Rex Chase: A Novel

by Tim Wheat

  Anelie lowered the sunglasses she wore, and addressed the man again.

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know ma’am. He insisted.”

  Anelie rolled her eyes, removed her hat, and stood.

  “How does he expect me to continue looking the way I do without a little rest and relaxation?”

  She could feel the eyes of the hired gun move up and down her body. In the U.S. and Europe, women still wore one piece suits, or two piece suits that covered most of their bodies. What Anelie was wearing, though, was something she had picked up in Northern Africa. The two piece suit left little to the imagination, and it was obvious the mercenary liked what he saw. Anelie moved toward him, ran her left hand down his chest, and whispered into his ear.

  “You’d better watch yourself, young man. My husband is a very jealous individual, and not one to share.” She stepped back, assessed the man with her eyes, and continued. “You are cute, though. Maybe another time.”

  As if on cue, Dietrich Hoff emerged from the bowels of the ship flanked by two sentries. A look of concern on his face, he dismissed the guard sent to retrieve his wife, and spoke in a worried tone.

  “Did you see his parachute? We were just in contact with him on the radio fifteen minutes ago. He said that everything was going to plan, and he would be making the jump as scheduled.”

  “No, dear, I didn’t see it. Perhaps there was a delay and he’ll make another pass?” Anelie approached her husband and pressed her breasts against his body as she greeted him with a kiss on the cheek. “He has never let us down before. I doubt he would begin now.”

  “It seems a lot of things have changed.”

  Many times in the last few days her husband had responded to her in cryptic fashion, and Anelie Hoff didn’t like it. Inside she filled with dread, while on the outside she smiled and took her husband’s hand. Pressing it to her chest, she spoke as if he had hurt her feelings.

  “I am here, Dietrich, and I am the same woman I have always been. We are so close to our goal, and I want you to believe in me.” She looked into his eyes, and could not gauge his mood. He was an emotional enigma to her. “Why don’t we pick up the crates he ejected from the plane? Perhaps something went wrong with his parachute and he rode one of those down?”

  Though it seemed a long shot, and Hoff believed his most loyal man to be lost, he conceded.

  “You are, of course, correct my love. I apologize for my erratic behavior over the last few days. It’s been a stressful time. We will pick up the crates, as planned, and then continue on our way.”

  Before Hoff had even finished his sentence the sound of an airplane approached in the distance. First it was quiet, and then louder, and still louder as the large aircraft retraced its path in the sky. Two of the engines were sputtering, and the plane had lost a significant amount of altitude, but it passed overhead and disappeared into the western horizon. The five people standing on the deck did not say a word, but watched the monstrous machine pass them by. Dietrich was the first to speak.

  “Something has happened.” He grabbed the guard to his right by the arm and spoke in his most authoritative tone. “Get down below and tell the captain I want these crates out of the water right now. Get a full team up here for retrieval, and alert the doctor that we may have injured. Go. NOW.”

  The man obeyed almost before Hoff finished, and within minutes the boat was moving at flank speed. Hoff cursed under his breath at the misfortune. If only the machine beneath him was working to its maximum capabilities. Perhaps a week, or perhaps two, would be needed to make that possible. Now would be a better time, though, and then he spotted something strange up ahead.

  “Skip the others. Move the ship toward that one in the distance.”

  “Which one, sir?”

  Hoff took in his surroundings, and was almost proud of the speed and efficiency of his men. It had been fifteen minutes, and every available sailor was now on the deck, assisting in the retrievals. They worked in harmony with one another, almost like they were a single organism. Dietrich pointed to a spot in the distance and elaborated.

  “Over there, the one with the red stripe on the parachute.”

  His orders passed through the proper channels, and the submarine changed course as if Hoff’s command had was linked right to the rudder. As the submarine approached at flank speed, and the men prepared their hooks to grab the line, it became apparent something was different about this crate. A man was sitting on top of it.

  “Full stop.” Dietrich commanded. “Approach with caution. I don’t want to throw him into the water.”

  Anelie Hoff had not left her husband’s side, and what rose and fell in the waves ahead boggled her mind. When she had asserted Hans could ride down on one of the crates, she had been grasping for an answer. To everyone’s amazement, though, it seemed he had done just that.

  “Take it easy, boys. Take it easy.” Dietrich Hoff now stood at the keel of the boat, assisting in the retrieval of his most trusted aide. “You look as if you might have an exciting story to tell, my boy.”

  Anelie could not believe what was happening in front of her. Hans had fallen from the sky on a crate, and her husband wasn’t just relieved, he was beaming. She had never seen him act like a proud father, even with their own children. Now, though, as Hoff and the men assisted Hans, she could read his demeanor once again. He was proud of the little street-urchin-turned-deadly-assassin.

  “Hans. My boy. You are looking a little worse for the wear.” Dietrich Hoff assisted his adopted son to the safety of the submarine, and ruffled his hair. Hans’ left eye sported a wicket cut, the right side of his face still showed signs of the farmer’s buckshot, and he was favoring his right leg. “I am very happy to see you, though. When your parachute failed to appear we feared the worst.”

  Hans gave a weak smile and spoke in a hoarse voice.

  “I had a problem and lost my chute.” He turned and pointed to the crate he had been sitting upon. “I tossed that out of the plane and rode it all the way down.”

  “I am glad you didn’t suffer any life threatening injuries. What of the package I asked you to retrieve?”

  Hans motioned toward the crate that had saved his life.

  “The special delivery is in that small box. I made sure to keep it with me, although retrieving it was a little more difficult than I thought it would be.” Hans’ weak smile intensified as he remembered the trouble. He had never delivered a head in a box before, and though he didn’t know why Hoff had asked it of him, Hans’ sadistic nature had enjoyed the endeavor.

  “I am glad you are OK dear.” Anelie Hoff had joined them, and addressed Hans’ eye as she kissed him on the forehead. “Poor baby, does it hurt?”

  Hans looked at his adoptive mother and felt something he had never felt before. He hated her with every fiber of his being. She stood before him, almost naked, and he could feel the other men leering at her. In his mind the sailors jeered and taunted him while making sexual advances towards her. In the real world his eyes had become wild, and his smile maniacal, causing Anelie to retreat, and Dietrich to wrap a blanket around the much smaller man.

  “Relax, my son. You’re safe now.” Hoff could see the detached ferocity boiling inside the killer, and recognized it with ease. “The plane flew back over, toward the U.S. What can you tell me about that?”

  Hans’ mind jerked back to reality with the question, but malice showed in his vocal response.

  “They won’t get far. I dumped most of the fuel. They’ll never make the mainland, of that I’m certain. We need to make sure they are dead. I suggest following their last known route at flank speed.”

  “You heard him. One-hundred and eighty degrees to starboard. Flank speed.”

  Hoff relayed the orders without a second thought. Hans had proven himself worthy of his full trust, and even without an explanation, he trusted his judgment. As they moved from the deck into the ship, Hoff walked with his arm around his son.

  Their plan w
as coming to a head, and nothing could stop it now. The world would soon be theirs.

  *******************

  49.

  “Well, is he going to be able to help us fly the plane or not?”

  Ahiga shouted as the noise in the cockpit of the B17 was tremendous. After watching Hans leap from the plane, they had become aware of fuel dumping from the tanks. Advancing toward the cockpit George watched as his friend, Rex Chase, moved like a combat veteran, and approached the control center. They could see a man in the pilot’s seat, but he appeared to be incapacitated. After observing no movement over a period of a minute, Chase scurried up the ladder, and Ahiga awaited his report. “Hey. Can you hear me?”

  “Gimme a sec,” said Chase. “I’m stopping the fuel dump.”

  Chase had ascended the ladder into a grisly scene. It was something out of a horror novel. The lifeless body of the pilot sat erect, strapped in its seat, and decapitated. The lack of blood covering the floor of the small space, or dripping down the ladder, confused him at first, but then Chase saw the answer. Stopping the plane’s fuel loss was his first concern though, and he finished the task.

  “Alright Chief, come on up here.”

  Ahiga rose through the hole in the floor and flinched upon seeing the decapitated body.

  “Holy mother… You should warn people before they climb into a cockpit with a headless pilot. My stewardess didn’t warn me about this at all. For real, though, where’s all the blood?”

  “Hey, do you think you could have one of those stewardesses bring me a Wild Turkey on the rocks. I don’t want any of that eighty proof garbage either.” Chase worked the controls on the aircraft and addressed Chief’s question. “It looks to me like our buddy Hans drained the blood out of this poor sucker here, and then removed his head. It’s my first headless body. I think I’m taking it pretty well.”

  George grinned at his friend’s quip, but it vanished as he was better able to comprehend the scene. The left sleeve of the pilot’s flight suit bundled around his bicep, and a needle with a hose still attached hung from the vein. Shackles encased the wrists, and ankles of the lifeless form. Another needle with a hose attached hung from the artery in the neck, and a syringe protruded from its chest. Blood soaked the front of the flight suit, and a few drops of spatter rested on the floor, but the overall cleanliness of the scene was remarkable.

  “What in the world happened here?”

  Chase paused and answered.

  “If I were to wager a guess, it would be this. Hans incapacitated the pilot, either with drugs, or with a blow to the head. Next, he tapped the vein in his arm. That would be a slow way to bleed someone out though, so he tapped the carotid. In a minute, or so, the pilot died, and Hans started hacking his head off. The human body, though, is good at trying to stay alive and a large amount of blood remained in the head. Realizing his mistake, Hans injected the heart full of adrenaline, and turned it into a blood pumping machine. After harvesting the last drop, he then hacked off the head, achieving some messed up goal. What do you think about getting those shackles off the guy and joining me up here?”

  “What makes you think I can get those shackles off of him,” George feigned indignation, “like I’m some kind of common criminal.”

  “Cut the act Houdini.” When the boys were young they had gone through a magician phase. George had been better than Chase, and would mention it whenever possible. “I might need your help up here. Time is of the essence.”

  “I would just like the record to show that you have once again conceded my superior magicianship skills.” By the end of the sentence, George already had both leg shackles undone.

  “Magicianship, huh? Maybe you need to work on your using actual words skills.”

  Chase looked to his left just in time to see the headless body descending the stairs.

  “Amazing,” he muttered to himself, “absolutely amazing.”

  A minute passed and then Ahiga joined Chase again.

  “Do you want to trade me seats?” George asked.

  “No thanks,” said Chase. “I’m more comfortable flying over here.”

  George studied the control panel in front of him which was a mass of gauges, buttons, and switches. “Do you know how to fly this thing?”

  “I don’t have any time in this type of aircraft, no, but I’m sure I can fly it.” Chase exuded confidence and the concern in Chief’s face eased. “Landing could be a little more difficult, though.”

  George’s face showed concern once again, as Chase put the plane into a slow left turn. The large, plodding aircraft cut a lazy path through the sky, and Rex manipulated the controls with deft precision. He finished the turn, pulled the nose back into a slight climb, and took the radio in his hands.

  “May day, may day, this is flight B One Seven requesting assistance. Over.”

  “Why are we requesting assistance?” asked George.

  “Shhhh. I’m busy.”

  “Flight B one seven? This is the tower at Pease Air Force Base. What is your true designation? Over.”

  “Uhhhh. I can’t say I know, sir. A maniac kidnapped my friend and flew us out to sea in a B-17. The pilot is now dead, and we are low on fuel. Over.”

  “He didn’t kidnap us,” Chief teased. “We’re here because we wanted to be here.”

  “Shhh. I’m going to have a hard enough time selling this. Nobody flies out over the ocean in a stolen military aircraft, runs out of fuel, and then requests military assistance.”

  “Nobody steals a military plane, kidnaps two guys, kills a pilot, jumps out of a plane without a parachute, then leaves the plane to the two guys who then ask for military assistance,” said George.

  “Touché”

  “Son, this is a military frequency, and playing around on it is an offense punishable by up to five years in jail.” The voice on the other end changed, and Chase saw an opportunity.

  “Yes, sir, but I’m not playing. May I ask with whom I speak?”

  “This is Colonel Wallace Burks. May I have your name, sir?”

  “Yes sir. This is Edward Rex Chase and George Thomas Ahiga. Do you have a pencil, sir?”

  “Of course I do young man, but I’m done playi…”

  “Write down a number for me then.” Chase said. “Are you ready?”

  “I am.”

  “The number is 555-8305. Please call that number, in Boston, and ask for the General. He’ll clear this all up.”

  “That is a civilian number, son, not a General’s number. I will not be playing your game anymore. Goodbye.”

  With that, the sound from the other end of the radio went static. Chase switched frequencies and attempted to raise the base again, but to no avail. After a few minutes he abandoned his attempts, and returned the radio to its original broadcast spectrum.

  “How many hours do you have as a pilot anyway?” George knew how to take Chase’s mind off their recent failure.

  “Solo time, or counting my supervised flight time?”

  “Solo time.”

  “Solo time, well, I’d say I have about twenty minutes of solo time.” Chase smiled as he spoke the words. “Not to fear, though, I have at least an hour of supervised flight under my belt.”

  “Fear? Who’s scared? I used to make paper airplanes and throw them off the roof of my house. Can’t be too much different than that, right?”

  “Nope. Once we lose our engines, the principles of flight will be almost the same.”

  “Perfect, I always did want a burial at sea.”

  “Nobody is getting buried today; not if I can help it.”

  Determination and confidence oozed from every word he said, and Chase developed a plan. He estimated they were two hundred miles from land. If they had enough fuel to last an hour they should be able to coast into a rough landing. He cruised to an altitude of ten thousand feet, and extended full flaps to emphasize lift. All four fuel gauge needles pegged below the “e”, but the Pratt and Whitney engines continued pounding away. As
they labored through the air at a slow one hundred and fifty miles per hour, Chase pet the hull of the aircraft above him.

  “I need forty-five more minutes from ya big mamma. Just give me forty-five more minutes.”

  ***

  Ten minutes had gone by without a word between the two. The time for jokes and fun was over. Chase dedicated himself to the instrument panel, and monitored their flight path. Ahiga busied himself with reading the instructions for crash landings. It was Chase who broke the silence.

  “If we get over land, I want you to bail out. If we run out of fuel before we get to land, I want you to bail out. Hans left that chute back there and…”

  Without looking up from his reading Chief’s reply was simple.

  “No.”

  “What do you mean? No.”

  An incredulous look on his face, George lowered his book and looked at his best friend.

  “No. Nein. Niet. Dooda. Even you’ve heard the word no before Lothario. I shouldn’t have to bring out the Navajo to get my point across.” Chief began reading the manual again.

  “It doesn’t make any sense for us both to die in a crash when one of us can live. I don’t…”

  “Look,” George interrupted again. “I don’t trust Hans packing my chute for me, and I can’t repack it out there. What if we land in the ocean and you are injured and I’m not? Then I can help you until someone comes and gets us. Besides, I threw the chute out the window earlier.”

  “You did what?”

  “I threw it out the window. I’m not going anywhere.”

  Chase admired his friend, not because of his bravery, or loyalty, but because he knew Chase well enough to diffuse the situation before it even began.

  “I guess that settles that. Don’t worry about the manual. I have it memorized.”

  “You have this one memorized?”

  Chase remembered the advice of Captain Morris and relented.

  “Of course, perhaps something changed. Here, hand it to me and I’ll…”