The Uvalde Raider by Ben English (great books for teens TXT) 📕

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