During his first aid work, the former Marine found the keys to the Suburban in the man’s front pants pocket. He gathered them up, along with the dropped AK and nearby Czech CZ25 submachine gun, and walked as fast as he could back to the SUV. He tried to recon shuffle again but his ribs simply would not cooperate. Once in the Chevrolet, the engine fired immediately and Micah was headed out.
It was fifteen miles back into town, partly by caliche surfaced road. The highway patrolman flogged the three-quarter ton unmercifully all the way in, hitting speeds that would make a Saturday night dirt track champ a bit queasy. He brought the tan Chevrolet to a smoking, skidding halt under the sally port and headed for the front door of the Sheriff’s Office.
Juanita Onofre was working the day shift as dispatch, manning the radio console on what had been a very quiet Friday morning. That was, until being startled by the door flying open and Micah Templar careening through it.
Or at least, she thought it was Micah. His appearance was a double shock for her. Caked blood covered the top of his head while some, still drying, oozed all the way down his neck. His left eye was so badly swollen that all she could see was a mere slit, with the pupil peering out through the narrow gap. His lips were split and puffy and he walked unsteadily, favoring his right side.
The lawman’s face was pockmarked with bruises, cuts and abrasions, as were his swollen hands. What was left of his highway patrol uniform had been ripped and torn, and was covered with a filthy mixture of sweat, dirt and blood stains. If there was ever a case of looking like death warmed over, Micah Templar was a still breathing example of the disease.
“Where’s the sheriff?” he asked urgently.
“In his office, taking a call from the jail commission.” Juanita paused and then added, “Micah, what happened? You look awful! We need to get you to the emergency room.”
“Tell him I need to talk to him, right now.” Micah responded roughly, never breaking stride. He looked over and saw the apprehension in her eyes and stopped. “I’m okay, Juanita,” he spoke in a softer tone. “But I got to talk to Roy. We’ve got an emergency like never before.”
Juanita grabbed the phone and punched the intercom button as Micah walked into his own office and turned the lights on. Making his way to his desk, the trooper half collapsed into the chair and opened the drawer where he kept his important phone numbers. Selecting the one he wanted out of a notebook, he set it down on the desk top and started dialing. Midway through, Sheriff Roy Sharpe stepped into the room.
“Good Lord, Micah…” he began, finding himself stunned at his friend’s appearance. The highway patrolman raised his hand and stopped him from saying anything else as the line on the other end picked up.
“Captain Burton, its Micah Templar.” Micah spoke into the phone. “I’m fine, sir, but we have an emergency situation and I called you direct to save time. Do you have a paper and pen handy?” He cupped his hand over the receiver. “Roy, I need you to start calling every sheriff between here and the San Antonio area. Ask them if they have any reports about old World War II aircraft flying over their county. Tell them it is an extreme emergency. Also tell them that DPS will be in touch shortly to help coordinate the effort. Probably the feds, too.”
Sheriff Roy K. Sharpe had been a peace officer most of his adult life, and had developed the discerning ability to quickly read a situation while simultaneously gauging the seriousness of it. He had worked with Micah for years, even back to when Sharpe was still a deputy. During that time he had been with Templar in a couple of tight spots, and liked as well as respected both the officer and the man. As Micah began to explain to his captain what was happening, the sheriff listened in. Then he turned and started for the phone in his own office.
He was sprinting to get there.
The highway patrolman finished the phone conversation with his captain, who in turn immediately launched his district office into a beehive of frenzied activity. The captain had the position and resources to get the word out rapidly to those who needed it most. Micah looked at the clock on the office wall and realized with a dreadful sinking feeling they had already run out of time. The Uvalde Raider had to be in the San Antonio area by now.
And what about Tio Zeke?
Juanita had called the two duty deputies in, as well as a local volunteer EMT. They were all standing in the doorway when Micah looked away from the clock. She brushed past the other three and put a large mug of iced sweet tea in front of him. Micah picked it up and began drinking as only a parched and exhausted man can do.
“Micah, I know you don’t have time to go to the ER,” Juanita said. “So, I called Jude Thomas in, along with A.J. and Pablo. The sheriff wants them brought up to speed and I want Jude to take a look at you.” She turned and started back out the door.
“Okay, Juanita,” he responded. Micah took another long swig of the sweet tea before continuing. “And Juanita,” she paused and looked back as Micah smiled through his cracked and bloody lips. “Muchisimas gracias.”
The matronly woman grinned back as the three men gathered in the doorway stepped aside to let her through. Every good department had their Juanita Onofre, exemplary at her job and in her concern for others. She was one of the best dispatchers Micah had ever worked with. No matter what the situation, she did her part and then some, and was fiercely loyal to the officers who depended upon her. Those who had any sense responded in same.
EMT Jude Thomas made his way over, telling Micah to take off what was left of his shirt as the trooper briefed the two deputies on what had occurred. He warned them of the two Hezbollah terrorists still alive at the airstrip, as well as the dead ones and where to find them.
“There is also a body inside the flight shack. He’s a German national and was murdered by that terrorist handcuffed to the rail.” Micah paused for a moment, lowering his head as an aura of deep sadness weighed upon him. “Fellas, that man saved my life. Please give him the care he deserves. He was my friend, and he died because of me.”
Micah looked up at them again, setting his grief aside to be dealt with later. “Remember those two terrorists still alive are muy malvados, no matter how bad off they may look. Be real careful.” The highway patrolman grunted under his breath as the EMT probed his right side.
“Hurts?” asked Thomas.
“Oh yeah.”
“It ought to, I think you got a couple of busted ribs there.” The EMT continued to examine Micah.
The highway patrolman turned his attention back to the deputies. “That’s about all I can tell you. There should be several troopers in the county within the hour, as well as the rangers. I imagine the feds will show up soon enough, too,” he paused again. “Thanks, guys, I really appreciate you.”
“We’ll get it done, Micah,” replied Pablo. “You just take it easy.” A.J. nodded in agreement.
The two deputies left quickly, headed for their patrol units. Jude Thomas had finished his poking and prodding, and now stood studying Templar with his arms folded on his chest.
“Well?” Micah asked, taking another long swig of the iced sweet tea.
“You need to see the doc ASAP,” replied the EMT. “I’ve already told you about the ribs and that gash in the head is going to need stitching up. You’ll also need x-rays of both areas because there’s no telling what’s going on inside.” He produced a roll of gauze from his crash kit. “I’ll wrap those ribs for now, but only if you get yourself over to the ER first chance you get.”
“Done,” replied Micah.
The EMT worked rapidly with the gauze and white medical tape. Jude Thomas had been an Army medic at one time and knew his business. Within a few minutes he had wrapped and taped the ribs, and was gathering his gear together to leave.
“You going out to the Bar JA, Army?” asked Micah.
“Yep,” responded the EMT. “After working on you, I just can’t wait to see the other guy.” Thomas stood up, bag in hand. “Remember, Jarhead. You get to the ER pronto. Don’t make me come l
ooking for you.”
Jude lingered for a moment, obviously troubled about what he had heard. “Micah, about these terrorists and their plan. Do you really think?” his voice trailed off.
“That they can pull it off?” Micah finished the question. “I don’t know, Jude. As of right now we are beyond out of time and even further out of options. All I know is that if anybody can stop them, it’ll be my Uncle Zeke.”
The presence of Bob Sharpe drew their attention. He stood in the doorway, looking at some written notes in his left hand.
“Micah,” he said. “I just got word from the sheriff over in Kendall County. He says they’ve been getting reports of a crash involving a large aircraft over the past few minutes. Best location they can give at present is southeast of Kendalia and a bit north of the Guadalupe River.”
“Several units from different agencies are responding,” he continued. “The area is very near the edge of his territory with Blanco and Comal County. I told him to tell everybody to treat this as an extremely dangerous HAZMAT incident, and to stay the hell away until DPS gets there.”
“Roy, if it’s The Uvalde Raider, they need to evacuate out to a couple of miles from the crash. That VX is supposed to be really bad stuff.”
“Yeah, I know,” the sheriff shook his head in agreement. “I listened long enough while you talked with your captain to realize that. Look, I met the Kendall County Sheriff during our last association convention. He’s a new man, but smart and with an excellent reputation. He’ll handle this fine until they can get help to him.”
Micah Templar reached for his phone, intent on updating Captain Burton. There was a DPS district office in San Antonio and DPS Austin was not much farther away. The Kendall County Sheriff would get plenty of help out there quickly enough. The main challenge now was to isolate both the area as well as the aircraft’s nightmarish cargo. He had no exact idea of how Tio Zeke managed to bring the old bomber down, but he had.
Roy Sharpe’s next words made him stop. “Micah,” he spoke slowly. “There is something else you should know. Some of these reports are saying the crash was caused by a mid-air collision with a smaller aircraft. One report in particular described it as a smaller gray aircraft with German crosses on the wings.” The sheriff added, “Like you see in old World War Two movies.”
At that moment Micah knew exactly how Tio Zeke had managed to stop The Uvalde Raider. But this was no time for mourning and barely enough for a short, silent prayer. The trooper only nodded, picked up the receiver and began dialing again.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Two weeks later, a black and white Dodge Diplomat turned off Lamar Boulevard and into the parking area for the DPS Headquarters Building in Austin. At the wheel was Trooper Micah Templar, dressed in the Texas Highway Patrol winter uniform with tie and long-sleeved shirt. The brass officially referred to the uniform’s color as desert tan, but it looked suspiciously like Confederate gray to the uninitiated.
Wearing his nicest pair of black Justin ropers and with his best uniform freshly dry cleaned, Micah eased out of the driver’s seat of the Dodge. Though wrapped tightly in the Velcro secured chest brace, his slowly healing ribs still did not take kindly to any sudden movement. That was why he was driving a Diplomat today, its automatic transmission was a lot easier on those fractured bones than the five speed manual in his Mustang patrol unit.
Gingerly Micah put on his uniform Resistol felt hat, trying to avoid the still tender gash on the top of his head. Carefully, almost reverently, he laid his Ray Ban Aviators on the Dodge’s dashboard. They had been a gift from Tio Zeke when Micah graduated from DPS Recruit School, all those years ago. A memento of happier days, he would be buying another pair in order to put these away for safekeeping.
The highway patrolman adjusted the gig line on his Sam Browne belt by habit and pensively eyeballed the massive white building before him. Like many other troopers, he did not like going to Austin and he also didn’t like being anywhere near the academy area. Beyond that, he especially didn’t like going into the Headquarters Building when summoned by the high brass.
On top of everything else, he was supposed to be meeting with the Director of the Texas Department of Public Safety himself, in his office. That was usually a place where they summoned you when you had really screwed up, or if the brass wanted something really special out of you. Micah did not care for either idea.
He checked his watch and mentally prepared himself for whatever awaited. Up the steps and through the glass doors, Micah soon found himself in front of the area marked ‘Director’s Office.’ Taking in a long breath, he pushed through and walked inside.
At the desk sat a middle-aged woman wearing reading glasses who was evidently the director’s personal secretary. The lady looked up from the assorted papers on her desk and smiled one of those professional secretary smiles, the kind that makes you wonder if they are in on the joke while you don’t even have a clue.
“You must be Micah Templar,” she said.
“Yes ma’am, unfortunately I am,” he deadpanned in return.
The secretary laughed politely. “Would you please sit down? The director is expecting you, I’ll let him know that you are here.”
“Ma’am, I have been sitting for the past 250 miles. If you don’t mind, I’d just like to stand a bit.”
“Well, of course you can,” she responded in an agreeable manner. Picking up the phone, she pushed a button. “Colonel? Trooper Templar is here.” There was a pause. “Yes sir, I will.”
She put down the phone and spoke to Micah. “He’ll be right with you.” The secretary smiled again and returned to her work.
Micah looked around the room as he waited, thinking more than anything else about what might be in store for him on the other side of that inner door. He took stock of his situation and what he knew about the DPS’s recently appointed head.
The Texas Department of Public Safety was changing rapidly, much like the state which it had served so faithfully for the past half century. The days of Homer Garrison and Pat Speir, when the occupancy spent in the director’s chair was measured in decades, had mostly come to a close.
The current director, or colonel as the head of the DPS was traditionally known, was said to be a good enough man and had been in the Department for over thirty years. But the scuttlebutt had it that he was already on his way out to make room for someone else. That was another reason for avoiding DPS Headquarters: much like any other large government bureaucracy it served as ground zero for personal fiefdoms, rumor mills and political intrigues.
Absentmindedly Micah studied the large map of Texas centered on the wall before him. Though covered with a plexiglass shield, it was obvious the area just north of San Antonio had been receiving an inordinate amount of attention. Finger smudges covered the general location, along with small marks and light scratches made from other objects.
Micah knew the crash site was brimming with activity and the list of unanswered questions were growing even as the cleanup continued. As a highway patrolman stationed in a somewhat isolated, rural area he had not been made privy to much of anything by official channels existing within the Texas DPS.
Captain Burton had called on occasion, as well as some of the troopers he knew in the San Antonio area. But no one could tell him much as far as what was going on. All his captain could say was that in his opinion Micah had done an exceptional job, which made him feel somewhat better about the situation. However, he was not to talk to anyone as the investigation was still ongoing.
The fact was most everybody in the DPS had no idea of what was happening. As soon as the Feds moved in, the exchange of information that was supposed to go both ways was shut off and apparently forgotten. As far as Micah knew, no one from the DPS was allowed on scene save at the very highest levels.
Fellow highway patrolmen he had visited with were able to confirm that much. Though they were nominally part of some sort of response force, their duties consisted of nothing more than t
raffic control to keep the curious away. This was easy enough to do, as their checkpoints were also kept a good deal of distance from the site. Anything closer than their outlying posts was soon nicknamed ‘G-Man Land.’
One young troop had brought along a small camera, and was taking photographs of the general area while manning one of the check points. Somebody had seen him do so and the camera was confiscated on order from a federal honcho who showed up minutes afterwards. Then some high-ranking brass from DPS Headquarters came out and reamed the hapless rookie a new one. He was threatened with anything and everything including being fired and filed upon under some sort of obscure federal government statute. Needless to say, nobody brought a camera with them anymore.
Inside G-Man Land, the Feds had their own checkpoints manned by some sort of uniformed troops armed with M16s, M60 machine guns and no sense of humor. There were also patrols out around the clock, both on foot and by vehicle and on occasion a few were spotted in special protective gear. Heavy equipment, some of which no one had ever seen before, was going into the site and then back out.
There were also numerous tractor trailer rigs with some sort of custom-built vans being used. The units would arrive empty and then leave the scene loaded down with whatever. The License & Weight troops were the first to pick up on this, but they weren’t exactly sure of their purpose.
Meanwhile, the sheriffs of the counties involved were not real happy either. If the DPS troopers felt like they were being kept out of the loop, these local peace officers were being treated like the proverbial mushroom. Their citizens, concerned about what was happening and rattled by wild rumors, were demanding information from the law enforcement agencies they knew best: their county sheriff’s offices. The sheriffs were asking the feds and in turn found themselves summarily ignored, or handed off to public information types who had no real idea themselves of what was occurring.
The Uvalde Raider Page 23