The success of the continuing struggle in their holy jihad, their reputations among their likeminded peers, their enhanced ability to inflict a given amount of death and destruction, all were about to take on a completely new dimension in their perceived lethality. The Hezbollah member smiled grimly, savoring the knowledge of what was about to transpire.
At the same moment Micah was observing the Shi’a Lebanese, looking for those telltale signs of any possible intent. He took note of that unsettling smile and wondered at the why of it. One thing was for certain: it had the aura of evil ambition and wherever it had come from, the implication the expression carried with it was worryingly obvious.
He glanced over to Ezekiel and breathed, “Anything in mind?”
His older kin replied in like manner. “Nothing now other than decipher more of their plan. Use your Mexican and do the same. Comprendes?”
Micah nodded in return and put everything he had as far as concentration into listening. Almost immediately, the highway patrolman began picking out a few phrases that sounded something like a Spanish counterpart. Having been raised on ranches and in cow camps of this region of Texas, one couldn’t help but have some sort of background in the language. The trouble was the border slang usually spoken was not true Spanish nor was it even proper Mexican, making for yet another kink in attempting to draw meaning from the words.
Sitting there, Micah felt the nudge from a nearby foot and leaned forward slightly to hear better. “One more thing,” advised Ezekiel in a low tone. “Qassam is no fool and neither are these men. They’re dangerously keyed up. Let them wind down, we’ll get our chance.”
Ezekiel Templar returned to focusing on the voices from the adjoining area, and it was plain to Micah that his uncle was getting a whole lot more of what was being said than his nephew was. Still, Micah continued to pick out the odd word or expression and tried to fit it into what he already knew. It was an exasperating, near impossible task, much like trying to put a thousand-piece jigsaw puzzle together while wearing a blindfold.
By now it was night time, and Micah was growing stiff from sitting on the concrete floor. His hands were secured behind his back, the cuffs having been applied in haphazard fashion. There was a real skill involved in the proper use of handcuffs and evidently that was something their captors had not been schooled in. He could actually twist his wrists slightly within the stainless-steel enclosures.
Nevertheless, he was quite cautious in doing so as he was not certain whether the terrorists had double locked the devices. If they didn’t, any further movement on his part stood the chance of making them clamp down that much tighter. Every once and a while he carefully repositioned himself to help alleviate the muscle strain and fatigue; trying to stem the dull aching that began gradually making its way up his arms, through both of his shoulders and into the neck area.
The three prisoners had not spoken to each other since that first exchange over an hour ago. Yet even with the falling of night, they were still able to see each other due to the large shaft of artificial light coming through the mostly opened door. Their guard kept an eye on them that way, and it precluded the chance of any movement going undetected inside the small room.
Being able to do so was something Micah wished more for than anything else at this particular moment, and it wasn’t because of the increasing discomfort in his neck and shoulders. Though no one else knew of it other than Abby, he had a small handcuff key hidden in the inside waist band of his uniform trousers. It was such an important secret that he didn’t dare mention it even to his uncle, for fear that in doing so he would somehow tip his hand to their captors. That small, odd shaped piece of chromed metal was likely their best chance in turning the tables in the style to which Ezekiel had bluffed about earlier.
The key’s long-time presence was the result of an incident that occurred many years before in the history of the Texas Department of Public Safety. In the early part of May of 1969, a highway patrolman had been taken hostage by an ex-con and his wife following a high-speed pursuit that resulted in their vehicle breaking down in the wee hours of the morning. The two fugitives escaped on foot through nearby woods, and later managed to seize the officer when he responded to their fake phone call of being robbery victims at an isolated farm house.
After being taken hostage, the young highway patrolman was restrained with the use of his own handcuffs. Then the criminals, using the officer’s marked patrol unit, led the responding authorities in a slow-moving procession throughout parts of Southeast Texas. The trailing caravan ultimately involved numerous police agencies and law enforcement organizations, and was reported at one point as numbering over a hundred assorted vehicles. Of course, such a large pursuing motorcade made the national news almost immediately.
Basking in their new found fame, the two hostage takers milked the evolving sensationalism for all that it was worth. Meanwhile the authorities, rightfully concerned with the safety of the kidnapped patrolman, patiently played for some sort of an advantage as the rolling standoff moved on for hundreds of miles. Ultimately the ex-con was shot and killed, and his wife captured while the officer escaped his predicament mostly unharmed.
However, the legacy of the story was only just beginning. With the assistance of the continuing mass media hoopla, the resulting reshaped saga grew legs of its own and was later made into a motion picture entitled The Sugarland Express. At the time of its release Micah was out of the Marines and now a highway patrolman himself, so he and Abby had gone to see the movie one night while in San Angelo. It did not take long to determine it had little to do with what had actually happened, and like most other such ‘true’ stories was more the creation of someone’s Hollywood imagination than anything else.
About a year later Micah had been at his In-Service School in Austin and the subject of The Sugarland Express came up. A few of the older hands present were familiar with the real facts of the case and personally knew the trooper involved. One of those facts was that if the young officer had possessed a hidden handcuff key, he could have freed himself on several occasions during the standoff.
Being a man who wished to enjoy his retirement, Micah made a mental note about the idea of a hidden key. Other patrolmen already carried a spare on a key ring, or twist tied to a boot strap, or in a wallet or taped to the inside of their duty belt. The former Marine went a slightly different route, and it was Abby who sewed a small, nearly invisible pouch to the inside waistband area of his uniform trousers. Small and inconspicuous and positioned just so, even a full pat down would almost surely miss it. Micah had dutifully carried that small key on him ever since, though never having any need for it until now.
But having the key and being able to put it to successful use were two different things entirely, and manipulation was a chancy proposition. He would need a certain amount of time while not being observed to do anything with it, as well as a bit of luck. Fumbling around with numbed fingers to retrieve the small, irregular shaped piece of metal from the secreted pocket would be in itself a challenge.
Beyond that he would have to maneuver the key while in an awkward position, and that would only be possible if the securing terrorist had left one of the lock holes facing rearward. Otherwise, the highway patrolman would first have to free one of his fellow prisoners and have them work the key for him. That presented even more complications and the need for even more time.
Thinking about it, Micah cautiously felt around on the handcuff securing his left wrist. He moved slowly, gingerly, not wanting to have the cuffs tighten on his wrists in case they were not double locked. He carefully checked the rearward face of the steel enclosure with his fingertips once, then over the same spot again to be certain. His heart sank, the lock hole could not be found and must be facing forward.
Doggedly he set his mind back to the task and switched sides, checking around the perimeter of the other cuff with his left hand. For a moment he was not sure, and Micah lightly probed the area again with his thumb and finge
rs. Yes, he was certain he could feel it. This lock hole was definitely facing to the rear. His spirit lifted at the vital piece of knowledge, but was quickly tempered by the realization that he would now have to work the small key with his left hand, and not his natural right. Furthermore, there was still the biggest hurdle of all, the dire need for the proper opportunity and amount of time to free himself.
CHAPTER FOUR
It was an hour or so before midnight when the Hezbollah guard stepped into the room and began prodding them with the muzzle of his Kalashnikov. The Shi’a pointed with the business end of the AK in the direction of the adjoining larger room, making for an invitation that could not be ignored. For himself, Micah was more than ready to oblige after hours of trying to find a semi-comfortable spot on the unyieldingly hard concrete floor. He put one knee underneath him, braced and managed to make it to his feet without too much trouble. He stood there for a moment, savoring the relief from the change in position as Max and Tio Zeke struggled to do the same.
Once able to, they made their way through the opened door and into the larger space. Micah stopped and blinked repeatedly before squinting against the harsh artificial glare, his eyes adjusting to the sudden onslaught of bright lighting contained within the room.
The heretofore dominant sounds of activity now faded to the visage of their captors conducting different tasks, all evidently part of some grand scheme of which Micah still had no real idea of. Qassam and his malicious shadow, the one he called Mustafa, peered over an aerial map set upon a large desktop to one side.
Both looked up after a moment, Qassam smiling with his white, even teeth as if genuinely glad to see them. Mustafa gave off no expression of emotion whatsoever, he simply looked at them with his flat reptilian eyes as if he was sizing something up for a future meal. If the Lebanese ever had an ounce of human kindness within him, the emotion had apparently evaporated a long time before.
“Colonel Templar and company, good to see you again” the Hezbollah leader effused. “I hope your lodging quarters have not been too uncomfortable. You have my apologies for the lateness of the hour, but I did want the chance to visit with you further. Now I have the time to do so.”
Ezekiel Templar cast a practiced eye on what was happening around him. There were aerial maps, flight charts, meteorological forecasts, assorted storage containers and color-coded notebooks placed neatly at different points in the room, all illustrating a well-executed attention to detail.
He had already picked up enough from his eavesdropping to realize this was no rag tag bunch of petty criminals. They were a disciplined, well-trained and highly motivated group of men who were working together to accomplish an overridingly important goal. He already had a fair idea of what that goal likely was, but had been silently praying that he was wrong.
“I don’t know about that, Qassam, you look kind of busy. Perhaps we should come back at a better time” responded the elder Templar with a hint of dryness.
Qassam laughed out loud in apparent merriment. “Oh no, you could have not come at a more agreeable one. Most of the work has already been done, at least for my part. It has been said the mark of a successful organization is for each member to know their job and do it well, and without any real supervision. Such motivation and skills make my duties far less stressful and carries the greatest promise in achieving the objective. I handpicked each of these men precisely with that in mind.”
“Evidently so” agreed Ezekiel. He looked beyond the confines of the room and out through the front window that faced the runway area. The Uvalde Raider sat there, the center of attention for the activities going on outside.
The Boeing was lit up by numerous portable lighting fixtures, and Qassam’s men moved with purpose both inside and around her. The bomb bay doors had been cranked open, and they were working on some sort of hoist and pulley device that was being lifted up through the open belly of the aircraft. Off to the side was a group of ten fifty-gallon drums, arranged neatly in two rows. The containers appeared to be made of some sort of heavy plastic and were blue in color.
His worst fears confirmed, the elder Templar took another step forward, focused entirely on the scene outside. “What are you doing to my airplane?” he asked quietly.
“Preparing it for jihad, Colonel. You might say that your airplane is being brought back into active duty” replied the Hezbollah leader.
“If you are expecting me to fly it for you, you might first tell me exactly what you have planned.” deadpanned Ezekiel.
“That would be quite understandable, Colonel Templar, if you were the one who was flying it. As I alluded to before, the mark of a successful organization is for each man to know his job and do it well.” The Hezbollah commander leaned a bit forward, arms folded smugly. “You see, I already have a pilot and he is quite proficient.”
“Flying a B-17 is not like crawling into a Cessna 172, Qassam. Your man may be a good pilot, but there are very few these days who happen to have much experience at the controls of a Flying Fortress.” Templar glanced to both sides and then again to the large window as the young members of Qassam’s team went about their duties. “Frankly, I don’t see anyone around here who likely has that kind of experience.”
“Do not equate age with the experience needed to fly your airplane, Colonel,” warned Qassam. “Think about it this way: how old were you when you first flew the B-17 during your own war? Twenty-one, perhaps twenty-two years of age?”
The terrorist leader peered intently at the older man, as if relishing the thought of staying one step ahead of him. “I have the right man for the task. He is outside now, supervising the loading of your aircraft.”
Ezekiel Templar turned and faced the Hezbollah leader. “Qassam, I don’t know how much you know about a B-17, but that bird sitting outside is nearly a half century old. It does well enough to get itself off the ground these days running empty. I see several fifty gallon drums underneath and every indication that you plan to load them on that airplane. If you do, your pilot is liable to kill himself and everybody else on board before anyone realizes he’s in trouble.”
“Your concern for the safety of my men is touching, colonel,” rejoined the Hezbollah leader. “But I do believe you are overstating your case, including the alleged frailty of your aircraft. In truth your B-17 was specifically selected for several reasons, including how well it has been cared for over the years. Some of my more knowledgeable sources claim your airplane is better than new in some respects.”
Qassam gestured to the large sofa behind the three men. “Please, sit down. There is much I want to talk with you about before being forced to devote myself in other matters.” The tone was still cordial yet there was also an obvious element of control in it. Whatever else Yahla al-Qassam might be, he was someone used to being in charge and in getting his own way.
The three hostages backed up and sat carefully on the overstuffed couch placed to their rear. Each positioned themselves on the lip of the cushions to avoid stressing their bound wrists any further, as well as the accompanying dose of added discomfort. Ezekiel Templar continued to study the scene of activity through the plate glass window, his curiosity mixed with a rising dread in what he reasoned was occurring. Qassam was quick to pick up on it.
“Your anxiety for your aircraft is understandable, Colonel Templar. I think I know how you must feel, and why. Yet believe me when I say no real harm will come to it by our hands if all goes well. We just plan on borrowing it for a day or so.”
“Borrowing is an interesting term, Qassam, considering the circumstances,” Ezekiel replied evenly. “But aside from that, I am actually more curious about what you plan to use the airplane for.”
“And I told you before, Colonel, we are preparing it for jihad” said Yahla al-Qassam. “You would disappoint me mightily by not knowing the meaning of that word.”
“I am familiar with the meaning” responded Ezkiel. “But what does it have to do with The Uvalde Raider, or with us? Are you just ‘
borrowing’ the three of us as cavalierly as you are doing my property?
Qassam again smiled widely and nodded his head in shrewd fashion. “In regards to hostages I never thought of it in terms such as borrowing. However, we can call it that too. As I said before, no real harm will come to your aircraft or to you if all goes well. The same can be said for Herr Grepardt as well as your Marine Corps nephew.”
The terrorist leader paused for a moment and then added for emphasis. “That is, if I can keep Mustafa from snapping his neck as if it were a twig.” With that last remark the powerfully built Mustafa fixed his cold, intimidating eyes squarely upon the highway patrolman. Micah stared back hard in return, the two of them locked in a silent war of wills.
Qassam observed both for a long moment, taking in the muted conflict with a certain amount of obvious amusement. “Do not seek to antagonize him, Officer Templar. Like your uncle and his friend, at present you are worth more to me alive than you are dead.”
Seeking to interrupt the silently building crescendo of mutual enmity, Ezekiel casually commented, “Evidently your concern for our continued well-being is as touching as my own for the safety of your men, Qassam.”
Successfully distracted, the Hezbollah leader looked back to the retired colonel, another smile forming on his lips. He enjoyed a play on words as much as the next man, and somewhat begrudgingly found Ezekiel Templar as intriguing as what his lengthy dossier had led him to expect.
“Then we understand each other, Colonel.”
“Well, I must admit to only being able to try to understand you, Qassam. You still haven’t told me what this is all about.” Changing his tact, Ezekiel Templar continued on. “I can see that a great deal of time and effort have been invested, and the planner had to have been a very intelligent as well as resourceful person.”
The Uvalde Raider Page 4
