The Uvalde Raider

by Ben H. English

  That accomplishment, more than any other one thing, proved to Ezekiel just how resourceful and capable this individual terrorist leader really was. It also stood as irrefutable evidence as to how incredibly dangerous the Hezbollah operative could be when loosed in a world teeming with innocent people, masses of human beings unaware of the reckoning evil that lurked among them.

  As in so many other feats, once one had the means and the power everything else became a mere question of logistics and will. Qassam had given ample attention to the logistics, and there remained no question whatsoever of his will to see this appalling plot of mass murder to fruition. Neither was there any doubt that when given the opportunity, he would do so again at another time and place.

  The retired colonel thought hard, trying to come up with some improbable angle or weak point in what Qassam had said, or in what Ezekiel had personally observed. No matter how he tried, he still ended up drawing a blank. The plan was completely doable and there was precious little time left to stop it, save for a sudden and complete act of gross incompetence on the part of Qassam and his peers. Either that or some sort of Divine Intervention on the part of the unknowing multitudes, who would soon become the decimated ranks of dead or dying.

  It is said that Divine Intervention is only brought on by prayer driven by faith. With nothing else that could be done at present, that was exactly what Ezekiel Templar did now. He began praying as fervently and earnestly as he had ever done before in his life, and hoping that an all-powerful God on high, with His own plan, was listening in.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  It was somewhere after five in the morning when two of the Hezbollah terrorists joined the guard at the door and made their way into the small room. They kicked and prodded the three hostages to their feet, but one allowed himself the simple humanity of assisting Ezekiel as the captives moved into the larger adjoining room. Micah suspected this was due to specific orders from Qassam, and for reasons other than those akin to any real sort of good intentions.

  Standing there and blinking against the harsh artificial light, Micah immediately noticed that the previous pile of equipment and supplies were now absent. The maps were removed from the table, as were the assorted papers and ring binders. Save for an odd plastic bag or empty food container, it was much in the same condition as it had been in when he first arrived, and before Qassam and his Hezbollah terrorists came on the scene. In short, the place had been basically sanitized.

  Independently but at the same time, the two other captives were glancing about and coming to the same conclusion. Whatever those assorted maps, guides, notes and supplies had to do with their captors’ assigned mission, that phase of the operation where they were useful had passed. Most likely they were now packed away for transportation to another location and/or destroyed for security purposes. That meant that preparations were coming to an end, the next phase would be the beginning of the flight to launch the attack itself.

  Qassam stood in the middle of the room with a large smile on his face, evidently more pleased with himself and his evolving situation than he had ever been before. Mustafa stood nearby, arms folded and leaning against a large desk. There was not a hint of merriment appearing anywhere on his features and Micah was not in the least surprised. Rattlesnakes, be they human or otherwise, are incapable of emotion. All they exist for is the opportunity to destroy some other of God’s creatures.

  “Good morning, gentlemen” Qassam began. “I hope you were able to get a bit of rest. This is going to be a memorable day for all, and each of us should have a clear head to remember the details.”

  He motioned them over to the same overstuffed couch and Micah sat down, again careful in how he placed his handcuffed wrists and trying to avoid any tension on the devices. Max sat down next to him and Uncle Zeke joined them last of all, hobbling painfully across the room on his wounded leg.

  “So that you may follow along for purposes of documentation to what is occurring, you need to know that we have completed the preparatory phase of our assignment. Actually, we made faster progress than hoped for and our timeline is now ahead of schedule. As you can readily imagine, transferring the VX was of particular concern; yet we accomplished it without incident.”

  Outside, they heard an engine start on one of the Chevrolet Suburbans parked near the Boeing. It began pulling away, using nothing but its parking lamps to maneuver by. The Hezbollah leader turned and watched the vehicle go.

  “Things have gone so well that I am sending my support team to get some well-deserved rest at the Albright residence. Once they have done so, they will return here. Together, both they and you will leave this area later in the morning and make your way to a rendezvous point. Following the completion of our mission, the elements of our group will join them as we begin the long journey back to where we came from.

  I wanted to speak with you one more time before the next phase commences. As I have said before, no harm will come to you if you behave in a manner as to not cause any undue concern or difficulties. After all, you three will be able to give first-hand accounts as to the preparations for this event as they took place. You will be able to relate the story far better than most anyone else, and it will be a story worthy of the retelling.”

  Sitting there Ezekiel Templar considered one last try in reasoning with the Hezbollah leader, one last attempt to change the man’s mind in some way or manner. But he knew that he would be wasting his breath. People like Qassam never second guessed themselves or questioned their perceived righteousness, especially on something they had labored so hard and so long for. Qassam was a zealot of fanatical proportions, and fanatical zealots can never change their minds or their self-determined reasons for whatever wrong they do to others. Even including mass murder.

  The Hezbollah leader seemed to be reading Ezekiel’s mind. “What, Colonel? No last ditch plea for the sake of humanity or for the imagined innocent lives that will be lost? No stirring appeal to my intelligence or inner conscience, nor an attempt to influence through some corrupted interpretation of my religion? You do surprise me.”

  Ezekiel looked up at the terrorist leader with a resigned gaze. “Would it do any good?” he asked.

  “Of course not,” Qassam chuckled drily in a way that contained no mirth. “But I expected you to try, all the same. Perhaps my reprimand to your left thigh had more effect than I first estimated. Still, I must admit that I am somewhat disappointed.

  “Yet be that as it may, I am looking forward to a more leisurely visit with you in the future, under less pressing time restraints. There are events in your past that people of mutual acquaintance would assuredly like to know more about.” Looking over at Max, Qassam continued. “In addition, perhaps Herr Grephardt can help sort out a few of the murkier details.”

  Refocusing back on Ezekiel, the Hezbollah leader remarked, “By the way, I almost forgot to tell you how pleased my pilot is with the condition of your aircraft. He is almost beside himself with the opportunity to fly such an enduring example of American technology from fifty years ago.”

  Qassam paused for a moment more, and then added in a particularly malicious tone. “It makes one wonder if there will be much of anything concerning the United States of any value, fifty years into the future.”

  The terrorist smiled again widely, taking full pleasure in the verbal cajoling of his captive audience. Leering over them in an expansive manner, he turned his attention to Micah Templar. Yahla al-Qassam considered himself a man of patience and of disciplined mind, so he had saved the best for last.

  “Officer Templar, you might be interested in knowing that Mustafa will be in charge of your little entourage, and will also serve as your guard for the next few hours. I mention this in the hope that you do not give him any excuse to kill you. Do you understand me?”

  Micah scowled up at the Hezbollah leader, mentally struggling to keep his temper and tongue in check. Too much was riding on what he said or did at this juncture, and he couldn’t tip his hand with a
ny unusual inflection in his voice. Nor could he now let that temper get the best of him. The trooper swallowed the hot anger rushing up through him and responded with a monotoned “I understand.”

  “Excellent” said Qassam. “It is truly unfortunate your wife chose not to accompany you on your uncle’s planned flight to Midland. After all, we did make arrangements for the taking of four hostages. Her presence among us would have suited my plan even better.” Glancing over to his second-in-command, he added “I know that Mustafa was looking forward to meeting her. But as they say, c’est la guerre.”

  Micah bit down harder still on the mixture of shock, fear and evolving rage bubbling up from within. Recognizing that Qassam was deliberately trying to bait him into something foolish helped maintain his quaking self-control, along with the knowledge that he literally possessed the key needed in turning Qassam’s world upside down. That thought helped him focus beyond the interfering mental confusion of how Qassam knew so much about his family, and the appalling realization the terrorist commander had not only expected Abby to be here, but had planned for it.

  Bringing forth every last vestige of calmness that he could muster inside of himself, the highway patrolman looked evenly at the Hezbollah leader. Then Micah quietly replied, “Things have a way of working out, Qassam. One way or the other.”

  Qassam paused for the merest of moments, glancing at Micah a bit quizzically. The highway patrolman’s ability to contain himself and his response were not what the terrorist leader had been expecting. Of the three men before him, every experience in Qassam’s life guided him to hold this rural police officer in total disdain. The Hezbollah leader came from a culture where there was very little rule of any law not trumped by the rule of certain ruthless men. Law enforcement officials were corrupt, cruel and bullies of dull intellect who were either manipulated, paid off or done away with.

  But Micah Templar posed an enigma to him, a peace officer who was respected and admired in the community that he served for his sense of fairness, integrity and honor in all things. He was also not a simpleton by any means, and possessed a reputation for competence and professionalism that did not reflect in those from Qassam’s part of the world.

  Shaking himself from this slightest hiatus for contemplation, the terrorist leader proceeded on. “As with the other group my team will rest for the next few hours by your aircraft, so this is the last chance I have to speak with you prior to take off. I see no reason to attempt our flight in darkness, or to deal with the inherent difficulties of navigating in it. San Antonio will still be there in the morning, and our plan calls for a certain time period over target to ensure maximum effectiveness.

  “Our schedule is to leave at sunrise and be on our way. Again, I am telling you this is so you can relate the story to others when the time comes. If all goes well, we shall have other discussions following the completion of our mission. My men have been instructed to treat you well, as long as you do not cause any problems. You will be provided with adequate food and water; among other needs you may have.”

  Leaning forward, he addressed Ezekiel Templar in a slightly conspiratorial tone. “That includes medical treatment for you, Colonel. So like you Americans are fond of saying, please don’t screw it up.”

  Qassam straightened again, a malignant self-satisfaction oozing from every pore. “My team is waiting outside, there are a few minor items needing review before we rest for our launch. So, I will take my leave now and join them. I would say wish me luck, but I seriously doubt you would wish me much of the right kind. Instead, I will share a verse from the Quran that speaks of what is to come this day. For it is written, ‘And the True Promise draweth nigh; then behold them, staring wide in terror, the eyes of those who disbelieve!’ Allah’u Akhbar!”

  The three captives watched as the Hezbollah leader turned and nodded to Mustafa, who had repeated the obligatory “Allah’u Akhbar” when he heard Qassam utter the religious phrase. The two men stood looking at each other for a moment and then embraced. The terrorist leader took a step back and slapped his second-in-command on the left upper arm, smiling broadly. Mustafa came to attention with a facial expression as impassive as stone, his reptilian eyes brittle and soulless. The two men exchanged their verbal farewells in Arabic, and Qassam stepped briskly out the door.

  Mustafa observed his leader through the large plate glass window, making his way to the old bomber. After a long minute he turned his attention to the hostages before him. If his eyes had appeared soulless before, they were now gleaming in a burning hatred mixed with utter contempt. When the terrorist stared directly at him, Micah slowly looked down and away. Starting a contest of personal will at present would accomplish nothing, and could possibly ruin any chance of stopping this madness before it was too late.

  Since it did not appear they would be placed in the adjoining room again, the three men began to position themselves on the sofa for individual comfort. Micah noted that his uncle did not say a word and neither did Max. This was probably due to them sharing the same suspicions that he harbored about Mustafa, that the terrorist could understand at least a bit of English. That meant they could no longer risk any verbal communication.

  The Hezbollah terrorist glared at the three men from across the room for a bit more, then he made his way over to the chair behind the large metal desk and sat down. From time to time, he would stand up again to look out the window, or walk about the room. Whatever he was doing, he continued to keep a close eye on his prisoners and made note of every single physical move made by any of them.

  For his part Micah leaned back in the overstuffed sofa while Ezekiel slowly, painfully eased himself into a standing position. As the old man did so Mustafa gave him his full and undivided attention, following the motion with his reptilian eyes smoldering in hate and disgust. To Micah, the terrorist reminded him of an agitated western diamondback, already coiled and prepared to strike.

  Tio Zeke must have noted the same response, because he froze where he stood. In cautious fashion, he made eye contact with Mustafa and then looked over to the chair placed beside the sofa. He let the terrorist follow his line of sight to the piece of furniture, and then cautiously began to sidestep toward it in a hobbling, uneven fashion. Mustafa seemed to relax, but still followed Ezekiel with cold, calculating eyes. The old colonel made it over to the chair and sat down, stretching his aching leg in front of him.

  Micah shifted to one side of the sofa for the extra room, while Max did the same against the other. When Mustafa took another long look out the window, the younger Templar studied his uncle to better gauge his condition. In return, Ezekiel locked eyes with him in pointed fashion. The older Templar nodded his head ever so lightly and began shutting his eyelids in a deliberate manner. The message was clear, for now at least act as if you were resting. Do not give away any signs of animation or possible thoughts of resistance.

  Out of the corner of his eye the highway patrolman noted that Max had evidently received the same message, and was already finding a more comfortable position. Admiring again how the two other men communicated so well Micah did the same, but not before settling where he could keep Mustafa in full view through barely opened eyelids. Allowing his head to roll back against the top of the sofa made it that much easier.

  Micah reclined there, stretched out with his handcuffed wrists tucked in the open space between his lower back and the sofa itself. He turned his thoughts to what Qassam had said, trying to pick out something that might prove useful or important. The terrorist leader was making a real effort in keeping them informed as to what was occurring, as well as why. Obviously, how his reasoning and actions would be remembered by history were very important to the cell commander.

  And exactly what would be remembered? What would the history books say if Qassam’s nightmarish plot was allowed to blossom in full fruition? Micah was still trying to get his mind around the staggering devastation that would result if the nerve agent was successfully employed. The younger Templar had
seen much of death and destruction in his life, but not anything remotely akin on the scale of what could happen today.

  How many would die? Ten thousand? One hundred thousand? Or even more than that? The enormity of it all brought to mind a quote attributed to Robert Kennedy. “Killing one man is murder,” Kennedy had proclaimed. “Killing millions is a statistic.” There was a hard, bitter truth to that revelation. The human mind becomes numb to the boundless horrors attending such overwhelming death tolls of one’s own kind. It was simply beyond the intellectual comprehension and emotional cognizance of most people.

  In a world where more and more placated themselves with the mistaken belief that all things were relative, such sheer depravity flew in the face of their freshly coined ‘new age’ philosophies. The idea of good and evil was mentally and emotionally uncomfortable for most and intuitively challenged this kinder, gentler narrative. Their journey through life found them professing little belief in either and blissfully ignoring any evidence to the contrary.

  Micah Templar knew better. He had lived a life where both existed in tandem, often enough on a day-to-day basis. Man’s unbridled inhumanity to his fellow man was not some feckless byproduct of chance or circumstance, it was a real and enduring primal drive engendering all the vilest elements that lie at some depth in the soul of the species.

  This perversely strong passion ran through one conduit or another to ultimately whatever destination where it could do the most harm. It was known as hate, and hate is the byproduct of the evil that occupies some corner, be it small or large, admitted or denied, in all men’s hearts.