Killing Chase

by Ben Muse

  I remember the last moments of my old life: the cold water beginning to encompass me, my legs tiring from furiously treading water in the choppy Atlantic, my arms tied behind me, useless. The lights from Anchor had faded as I swallowed and gagged on the seawater. Surrounded by darkness, I fought to stay on the surface for five minutes or so, before I gave up and took one last deep breath. With my fate accepted, I slipped quietly beneath the surface. I thought it sad that I should die at the hands of my own flesh and blood. Strangely enough, I still didn’t hate her, even after this betrayal. I believed that the unspeakable act she endured so many years ago had soured her soul and left her adrift on a sea of misery and loathing.

  As I began to lose consciousness, I witnessed a dull, green glow and thought it a part of the dying process, until something, or someone as I would later learn, grabbed me from behind and thrust life into me. Life being a breathing regulator, and my savior, a Coast Guard rescue diver. The green glow came from an underwater dive light affixed to his head. I remembered coming to sometime later, on the deck of a Coast Guard cutter, groggy and still coughing up seawater. One of the first things I saw was a pair of emerald eyes that stared at me on the brightly lit deck, as the cutter’s medical staff tended to me. For a moment, I couldn’t remember her name. Tears slid down her face, and our hands interlocked. I just knew I was safe. Then I remembered. Elizabeth.

  I wasn’t taken to a hospital. Instead, Elizabeth and I were transported to shore on a helicopter and driven to an FBI safe house, where the only eyes that saw me belonged to two FBI doctors. They monitored me for two days before they pronounced me healthy . . . physically. Mentally, there are still scars, but I’ll take those over death any day. Given time, they will scab over and heal. For now, I share my sleep with the nightmares.

  Later, Elizabeth told me the story of how I was saved and how Sergei’s plan was foiled. Of the two shots I received in the medical unit at Ashmore, before my release on March 15, one was an injection of an extremely accurate and newly invented miniature GPS device that would be used to track me during my release, in case I decided to flee . . . or drown myself. Ha! My sense of humor was making a comeback. Thank God for paranoid Feds.

  Before he engaged Sergei and his men on the beach deck, Detective Reigart was able to alert Jenna to the bomb’s actual location. A United States Navy’s fast attack sub that was patrolling off the East Coast identified Gemini’s acoustic signature as it entered Chesapeake Bay. The sub then launched a nonlethal torpedo into Gemini’s screw that rendered her immobile. I don’t know what happened after that, but it’s been six months, and Washington is still on the map, and the Eastern Seaboard wasn’t subjected to a nuke-induced tsunami.

  For all of Sergei’s planning, it was damn stupid to attempt a mini-sub insertion so close to one of the U.S. Navy’s submarine bases. Unfortunately, Sergei escaped on Calypso before the Coast Guard and FBI could board the Anchor Management. I haven’t been told anything, but I’m willing to bet he and Bailey were picked up by one of his many boats. I say they, but more than likely it’s he, as he would have no more use for my sister. She made her own bed, and I imagine she is sleeping with the fishes. I do not say this to be funny.

  I haven’t told anyone that Bailey was working with Sergei. I don’t know why—maybe because at the end of the day she’s still my sister and, before that, someone I cared deeply for. Bonds like that are damn hard to break. Hokey, I know. She broke ours and wanted me dead. As far as the FBI is concerned, Dmitri tied me up and shoved me into the water. I told them that the last I saw of Bailey, she was tied up next to me.

  With Sergei Durov and his unlimited resources still out there, Agent Schmidt has put me into the Witness Protection program. One day I may have to testify against Sergei (doubtful) and my testimony will go smoother, I’m told, if I’m breathing.

  My entire identity has been erased, my death reported as a drowning. Even in death, I get no respect. Death on the High Seas: Noted Shipbuilder, Ex-Con Son and Female Aquatica Executive Perish off Virginia Coast read the headline in the Wilmington Star.

  The Feds have done a good job at keeping the details of this story under wraps. It behooves them to do so. Missing Russian Suitcase Nuke Threatened East Coast would not make the public feel good about its safety or about its elected leaders. The story from the FBI is that Sergei was attempting to use the Anchor Management to explore a concentrated area of lanthanum off the Virginia coast. It’s a thin story, but it’s all they’ve got.

  It is a truly strange thing to read about your own demise, and it will be even stranger if Chase Hampton rises from the dead in the future. I look forward to that day.

  I think about Pops from time to time and I wish I could pick up the phone and just tell him I’m okay. That’s it. Nothing more. As far as he knows, he has outlived us all, just as my father said he would, and I know it hurts his old heart. Aquatic Expeditions is back under his control from what I’ve read, though he’s just the figurehead.

  I also think about Anna, beautiful Anna, an innocent pawn in her father’s deadly game. Sergei left her on the ship, and I don’t know what happened to her. Perhaps I’m better off not knowing.

  But Chase Hampton had a mother, who must be crushed upon hearing her son had died. The truth is I’ve talked to her twice, in person. Of course, she didn’t know she was talking to me. A little plastic surgery and colored contacts can do wonders in altering appearances. I visited her in Palm Springs and struck up a conversation in a coffee shop as she drank her morning chai tea. She’s content, but still a couple bananas shy of a bunch. I think about what I will do someday if I’m blessed with a child of my own. Do I take a chance and introduce my child to his or her crazy grandmother?

  My child’s name will have the word Jay in it. I considered using detective, but I don’t think that would go over well. According to my FBI-provided therapist, a lot of what I’m dealing with is survivor’s guilt. I survived; Detective Reigart did not. He is the hero in this story. All he wanted was justice for Kenny Jackson, but he ended up making the ultimate sacrifice while saving an untold number of lives in the process. I can’t help but think it could have been me. Should have been me.

  But the living have to live, so life goes on for me, Alan Larsen. On paper I’m worth around fifteen million dollars, or rather Chase Hampton is. Hidden under the electronics and cash in that aluminum suitcase I received on my first night of freedom was another envelope. This envelope contained a single piece of Cayman National Bank stationery with an account number written on it. A series of numbers and letters that added up to that fifteen-million-dollar figure. It generates about a hundred fifty thousand a year in interest and would provide a comfortable life for where I’m living. It was this document, along with what was left of my ten-thousand=dollar gift from my father, that I handed over to Jenna that last night before I sailed on Anchor.

  So Chase Hampton would be doing well. Alan Larsen is just doing okay. A five-hundred-thousand dollar Thank You from Uncle Sam, along with a one-year-only stipend that takes care of lodging and food is my only source of income. Not that I need or want for much. Peace and quiet is my currency of choice. Someday I will be able to claim the big money. There’s a lot of good to be done there.

  With 3.79 million square miles of United States territory to pick from, I am but the smallest of specks on the map, and try as anyone might, I will not be found. Not even by Sergei Durov. He thinks I’m dead anyway. But I can find whomever I wish. I have the full resources of a recently retired FBI agent at my disposal. She goes by Alex now, and her shoulder-length hair is shorter and red in color. She is my family now, until she decides otherwise. We sleep in most mornings and—

  “Are you done writing? You’d hate to be late for your first solo flight,” she said, coming down the stairs. She’s chosen jeans, a white V-neck tee, and leather bomber jacket as her ensemble for today, and being ex-FBI, I’m sure she has a surprise or two on her person. You can never be too careful. My therapist has sug
gested that I put my story down on paper as a way of moving forward.

  “Just finishing up,” I said. I’ve grown a beard (Alex approves), and I’ve been taking flying lessons, as you just learned. It’s the only extravagance I’ve allowed myself to have. It seems I have a knack for it, and I’m sure somewhere, Hank Hampton is smiling as he watches me commandeer the controls of a Cessna. It’s when I feel most connected to my past and most confident about the future.

  Epilogue

  December 25, 2012

  Dear Diary,

  I know it’s been awhile since my last entry, but I’ve been busy, and I’m in a much better place because of my actions. Especially the most recent one. Fox and CNN covered it nonstop all day, and it was all the craze on the Twitterverse, though I didn’t do it for the frenzy generated by the masses. I did it for me and any other women who may be out there, ashamed of what he did to them.

  Despite Sergei’s failure at turning Washington into a nuclear wasteland, he kept his word and allowed the use of his “resources” to carry out my plan. He and I are forever linked, as we both have information that could destroy the other. I have a rock-solid insurance plan. Mutually assured destruction was the term he used to describe our relationship. MAD, an acronymic relic from his past and a word I would use to describe his temperament after his failed plan. He and I talk cryptically in emails from time to time.

  I suppose Sergei could have killed me after we escaped on Calypso, and taken his chances, but I think he has a soft spot for me. He can’t contact Anna anymore, so I’m the surrogate, and I’m okay with that. He’s the only man who has ever treated me with any respect. We both understand the other’s level of hate and the need for closure. He still needs it, but not me. I don’t exist anymore. I’m dead, a victim of his attack on the Anchor Management. My body supposedly lost at sea. Including Sergei, there are only four people who know I’m alive, though Chase almost ruined it by sneaking the detective on board. Luckily, dead men tell no tales. The rest of the crew and Anna were tied up and left elsewhere on the ship, none the wiser about my role.

  Poor Chase. I must admit, I have a skosh of regret about ending his life. The look on his face as I pushed him into the water told me he was more shocked at the betrayal than the prospects of surviving his upcoming swim in the Atlantic. I took no satisfaction in it. As I said, it was just part of the healing process.

  I took quite a bit of pleasure in putting a bullet in Hank Hampton and ending his miserable, selfish life. It was ending soon anyway, but he died at a time of MY choosing, as did Jackson Ellis, Esq. I’m smiling, even now as I watch the YouTube video taken by a passerby before the police arrived. Streak’s dead eyes stare at the camera from the back of the old Ford pickup in Woodruff Park, near his law firm. A sign hangs from his neck. “Rapist” is written on it, in his own blood, for the world to see. That’s justice. I think back to the night I had him all to myself. He certainly did not go gentle into that good night.

  I miss Mom, and I know she must be heartbroken. The proceeds from my insurance policy combined with Hank’s donations to her retirement fund will leave her set for life. I don’t know if I’ll ever see or talk to her again; I know it’s probably best that I don’t.

  As for me, I’m enjoying the island life; I feel like myself now more than ever and thanks to a skilled doctor, I’m unrecognizable. I have my own retirement plan, and I’m doing quite well. From time to time, I think back to the days I spent in the beach cabana, before I knew everything, before the rape, when Chase and I were just kids. I had regrets. But life is short, and I’m done feeling sorry for myself or guilty for my actions. A quote from Henry David Thoreau keeps me focused on the future, “Never look back unless you are planning to go that way.” I’m not.

  -B

  Thank You

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  Excerpt from Giving Chase

  Coming November 2014

  Prologue

  November 1982

  Olenya Bay Naval Base

  Murmansk Oblast, Russia

  The Soviet sub commander stood on the empty dock in his full dress uniform as a bitter wind whipped the water into a frenzy across Olenya Bay. What little sun there’d been had dipped behind the rocky hills to the west of the narrow fjord. In the dying light, one hundred yards to the north, his pride and joy, K-714, slowly moved away from him and the dock, its black hull cutting toward the middle of the channel and deeper water, embarking on a mission he was not privy to. Five men he did not recognize, but guessed were naval commandos, had arrived in an old Zil-157 and boarded 714 five minutes before she eased away from the dock, increasing his curiosity.

  He was but one of six base personnel allowed to see the ship off—a bittersweet moment for him. He’d been her commander since she was commissioned two years ago. He’d trained her crew, became a father figure to most on board, and knew everything there was to know about 714. And he was giving her up to captain a newer Akula Class sub that would begin sea trials in two months’ time.

  K-714 was one of the quietest ships in the Russian Navy and the largest in its class. Her crew would need every ounce of its stealth in order for a successful mission. The American’s Los Angeles submarines were deathly quiet and highly adept at sniffing out the enemy, as were the vast sonar nets covering the North Atlantic seabed. K-714 would exit the Barents Sea off the northwest coast of Norway and enter the Norwegian Sea, crossing between the Faroe Islands and Iceland. From there, he could only guess where she would go.

  Thirty minutes earlier, he’d handed over control of the ship to his former starpom (executive officer), Vasili Petrov, now K-714’s captain. One of his best friends and seven years his junior, Vasili possessed a superior intellect and a demeanor that was calm when the situation was not. In many ways, the commander thought, Vasili was already better than he was at this stage of his career. The two had been afforded a few minutes to talk in private before K-714 departed its covered berth, shielded as it was from pesky American satellites.

  “Remember, you are the captain, Vasili. Run the boat the way you know how and not as our narcissistic political officer would have you.”

  “I will. Crew first, Rodina second,” he said, daring not to speak too loudly, lest the ears of someone loyal to Feliks Gromyko were listening.

  “Good, good. I won’t tell you how to do your job. I’ll just wish you Godspeed and safe travels, Captain.”

  “Thank you, Sergei, for your friendship and your wisdom. Our crew owes a debt of gratitude to you. May I ask one thing of you? Mind you, I’m not anticipating anything going wrong.”

  “What is it, Vasili?”

  The man cleared his throat before he began. “If for some reason I don’t return, please see that Darya, Mikel, and the baby are taken care of.”

  “Of course, Vasili, but you will return safe and sound in a few weeks, having served your country with distinction. That is an order,” he said, smiling and grasping his friend’s arm.

  “Thank you for your confidence, sir.”

  As the commander recalled the conversation from earlier, he lifted the black, Baigish binoculars to his eyes and focused on 714’s conning tower. From experience, he knew Vasili would be up there with Levkov, 714’s navigator, for another hour as they traversed the choppy bay and enjoyed their last view of the world for the next twenty or so days, if all went as planned. When they reached the northern extent of Kola Bay, Vasili would order the sub to dive, and K-714 would slip below the surface, beginning the world’s most dangerous game of cat and mous
e.

  Through his binoculars, he saw Vasili turn one last time to look back at the cold, gray dock. Seeing his friend still there, Vasili raised a hand and his mentor reciprocated the gesture.

  “God be with you and your crew, Vasili. You’re going to need his guiding hand,” Sergei Durov whispered as he remembered Vasili’s final request and the late boarding of those five men.

  Chapter 1

  December 2012

  “You need to see this,” Alex said with some urgency as I entered the small mudroom of our two-story cabin and kicked the remaining snow off my Salomon Crosstrainers. The early morning three-mile run up and down the endless snow-covered trails bordering our home was becoming a ritual for us, though Alex decided to skip the run and sleep in this morning. The overwhelming silence of a run in subfreezing temperatures at seventy-eight hundred feet cleared the mind and flooded the body with endorphins, and kicked my ass. Running on sand was a breeze compared to this.

  “Let me guess: we’re getting more damn snow.” Four feet so far since mid-November and winter was just getting started. Great for my job at Sierra Adventures, but for this beach boy at heart, winter was taking some getting used to.

  “Probably, but that’s not what I’m talking about. Jackson Ellis was murdered. He represented you in your trial if I remember correctly,” she said as she handed me my first mug of coffee for the day.

  Pointing the remote at the television, she rewound the last five minutes of footage, and paused at one of the most bizarre and gruesome images I’d ever seen. I walked around the couch and right up to the forty-eight inch LG flat-screen mounted above the fireplace.