The Uvalde Raider

by Ben H. English

  The maddest of all was the recently elected sheriff of Kendall County. During the critical first minutes of what could have been a major disaster in the making, he and his small department had responded without hesitation to protect their citizens, as well as their county. One of the callers, a nearby rancher, had reported The Uvalde Raider going down and stated he was enroute to the crash scene to see if he could be of any assistance.

  On direct orders from the sheriff, a responding deputy veered away from his original route. The peace officer ran through a couple of closed gates and fence lines in determined fashion, cutting across country to intercept the rancher. The end result was one thoroughly trashed example of what had been a new Ford Crown Victoria patrol car, but the deputy had succeeded in stopping the could-be dead man before he had gotten into the danger zone.

  Now that same sheriff and his department were being treated like diseased pariahs by the federal authorities. Roy Sharpe had relayed to Micah what transpired in the phone conversations shared with his furious Kendall County counterpart.

  “I’d be fighting mad too,” Roy had declared. “He and his men did a crackerjack job, risking their necks and putting themselves out way beyond what anybody could expect.” Sharpe paused and shook his head in admiring frustration. “Not one civilian life lost, not even any injuries.”

  The plain-speaking lawman then snorted in disgust. “Hell, the whole outfit deserves some sort of official recognition and the feds treat them like they don’t even exist. Worst thing is, his locals are scared and wanting to know what’s happening out there. But he can’t tell ‘em nothin’ because the feds refuse to say anything to him!”

  Bob shook his head again, but this time not for the same reason. “So he’s in the dog house with the folks who elected him to office, the same folks he and his deputies busted their butts for in keeping safe. What a deal…”

  The sound of the inner door opening behind him brought Micah back to the present and he turned to see the director himself standing there. “Come on in, Micah, we’ve been talking about you.” The colonel was smiling, but Micah did not know if that meant something good or something bad. He decided to play it as if it was something bad, that way he wouldn’t be disappointed or unpleasantly surprised.

  Moving closer together, the two men shook hands and the trooper noted the director’s firm grasp. He also made note that the colonel looked him straight in the eye when he did so. ‘At least it’s not like shaking hands with a dead fish,’ Micah thought. ‘And he don’t have that look of one eye on a snake and the other one looking for a stick to beat it with.’

  The head of the DPS escorted the highway patrolman into his paneled office, where three other men sat in different chairs. Micah was introduced to each one in turn and also shook hands with them.

  Leading out for the three was a large, overweight man with a receding hair line that swept back to a bald spot at the very top of his head. The thinning hair that remained had turned white and contrasted sharply against his ruddy complexion. The near obese fellow wore horn rimmed glasses and dressed in an ill-fitting suit, which made him look more like a seedy lawyer than anything else.

  The colonel introduced him to Micah. “This is Mr. Humboldt, he’s in charge overall of the federal recovery efforts where your uncle’s plane went down.”

  “Very pleased to meet you, Trooper Templar. Very pleased.” Humboldt smiled broadly and in vigorous fashion pumped Micah’s right arm up and down.

  “This is Mr. Wadley,” the colonel continued. “Mr. Wadley is with the FBI, and was sent in from Washington to head up the law enforcement and security angles for the operation.” Micah turned slightly and found himself looking at a thin, pasty fellow who reminded him of an animated caricature of a human ferret.

  He instinctively found himself disliking Wadley, a feeling that was only reinforced when the two shook hands. The government bureaucrat had a limp grasp and a clammy feel to the palms, and his hands were too soft and well-manicured to have ever seen much use. ‘Like shaking hands with that dead fish,’ Micah thought, ‘and with the eyes to match.’ Wadley said nothing, so neither did Micah.

  The head of the Department continued the introductions. “And this is Mr. Eggers.” From off to the side the third man rose from his chair and walked agilely toward the others. Of average height and an athletic build, Eggers was dark headed with facial features and a skin tone that would allow him to blend in most anyplace. When he grasped Micah’s hand it was in a firm, no nonsense manner. He looked the highway patrolman in the eyes intently, as if he was searching for something of a read himself.

  “How are you, trooper?” Eggers asked, and meant it.

  “Doing all right, sir,” responded Templar.

  Micah found himself slightly taken aback. There was something truly remarkable about this man and it started with his eyes. They were just as dark as his hair, almost black, and penetrating in their gaze. Behind them Micah could sense the presence of a highly intelligent and capable human being, someone with a warrior’s heart. Someone who, given the right circumstances, had the capacity of being a very dangerous man.

  Yet it was not only those eyes but the man himself that caused Micah to do a double take. It was as if he had met him before, somewhere else a long time ago. Even his name tugged at Micah Templar’s memory. Eggers…where had he heard that before?

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  “Sit down, gentlemen.” The director gestured at the chairs placed around the large office.

  Humboldt and Wadley sat back in their previous seats directly positioned in front of the director’s sizeable wooden desk. Micah picked a chair over to the side, where he could watch the two in front of the desk as well as his boss who seated himself behind it. He was getting a vague impression that the head of the DPS was not exactly happy with either of these two. It was as if there had been some sort of difference of opinion before his arrival.

  Micah Templar glanced over at Eggers, who had selected a chair near the rear of the office that allowed him to watch everyone else. Micah found himself studying the man more as another little fact popped into his head. The colonel never said who Eggers actually worked for. The man met his studious gaze, nodded and smiled a bit.

  ‘Who are you, Mr. Eggers?’ Micah questioned himself. ‘And why do I keep thinking I know you from someplace else?’

  “Micah,” the colonel started speaking and Templar looked back at him. “We called you in today to visit about what happened last month and what is going to be happening in the near future. These gentlemen are asking for the Department’s cooperation in this matter, but we as an agency can’t fully give it unless you do too.

  “As a member of this Department, you were placed in a situation that really has no precedent in the history of the DPS, or the Texas Highway Patrol. At least, not in the modern era of our existence.” His colonel paused a moment and looked straight at him.

  “I have read your report as well as the statements of those locals you came into contact with that morning. I have also spoke at length with the rangers who did the investigation at the Albright airstrip. What you went through was more like some sort of military combat action, than anything having to do with civilian law enforcement.

  “Personally, I want to take this opportunity to tell you in man-to-man fashion that what you did was simply exemplary, and in the highest traditions of our Department. More so, the citizens of the state of Texas owe your uncle and Mister Grephardt a debt of gratitude that can never be adequately repaid.”

  Micah cut his eye over to the two men sitting in front of the desk. Humboldt looked a little too earnest as he listened in, while Wadley appeared to be impatient and perhaps even a little agitated. Then again, Wadley hit the trooper as one of those types who was always a little agitated about one thing or another.

  Intertwining his fingers and placing his hands on his desk, the director leaned forward. “But now you are going to be told something entirely different about all this and these
gentlemen are going to be doing the telling.” The head of the DPS looked hard at Wadley and added a shade icily “After all, that is the very least they can do.”

  ‘Uh oh,’ thought Micah to himself, ‘so much for the halo routine. Now comes the hammer.’

  Humboldt shifted his hefty weight uneasily in the overstuffed chair and took his glasses off to clean them with a handkerchief. “Firstly Trooper Templar, the Federal Government also wants to commend you and your companions for your courage and bravery. Unfortunately, the three of you were working under some altogether mistaken assumptions.”

  The partially bald man stopped polishing his eyewear and looked up. “We need for you to understand something that may come as an absolute shock. After thoroughly investigating the crash scene, it is our determination there was no sort of chemical agents whatsoever on that aircraft.”

  Micah stared at the government official with incredulity as the oversized bureaucrat continued on. “Furthermore, and in regard to this group that tried to take your uncle’s aircraft: We have found no evidence of any of them being from the Middle East, or of belonging to any sort of terrorist organization. As far as we can tell those involved were actually members of a South American drug cartel, though we are not at liberty to say much more than that.”

  Humboldt paused, looking up through his glasses at the overhead florescent lights. Evidently satisfied he placed the horn rims back on his fat, ruddy face. “The reason they wanted your uncle’s aircraft was to pick up a shipment of assault weapons purchased illegally here in the United States and smuggle them across the border. From there, the aircraft was going to be pressed into service as a transport to conduct large scale smuggling operations involving controlled substances.”

  Glancing at Wadley somewhat pensively he finished off by saying, “That’s about all there is to it. No nerve agent, no terrorists and no plot to murder innocent civilians. Just common criminals attempting to become wealthy through weapons smuggling as well as narcotics trafficking.”

  For several seconds, an uneasy silence fell over the room. At first Micah was confused and somewhat stunned, his mind trying to correlate with what he knew as facts and what was being said now. As his suspicions started to take form as to what sort of game was presently being played, he felt a flush of anger rising within himself, causing him to grip both arms of his chair.

  The highway patrolman fought to steady his emotions as his eyes widened involuntarily, forcing his eyebrows so high they pulled at the stitches on top of his head. Micah Templar did not like being lied to, and had spent nearly twenty years at a job where people did so on a daily basis. Humboldt was not even in the top fifty percent of the class.

  Forcing himself to keep an even tone in his voice, Micah responded in a low, slow manner of speaking to keep his rousing anger in check.

  “Let me get this straight,” he began. “You want me to believe that Qassam’s bunch was part of a Latin American crime cartel, and they went through all of that just to smuggle a bunch of drugs in.”

  “Not just drugs, Templar, but weapons too,” Wadley interjected sharply. “We have a huge problem with our lack of gun laws in this nation and smuggling them south is a wide open business.” The FBI supervisor stopped and then added maliciously to put Micah in his proper place, “or perhaps you don’t read the newspapers out where you come from.”

  The highway patrolman eyed the FBI supervisor with a rapidly growing dislike. If there ever was truth to the old adage of buying somebody for what they were worth, and selling them for what they thought they were worth, and making a lot of money? Well, this guy fit the bill to a tee.

  “Oh, but you are so wrong there,” Micah replied, looking hard from Wadley to Humboldt and back again. “I happen to do a good deal of reading and I notice things, too. After all, noticing things is what the State of Texas pays me to do. Picking up on little stuff like when people are speaking Arabic instead of Spanish, or when I’m being shot at by fully automatic AKs stamped with Russian markings, and not some semi-auto version out of a local gun shop.”

  “There are the other things I noticed,” he continued, “like needing three-quarter ton vehicles to carry in a bunch of spraying equipment, as well as several large blue plastic drums that everyone seemed to have a real healthy respect for.

  “And if they were smuggling weapons into Mexico, where were they? They weren’t at the airstrip. Also, if they were running guns, why take the scenic route and fly north of San Antonio? When The Uvalde Raider went down, she was nearly twice as far from the border as when she took off.”

  Humboldt tried to reply but instead trailed off as Micah pointedly ignored him and kept speaking, now gesturing from time to time with his hands and stabbing with his right index finger for emphasis. As the trooper made his case, Wadley’s face became darker and his eyebrows set into one hard line. But he remained silent.

  “Then we have the crash scene itself. It’s shut down tight and sealed off, and no one seems to know what’s going on or wanting to explain why. There are military troops out there right now, armed with M16s and carrying or wearing protective gear. The same kind of gear designed for nuclear, biological or chemical warfare. If there was no nerve agent found, then why is that?

  “Finally, Qassam made it a point to tell us what was in those plastic containers and what they were being used for. I think he did it to either taunt or try to impress my uncle, or maybe both. Or maybe he really did want some kind of historical record as to what was happening. Whatever it was, I also know my Tio Zeke believed him enough to destroy his own aircraft while sacrificing his life to stop him.”

  Micah Templar paused for a moment, staring fixedly at the two men. “Matter of fact I believed Qassam myself, just like I don’t believe you two gents now. We have a saying out in West Texas, ‘Don’t pee on my boots and tell me it’s raining.’ Right now, my boots are soaking wet and there ain’t a cloud in the sky.”

  Another long silence followed. The colonel appeared to be slightly amused but not that he would show it much. During his response, Micah had cut his eyes a couple of times to where Eggers sat. Each time the trooper glanced over, the man was grinning a little more. Micah was not sure of what was going on just yet, but he felt as if he had at least one ally in this affair.

  Humboldt shifted his ponderous weight again in the protesting chair, looking first at Micah, then the colonel and then to Wadley, then back again. Wadley was trying to stare bullet holes through the former Marine and Micah was responding in kind. The two glared at each other with open contempt, and the room fairly steamed in the rising pall of deep animosity fermenting between them.

  “Very well,” Wadley muttered ominously. “Since you seem to have such a strong opinion in your recollection of facts, let me fill you in on a few others.

  “Trooper Templar, you are in a very precarious situation legally speaking. I read the same reports your colonel did, but I have a completely different take on what happened. There was a great deal of shooting going on at that ranch and you did more than anyone else, as well as more killing.

  According to your own admission you shot one man in the back and killed him, shot another from the rear who was just trying to get away and then cold bloodedly executed a third from a concealed position, not to mention killing yet another one with your revolver. Furthermore, all this was after you nearly beat a man to death with your bare hands, and far beyond the point needed in making any legitimate arrest.”

  Wadley paused, staring at Micah with his peculiarly shaped ferret face. His eyes were calculating, and his body language oozed unshadowed arrogance. In a voice mixed with sarcasm and threat, the FBI supervisor went on. “You say you read a lot. Well, I strongly suggest that you read about excessive force and civil rights violations, because you may very well find yourself answering to both in a Federal court of law.”

  “Mister,” Micah retorted, “if you plan on dragging me into any court of law, I fully expect to see that human rattlesnake they called Mustafa
there to testify, along with that other terrorist I patched up.”

  “By the way,” the highway patrolman mused, “exactly what happened to those two? Seems both disappeared about as quickly as your people got involved. It’s as if they never existed.”

  “Templar,” replied Wadley testily. “Those two are of no concern to you, now or ever. Believe me, you have far too many other troubles of a personal nature to spend time wondering about what happened to them.”

  “Says who? You?” queried Micah skeptically. “You talked about Federal law, so let me tell you something about Texas law. Those two are guilty of theft, kidnapping, aggravated assault, attempted murder and murder, among other criminal acts found in our Penal Code. Plus, they would be necessary witnesses in any charges you might bring against me. I think I have a vested interest in their whereabouts for all kinds of reasons.”

  All of the color began draining from Wadley’s face and he scowled with clenched teeth at the defiant trooper. Wadley was the sort of person who was used to having everyone beneath him bow near unthinkingly to his authority, and to kowtow to while undergoing his oft-practiced repertoire of unfiltered intimidation. Micah Templar was of a different breed entirely and his blatant obstinacy was galling the FBI supervisor to no end.

  “Look, we are doing our best to help in your situation, Templar,” Wadley snapped back. “Asking for nothing in return but a little cooperation. But if you want to play hard ball, you need to run and get your little bat and glove right now and start practicing, because you are going to be playing way out of your league.”

  There it was, full in Micah’s face. He was being herded by Wadley and Humboldt into going along with this absurdity foisted upon him, or else. He had no idea what their reasoning was for doing so, or why. But he was fully aware that he was being threatened and everything within him was in open rebellion because of it.

  Emphatically, Micah rose and leaned over with both knuckles on the edge of the colonel’s desk. The trooper’s face turned to stone, the only sign of life present being in his eyes that blazed with a hot fire from below. “Mister Wadley,” he said, “You do whatever you think you need to. But if you think you can change my mind by trying to intimidate me, or that I would actually believe your idiotic story, then you are even a bigger moron than what you took me for.”