His attention first settled upon Max. “You are former Luftwaffe Hauptmann Maximillian Friedrich Grephardt, holder of the Iron Cross with Oak Leaves with 79 confirmed aerial kills during the Second World War. You are currently a high-ranking executive for Lufthansa Airlines and live with your family on an estate near Frankfurt. At present you are visiting your very close friend Ezekiel Templar here in the United States and enroute to a memorial air show in Midland, Texas. That is your Messerschmitt, the same kind of fighter aircraft you flew in the war.” Qassam pointed at the nearby 109G.
Max gazed serenely at Al-Qassam, mentally gauging the man. “Ja” he said slowly, “I am Max Grephardt.”
“Thank you” replied Qassam, who seemed to revel in showing his knowledge of the German. “One thing I should mention, Herr Grephardt. Do not attempt another storied escape as you did from the Soviets during that war. We are not a mob of ignorant peasants and would not take well to such a distraction. Suffice to say, there are far more important tasks demanding our undivided attention.”
He shifted his attention to Micah. “Let’s see now, you must be Trooper Micah Templar. You have nearly twenty years of experience as a police officer and your wife’s name is Abby, I believe. You have two sons currently in the United States Marines. Also, you served in the Marines yourself during your country’s war in Vietnam. Am I correct?”
Micah tried to keep his best poker face and simply nodded in affirmation. Inside of himself, he was still trying to mentally deal with this abrupt change in circumstance, as well as the highly disconcerting fact that someone he had never met seemed to know a whole lot about both him and his family. Someone who also gave every indication of being an especially dangerous enemy.
Without a further word spoken the long-haired taller man stepped forward and struck Micah a vicious round house slap, his open right hand making impact directly over Micah’s left ear. It sounded almost like a pistol shot and the report was loud enough to echo off the parked aircraft.
Caught completely by surprise, the blow staggered the trooper as the man’s palm slammed full force into Micah’s temple. The younger Templar managed to keep his footing, but his vision blurred while a galaxy of stars and planets exploded in bright flashes before his eyes. His left ear rang loudly from the air being compressed by the cupped hand, which in turn mixed with the pain and accompanying dizziness brought on by the impact itself.
Looking through his disjointed vision, the highway patrolman gave his assailant an angry glare as the man stepped back alongside Qassam. In return, Micah’s tormentor stared back with reptilian eyes that lacked any promise of humanity. Then the man smiled and it occurred to Micah that if a rattlesnake could do so, it would probably look like this guy.
“I see that you make friends quickly, Officer Templar.” Qassam said with an appreciable snicker. “Further introductions are evidently in order. This is my second-in-command, Mustafa Abbas.” He gestured to the powerfully built man to his side.
“Another bit of business that needs noted,” continued Qassam. “When I speak to you, you will respond verbally. Nodding is considered as disrespectful and will not be tolerated.”
Smugly, the Hezbollah leader eyed Micah. “And I would be very careful around Mustafa. He is well-known in Hezbollah as being without peer in unarmed combat and does not need a gun to kill a man.”
Leaning forward ever so slightly, Qassam added maliciously. “He also possesses a great hatred for all United States Marines. You see, some years ago his brother was killed by a Marine in Beirut. Unfortunately for you, I happened to inform him of your previous service in that organization. By the way, your last name does not help you in this regard, either.”
Qassam’s attention swiveled to Ezekiel. “Speaking of last names, I believe there are two Templars present today. One is already accounted for. So that would make you Ezekiel Templar, retired colonel, United States Air Force. You are a widower and your only son was killed in a bombing mission over North Vietnam. You are also the owner and chief executive officer of Templar Aerospace Industries, as well as the owner and pilot of that magnificent aircraft behind you.” The terrorist leader pointed at the four engine heavy bomber and smiled thinly.
“I am,” responded the elder Templar in a calm, even voice.
“May I say, colonel, it is a pleasure to meet someone with so many achievements in so many different fields of endeavor,” Qassam said with apparent sincerity. “Your list of accomplishments speaks of a highly intelligent man with foresight and determination. In fact, there are those who would say we have much in common. I hope that we have some opportunity to visit before parting.”
“And how long will that be, Qassam?” questioned Ezekiel in understated fashion.
For a moment the Hezbollah leader seemed a bit surprised. Then he tilted back his head and began laughing, showing a row of perfectly white, even teeth.
“Always the curious intelligence officer, aren’t we colonel?” Qassam still smiled but his facial expression held no real mirth. “I have an interesting dossier on you, including your escapades against the Communists after the Second World War. Very impressive. We will certainly have to find some time to have a meaningful conversation.”
“I’m already looking forward to it,” dead panned Ezekiel in return.
“As am I, colonel, as am I.” Qassam lowered his voice to a semi-conspiratory tone. “But the same warning applies to you as to your nephew and Herr Grephardt. Be very careful. Your continued well-being is a plus to us all, but not entirely essential.”
Ezekiel Templar cut his eye over to the coiled and ready Mustafa. The second-in-command gave every indication of being primed to strike at the slightest provocation.
Choosing his words prudently, the retired colonel replied. “Believe me, Qassam. You have made your expectations clear.”
CHAPTER THREE
The three captives sat in a small room, in the rear of what was once an operations shack for the emergency airfield. The door leading to the main room was partially open, and one of the Arabs stood just outside that door with an AK at the ready. They had been in the room for some time now, the sun had disappeared below the horizon and dusk was turning into night.
Inside the main room a steady stream of activity never seemed to let up, men came and went and one could hear vehicles being moved around outside. There was almost constant talking going on, and Micah tried hard to listen in for anything he could make of their conversations. But it was all in Arabic, and he could determine little beyond the changing inflections used to differentiate between orders, serious discussions and light banter.
All three men sat on the concrete floor, hands bound behind their backs in some manner or another. Micah had been secured with his own handcuffs from his Sam Browne belt, Uncle Zeke and Max were restrained by zip ties. No one had spoken a word since they had been placed in the room. Their captors had not specifically stated they could not talk among themselves, but Micah’s bruised left temple was a reminder of how their captors often told you about the rules after you paid for breaking them.
However, that did not mean there was not any communication going on inside the room where they were held. Facial expressions, nods, shrugs and other types of body language were being used to talk in pantomime fashion between one another. Micah picked up early on that his uncle and Max were quite adept at this, and he was left quickly behind in their mute mode of conversation.
Interestingly enough, Tio Zeke seemed to be following quite a bit of the Arabic spoken in the main room. As he listened, he also appeared to become more and more concerned. Over the past few hours, Micah had learned some things about his uncle he had never really been fully aware of before. In such a dire situation and still with that real concern showing, Ezekiel Templar appeared remarkably calm. It was as if the man never stopped thinking in a critical manner, or considering available options.
Of course, Micah had heard a few stories about his uncle and had been aware of his personal reputation thro
ugh the eyes of others. Micah’s own father, Jeremiah Templar, had said that his younger brother was one of the most intelligent and naturally gifted men he had ever known.
His father regaled the son with exploits of when Jeremiah and Ezekiel were teenagers along the Nueces River, and how his brother never seemed to be at a loss for words, or contemplations, or a continuing fancy for adventure. In the many years to follow, Tio Zeke had disciplined those youthful attributes and lived the kind of life that most others could only dream of.
Ezekiel J. Templar was someone who, as the old timers used to say, had been up the creek and over the mountain, and had gone to see the elephant on many an occasion. That much was plainly evident during the first chaotic moments of their capture, as he appeared almost nonplussed while dealing with the precarious uncertainties swirling about him.
When the retired colonel spoke to the one who called himself Qassam, he seemed to know exactly what needed said and just how to say it. More so, the terrorist leader apparently knew things about Tio Zeke that brought forth a certain admiration, maybe even a grudging respect. All put together, it made Micah wonder just how much he didn’t know about his own blood kin.
Looking back, he realized that Ezekiel had not been around much until Micah’s father had passed on. It was really only after that had occurred, followed by the tragic deaths of his uncle’s only son and soon afterward his wife, that they began spending more time together.
Tio Zeke seemed to thoroughly revel in being part of Micah’s family, especially during the period when the younger Templar’s own two sons were growing up. Abby, with a good woman’s innate intuition, welcomed Ezekiel’s pressing need to be included in the goings-on of their modest home. More so than anyone else, she grasped the essential reason for this change and explained it to Micah. Having lost his own family made Ezekiel treasure someone else’s as never before, and more so because of the intrinsic kinship. Personal loss and a searing loneliness often had that sort of effect on those whose spirit had been so near broken.
When it came down to it, in some ways Micah knew more about Max Grephardt than he did Tio Zeke. If his uncle had been somewhat shy in recounting his own exploits as a younger man, he was more than ready to talk about those concerning the former Luftwaffe ace. This unusual imbalance dated back to when Micah was a small boy.
Many times Ezekiel had spoken of what his German friend had accomplished, and of the many challenges and dangers Max faced in his eventful life. Some forty-five years ago, he had been one of the most highly decorated fighter pilots in the German Luftwaffe. But that in itself was only the smallest fragment of the extraordinary mosaic which illustrated Grephardt’s rather remarkable, even unique story.
Micah listened as his uncle reminisced of how he and Max first met, or rather the first time they had met and both been aware of it. The odds were the two men had done so ever so briefly before then, in the sub-zero temperatures of high altitude above Western Europe. Most likely the event was one measured in a scant second or maybe two, closing in upon each other at a combined speed of some 600 miles per hour while spewing fire, steel and destruction. This was the circumstance of their youth, and of their respective duties in a vast and horrendous world conflict.
Similar to their first anonymous meeting, the next was again the product of chance brought on by war. Max had been in a holding camp for the vanquished, only one of literally millions of German POWs who had chosen to surrender to the Western Allies, rather than the Soviet hordes advancing from the east. Ezekiel Templar had been in the company of the victors, involved in running the daily operations of a converted German airbase in that devastated land.
Then a day came along when an airplane had gone down, crashed and caught on fire with men trapped inside. Max was first on the scene and risked his own life to save those of others trapped in the burning flames and black, acrid smoke.
That the aircraft itself was American and the men inside so recently his enemies had meant little to Max Grephardt, what did matter was they were fellow human beings who were in mortal peril and unable to help themselves. As Max went inside the blazing plane and brought out men time and again, Ezekiel Templar had arrived to personally witness the metal within the man. The Air Force colonel would later tell the story at a rare family gathering, smile to himself, and shake his head in amazement.
When he first heard this as a small boy, Micah simply could not understand. In his child's mind of that time, it was impossible to grasp the concept of loving one's enemy enough to risk your own life. Besides, everyone who had ever watched a Hollywood war movie knew that all the Germans were Nazis, and the Nazis were callous monsters incapable of such selfless acts. They had been the perennial villains pitted against the Americans in their proverbial white hats. Why would such an obvious bad guy do something so noble for some of the good guys? And that Knight’s Cross with Silver Oak leaves, was that not presented in part to Max for fighting so well against the Americans, even in killing Americans?
Tio Zeke patiently tried to explain there was both good and evil in most men, and this was reflected in turn by the society in which they lived. Where good prevailed more in the hearts of the individuals who made up that society, the society was viewed in general as being such. The same thing happened when this went the opposite way and into the reaches of the state of evil. In Nazi Germany there had been many good men much like Max, but not enough to make that crucial difference. Hauptmann Max Grephardt had not flown into battle with the black heart of a villain; rather he went in harm’s way only to defend his family, his home and his country as best as he knew how.
As far as the Knight’s Cross, his uncle pointed out it was not the medal pinned to the outside of the man that so impressed him, but once again the metal of the man inside. That was how Ezekiel J. Templar went about choosing his inner circle of friends, the quality of the metal possessed within. To Tio Zeke, that metal was hardly burnished so brightly by any man as Max had done at the scene of the crashed American transport.
But the young Micah Templar remained puzzled and somewhat confused concerning this dichotomy during his growing years. Like so many other boys trying so hard to become young men, he tended to see the world in a starkly black and white manner. More so some men, some very good men, chose to go through their entire lives seeing that same world in mostly the same way. Ezekiel’s own brother, Micah’s father, had been that sort of man…
“Micah?” the softly spoken word on his uncle’s lips brought the younger Templar back from the faraway fog of the past. As it was uttered, all three men looked expectantly in the direction of their Shi’a guard, anxiously awaiting any sort of reaction. The armed terrorist, still standing by the partially opened door, looked their direction with an expression of indifference as well as a bit of boredom. Apparently, he was far more interested in what was happening in the adjoining room and returned his main attention there.
Tio Zeke continued speaking in a voice now just a bit louder and more distinct than needed. “They missed the blade I keep hidden. When I get the chance, I’ll cut myself loose.”
Micah stared at Ezekiel Templar with an incredulous expression, wondering what in the world his uncle was blabbering about. “Watch the guard,” he added, “and get ready, Jake keeps a revolver in a cubby hole above us.”
The younger Templar doubted that Tio Zeke could have kept any knife secreted through that search and there was certainly no loaded revolver handy. At first baffled by his uncle’s words and behavior, it took several moments before the true intent became clear. The older man was not even looking in the direction of his nephew when he spoke, but rather their Hezbollah guard. Ezekiel was testing for the slightest hint of comprehension or associated response from the Lebanese.
The Hezbollah sentry made a half-hearted effort to glance over his shoulder, and then returned to listening to what was being said among his comrades. Zeke watched him carefully, waiting. There was no change in the man’s demeanor. Once satisfied Zeke looked over to hi
s nephew, winked and nodded. In his peripheral vision, Micah noted that Max nodded in return.
Tio Zeke spoke again but now keeping his voice down as much as possible. “Keep it low and short, no need irking this guy with chatter.”
Max Grephardt nodded again in agreement. Once more, the guard glanced unmindfully their direction and returned to what was occurring in the next room. Ezekiel waited a bit more before saying anything else.
“These fellas are into something big, really big, and they’re using The Raider to get it done,” murmured the elder Templar.
Micah was a bit startled at the announcement. Evidently his uncle could understand Arabic but Micah had no idea of where or how that ability came into being. Ezekiel noted the further puzzlement on his nephew’s face and instinctively sensed why.
“Much like Spanish,” Tio Zeke hissed for emphasis. “Often same words but sounded differently. They pronounce from the throat, not the tongue.” Ezekiel paused again and looked over to their Hezbollah guard, gauging him.
The man did not acknowledge them this time with as much as a fleeting look. What was happening next door was of far greater interest and the Lebanese was observing the process intently. After all, his intimacy with that process had been his primary reason for existence for several months now.
The Hezbollah guard knew that in a few more hours history would take a drastic, irreversible turn. The years of planning, the months of repetitious training, the long journey from his homeland into the heart of the Great Satan, all coming to fruition as it unfolded before his very eyes.
It did not matter to him if his prisoners spoke a few cryptic words to each other. They were securely restrained, their sounds mere murmurs making for no interference to the voices of his fellows. Forcing them to be totally quiet would cause more disruption than just letting them whisper on occasion. His comrades were on a strict schedule, any distractions would eat into their remaining time and prevent him the enjoyment of seeing all their hard work finally come together.
The Uvalde Raider Page 3