They reached the Boeing as Max Grephardt killed the power to the number four engine. Zeke grabbed the release handle along the bottom of the fuselage and dropped the access door. He stuck his head inside and yelled: "Anybody home?"
"Ja," came a loud voice from inside. "Wait there, I will be right out."
"Typical German efficiency,” mused Zeke to Micah. "He must have already finished the post checks. Guess he’s trying to show me up."
Movement could be heard inside the interior of the large craft before a short aluminum ladder eased its way out. Then a pair of highly-shined black western boots, followed by heavily starched Wranglers emerged from the open hatch.
With a natural ease Max Grephardt stepped off the last rung and onto the ground, stooping to move from under the forward fuselage. Like so many other Germans of his generation, he had an infatuation with the American West and everything to do with it. That explained the boots, jeans and the black western long-sleeved shirt he was wearing. On his closely-cropped head of silver hair perched a blue baseball cap displaying the CAF ‘Ghost Squadron’ logo.
"Hello Micah, it is very good to see you," said Max as the two men shook hands.
"Max, you look fit. How do you like flying the B-17?"
"Well, I guess I like it fine. However, I never believed I would be flying one," he grinned, an ironic twinkle in his ice blue eyes. "Do you mind being my passenger to the Midland Air Show?"
"No, sir, I certainly don't," replied the highway patrolman.
"Good!" Max replied in his typical enthusiasm. “Ezekiel and I plan to fly each other’s aircraft when we come in. It should be a real surprise to anyone who knows us once they realize just who is in what.”
Micah chuckled lightly, thinking of his own reaction only a few minutes before. “You certainly surprised me, twice” he admitted. Max and Tio Zeke glanced at each other in knowing fashion and laughed.
The German stepped back a bit, taking in a full view of Micah in his DPS uniform. "You look very professional, Micah, a credit to your agency and to your state."
"Well, Tio Zeke said you wanted to take a photo. Thought I’d look my best for the occasion." Some of Max's friends back home were anxious to see that peace officers in Texas, even in the year of 1990, still actually wore cowboy hats and boots. It was yet another example of their curious fascination with the American West, and especially with the enduring customs and traditions of the Lone Star state.
"Ja, I want to show everyone back in Germany what a real Texas Ranger looks like."
Tio Zeke snorted and Micah hastened to try to explain to Max that he was not a Texas Ranger, but rather a Texas Highway Patrolman. Yes, highway patrolmen were offered the chance to promote to ranger if they chose to, and both services were closely related elements of the same agency. But they were distinctly different in manners of dress, methods of operation and assigned responsibilities.
It was not the first time that Micah had attempted to explain this to Max, but for some unknown reason he just refused to grasp the concept. Sometimes Micah wondered if the whole affair was yet another one of those inside jokes that Max and Tio Zeke shared only with each other, like their idea of switching aircraft at the air show. They always seemed to be involved in hatching some sort of private plot or another.
The three men turned to the tasks that needed done, checking the aircraft over and making certain that both would be secure for the night and ready to go next morning. After Max had taken his photographs, Micah had removed both the offending tie and wool shirt, along with the uncomfortable body armor and placed them inside the Ramcharger. Before donning some gray overalls given to him by a License & Weight troop, he also secured his heavy Smith & Wesson .357 Magnum and Sam Browne belt in the Dodge's console.
As they worked together Max asked about Jack, as well as Abby and their two sons. In response, Micah said the boys were on deployment overseas and with the current world situation, would likely be so for some time. Abby had driven to Midland earlier that morning and would meet them in the designated CAF section of the airport tomorrow. She had never flown in The Uvalde Raider, yet had always wanted to. This was supposed to be the year, but with Jack and Sally having to rush to Amarillo she thought it best to take a vehicle to Midland, just in case.
Tio Zeke listened as Micah outlined the change in plans before commenting. "Better tell her not wait too much longer, Micah. Max and I aren’t getting any younger."
Max nodded his head silently in agreement. It was the first time Micah had ever heard his uncle speak this way, and the remark made him pause and consider. He had always looked upon his uncle and Max as being as timeless and durable as the two aircraft now parked serenely around them.
To him, neither seemed to have changed much over the years. Perhaps an extra touch of gray in the thinning hair, deeper creases in their faces and a bit more leisurely in their gait and physical movements. But they were still the same men, still larger than life in everything they did. They were just a day or two older.
"Oh, come on Tio,” protested Micah good naturedly. “You and Max are as good as you’ve ever been. Most men half your age can’t hold a candle to you two."
"Perhaps." responded Zeke. "Perhaps I might be just vain enough to believe that, at least when it comes to our minds and what goes on inside them. But most men half our age haven't covered near the miles that Max and I have, or seen what we’ve seen. One day we won’t be able to fly these birds anymore and it could be sooner than any of us might think."
Zeke motioned to Grephardt, who was checking the connections on the extra fuel tanks he had recently installed in the Messerschmitt. "Max knows it too, we’ve already talked about it. He’s getting close to mandatory retirement at Lufthansa, even if he just flies a desk for them now. As for me, well, the aerospace industry ain’t what it was before. After Challenger blew up, a lot of things changed down in Houston. A lot of the old NASA hands I started out with are gone now.”
Micah’s uncle paused again, then added slowly. “In fact, lately I’ve had some pretty lucrative offers on the company. Offers worth considering."
"Oh?" asked Micah. There was a real surprise, the only thing that had enough pull to get Tio Zeke out of the Air Force had been the space race. Zeke Templar had been in on most everything that occurred since near the end of the Mercury Program. When Tranquility Control announced to the world that “the Eagle had landed” in July of 1969, they could just as easily added Templar Aerospace Industries to their statement.
"Yeah, and I have to admit to being real tempted. It’s a currently standing offer, too. Lately I’ve often thought about selling out and leaving Houston for good. There’s some nice places south of Alpine up for sale and I want to go take a look. Matter of fact, I’d like to have you come along."
Now Tio Zeke had Micah’s full attention. When anyone began talking about the Big Bend country, they always had the full measure of a Templar's mind, heart and spirit.
Ezekiel Templar nodded approvingly at the look on his nephew’s face. "That's right, and I’d need someone to help with a small ranch if I made the move. If it came to that and I made it worth your while, would you be interested?"
Micah felt an inner surge of excitement. In a way, it would be like going home for him. He was not quite ready for retirement yet, but the boys had their own lives now and Abby always liked the area. For years they had talked half-seriously about a place somewhere in the Big Bend, and there was the chance of transferring to Alpine or Marfa and finishing out those last few years. His mind began considering the possibilities.
"Well..," he began, rubbing his chin in thought.
"Think about it, Micah" encouraged his uncle. "That's sure enough Templar country. After all, our family and kin has sweated and fought over enough of it. Presently you’re the only one of us even remotely near, other than Wolf Zacatecas.”
Micah grinned a bit and remarked, "Well, after that big dustup of his, some folks just might pack up and leave if any more Templars s
howed up.”
"So much the better,” responded Zeke. “When we get up to Midland, I’d like to discuss this more in depth with both you and Abby.’
His uncle’s words trailed off and he frowned a bit, looking past Micah’s shoulder. “Say, were we expecting any kind of company?"
"No, why?" asked Micah.
"Because we’re about ready to get some" stated Zeke, pointing to the rising plumes of dust headed their direction.
CHAPTER TWO
Standing near the heavy four engine bomber, Micah felt a touch of uneasiness at the idea of unexpected visitors. It might be Jack and Sally returning from their sick aunt but considering the time frame, the trooper seriously doubted it. Also, Jack had not mentioned a word about other people on his property, and he was very unforgiving to anyone on the Bar JA uninvited. Finally, they were a long way from any public road or neighboring land owners, so the possibility of someone wandering through or simply lost was remote.
A person driving accidently up to the field itself was a real stretch, as the dirt lane dead ended at the airstrip and was blocked by a closed gate where it teed from the main ranch road. And judging from the rising dust there was more than one vehicle, which made the sudden appearance of these unexpected interlopers that much more disconcerting.
Yet whoever it might be was likely nothing more than an oilfield supervisor and some hands, or a surveying crew with access who happened to see the two airplanes and took it upon themselves to investigate. Or maybe someone else with an avid interest in World War II history and heard they would be out here this afternoon. Yet there was something more off-center, something that didn’t feel right, and Micah wished he had his issued .357 Magnum still on his right hip.
The trooper idly considered easing over to the Ramcharger and putting his Sam Brown belt and the revolver back on. Or better yet, retrieving his Marlin .30-30 out of the lockbox in the cargo area of the Dodge.
But he fought down the urge and attributed it to too many years in his chosen profession, and to the attending abundance of caution that comes with such a line of work. Besides, presenting a gun at the arrival of a curious public was not in the best interests or goals of the Confederate Air Force or the Texas Highway Patrol. Nevertheless, that nagging angst continued to radiate from the back of his head and he did not like it.
Micah looked to where Max Grephardt continued to tinker on the Me109G, either unaware or ignoring the approach of the unknown vehicles. With Grephardt it was most likely the latter, as the past Luftwaffe fighter ace missed very little of anything that went on around him.
The dust plumes were just around a low-lying rise now, and then a tan three-quarter ton Suburban came into view. It did not take much longer to confirm the Suburban was not alone, two other vehicles followed close behind. The one in the middle was a light green crew cab Ford one-ton with a camper shell. Bringing up the rear was another Suburban much like the first, save this one was white in color. Micah did not recognize any of them and he knew most every vehicle in the county.
In actuality the little caravan might have passed for a survey crew or some oil field hands, at least at first glance. However, near constant experience with both sorts afforded Micah a more discerning eye. Though all three bore the ever-present layer of dust typical to West Texas caliche roads, none reflected the use as well as abuse by someone who drove those roads daily.
There were no dents, dings or scrape marks on the vehicles from bump gates, mesquite branches or a rock thrown up at speed. Their bumpers were not pockmarked or bent, and none displayed the almost prerequisite heavy duty grill guards so popular in this part of the country. These were vehicles from a more semi-urban environment, far too clean and unmarked by the rugged life required of their type on a ranch or in the oil patch.
All three slowed as they approached, not so much in being unsure of what they were doing, rather than not being in any particular hurry to get it done. Micah also noted the vehicles had darkly tinted windows so that no one could see what was inside, or how many occupants there might be. Within his own thoughts, his misgivings continued to mount.
When they were about a hundred feet away the three swung out beside each other and came to a stop. Ezekiel glanced at his nephew and said, "Well, I guess we had better find out what they want." Behind them, Max had stopped working on the Messerschmitt and was cleaning his hands on a red rag, watching.
Micah and Tio Zeke had just started forward when doors began opening. Several men, armed with Kalashnikov-style assault rifles, sprang out and trained their weapons on the two Templars as well as Max. They shouted orders in a guttural manner, yelling in a language that Micah did not understand and at first could not place.
With the sudden display of armed men pointing guns their direction, both Ezekiel and Micah froze. Max abruptly stopped wiping his hands, the rag dropping from his fingers and landing on the tarmac. The three of them stared into the muzzles of those rifles held by the uninvited guests, and the heretofore normal movement of time slammed hard to a dead stop.
Micah's mind was racing wildly, searching for options. His Dodge Ramcharger and its available firepower were too far away to do him any good. From where he stood there was no available cover in moving quickly to, even if he had been armed. Beyond that would have been the less than desirable outcome of trying to take on multiple Kalashnikov-toting opponents in a standup gunfight, with nothing more than a six-shot Smith & Wesson.
Ignominiously, they had been taken completely by surprise and in the absolutely worst tactical position one could ever put themselves into. Micah felt the sickening taste of helplessness churn in the pit of his stomach and slowly, ever so slowly, he and Ezekiel began to raise their arms.
“Easy, easy now fellows," implored the elder Templar in a soft, calming drawl. He placed his outstretched hands before him in an unmistakable sign of submission. "Let's not do anything rash."
Micah was not sure if his uncle was speaking to the heavily armed newcomers, or to he and Max. Perhaps Tio Zeke’s soothing words were more for the benefit of all present. Considering the circumstances, it seemed like good advice for everyone.
The interlopers continued to bark out commands and motion aggressively with their weapons. To the casual observer, their general physical appearance would make one suppose they were Mexican nationals. But their language was definitely not Spanish in any dialect, and Micah was still trying to come up with a possible fit to whatever language they were speaking.
Then it dawned on him. Their words sounded very much like some sort of Arabic. Micah cut his eyes over to Tio Zeke who responded in turn. Without a word spoken between them, he sensed that his uncle had already decided the same.
The men were fairly young, in their late twenties or perhaps right at thirty years of age. The weapons they carried appeared mostly to be different variants of the Soviet Kalashnikov AK47. Micah picked up on this almost immediately, as he was more than familiar with the Communist bloc assault rifle owing to his combat tours in Vietnam.
With a rising curiosity replacing the immediate shock of surprise, he further noted these men were dressed in a style of clothing usually worn by illegal immigrants trying to enter from Mexico. To complete this effect, each man was dark headed and with a matching complexion, and each scowled ominously at the highway patrolman and his two companions.
A previously unopened door on the lead Suburban swung wide and another young man stepped out amid the others. There was no doubt he was the leader of this group, he carried himself with the air of authority and appeared to be in complete control of himself as well as those around him. Somewhat lighter in skin color than his fellows but of a slightly taller stature, the man’s features were well-defined and proportioned. Even in his shabby clothes many would have said he possessed a somewhat handsome appearance.
With active, highly intelligent eyes, he leisurely took the measure of the three prisoners before him. Then his gaze shifted, settling upon the gleaming aluminum skin of the Boeing B-17
perched in the background. The calculating eyes lingered on the old bomber with open appreciation and the man smiled thinly, nodding his head slightly in the manner of inner true satisfaction. He returned his attention to Micah and the others.
“Good afternoon, gentlemen” he spoke English in an educated, almost British-styled dialect. “Please do not make any sudden motions. My compatriots would not appreciate it.”
The leader quietly issued an order in Arabic and six of the men moved forward, breaking into three groups of two each. While one of the pair acted as cover for his partner, the other did a physical search of his assigned detainee. The three captives were relieved of their personal effects including their watches, wallets, pocket knives and other such items. The process was detailed and professional, and pointed to some sort of special training.
Once satisfied, they shoved their charges into a position directly in front of the lighter complected man who had spoken such perfect English. While standing there, Micah did a mental head count. The six men who searched them were to his rear, and a seventh one busied himself while sitting in the front seat of the lead Suburban. The evident leader who had addressed them made for eight.
A ninth and final man had taken a ready position beside his commander. Easily taller than even the leader, this ninth man was in superb physical condition with broad shoulders, a muscular build and not an ounce of fat showing. His hatchet-like face was accentuated by a full goatee framed by long, raven black hair that fell to his shoulders. Most noticeable of all were his dark eyes burning with a peculiarly malevolent hatred, a hatred that was purposely being directed at Micah.
“I want you to know, you have my assurance that we mean you no harm personally” the leader continued. “Let me introduce myself: I am Yahla al-Qassam, a humble follower of the Prophet and fighter for the liberation of the Shi’a Lebanese people.”
Qassam gestured with a sweeping motion in regard to the armed men around him. “These are my comrades. We serve the Lebanese resistance movement known as Hezbollah and you are our prisoners. Now that you know who we are, allow me to determine exactly who you might be.”
The Uvalde Raider Page 2