“…Gute reise, mein freund. God be with you…”
And Max knew that God was.
Secure in that knowledge, Maximillian Friedrich Grephardt, holder of the Knight’s Cross of the Iron Cross with Oak Leaf Cluster, a warrior among warriors and a man among men, felt himself drifting even further.
And the light from the bright sunny morning in this world went away, while another shined far more brightly just ahead.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
“Tio, he’s gone.” Micah continued to search for a pulse yet knew the effort was useless.
With his nephew’s help, Ezekiel Templar eased out from under Max’s body and gently laid his friend’s head upon the floor. Carefully, haltingly, the old colonel forced himself to stand up. His head felt woozy and his left leg ached and trembled, while his eyes started watering in a gathering wave of near unbearable sorrow. He struggled mightily to remember what was paramount now and blinked hard to stem the tide, there was no time for that.
Then the anguish transformed into a deep, dutiful anger, mixed with a deadly sense of purpose that came welling up from within.
“We have to stop the Raider,” Zeke rasped as he started hobbling through the doorway and on to the porch.
“With what?” asked Micah.
“With that,” Ezekiel Templar said, raising his arm and pointing to the gray camouflaged Messerschmitt fighter. “Qassam never did figure I could fly the 109, too. Time for him to find out different.”
“Tio, that plane has no guns and I’m not even sure they left it flyable.” Micah did not want to say it, but he was wondering if Ezekiel Templar was in any condition for much of the same.
“Just get me in the cockpit and give me something to shoot with,” spat back the elder Templar. “And you had better make it fast, before the rest of that bunch shows up to rendezvous with their buddy Mustafa.”
Both men knew the clock was running out as Ezekiel trudged in painful, halting steps toward the Messerschmitt. Micah, unsure of Mustafa’s condition and with no time to make a real determination, simply dragged the Hezbollah member to the metal rail at the front of flight shack and handcuffed him to it. After a quick search of the terrorist, he returned inside and retrieved the dropped Smith & Wesson Model 59, easing the slide back and checking for a loaded chamber. Stepping over to the weapon’s discarded magazine, he reached down and slammed it home.
By now Ezekiel had managed to make it to the little fighter and was limping around the outside of the 109, conducting a quick once over. His left leg burned like fire as he moved about, but he only gritted his teeth and kept at the task. Everything looked serviceable exterior wise and since the Messerschmidt’s inverted vee engine had been run just yesterday afternoon, there wasn’t a possible problem with the traditional bugaboo of oil drainage into the combustion chambers. They were still in business.
Micah shuffled over to help his uncle on to the wing root and into the cockpit. Settling himself inside, the first thing Zeke noticed was the instrument panel. Someone had smashed several of the gauges and other assorted ancillary equipment in a clumsy, amateurish attempt to disable the airplane.
The most critical damage had been done to the radio, effectively cancelling any communications for outside assistance. Beyond not being able to broadcast a warning about The Uvalde Raider and its deadly cargo, the harm done did not bother Ezekiel Templar much. He had flown with shot out instruments and no radio before.
As the older Templar began a hasty check of the flight systems and control surfaces of the Messerschmidt, Micah started hunting around for something, anything for his uncle to fight with beyond a nine-millimeter pistol with maybe eleven rounds left in the mag. Mustering as much speed as his aching ribs would allow, he made his way over to where the vehicles were parked.
His first stop was his Dodge Ramcharger. A quick examination revealed the terrorists had ransacked the vehicle, and made confetti of the electrical wiring beneath the dash as well as under the hood. He also noted the opened top of his lock box behind the rear seat, showing they had found his Marlin .30/30.
Disgusted, he moved over to the tan Suburban sitting next to the Dodge and looked inside. In plain view was his Marlin laying on the front seat, along with his holstered Model 28 .357 Magnum and a collapsible stocked AK47. Micah tried to open the driver’s door but it was locked. He had found no keys in his hasty pat down of the handcuffed Hezbollah second in command, so he moved back about five steps and put a round of nine-millimeter through the side window glass.
At the report of the unexpected shot, Ezekiel whipped his head around and then relaxed as he realized what his nephew was doing. He returned to completing his checks and pressed the master switch for the upgraded starting system Max had installed. He hand-primed the fuel system, activated the generator and fuel pumps, and let his hand pause over the starter handle for a moment. Taking a deep breath to confirm the sequence, he pulled the handle.
Micah heard the starter drive whine and then engage as the Daimler Benz 605A began turning over. Slowly, reluctantly at first, the three big propeller blades began to rotate, followed by a cough and belch of blackish smoke out the exhaust stacks. The engine ignited, and the surrounding area was filled with the deafening crescendo of an inverted V-12 as Zeke busied himself with the fuel mixture and prop settings. He revved it up quickly, bracing against the open hinged canopy to keep it from being slammed shut by the kicked-up cyclone of wind.
Moving to the mottled gray fighter, Micah placed his right foot in the spring-loaded step embedded in the Messerschmitt’s fuselage, and placed his left on the root of the port wing. Leaning as far as he could into the cockpit to escape the exhaust noise and prop wash, he handed Zeke the loaded AK47. The trooper also gave his uncle a scrounged canteen of water.
“Thirty round mag with one in the tube!” he yelled into Zeke’s left ear. “This is safe, this is full auto and this is semi!” Micah continued, working the weapon’s safety lever for emphasis as Zeke looked on. “Sights are on battle sight zero! Keep the muzzle up in the cockpit!”
Ezekiel Templar nodded his head in affirmation, signaling that he understood. He opened the canteen and took a long, filling draught of water and followed up with another. His thirst satisfied, he capped the container and handed it back to Micah.
For a long second the two men stared intently into the other’s eyes. Not a word was spoken, but each took a long look into their kinsman’s soul. As far back as he could remember, Micah had heard stories about this man and what he faced over the skies of Europe, and of his many accomplishments after the war. Now, at an age where most were living off past glories and thinking of a retirement home, United States Air Force Colonel Ezekiel J. Templar was flying one last mission. They both knew it was the most important one of his life.
“Buena Suerte, Tio Zeke.” Micah mouthed the words. Ezekiel did not answer, but rather held his left hand high and gave a thumbs up. Micah stepped off the wing root as Zeke pulled the canopy over and down, securing it. The highway patrolman ducked his head and turned away as the Messerschmitt’s engine revved again, sending back a biting blast of dirt, gravel, grit and assorted debris.
The Me109 began rolling, making its turn to the southeast as it entered the runway. The pitch of the engine changed into a howling rage as Ezekiel advanced the throttle as far as he dared. The lithe fighter plane gained speed quickly, and Micah watched as it retracted its awkward looking landing gear even as the wheels lifted off the tarmac. Once in its natural element, the German fighter rocketed up and away, toward where the Flying Fortress had disappeared some than twenty minutes before.
Micah stood there listening, as the usual sounds of a West Texas October morning began to come back to his ears and the snarling echo of the DB 605A faded away.
“God speed, Tio Zeke” he murmured to himself. “God speed, and good hunting.”
Snapping his mindset forward to what lay at hand, Micah began buckling on the DPS issued Sam Brown belt and checking the loads
in his Smith and Wesson .357 magnum. Holstering the big revolver, the peace officer topped off the magazine of the Marlin after jacking a round into the chamber. Setting the hammer on the rifle at half cock, he moved off to the side and toward concealment as he eyed the dirt road leading to the Albright Ranch headquarters.
They would be coming now. If not to pick up Mustafa, then to investigate the pistol shots, and the unexpected sight and sound of the Messerschmitt revving up and leaving. Taking a long swig from the canteen he had his fill of what remained, sloshed the last bit around in his mouth and spit it back out. The paltry remains still inside the container he poured over his head, wiping it with his left hand to wash away some of the blood in his hair and on his face. Gingerly he probed the ugly gash in his skull with his fingertips, it was still bleeding slightly and hurt like the blazes when touched.
Pitching the empty canteen away, Micah began working his bruised and battered fingers, shifting the rifle from one hand to the other as he did so. His cartridge loops were full of 125 grain hollow point ammunition, and extra rounds for the .30/30 were riding loose in his front trouser pockets. In the distance, he could see a plume of dust rising in the direction of the ranch house, and he caught the drifting sound of a vehicle’s engine going through the gears, moving fast.
‘Bring it on, boys,’ he thought to himself, ‘Time is short and Hell’s a waitin’.’
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Ezekiel Templar was back where he belonged, and he was pushing the mottled gray Me 109 Gustav for all it was worth. He had jammed the folding stock AK up against the right side of the cramped cockpit, away from his throbbing left thigh. Moving around on the leg back at the airstrip and then using it to work the rudder had started the bleeding again, and Zeke could feel the warm red seepage oozing slowly down his thigh and soaking into the fighter’s seat cushion.
With no compass, no radio, and precious little other instrumentation, he was literally flying by the bloodstained seat of his pants. But he did have decades of experience in his favor, and an innate feel for an aircraft which few other men could ever equal or even really understand. From the very beginning, flying had come as naturally for him as breathing.
That beginning, nearly a half century before, had taken place in the same area he was now racing above. From the very start of his primary flight training, the retired colonel had flown over this part of Texas. Before then, he had grown up in this general area as had other generations of his family. Ezekiel had driven it, rode it by horseback and walked many a mile on the land below for one reason or another. The canyons, creek beds, high ground and flats that made up much of the Hill Country were well known landmarks to him, guiding him along his present blazing pace to San Antonio.
Because of his need to impress others, as well as having his horrific plan well documented, Yahla al-Qassam had given Ezekiel Templar much of the information needed to find the hijacked Flying Fortress. The parts missing were filled in easily enough by Ezekiel’s own intimate knowledge of what The Uvalde Raider was capable of, as well as the terrain features and flyover routes of the targeted area. Furthermore, and owing to his military background, he also possessed some knowledge of weaponized chemical agents and their favored employment.
Pushing the Messerschmidt onward for all that it was worth, more perceptions and details entered Zeke’s thinking as to the consequences hanging in the balance. Giving the monster his proper credit, Qassam was an intelligent, well-educated and fanatically devoted man who had formulated a scheme possessing a very high chance of success. Presently, every mile The Uvalde Raider traveled in the direction of San Antonio made that chance for success even more of a reality.
VX was the most lethal nerve agent ever synthesized by any known weapons laboratory, a hundred times more deadly than its closest counterpart Sarin. With a properly designed and functioning system to dispense the nerve agent, those 500 gallons could cut a swath of devastation that would be mind boggling. The death toll would be heartbreaking and parts of San Antonio uninhabitable for months to come.
Not only that, but the VX would spread throughout the encompassing region with its innate high persistency. A vehicle with the smallest smudge of VX could travel hundreds of miles away in a day, its driver completely unaware of having fulfilled the unwitting role of transporter for the fiendish compound.
The substance could stay there for days, even weeks, until someone brushed against it or inadvertently placed a hand in the wrong spot. Then the sleeping cycle of death would reawaken anew and the ensuing panic could spread throughout the nation. Local and state emergency response units and law enforcement agencies would be completely overwhelmed, and the federal government itself likely hard pressed to maintain some semblance of order.
As Ezekiel Templar thought the evolving possibilities through, it became more obvious how important it was to stop The Uvalde Raider from completing its last mission. What Qassam had planned could not be allowed to happen with his airplane. Whatever had to be done and whatever the attending cost, would by necessity have to be the price paid.
Yet the how in all this was a real question, as well as the where. All Ezekiel was armed with was a short-barreled assault weapon firing an intermediate rifle cartridge with no special elements or abilities. It was well suited for a close firefight with men out in the open, but was never designed to knock a twenty-ton, four engine bomber out of the sky. He also had only one magazine for it, so whatever he did would have to be accomplished at close range with as much surprise as possible.
Beyond that was the other question of where. There were numerous small and mid-sized communities along the way to San Antonio, and if the heavy bomber could be brought down it couldn’t be anywhere near those population centers. Furthermore, if even one of his rounds were to strike a nerve gas container, the result could be a trail of death for a hundred miles.
Zeke shook his head and tried to concentrate on what he knew and what his options might be. The Texan was tired, hungry and had already developed another real thirst due to his wound and attending loss of blood. The leg ached with a dull, constant pounding and every time he moved, it brought forth a burning pain that ignited up his body. His eyes were bloodshot and felt gritty, and his vision was not what it should be. There was a time when…
Immediately he willed his mind back into the present and left the past where it belonged. This was the here and the now, and he had to keep his focus on what had been forced upon him by circumstance. Those days past were dead, and many innocent human beings would follow if he failed in keeping his concentration.
Gingerly bending his left leg inward and moving his right one off the rudder pedal, he wedged the stick between his knees. Ezekiel took his right hand and vigorously rubbed his eyes and face, feeling the sandpaper-like surface of his day-old stubble. He put his hand back on the stick and relaxed his legs, the left one protesting every fraction of an inch that it moved.
By habit he scanned the mostly useless instrument panel. The RPM gauge was destroyed as well as the artificial horizon/bank indicator, the clock, the compass, the air speed indicator, and the altimeter. The gauge he wished he had most, the Ata, or manifold pressure gauge, wiggled and flopped around intermittently, making itself an annoyance more than anything else.
About all he had left was the fuel indicator and the combination fuel/oil pressure gauges. They had evidently escaped damage in being placed so low on the instrument panel. With the extra tanks Max had installed in the Messerschmitt, sufficient aviation gas was not a problem. However, the fuel/oil pressure gauge was more useful and it showed the inverted V-12 was getting plenty of both.
By the sound of the Daimler V-12 coupled with his decades of experience, Ezekiel experimented with different settings for the liquid cooled engine. He was shooting for around 2700 RPM at nearly 60 inches of manifold pressure, and all those measurements were being made by an educated guess based on gut feel. At the low altitude he was flying that would equate to just under 300 knots, which was nea
rly double the cruising speed of the Boeing B-17.
The Uvalde Raider would be traveling even slower as long as it was climbing to altitude, which Ezekiel had already figured to be about 5,000 feet. There was no need to go any higher, and much lower would tend to spook most inexperienced men at the controls of something as massive as a Flying Fortress. Besides, between 4,000 to 5,000 feet was the prime altitude for delivery of the nerve agent. He was certain that Al-Qassam had calculated for the same.
The Me 109 Gustav streaked through the clear blue sky, eating up better than five and a half miles every minute. If it was not for the grave nature of the flight and his throbbing left leg, the retired Air Force colonel would have been enjoying himself immensely. Keeping the powerful fighter as close to the deck as he dared, at times they cleared canyon walls and high points with only feet to spare.
Occasionally a person going about their business down below would look up, startled by the sudden thunder of the V-12 in full song shattering their morning calm. One even started to wave, but the mottled gray fighter with the black cross insignias was already past them before they could get their hand fully up.
Ezekiel continued to pour on the power, squeezing out every last ounce of energy that German engineering from that era had to offer. He wanted to stay low and let the Messerschmitt’s wartime camouflage scheme blend in with the terrain beneath him. If anything else, such an approach would give him an edge in surprising the terrorists and in keeping them off-balance at the initial point of contact.
Everything depended on that, because if they felt their mission was endangered by the pursuing Me 109, there was no telling what they might do as far as an alternative plan. And if he knew anything about this man called Yahla al-Qassam, Ezekiel Templar was sure the terrorist leader had at least one.
As the remaining minutes ticked away, those two words that encapsulated his success or failure worked upon the colonel’s consciousness with a growing urgency: Where and how?
The Uvalde Raider Page 17