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

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?

His eyes scanned through the cockpit glass above and to the front, they darted to any perceived reflection within his field of vision. It was a typically bright, sunny southwest Texas day, and the sun’s rays made any reflective surface shine and dance about as if it had a life of its own. Ezekiel squinted hard against the magnified brilliance and brought his eye lashes closer together in an attempt to cut some of the glare. He found himself wishing for a pair of Ray Ban Aviators more so than any other time of his life.

Then he saw it. A reflection in the sky off to the northeast and somewhat higher, and about spot on for altitude. It had to be the Boeing. Ezekiel looked away for a brief moment to rest his eyes and then brought them back on target. Yes, he was sure of it now. He was certain it was The Uvalde Raider, still several miles ahead and off in the distance. The highly polished aluminum surfaces served as a signal fire to her rightful master, beckoning to rid her of the deadly blight now concealed within her airframe.

Ezekiel eased the control stick ever so slightly to the left and toward him, and the speeding Messerschmitt responded as if it could read his mind. The ‘where’ was beginning to shape up, but the odds involving the ‘how’ was still anyone’s guess.

CHAPTER TWENTY

Micah Templar crouched in the shade of an overhanging mesquite tree, looking through tall pasture grass and eyeing the lay of the land to his front. There was a steep shouldered draw, averaging some eight to ten feet deep, which snaked around to the west and south of the old airstrip. It was this draw, along with the numerous fingers running into it, that Micah decided would make the best area to launch his attack from. For years during deer season the trooper had worked as a hunting guide on the Albright, and he had walked and scouted the surrounding terrain to the point of knowing it as others might know their own back yard.

From his vantage point he watched the four Hezbollah members disembark from the late model Chevy Suburban. Smelling trouble, the men had stopped the truck well before reaching the airstrip and began moving forward on foot. They were well within the range of the Marlin cradled in the crook of Micah’s left arm, and he had been tempted to start the ball rolling right then and there.

But the fact was he really needed that Suburban in the worst way. Furthermore, Micah needed it to be in fully operable condition. The former Marine wanted them completely away from the vehicle when the shooting started, and have the terrorists in a position where they could not easily retreat back to it.

While making his way around to his current location, Micah had idly entertained the thought of just taking off across country on foot and maybe flagging someone down for assistance.  But it was a good five miles to the nearest pavement and at least twelve miles back to town from the airstrip. Besides, he was not too keen about walking away from at least four heavily armed killers still running loose and unchallenged. Things were not going according to their plans, which made them that much more dangerous to anyone else whose path they might cross.

Finally, there was the fact that he didn’t know how far he could travel in his present physical condition. Micah knew he was hurt inside, but wasn’t sure how badly. Better to fight now than try moving fast on foot for miles across country, and perhaps being caught out in the open by a larger and far more mobile pursuing force.

The highway patrolman began easing sideways again, circling around behind the terrorists as they cautiously made their way toward the landing field. He looked over in the direction of the Suburban and wondered if the