by Cap Daniels
THE DISTANT CHASE
CHASE FULTON NOVEL #5
CAP DANIELS
** USA **
The Distant Chase
Chase Fulton Novel #5
Cap Daniels
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, historical events, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or have been used fictitiously. Although many locations such as marinas, airports, hotels, restaurants, etc. used in this work actually exist, they are used fictitiously and may have been relocated, exaggerated, or otherwise modified by creative license for the purpose of this work. Although many characters are based on personalities, physical attributes, skills, or intellect of actual individuals, all of the characters in this work are products of the author’s imagination.
Published by:
** USA **
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including information storage and retrieval systems without written permission from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.
13 Digit ISBN: 978-1-7323024-7-1
Library of Congress Control Number: 2019935279
Copyright © 2019 Cap Daniels—All Rights Reserved
Cover Design: German Creative
Printed in the United States of America
Dedication
This book is dedicated to…
My brother, Dennis, upon whom, Dennis Crowe, a character in this novel is based.
Dennis and I are products of a well-respected, mannerly family whose expectations we didn’t always meet. It is safe to say that Dennis and I have, over the years, taken turns being the black sheep, and have occasionally provided our family with dual, simultaneous black sheep. From Dennis, I learned that life isn’t always about meeting the expectations of others; sometimes it’s about making the absolute most of the moment and savoring the rewards thereof, with disregard for the consequences. I’ll always be indebted to him for teaching me this lesson, for adherence to that idea has resulted in some of the most unforgettable moments of my life, many of which appear in these novels. Well-mannered, well-behaved boys rarely have great stories at the ends of their lives. Thank you, Dennis, for inspiring me to reach the fifth decade of my life with a headful of magnificent stories…some of which are far too spectacular to be fiction.
Special Thanks To:
My Astonishing Editor:
Sarah Flores—Write Down the Line, LLC
www.WriteDowntheLine.com
Sarah has become far more than a hired editor for me. She has devoted countless hours teaching me why and how our language works, inspiring me to hone my craft, and forcing me to expect nothing short of excellence in everything I write. She is brilliant, stubborn, dedicated, emotionally invested, and an integral part of the creation of this series. Without her, my work would be unreadable.
The Distant Chase
CAP DANIELS
Chapter 1
First Fight
November 2, 1944. RAF Bodney, Norfolk, England.
I don’t think I’ve ever been so scared in my life. I wonder if it’ll get easier next time. It wasn’t dying that scared me. It was more like fear of the unknown. What was down there in those frozen woods other than hundreds of thousands of Germans?
I got here three days ago. It was Halloween, so I guess it stands to rights that I should be scared. I checked in, and they assigned me an airplane—the prettiest plane I’ve ever seen. At first, I thought I’d be flying the P-40, but I did well enough to qualify in the Mustang, and I guess they needed pilots for it, so here I am. I couldn’t believe my eyes when they showed me that big, beautiful P-51 Mustang, shiny silver all over except for the dark-blue nose. That’s why they call us the Blue Nosed Bastards of Bodney. There’s no mistaking one of our Mustangs.
We took off this morning before daylight. The range on these Mustangs is unbelievable—we can stay in the air over eight hours. No other fighter in the world can do that. We flew a penetration into Germany to pick up a squadron of B-24 Liberators, and we were supposed to escort them to Merseburg to blow an airfield off the map and then fly back home. But we never made that rendezvous with our bombers.
I was Chalk Four in a four-plane formation led by Captain Donny Burnes. There were sixteen of us altogether, and Donny was the flight commander. He likes to keep the new guys close to him for the first couple of missions. At least that’s what they told me. That’s how I got to be in formation with him.
About two hours into the penetration, before we ever saw the bombers, we came upon a huge flight of ME-109 Messerschmitt fighters. There must have been fifty or more of those things. Captain Burnes gave the order to go balls to the wall and dive on the 109s, and that’s what we did. I shoved everything forward and nosed over into the first real dogfight of my life.
The krauts never saw us coming, and we never slowed down until we were in gun range. I saw Donny’s tracers streak through the sky when he started firing. Nobody ever gave the order to shoot, but we didn’t need an order. As soon as we saw Donny light up that first kraut, there was no keeping our fingers off those triggers. I singled out a Messerschmitt, pulled a little lead on him, and squeezed the trigger. The cannons thundered in my wings, and I watched my tracers tear into the German’s fuselage. White smoke poured out of the engine, and he started spiraling for the ground. I shot down my first German on my first try on my first mission, and I was over-the-moon happy—until I remembered that I wasn’t supposed to be shooting. I was supposed to be covering my wingman, Marvin Russell.
Marv had been in the squadron almost a month and already had eight kills in eleven missions. I was assigned to be his wingman and cover his tail when the shooting started. I guess I just got too excited when I saw those four dozen 109s out the window. I strained to peer over my right shoulder, hoping to see Marv’s Mustang, but he wasn’t out there. He was gone, and I was alone.
I wasn’t really alone. Messerschmitts were everywhere like a swarm of angry bees. Germans were everywhere, but there were darned few American Mustangs. There’d been sixteen of us when we took off from Bodney, and I couldn’t see more than five or six. I had to either go hunting for my squadron mates or Germans. The numbers alone made my chances a lot better hunting for krauts, so that’s what I did.
I shoved the throttle to its stops and pulled the nose of the Mustang through the horizon, trying to trade some airspeed for altitude. I made it to almost ten thousand feet before I ran out of airspeed and had to nose over. Below me were 109s and Mustangs going at each other like wild animals. I tried to count the P-51s, but it was like counting gnats in a swarm, so I picked out a 109 and dived in on him. We have the K-14 lead-computing gunsight that’s supposed to give us the lead we need to shoot down the 109s without wasting too much ammo, but my hands were shaking too bad to program the thing.
I rolled in behind the 109 I’d picked out and immediately realized I was carrying way too much speed into the turn. I slid right past him at over three hundred miles per hour and saw flashes in my mirrors. They were his cannons blasting tracer rounds into the air. I yanked the stick to the left and pulled hard. I knew I could outturn the 109 if I could get inside his stream of bullets. My Mustang roared and bit into the sky, driving my butt harder and harder into the seat. I was determined not to get shot down on my first mission.
I kept pulling as hard as I could. If I could keep turning inside the German long enough, I’d end up behind him, and I could throw a couple hundred pounds of lead his way.
I strained to look over my shoulder, hoping to see the German getting farther and farther away, but what I saw was even better than that. Donny was a quarter mile behind the 109 that was
chasing me, and his cannons were belching orange fire. My flight leader caught the German who was intent on catching me, and he paid with his life.
When I saw the 109 burst into flames, I rolled my wings level and pitched up again, trying to stay out of the cloud layer below me. I’d planned to join up on Donny’s wing and get back in the fight, but by the time I could get my bearings, he was gone.
I caught my breath and headed back into the firestorm. Determined not to overshoot my next target, I set the throttle and pulled what I thought was a good lead on a single 109 who was outside the fray. I don’t know if the kraut lost his nerve or if he was just lost. Either way, I was going to bring the fight to him. I squeezed the trigger and watched my tracers sail harmlessly across his nose. He chopped the power and dived hard right. I gave chase and followed him into the clouds with my guns on the verge of melting out of the wings. I must have shot at that guy for half a minute and never got close.
When the windscreen turned white and I couldn’t see the propeller anymore, I knew I was in trouble. I tried to focus on my instruments and get out of the clouds, but my eyes were telling me one thing and my gut was telling me something different. My stomach thought I was diving, but my instruments said I was dead level. I knew I had to trust the panel, but the urge to pull up was irresistible. I popped out of the top of that cloud, and my windscreen filled with the belly of a Messerschmitt not fifty feet away. I was going to hit him, and there was nothing I could do about it. I cut the throttle and shoved the stick full forward just as the German rolled hard right. His unexpected roll saved my life, and we missed by inches, but I was instantly back in that damned cloud. Disoriented and scared, I forced my hands and feet to fly the airplane by the panel. I added enough power to climb out of the clouds again and break free of the tops. The melee I saw above was far more frightening than what was beneath me. There were still two dozen 109s battling it out with my squadron.
I checked my six and was happy to see nobody back there. I poured on the coals and headed back for the fight. My fingers finally stopped shaking enough to program the gunsight, and I smoked another 109 with a three-second burst. The tip of the German’s right wing tore off, and the plane started snap rolling to the right. I watched him disappear into the cloud and wondered if he’d get out before the plane pranged into the German countryside.
I was still celebrating my second kill when I heard the worst sound a fighter pilot can ever hear: twenty-millimeter German bullets tearing through the skin of my airplane. I watched a line of bullet holes form in the top of my right wing. He put more than a dozen rounds into me, but my Mustang was still flying.
I rolled left to repeat the escape I’d made earlier by out turning the German, and hoped another of my squadron mates would show up to get this one off my tail. It didn’t work. Nobody showed up, and the German pilot was darned good. No matter how hard I turned, he turned with me. He couldn’t get his guns through me, but he was staying with me, turn for turn. I tried to outclimb him, hoping he’d stall before I did, but that didn’t work either. I was getting desperate when I finally remembered a maneuver one of my instructors tried to describe back in the States, but I wasn’t sure I could do it in the Mustang. I was tired of seeing German tracer rounds rip past my canopy, and I wasn’t sure how much longer my wounded right wing would hold together, so I went for it.
I closed the throttle, yanked the stick into my gut, and stomped the left rudder pedal as hard as I could. I wasn’t sure if I remembered what the maneuver was supposed to make the airplane do, but my head slammed into the canopy almost hard enough to knock me out, and the Mustang started plummeting. I stalled and spun my P-51. Then, I was falling like a rock. I watched the German fly past me overhead, and I shoved the stick forward, hoping to get the plane flying again. The nose came down, and the airspeed came up. I felt the plane responding to the controls, and just like that, the old girl was flying again. I turned tail and ran like the scared pup I was, not wanting anything more to do with that German pilot, whoever he was.
I made it to the rally point and learned that we’d lost four of sixteen Mustangs, and downed thirty of fifty 109s. We were shot up, low on gas, and exhausted with more than two hours of flying ahead of us to make it back to Bodney.
Lt. Robert D. Richter
Chapter 2
What Happened Today?
“I’m worried about you, Chase. Are you okay?”
I raised my head from the tattered, sixty-year-old journal that had been Dr. Robert “Rocket” Richter’s while he was in Europe from 1944 to 1945. He’d been my mentor, the closest thing I had to a father after my parents were murdered, and the man who’d recruited me into the world of American covert operations.
The beautiful, ocean-blue eyes of Penny Thomas watched me with an expression of loving concern. I’d been silent for several hours, lost in self-pity, and mentally, thousands of miles away. I tried to speak, but words wouldn’t come.
Penny forced a smile and handed me a tumbler of honey-colored whiskey over cubes of crystal-clear ice. Her finger traced the scars across the back of my right hand. “What happened today?”
I wanted to answer her. She was the one person in my life who never thought she knew what was best for me, or if she did think so, she never voiced those opinions. She just loved me in spite of my flaws—or perhaps because of them. She deserved an answer, and I owed her far more than any single response. I owed her the absolute truth.
“I don’t know,” I whispered.
I reached inside my jacket and pulled out a neatly folded document bound inside a heavy blue cardstock cover. Penny took it and slowly unfolded it, and I watched her lips move as her eyes traced across the page.
“In the Probate Court of Clarke County, Georgia. Having no living heirs, the estate of Robert Douglas Richter . . .”
I stopped listening. I’d committed the document to memory, but none of it mattered because the very foundation of it was an absolute lie.
“Did you know he had this much money?”
I shook my head.
“Did you know any of this?”
I continued the slow, back-and-forth movement of my head.
“Did you really know anything about him?”
“I know I love him,” I heard myself whisper.
Penny laced her hand behind my neck and pulled me against her. I made no effort to resist. My face came to rest against her hair, and I thought of the thousands of hours I’d spent with Dr. “Rocket” Richter. I thought of all he’d taught me, and most of all, I thought of all the conversations we’d never have.
“Why would an old psychology professor leave you practically everything he owned?”
“He wasn’t just a psych professor,” I said as I tried to string together the myriad thoughts, memories, and emotions that were…are…Dr. Richter.
I couldn’t fathom the idea of him being gone, of never talking with him again, of never listening as he revealed some universal truth about the world with one of his mysterious, cryptic word games.
I stared off into the horizon. “He was the single most influential person in my adult life.”
“He was CIA or something like you, wasn’t he?”
I closed my eyes and swallowed the lump in my throat. “No. He was nothing like me. No one word can describe what he was. He was a World War II fighter pilot, a Cold War intelligence operative, a brilliant psych professor, and my mentor.”
She placed her hand on my thigh. “Intelligence operative means spy, doesn’t it?”
“He knew my father and mother. And he’s the one who recruited me into the work I do.”
“Why don’t you ever talk about your parents?”
“They died when I was fourteen.”
She covered her mouth and gasped. “Oh my God, Chase. What happened?”
The things I’d learned over the past several weeks about how my parents and sister had died were daggers that would never leave my skull.
“There’s no way I can tell yo
u everything, but first, we have to do something we agreed not to do.”
She furrowed her brow and lowered her chin, but didn’t say a word.
“First,” I said, “I want you here. With me. There’s a magic about you—about us—that feels like home. I don’t have to pretend to be anything I’m not with you. I get to be who and what I am, even though I haven’t been able to tell you what those things are.”
The corners of her lips curled upward in the dawning of a warm, beautiful smile. “You don’t have to do this, Chase. I’m not going anywhere. I’m here as long as you want. I won’t ask, and I won’t expect.”
“That’s exactly why I have to do this.” I took her hands in mine. “Look at me.”
She bit at her bottom lip.
“I’m not a spy,” I began. “Spies work for the CIA, NSA, DIA, or a handful of other government agencies. They gather information, theoretically, without being detected, and report that information back to analysts. That’s not what I do.”
Her smile was gone, replaced with a blank expression, as if she couldn’t believe the discussion I’d just begun.
“I’m a covert operative, and I don’t work directly for any of those alphabet-soup agencies. I don’t gather intel, and I don’t report back to any analysts. I get assignments from Dominic, Clark’s father, then I go somewhere and do things my country needs done but can’t have government employees getting caught doing.”
“Killing people?” she whispered.
“No, not always. But sometimes that becomes necessary.”
The conversation was easier than I’d feared, but it had only just begun.
“Chase, you really don’t have to—”
“Yes, I do, Penny. For you to understand why Dr. Richter is so important to me, you have to know the truth about who and what I am.”
“But if you’re not ready to tell me, it’s okay. Really, it is. Like I told you, I’m here because I want to be here. I love the time we spend together, and I feel safe with you.”