The Unending Chase

by Cap Daniels

  Clark maneuvered the chopper to remain well clear of the international airport to the west and still be as inconspicuous as possible. We flew up the east side of the canal, trying to keep the boats in sight.

  As they passed beneath the Bridge of the Americas, they split up. One headed to the beach just north of the bridge, and the other continued northward toward the first set of locks.

  “Which one had the explosives?”

  Obviously trying to guess correctly, Clark flew ever closer to the bridge. “The one headed for the beach took on the crates, but I think they loaded some of them onto the other boat, as well. They both have tarps on deck now,” he said.

  I took the binoculars from Leo and focused on the boat headed for the beach. There was something on deck covered by a green tarp, and the other boat carried a similar load. It was quickly becoming impossible to watch both.

  “Put me on the beach!” I said.

  “What?” came the stereo reply from the cockpit.

  “Put me on the beach near that ferry terminal. It can’t be more than half a mile to the bridge from there. I can make that in under three minutes. Get me down there.”

  Clark dumped the collective and dived for the beach. Sixty seconds later, I was at a full sprint, running north along the shoreline. I took cover behind one of the huge sets of concrete pilings supporting the Bridge of the Americas.

  I laid eyes on the bridge and felt a lump form in my throat. The last time I’d seen it, I was a teenager, and my father, mother, and little sister had just been murdered less than twenty-five miles to the northeast. That had been eleven years before. Someone I hadn’t known woke me up, threw a blanket over my head, and forced me into the back seat of a Volvo station wagon. At the time, I had believed my parents were missionaries, helping at an orphanage on the outskirts of Panama City. The man who’d pulled me from our bungalow and hustled me into the Volvo sat beside me and spoke twenty-two words I’d never forget.

  “Listen to me, Chase. Guerillas have killed your parents and sister, and we’re going to get you out of here.”

  Inside my fourteen-year-old mind, I imagined gorillas—great apes—attacking and killing my family. I couldn’t understand. When the sun came up, I was sitting in a window seat above the wing of an airplane climbing out of the international airport that was, at the time, Howard Air Force Base. I watched the rising sun gleaming off the superstructure of the bridge and wondered when I’d see my family again. The reality and finality of my situation hadn’t hit me. Perhaps it never would. I wondered where I was going and how long it would take to get there. My catcher’s mitt was still in the bungalow, along with my best pair of cleats. Somewhere between Panama and America, it occurred to me that my mitt and cleats weren’t the only things I’d never see again. They were gone. Dead. All of them. My entire family.

  I was alone on an airplane, and I had no idea what would happen next.

  When we had landed, I didn’t recognize the airport. I’d flown in and out of Atlanta’s Hartsfield airport a couple dozen times with my parents, but wherever I was, it definitely wasn’t Atlanta. The plane came to a stop, and the other passengers stood and began making their way toward the door. I couldn’t move. I didn’t know what to do.

  What’s outside the door of the airplane? What is the world going to look like without my family in it? Where am I supposed to go?

  I wanted to believe my family would be waiting at the bottom of the stairs when I walked off the plane. I imagined my sister in her bright yellow dress, pirouetting on the tarmac, and complaining about having to wait for me. She wouldn’t be there. She’d never be there.

  When the plane was finally empty, I stood on trembling knees and tried to gather the courage to walk through the door. Unlike the rest of the passengers, I had no bags, no books, nothing. There was nothing left. Everything I had, including the bodies of family, was still in Panama.

  I held the handrail as if it would somehow protect me from the rest of the world as I treaded painful steps down the airstairs toward the tarmac, every step feeling like a dagger through the soles of my feet. The world was a blur; nothing was familiar. I believed that was how the world would look for the rest of my life.

  I couldn’t focus. Sounds were muffled roars to my ears. Every figure in front of me blended into another. Nothing had an identity of its own. Everything melted and moved like molten lava. As my palm left the handrail, I collapsed to my knees and vomited on the gray carpet at the bottom of the airstairs. It felt like I was watching myself from a great height. I wanted to wipe my face and stand up, but I couldn’t make my body move. No matter how much I tried, I was powerless to do anything other than kneel on that terrible gray rug and tremble beside what had been the contents of my stomach. I knew it was wrong. I knew I had to get up. But there was nothing I could do.

  Finally, a gentle hand landed on my shoulder, and a woman knelt beside me.

  “You’re going to be all right, Chase. Let’s get you inside.”

  It sounded as if she were talking through a long tunnel. I turned to face the woman, and she had no eyes, no mouth. She was touching me, encouraging me to stand and come with her, but her face was like a puzzle that had been put together incorrectly. I blinked and stared at her until I could barely make out her features. When I could finally see her, she wore an expression of utter sadness. I wanted to help her. I wanted to know why she was so sad, but I couldn’t help myself. How was I supposed to help anyone else?

  “Where am I?”

  “You’re safe, Chase.”

  “Where?” I repeated.

  “You’re at Shaw Air Force Base in South Carolina, and you’re safe.”

  “My family—”

  The woman stopped me. “Let’s get you inside.”

  “I need my mitt.”

  The woman’s look of sadness turned to confusion.

  “My baseball glove . . . I need my mitt.”

  “Come on inside, Chase.”

  I turned back toward the plane and waited for my mother and father to descend the stairs. They were coming. They had to be just behind me.

  My father appeared in the door of the plane and started down the stairs. I reached for him, and he froze. He was wearing an Air Force flight suit. My father wasn’t a pilot. I watched as his eyes beseeched the woman beside me to get me off the tarmac. Then my mother appeared in the doorway and bounced down the stairs, but she was also wearing a flight suit, and her long, dark hair was short and light. I turned to the woman beside me and then back to my parents, and I realized they weren’t my parents at all. They were the flight crew. I’d merely wanted them to be my parents. I wanted to vanish. All of those people had no idea what was happening, and I was the center of attention. I just wanted to be gone. I didn’t want to be somewhere else. I wanted to disappear.

  The lady pulled more forcefully. “We can’t stay out here on the flight line, Chase. We have to go inside.”

  The mirrored windows reflected my mother and father walking behind us in their flight suits and my sister leading me into the building. It was all so clear.

  It must have been days, or maybe decades later—I couldn’t fathom the passing of time—when I awoke in a hospital room, completely alone. Sounds were crisp and clear. Things were no longer melting and running together. I was wearing sweats and a T-shirt I didn’t recognize as mine, and I couldn’t identify the room, but for the first time since the flight, I was coherent.

  “Good morning, Chase,” said a young woman in nurse’s scrubs. “How are you feeling?”

  “I feel good. How are you?”

  She froze, stared at me, and finally smiled. She reached for my wrist and stared at her watch as she counted my pulse.

  “Are you hungry?”

  I nodded.

  “Good. I’ll be right back,” she said.

  She kept her word and returned promptly with a tray of eggs, bacon, an orange, a biscuit, and a carton of milk. I was starving, and I devoured the meal as if I hadn’t eat
en in weeks. Perhaps I hadn’t.

  “Slow down,” she cautioned. “You don’t want to make yourself sick. There’s plenty more, and I’ll bring you all you want. You don’t have to be in a hurry.”

  I finished, hoping she was serious about bringing more. She was. I ate two more helpings of everything just before a man in a suit and tie walked into my room and sat on the edge of my bed.

  “Good morning, Chase. I’m Dr. Fairchild. How are you feeling?”

  “I feel good. I was hungry.”

  “That’s good,” he said. “Do you know what day it is?”

  “Yes, sir. It’s Thursday, December fifteenth.”

  “Chase, it’s Monday, December nineteenth. You’ve had a challenging few days. Do you feel like talking about it?”

  I bowed my head and swallowed the lump in my throat. “What am I supposed to do? Where am I going to live? How am I going to finish school?”

  The doctor licked his lips then drew in a long breath. “Okay, if that’s where you’d like to start, I can answer those questions. In fact, those are the easy ones.”

  “Right now, those are the only questions I have, Dr. Fairchild. Well, I have one more. What sort of doctor are you?”

  “I’m actually two different kinds. I’m a psychologist and psychiatrist. It’s my job to help you deal with what’s happened, and to make sure you have the tools you need to get through this.”

  “How do you get through anything when your whole family has been murdered? Huh? How? How do you do that? Is it even possible?”

  He smiled, and I hadn’t expected that.

  “I knew you had more questions, and we’ll get to all of them, especially the ones you don’t know you have yet.”

  “Is this some kind of game? Because I’m not in the mood for games. You come in here telling me I don’t know what day it is and that you’re here to help me deal with the fact that everybody I love is dead. That’s not a game to me, Doctor.”

  “You’re right, Chase. None of this is a game. It’s all very serious and will be the most difficult thing you’ll ever experience, but I can make it easier. I can help you understand and cope with the emotions you’re feeling. The anger, the loss, and the depression.”

  He paused, presumably waiting for my response, but I had none.

  “Okay, then. Let’s start by answering the first questions that popped out of your mouth. You want to know what you’re supposed to do. The answer is long and far from simple, but in short, you’re supposed to grieve. You’re supposed to miss your family, and you’re supposed to experience the pain of loss. That is perfectly natural. Everyone does it differently, and that’s fine. There’s no wrong or right way to grieve. You’re supposed to just let it happen. You’ll most likely have outbursts. You’ll lash out at the people, like me, who are trying to help you. We’re going to be understanding and tolerant, and eventually, you’ll begin to feel less angry, and you’ll realize that you’re still alive. You’ll come to realize that if you could talk with your family, they would tell you to live your life and make the most of every day. Eventually, you’ll realize these things, but for now, it’s okay to grieve the way your mind chooses. As long as you’re not hurting yourself or others, we’re not going to stand in your way. We’re here to support you.”

  I felt overwhelmed. I didn’t have the wherewithal to sort out the emotions I was feeling. I couldn’t tell the difference between the pain caused by the anger and the pain caused by the loss. I was experiencing every negative emotion, all at the same time. I had just enough sense left in my crumbling psyche to understand and accept that I needed Dr. Fairchild’s help.

  “So, you want to know where you’re going to live. Fortunately, that’s not a concern. Your parents were wonderful people who loved you more than you’ll ever know. They made certain you would be well cared for should the unthinkable occur, and they made specific preparations for both your housing and education.”

  “Well,” I blurted out, “this certainly qualifies as unthinkable.”

  “Yes, Chase, it certainly does. Arrangements have been made for you to enroll in the Central Georgia Military Academy. It’s a preparatory school for boys. It’s one of the finest prep schools in the country. Not only will you be provided a wonderful education, you’ll also live on campus and have access to everything you’ll need.”

  “Do they have a baseball team?”

  Dr. Fairchild laughed. “Yes, as a matter of fact, they do. One of the best baseball teams in the state. Do you play ball?”

  “Yes, sir. I’m a catcher. It’s the only thing in the world I’m good at.”

  “Then I’m certain there will be a place on the team for you,” he said. The lines around his eyes and mouth dissolved, and he relaxed his shoulders.

  “You know what, doc? I’m sorry. That was crazy selfish. I’m supposed to be grieving, not thinking about playing ball. I shouldn’t have said that. I’m sorry.”

  “Chase, remember, we all grieve in our own ways. Baseball is obviously important to you. When we suffer great losses, our minds cling to the things that make us feel better. For some people, it’s alcohol or drugs. For others, it’s music, art, or yoga. It doesn’t matter what it is as long as it isn’t hurting you or those around you. There’s absolutely nothing wrong with thinking about playing baseball. But I have to tell you, it speaks volumes about your character that you apologized for thinking about baseball when you believe you should be thinking about your family. You’re a fine young man, and you’re going to be a great man very soon. I’ll certainly do everything in my power to support you, and the same is true for all of my staff. We’re here for you, Chase. We’re all here for you.”

  I spent Christmas in Dr. Fairchild’s hospital or asylum or whatever it was. When school reconvened in January, I found myself in a bizarre new world.

  I was primarily homeschooled because my family traveled so much. Sometimes I’d attend regular schools, but never for long. The structure of the military school was rigid, but I grew to enjoy the routine, and I developed the same expectation of high standards from myself that the school expected of me and every other cadet. I excelled in the classroom, but I was at my best on the baseball field.

  The coach had been a major league catcher for six years. There may have been no one on Earth better suited to teach me to catch. “I was a natural-born catcher,” he said, “but even naturals need coaching.”

  Thanks to Dr. Fairchild, I left the hospital well-equipped to adjust to life at the Central Georgia Military Academy. Thanks to the teachers at CGMA, I learned how to study, digest, and retain information. From them, I learned how to learn. And thanks to Coach Bryce Garner, I learned to command the baseball field from behind home plate. I graduated from the academy with a 4.0 and a full athletic scholarship to play ball at the University of Georgia. That’s where I met the man who would change my life forever—Dr. Robert “Rocket” Richter, the greatest psychology professor on Earth.

  After my promising baseball career came crumbling down around me when I suffered a debilitating injury to my right hand during the College World Series, I’d felt the same emptiness and loneliness that I’d felt after the death of my family. Dr. Richter had been instrumental in recruiting me into the world of covert operations.

  Without him, I wouldn’t have been crouching behind a ten-thousand-ton concrete column holding up the Bridge of the Americas in Panama. Without him, I wouldn’t have been watching three men unload bricks of plastic explosive from a wooden crate.

  The Huey’s blades slapped against the sky, and I looked up to see Clark and Leo heading south out of the mouth of the canal. I’d seen enough to know the men on the boat weren’t heading to a salvage job with their explosives; they were going to create salvage work for some unfortunate souls. And I planned to stop them.

  11

  Fallen Devil

  It’s impossible to do anything in a Huey and not be seen, but Clark and Leo plucked me off the beach efficiently and covertly in that lum
bering beast of an aircraft. I found my way to my seat and donned my headset.

  Clark wasted no time probing me for intel. “What did you learn?”

  “It’s plastic explosive, and they’re unpacking the crates and loading the bricks into airtight plastic bags. I counted at least three hundred pounds, but there’s probably more.”

  “Did anybody see you?” asked Leo.

  “Well, I’m sure someone did, but the guys on the boat were too worried about the explosives to look for me. They didn’t even seem to notice the chopper when you came back across the bridge.”

  “That’s good,” he said. “Other than paranoia, there’s no reason they’d suspect anyone to be watching them.”

  “Where did the other boat go?” I asked.

  “They went up the creek at Corozal and tied up in the trees. It looked like they were unpacking the explosives as well, but I couldn’t tell if they were bagging them.” Clark was talking with his hands, demonstrating how the creek angled northeast off the canal at the little town of Corozal.

  “Why would they put plastic explosives in plastic bags?” I asked, hoping Clark or Leo knew more about the explosives than I did.

  “I don’t know,” came the answer in unison.

  “All right,” I said. “Let’s get out of here and check in with Ginger. We need to know where the Pearl is. I know a little devil who’s just itching to get aboard that thing.”

  Without a word, Leo turned the chopper back to the south and started picking up speed. We were soon back on Bona. I climbed out of the Huey and noticed Diablo once again had something cooking over a small fire at the edge of the clearing. Upon closer inspection, I saw it was a turtle and two snakes, and though I needed the calories, nothing about it appealed to me. The more I thought about trying to stomach that meal, the better the MREs sounded.

  I should’ve been more open-minded about the turtle and snakes. Dinner was far better than I’d feared. It didn’t taste like chicken, but it wasn’t bad.