The Shepherd's Chase: A Chase Fulton Novel, page 1
THE SHEPHERD’S CHASE
CHASE FULTON NOVEL #27
CAP DANIELS
** USA **
Also by Cap Daniels
The Chase Fulton Novels Series
Book One: The Opening Chase
Book Two: The Broken Chase
Book Three: The Stronger Chase
Book Four: The Unending Chase
Book Five: The Distant Chase
Book Six: The Entangled Chase
Book Seven: The Devil’s Chase
Book Eight: The Angel’s Chase
Book Nine: The Forgotten Chase
Book Ten: The Emerald Chase
Book Eleven: The Polar Chase
Book Twelve: The Burning Chase
Book Thirteen: The Poison Chase
Book Fourteen: The Bitter Chase
Book Fifteen: The Blind Chase
Book Sixteen: The Smuggler’s Chase
Book Seventeen: The Hollow Chase
Book Eighteen: The Sunken Chase
Book Nineteen: The Darker Chase
Book Twenty: The Abandoned Chase
Book Twenty-One: The Gambler’s Chase
Book Twenty-Two: The Arctic Chase
Book Twenty-Three: The Diamond Chase
Book Twenty-Four: The Phantom Chase
Book Twenty-Five: The Crimson Chase
Book Twenty-Six: The Silent Chase
Book Twenty-Seven: The Shepherd's Chase
Book Twenty-Eight: The Scorpion's Chase
The Avenging Angel – Seven Deadly Sins Series
Book One: The Russian’s Pride
Book Two: The Russian’s Greed
Book Three: The Russian’s Gluttony
Book Four: The Russian’s Lust
Book Five: The Russian’s Sloth
Book Six: The Russian’s Envy (2024)
Book Seven: The Russian’s Wrath (TBA)
Stand-Alone Novels
We Were Brave
Singer – Memoir of a Christian Sniper
Novellas
The Chase Is On
I Am Gypsy
The Shepherd’s Chase
Chase Fulton Novel #27
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 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: 978-1-951021-59-7
Library of Congress Control Number: 2024937742
Copyright © 2024 Cap Daniels – All Rights Reserved
Cover Design: German Creative
Printed in the United States of America
The Shepherd’s Chase
CAP DANIELS
Chapter 1
The Warrior Class
Spring 2012
I stood behind Singer, the finest sniper I’ve ever known, and listened to his every word as he taught Sniping 101 to Gator, our newest teammate.
The sniper spoke in a soft, confident tone that gave his words authority without adding stress to the intensity Gator must’ve been feeling already. “What’s the primary purpose of a sniper?”
Gator raised his head from the rifle and looked up at his mentor. “To eliminate targets as efficiently as possible and save the lives of those he’s charged with protecting.”
The new guy had walked right into the same trap that snared me when Singer put me through the same course so many years before.
Singer looked up and gave me a wink. “That’s certainly one of the purposes of a sniper, but I want to know our primary purpose.”
Gator closed his eyes, apparently digging deep in search of the right answer, and Singer threw him a bone. “It’s three little words.”
Finally, Gator said, “Kill the enemy.”
“You already tried that answer,” Singer said. “Let’s back up and see if we can walk our way into a good answer. When we selected a position where we could achieve good cover and concealment, what was the third consideration in choosing this spot as our hide?”
Gator’s confidence returned. “Battlefield visibility.”
“Well done, Grasshopper. Why is battlefield visibility so important?”
“A sniper needs to see and understand everything in his environment because he’s the eyes of the strike team on the ground.”
Singer plucked a small, smooth stone from the ground, got his student’s attention, and tossed a stone at me. “You’re already better at this than our illustrious leader, the Great Chase Fulton, back there.”
I snatched the stone from the air and landed it perfectly on the bill of Singer’s cap.
Singer said, “Nice shot . . . for once.” He returned to his student. “So, tell me the primary purpose of the sniper.”
Gator proudly said, “To gather intelligence.”
Singer grinned from ear to ear. “Will somebody ring a bell? We have ourselves a winner. We are, first and foremost, gatherers of information. We can see the battlefield, or at least our sector of the battlefield, better than anyone else in the fight. Unless, of course, there’s an enemy sniper. He may have a better position than we do, but that’s countersniper operations, and we’ll learn that later. For now, let’s focus on gathering and relaying information to the leaders, like Chase, who are making battlefield decisions.”
Gator nodded but didn’t interrupt.
Singer continued. “We’re starting small and working up. Pick the left side of some prominent object within a thousand yards, point it out to me, and estimate the range.”
Gator scanned the open field and St. Marys’ North River. “There’s a grove of palm trees at eleven o’clock and eight hundred yards.”
Singer said, “Now, raise your left hand with your palm out at arm’s length, and align the left side of your hand with the left side of that grove of palms.”
He followed the instructions to the letter, and I was instantly intrigued. Singer hadn’t conducted that exercise with me when he took me through his one-on-one sniper course.
“Good,” the sniper said. “Now, place your right hand beside your left so both palms are facing away, and tell me what you see just to the right of your right hand.”
Gator situated his hands and said, “I see a tall, metal power line tower.”
“Good. You can put your hands down. Holding your hands like that represents approximately twenty degrees. For this exercise, those twenty degrees are your entire world. I want you to pretend nothing else exists. That is your sector of the battlefield, and I want you to note everything that changes in your sector.”
“For how long?” Gator asked.
Singer’s smile returned. “Until I come get you or I give you a target to engage, but do not chamber a round until I’ve given the command to lock and load. Understood?”
“Yes, sir.”
Singer pressed himself up to his knees. “Oh, I almost forgot. Are you still confident with your range estimation on the palms?”
Gator looked back at the trees. “On second thought, they look more like seven-fifty.”
“How about the power line tower?”
“That’s well over a thousand. Probably close to thirteen hundred. What’s your guess?”
Singer laughed. “I don’t make guesses. I know exactly how far everything is from this point. The palms are seven-ninety, and the tower is twelve twenty-five. Range them from the edge of our hide when I’m gone, and I’ll pay you one thousand dollars for every yard I’m off.”
“Seriously?”
Singer laid a hand on his student’s shoulder. “Seriously. Just make sure you’ve got the environmentals set correctly in your range finder.”
“Wait a minute,” Gator said. “This is a trap of some kind.”
Singer pointed downrange. “Go ahead. Range them.”
Gator pulled his laser rangefinder from a pouch, set the environmentals, and lased the trees. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
Singer said, “Let me guess. Seven-ninety?”
“Dead on. That’s amazing.”
Singer said, “Point to your feet.”
Gator frowned and pointed toward his boots. “What’s that about?”
“That’s amazing,” Singer said. “How did you know?”
“They’re my feet. I always know where they are.”
“That’s exactly how I want you to approach every single battlefield. Commit everything to memory, and when you have time, write it down.”
“Yes, sir.”
Singer turned to walk away. “One last thing. If you’re tired, hungry, or need to go to the bathroom, go take care of that now.”
Gator shook his head. “I’m good.”
“Okay, but don’t say I didn’t offer. Don’t chamber a round until o
“I’ve got it.”
Inside the truck cab, Singer tapped on the seat. “Let’s have some fun.”
I pulled away from his favorite training location. “How long do you plan to leave him in there?”
“Long enough to get hungry and generally uncomfortable, but the cruelty starts now.”
We drove back to Bonaventure, my family’s ancestral home on the banks of the North River, and across the back lawn to the boathouse, where I warmed up the rigid hull inflatable boat.
Singer made a call with the phone on speaker. “Good morning, Hunter. Are you ready for your big solo?”
Stone W. Hunter was an invaluable spoke in the wheel that was tactical Team Twenty-One, my merry band of misfits and ne’er-do-wells. He’d been an Air Force combat controller prior to sustaining a career-ending injury, but during his service he earned the respect of the special operators around him, from SEALs to Green Berets, and the insignia on his uniform melted away as he was absorbed into the world of covert operations. On our team, he was the waterborne operations officer and chief conditioning coach. If I were ever in a life-and-death struggle beneath the water, Stone W. Hunter is the man I’d pray to see. During a fight at depth, he had no equal, and I was exceptionally glad he was on the good guys’ team. I wouldn’t want him as an enemy.
Hunter said, “Just give me the word, and I’ll make it happen.”
“Excellent,” Singer said. “We’re headed up the river now, so stand by.”
As soon as Gator’s hide came into view to the west, I shoved the throttles forward and cut the wheel hard over. The overpowered RHIB sent a rooster tail of water rising into the air behind us as we drilled holes in the black surface of the water.
At the completion of our first high-speed three-sixty, Singer held the phone close to his mouth and said, “Hit it, Hunter.”
I let us slowly progress upstream while still circling until we were directly between the electric tower and Gator’s position. That’s when the RHIB and I put on a show.
I raised the engines until the propellers were barely in the water and ran hard for the marsh grass to the east. With the bow high in the air, I plowed into the high grass and cut the engines. We settled into the vegetation and jumped to our feet, pretending to fight. Singer finally shoved me out of the boat, and I landed softly in the marsh. Every time I made a move toward the RHIB, Singer slapped the water in front of me with the blade of a paddle, sending black water spraying into my face. I struggled for several minutes before catching the paddle the instant it hit the water for the hundredth time. Just as we’d planned, Singer gripped the paddle, and I yanked him from the boat and into the water beside me.
He surfaced and caught his breath. “I wonder what our boy thinks about all of this.”
I glanced toward the sniper’s position. “I don’t think he’ll fall for it. It’s too over the top.”
Singer patted my shoulder. “Oh, please tell me more, Dr. Civilian. I’ve done this a hundred times, and it worked every one of those times.”
“Yeah, but how many times have you done it to kids as bright as Gator?”
“It’s not about being bright,” he said. “It’s about forcing yourself to continue observing, even when your mind insists on singular focus.”
I peered across his shoulder and around the RHIB. “It looks like Hunter’s done.”
Singer said, “Let’s have a little more fun, just in case he needs another minute or two.” He drew his pistol, tilted it end over end to empty the water from the barrel, and pulled the trigger four times in rapid succession.
I said, “Thanks for the warning, gunfighter. That sounded like thunder inside my skull.”
He grimaced. “Sorry. I forgot about the new hearing aids. How are they working out?”
“Obviously, the waterproof part is working fine. Dr. Mankiller is still working on the noise-cancelling function. That little feature clearly has a long way to go.”
He reached for the boat. “Let’s get out of the water. I’m getting cold.”
“Cold? We’ve been in the water for three minutes and you’re already cold?”
He pulled himself over the starboard tube and into the RHIB. “If you wanted a SEAL for a sniper, you should’ve gone shopping elsewhere. I’m a shooter and a choir director who just happens to have the bankroll to retire if I’m not living up to your expectations, civilian.”
I slapped both hands onto the surface, splashing him with a wall of cold river water. “I guess we’ll keep you around until you get Gator trained up, but I’ll have Skipper begin the search for a nursing home for you.”
He offered a hand and pulled me into the boat. Suddenly, his expression turned serious. “I want you to know that’s not what I’m doing.”
I shook the water from my hair like a duck dog after a retrieval. “What are you talking about?”
“I’m not training my replacement. I just saw some interest and potential in the kid to become a pretty good sniper, and I’m adding skills to the team. I’m not planning my departure. I was just messing around.”
“I know. I didn’t take it that way. You and I are in this for the long haul, but it’s nice knowing there are young guys out there who feel the same fire that we do to devoting their lives to service.”
“They call us the warrior class. We’ve always existed, even before humans were formed out of the dust of the earth.”
He had my attention.
“The Archangel Michael wasn’t afraid of a fight, and King David was no slouch on the battlefield. Just ask Goliath. Joshua and Samson handed out more than their share of good old-fashioned butt-kickings. Their blood flows in us and in the men who’ll follow us. Don’t worry, my friend. As long as there’s something worth defending, good men will step up and fight for it.”
That’s when the explosion happened.
Chapter 2
The Real Thing
Explosions surprise everybody—even those who are expecting them. Singer and I knew that one was coming, but that didn’t dissolve our incessant need to turn toward the thunderous report. As the plume of smoke rose from between two of the largest palms in the grove, I wondered what Gator was thinking while tucked away in his hidey-hole. I hoped he saw Hunter hang the satchel charge between the trees on the left side of his sector of the battlefield. Hoping didn’t change the outcome, but I wanted the kid to do well. I saw a lot of me in him in those days, and I didn’t want to watch him commit the same unforgivable transgressions I made in the early days of my career.
Singer peered up the slope to the position where he left Gator. “I can’t see him from this angle, but I can’t wait to hear his after-action report.”
As if the movie’s director had ordered the perfect timing, Clark, our handler, roared northward in our amphibious Cessna 208 Caravan and touched down just north of the power line tower. What Gator couldn’t see was Hunter swimming toward the starboard pontoon of the plane. When he reached the float and climbed toward the cabin, that was our cue to fire a pair of flares into the air above our heads in hopes of forcing Gator’s eyes skyward instead of focusing on the Caravan. Learning to divide one’s attention and filter out distractions is a crucial skill set for a competent sniper, and we didn’t want a competent sniper. We wanted a superior warrior with the eyes of a hawk. If anybody could turn Gator into that superstar, it was Singer and the team around me. We were some of the finest warriors to ever step onto the battlefield, and our experience made us some of the most highly qualified civilian operators on Earth. Gator was in good hands, and he had a bottomless well of knowledge, wisdom, and battle scars from which to drink on his way to becoming the gladiator I knew he could be.
If the ruse worked, Gator wouldn’t see Hunter slip back into the water instead of into the Caravan.
With the overt portion of our training scenario behind us, we motored back down the river and locked the RHIB back in her pen. We grilled burgers and dogs on the dock and ate in one of my favorite spots: the gazebo overlooking the river on the back lawn of Bonaventure. The ring of Adirondack chairs lining the interior of the gazebo surrounded an ancient cannon from an eighteenth-century warship. There’d never be a better conversation piece than a battle-weary cannon from the Revolutionary War and War of 1812. Clark and I had pulled the cannon from the mud and muck of Cumberland Sound, just a few miles from Bonaventure. The ship that housed the gun was burned to the waterline and sunk on a fateful night two hundred years ago by workers and my ancestors during the latter of those wars.
