Most crucially, he had come back too much on the throttle and in the midst of firing felt the right wing begin to dip. The Me109 was starting to stall, and the buffeting turbulence from being so close to the large bomber only added to the Messerschmitt’s instability.
In a blur Ezekiel re-engaged the safety lever on the Kalashnikov and yanked the muzzle out of the blasting wind, then rammed the throttle forward. The Daimler inverted V-12 responded immediately but the right wing continued to dip earthward. Ezekiel knew that if he went into a full stall and began to spin, he would never recover at such a low altitude.
Instinctively he worked both stick and rudder, gently angling the control surfaces to go with the increasing bank, and at the same time easing the nose of the Messerschmitt down. With every fiber of both mind and body, he began willing the needed air velocity over the flight surfaces of the little fighter to regain some semblance of control.
The right wing continued to dip and Ezekiel found himself nearly inverted in a clumsy half roll. The empty shell casings from the AK rattled around and bounced off the interior of the cockpit as he fought the assault rifle itself to keep it from doing the same. Still with one hand on the stick, he began pulling back gently as the 109 Gustav went completely inverted and on its back. With the nose still pointed down, all he could see was a lot of way-too-close Texas terrain rushing up to greet him at a frightening pace.
But all 1,475 horses of water-cooled Daimler were pulling hard and combined with his maneuvering to keep the nose down, the gray camouflaged fighter was picking up speed again. Ezekiel kept the pressure on the controls and completed the slow roll with the ground still coming on fast to meet him. With no air speed indicator, he had no measure of how fast he was going, other than his decades of being one with an airplane. He began easing the stick back ever so slightly, and the agile German fighter responded in kind, leveling out in a distance measured in feet above the rock and cedar studded soil.
The colonel closed the flaps as his speed increased and pulled back into another zoom climb, looking every which direction for The Uvalde Raider. His left leg throbbed in agony and he had lost the element of surprise, but he was still alive and still in the fight. And for the first time since they had met the day before, Yahla al-Qassam was the one playing defense while having to deal with a growing list of unknowns.
Ezekiel Templar wanted the Flying Fortress downed and he wanted the nerve agent contained. But in a very personal manner he also wanted Qassam and he wanted him in the worst way. The Hezbollah leader was a malignant evil, a rare and supremely lethal kind of human pestilence of high intelligence, personal charisma and almost supernatural zeal. If the Iranian terrorist was allowed to walk away from this, there would be other horrific attacks and untold numbers of other innocent people put at risk.
No matter what else happened, no matter what the cost, Yahla al-Qassam had to be stopped.
Permanently.
Back in The Uvalde Raider, all eyes were scanning the skies both high and low for the American colonel in the mottled gray Messerschmidt. The Shi’a Lebanese ordered aft had reported no damage to their deadly cargo, and Gholam was certain there had been no real harm done to the Boeing bomber. The Hezbollah pilot regained their original course and altitude, and was flying just north of the wandering to and fro banks of the Guadalupe.
Dead ahead they could see Canyon Lake and off to the right, on the very edge of the horizon, the higher points of the skyline for San Antonio. The Iranian terrorist leader could also see several population centers scattered about the bomber’s present location. He glanced at his map and confirmed their identities for any future reference. They were not only indicators to triangulate the aircraft’s position, but would also serve as secondary targets if the need arose.
“Brother!” Gholam yelled over the din of the engines and speed, “He cannot hurt us! The Kalashnikov he has is next to useless against this aircraft, and he cannot accurately fly and fire it at the same time! Do not despair, Allah is still smiling upon us!”
Al-Qassam nodded his head in acknowledgement, but continued to look in every direction in conjunction with the two Shi’a Lebanese to his rear. Grimly he noted that Gholam was also glancing about, the action somewhat belaying the sincerity of his words of solace and confidence. The Iranian pilot banked the Flying Fortress slightly to the right, bringing them on course to close in with the river.
“How far?” Gholam questioned in a loud voice.
“About 40 kilometers to the highway!” replied Yahla over the surrounding noise.
Gholam consulted the flight clock on the instrument panel. “We should start to turn south in about ten minutes, Brother!” He grinned broadly at Qassam with a fiery blaze in his eyes and yelled, “Allah’u Akhbar!”
Their pilot’s enthusiasm was infectious. For the first time since they had left the ground, Yahla al-Qassam smiled and lifted up his voice in response. It harmonized with those of the two Hezbollah henchmen standing close behind. “Allah’u Akhbar!”
The two most holy words in Islam had barely cleared their lips, when a series of 7.62X39 rounds began punching up through the bomber’s belly beneath their feet. One caromed into the flight deck area, bouncing off the metal insides of the aircraft with the sound of an angry bee in flight. Another one made its way from below to find flesh and bone. The Arab terrorist directly behind Qassam screamed and fell to the hard metal floor plate. He continued to howl in anguish, holding his shin area tightly with both hands as blood oozed between his clasped fingers.
At only seventy-five feet below Ezekiel Templar continued to trigger the Kalashnikov, firing this time in semi auto mode. Having jettisoned the 109’s birdcage canopy for a greater field of fire, Ezekiel had brought the Messerschmitt up stealthily under the Boeing from directly behind and below. It was a classic combat maneuver and the cagey Air Force colonel was using it to full advantage. This time he deftly manipulated the throttle and flaps to match the speed of the Boeing exactly, keeping enough momentum going forward to eliminate the chance of stalling the German fighter again.
Bracing the AK as best he could against the top frame for the windscreen and with the unfolded stock under his arm, he actually could sight roughly along the assault rifle’s barrel and fire far more accurately. In addition, he had also fumbled around and managed to remove the underslung cleaning rod to get more of a purchase on the windscreen support, which steadied the short barreled Soviet weapon a bit more.
The irony of it all was not lost to him even as he focused on the bomber, the attack from directly behind and below by Me109s had been a favored tactic against the Flying Fortress box formations over occupied Europe. Except then the German fighters had traveled at far greater speeds and heights firing heavy machine guns and cannon. And he had been in the B-17, not the Messerschmitt.
Ezekiel continued to aim along the Kalashnikov’s barrel, fighting against the whipping of the wind as he pressed the trigger repeatedly. The 109 wobbled and weaved along its flight path in his improvised style of flying, but the Texan doggedly regained his position of attack and kept shooting. At this distance he could actually see the rounds impact the belly of The Uvalde Raider, and could shift his aim accordingly. He knew that all he had to do was to keep it up, and sooner or later one of those rounds would make their way to the pilot or a vital control system.
The bomber started a cautious bank to the left and the colonel followed, staying with the Boeing. He imagined the pilot was trying to be as careful as possible with the hideous payload being transported. That plus taking evasive action in a Flying Fortress, like any other large aircraft of the era, was a matter of measured control input and then the ensuing wait for something to happen.
Ezekiel had them right where he wanted them, above an isolated area and away from any centers of population. ‘Qassam’, he thought, ‘you weren’t figuring on this, were you? It’s a little different when someone is shooting at you, isn’t it? Well, welcome to the big leagues, you soulless sonofabitch
.’
Concentrating on the next round, he pressed the trigger on the AK again. He felt the vibration in his hand as the hammer fell and struck the firing pin, but nothing else happened. Instinctively he wedged the stick between his legs and reached up with his left hand to work the bolt. He pressed the trigger once more. Still nothing.
His left leg was burning as if it was on fire from being wedged up against the control stick, but he ignored the pain. Pushing the magazine release on the Kalashnikov, he angled the magazine where he could see inside and his heart sank to the ground rushing by below. The magazine was empty.
For the first time since his wife had died, Ezekiel Templar felt himself wanting to cry. Despairingly, he looked at the now useless assault rifle still clenched in his right hand. Bringing it over and into the shrieking wind outside of the cockpit, he dropped the weapon over the side of the Messerschmitt. The AK tumbled down, smashing on to the rocky terrain on impact. It was not only now useless to him, but the short-barreled rifle could prove to be an impediment in the fighter’s cramped quarters for what he had to do now.
Ezekiel Templar had always been a thinking man, or he would never have made it as far in life as he had managed to do. At heart he was also a careful person, the kind of man who preferred to never make a move before thinking it completely through. There was a vast difference between taking a chance and a calculated risk, and he had done very well in calculating the risks that happened to confront him over all these years.
From the moment the Messerschmitt left the tarmac at the Bar JA, he had kept a final option filed away deep within his consciousness. It was not one that any sane human being ever desired to consider in any normal circumstance or mode of thinking. Ezekiel racked his brain as the Messerschmitt drifted away from the bomber, trying to come up with something else. Something, anything, that he had overlooked up to this point.
But there wasn’t anything else and time was running out. They were less than twenty minutes from San Antonio. He scanned the horizon in all directions, looking for any kind of sign signaling that help might be on the way. The vast emptiness of the clear blue Texas sky signaled back its message of bitter finality. There would be no help, no last moment outside assistance. It was all up to him and it was now or never. Resignedly, he shoved the Gustav’s throttle against its full power stop and shot forward into the eastern beyond.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Inside The Uvalde Raider, the sudden pandemonium had dissipated with the cessation of the incoming fire. Gholam scanned the instruments one more time and relaxed a bit. They were still in the air, still moving toward their target and with no impending signs of doom noted in the numerous instruments arrayed before him. His uncle had not exaggerated to the small boy about the Boeing B-17. What a magnificent aircraft!
The man called Yahla al-Qassam sat back down in the co-pilot’s seat, wiping the blood from his hands on his khaki trousers.
“How is he?” Gholam yelled over the drone of the radial engines.
“Alive!” responded Qassam. “But of no use anytime soon! I will have to help with the pumps!”
Gholam nodded in agreement. “We drifted north during the American’s last attack. Our intersection point with the highway will be about eight kilometers off!”
It was Qassam’s turn to nod in agreement. He looked through the front and side windows of the bomber.
“Where did he go?” he asked.
“Up ahead!” Gholam pointed to the Messerschmitt streaking away, just below the horizon. “I think he is out of ammunition! Perhaps he is trying to reach an airport to alert the authorities!”
Qassam studied his map once more and leaned over toward the pilot. “He’ll never get there in time!”
Gholam kept his eyes fixed on the disappearing Me109. The mottled gray pattern made it hard to see, even when he knew where to look. Watching his defeated opponent race away, the pilot commented, “He is a brave and determined man! I would like to have known him under different circumstances!”
For a long moment, Qassam said nothing in return. Finally, he responded. “He is an infidel and an enemy to Islam! He will burn in the eternal hell!”
Gholam said nothing else. He continued to follow the Messerschmitt’s progress, until he had to lower his eyes to check the instruments again. As he did so, he heard Qassam exclaim excitedly.
“What is he doing now?”
The pilot glanced back up and had no trouble picking out the Me109 this time. Its dark silhouette was now above the horizon, going into a steep climb that Ghalom marveled at. He had never seen any piston driven aircraft climb so fast.
His admiration turned into a vague concern as he observed the Messerschmitt execute a perfect Half Cuban Eight, coming right back at them at a blistering rate of speed. Both Iranians watched as the powerful fighter bore in, looming larger by the second in their windscreen.
Ezekiel Templar came out of his inverted angle of flight, performing a perfectly timed half roll and aimed straight at the oncoming Flying Fortress. His hand was steady on the stick and the inverted Daimler V-12 was at full song, nose slightly down with the morning sun to his back. He had never felt any more alive, or in more control of any other aircraft.
He was thinking of where he had been and where might he be going next. Not far away, just over the horizon to the southwest was home, the area of Texas where he has spent his years growing up. He thought of hot, lazy days along the Nueces and the Frio, of weekend trips into Uvalde and of breaking horses that summer below Chalk Bluff with his brother Jeremiah. Those had been shining times and to a young boy in search of adventure it seemed as if they would never end.
In his mind the snapshots of time continued on with his years in the Air Force, of friends no longer around whom he missed so dearly. He thought again of Max and of their unlikely friendship that had spanned languages, nations, continents and wars. Sorry about your baby here, Max, but I just don’t know any other way.
Then his memories turned to his only son, Jacob, lost in a sudden fireball that had been an F4 Phantom on a mission in a controversial war that had ripped a nation in two. It had not only done so with his country, but it had also wounded his own family in a way that never healed.
Through it all, he thought of Sue. Oh, how much he had loved that woman. Why did you have to take her away from me, too, God? For as far back as he could remember, Sue had been there. She had been the little girl in pigtails and freckles, grinning at him in first grade class. It was his first day in school and the first time he had gotten in trouble, though hardly the last. She had grinned at that, too.
Then she had been the stunning young woman, dressed for their high school prom. It had taken him nearly a week to work up enough nerve to ask her. She had said yes, and then asked him what had taken him so long. She said the same thing when he proposed and was the most beautiful bride he ever laid eyes on.
Sue had literally glowed when Jake was born, even if she was much worse for the wear. The delivery was so difficult they never tried again. Their only child had grown into such an extraordinary young man, so full of so much potential that in the end was never realized.
When they had gotten the word about Jake, all they could do was hold each other tight and hope the hurt would go away. Nights found them talking, trying to reassure each other as they cried themselves into a troubled sleep. It had been during the peak of the moon program, and he had turned to his work with a vengeance to try to fill the deep feeling of emptiness inside. Sue did not have that luxury, all she had was he and Jake.
It hadn’t been that much longer when he held her hand for the last time, in that hospital room in Houston. He had taken her to the finest doctors he could find but was told there was nothing they could do. “Her heart is just played out, Mr. Templar,” yet Ezekiel knew better. The love of his life did not die from a bad heart, she died from a broken one.
In the world he hoped to find next they would all be there, waiting for him. Ezekiel Templar had tried to live
the best and most honorable life he could, though there were times he made his mistakes.
Sometimes they had been big ones. He had also made more than his fair share of hard decisions, then went on and tried to make peace with them.
Ezekiel wondered if Sue would be asking him what took so long this time, too. ‘It’s all right, Sweetheart, I’m here now and we have the rest of eternity together.’
His last thought was a final appeal to the All Mighty as well as a closing affirmation for what was to come. ‘Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned…many times.’
The mottled gray Messerschmitt impacted The Uvalde Raider, slamming into the flight deck of the bomber with a combined speed of nearly 600 miles an hour. A terrifying clap of man-made thunder echoed through the nearby hills and valleys, as the two aircraft welded themselves together in a deathly embrace. The Flying Fortress paused in mid-air, as if a giant unseen hand had reached up from the ground and stopped it. Then the nose portion of the Boeing, sawed asunder by the hurtling Me109, drooped sharply and dropped away.
The rest of the big Flying Fortress stalled and simply fell over on itself. The fall steepened, the four-engine craft going into an inverted flat spin. Down it fluttered and spun like the last, large leaf of late autumn following the first freeze. It continued falling in such a fashion until the Boeing and what was left of the Messerschmitt exploded on the rock-strewn pasture below. The impact sent up an ugly, tell-tale column of fire and black smoke, and searing flames fed by hundreds of gallons of aviation gas greedily consumed any and all things within their reach.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Micah had patched up Blue Shirt as best he could, working fast to stop the bleeding and repositioning the Shi’a to rest more comfortably. It was a matter of precious seconds, but he couldn’t in good conscience let the man lay there and bleed to death. He also took the precaution of making certain the Hezbollah terrorist was securely restrained, just in case he had enough remaining resolve to try to wander off.
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