dr. Richter was drinking. He offered it to me, and said, “I figured that by now you could use a drink. We’re going to be coming about soon . . . whatever that means. Ace just wanted me to let you know.”

  I thankfully accepted the drink and savored the musty, oaky taste of the scotch as it warmed my tongue and melted its way down my throat. I looked up to see the main boom being centered. That meant we were about to gybe and head back north to St. Simons Island. I carefully looked through the wall of my tumbler at the honey-colored liquor swirling inside. I whispered, “I’m in.”

  The boat turned to starboard and heeled as the genoa, the sail out front, crossed the foredeck and found its place on the opposite side. It was beautiful to watch the elegant boat behave so well under the experienced hands of Ace and Tuner. Beater tried to stay out of the way.

  As Dr. Richter and I made our way back to the cockpit, I asked, “What does the name of the boat mean?”

  He grinned. “Aegis is from the Iliad, my boy. Most people believe it was Athena’s battle shield, but a few of us think it’s a protective force of incredible power that’s rarely seen. That’s what you’ll become very soon.” He patted me on the shoulder. “Oh, and don’t you go shooting down any Germans. They’re our friends now.”

  7

  Welcome to Hell

  I assumed we’d spend the rest of the weekend smoking cigars, drinking scotch, and talking about what I’d be doing in the near future, but, as assumptions tend to be, mine was dead wrong.

  Nothing of the sort happened when we stepped from Aegis back onto the dock near the resort. Before my feet met the weather-beaten, warped planks, two guys who looked like linebackers flanked me. The larger of the two placed his beefy hand on my shoulder, and in a matter-of-fact tone, said, “Mr. Fulton, you’ll be coming with us.”

  My mind raced.

  Who and what are these guys? Are they cops? Other younger versions of my hosts? Something completely different?

  Instead of resisting or protesting, I fell into lockstep with the linebackers and never looked back. They ushered me into the back seat of a black, ominous-looking Chevy Suburban, and each man found his place in the front seat.

  In some ridiculous random thought, I blurted out, “Hey! What about my backpack and stuff?”

  Silence.

  Before I realized we’d actually left the island, we were merging onto I-95 North. We arrived less than an hour later at Hunter Army Airfield in Savannah. Had we done the speed limit, it would’ve taken nearly two hours to make the ninety-mile trip. My heart was pounding again. I can’t say I was afraid, but I was anxious.

  After passing through the security gate manned by a young, imposing-looking military police officer, we continued deeper into the base, but our speed had greatly diminished. I guess speed limits on a military base meant more to those guys than limits on the highway. We drove confidently onto the flight line and alongside a gorgeous blue and white Gulfstream jet.

  I reached to open my door, only to discover that there was no handle. As I reeled from the thought of being held captive in the back seat of the blacked-out Suburban, my door burst open and there stood linebacker number one. He motioned for me to get out, so, unwilling to argue, I followed his unspoken order. As if materializing from thin air, linebacker number two appeared at my side, and once again in lockstep, we began our determined gait across the tarmac. They directed me toward the stairwell of the Gulfstream, and I wasted no time bounding up the stairs. Neither linebacker followed me, but the door closed before I could decide which plush leather seat to occupy.

  I appeared to be the only living soul aboard the airplane, but obviously that appearance was misleading because the plane began to taxi before I was buckled in. As I was fumbling with the seatbelt, a voice filled the cabin. It could’ve been the voice of God for all I knew, and frankly, after the day I’d just experienced, it wouldn’t have surprised me. The voice turned out to be far less divine. It belonged to one of the pilots.

  “Mr. Fulton, please make yourself comfortable. We’ll be on the ground again in a little over an hour. In the meantime, relax, and try to get some sleep. It may be the last good sleep you ever get. Enjoy the ride.”

  I tried to figure out how fast the Gulfstream would fly so I co
uld come up with some reasonable guess as to where we might be going. I guessed it could go five hundred miles per hour. That could put us in East Texas, Oklahoma, Indiana, the Florida Keys, or maybe even Washington D.C. in a little over an hour.

  As it turned out, D.C. wasn’t a bad guess. I watched the capital pass beneath us as we descended into what must’ve been Virginia.

  When the door of the Gulfstream opened, I felt a rush of cold, wet air pour into the airplane. It was clearly still winter in Virginia. I pulled my sleeves down and turned my collar up against the cold as I walked tentatively down the stairs.

  When my feet hit the earth again, another beast of a man materialized in front of me. This one was no linebacker. He was more like an aged oak tree. I’d never seen such a solidly built human. He carried himself with incredible confidence. He looked fiftyish, but I suspected he was much younger than he appeared. It was clear he’d lived a rough life, most of it outside.