- Author: Ben English
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THE UVALDE RAIDER
A TEMPLAR FAMILY NOVEL
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WINTER EAGLES: THE UVALDE RAIDER
By Ben H. English
Published by Creative Texts Publishers
PO Box 50
Barto, PA 19504
Copyright 2021 by Ben H. English
All rights reserved
Cover design copyright 2021 Creative Texts Publishers, LLC
Special thanks to Alpine A La Carte for the Uvalde Raider logo
This book or parts thereof may not be reproduced in any form, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or otherwise—without prior written permission of the publisher, except as provided by United States of America copyright law.
The following is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual names, persons, businesses, and incidents is strictly coincidental. Locations are used only in the general sense and do not represent the real place in actuality.
THE UVALDE RAIDER
A TEMPLAR FAMILY NOVEL
by BEN H. ENGLISH
CREATIVE TEXTS PUBLISHERS
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Dedicated to Captain Dean Amick Wadsworth, First Air Commando, USAF, and to the Marines who died trying to get to him.
Declared MIA 08 October 1963
Body Recovered 07 June 1995
Interred Arlington National Cemetery 03 June 1999
“Lest we forget”…
“Circumstances do not make the man, they reveal him.”
Trooper Micah Templar lazed in the cab of the sandstone colored Ramcharger, relaxing from what started as an early morning shift. He had the driver’s seat run back as far as it would go, with both doors as well as the rear hatch opened wide in search of a cooling breeze. It was the time of year when the mornings would start off chilly, but by mid-afternoon could turn uncomfortably warm. This was one of those afternoons and the spacious greenhouse of the Dodge made it all the more so.
Micah had his DPS-issued felt hat pulled low over his eyes, trying to shut out the west Texas sun that was just now peeking below the top of the windshield. He was trying to doze a bit but his excitement, along with that burning orb overhead, was making his attempt nigh impossible. Tipping the hat back slightly with the tip of his right index finger, the highway patrolman glanced at his watch and noted it was near the top of the hour. With nothing better to do and little progress made as far as catching some shuteye, he leaned forward and turned on the vehicle’s radio for the latest news.
“…at present officials for the Bush administration say an international coalition must be formed to push the Iraqi forces out of Kuwait. Other sources in the Pentagon are stating that plans for military action have been drawn up for a possible response to the crisis.
Meanwhile, the United Nations is also considering further action against Iraq. A resolution has already been passed condemning the invasion and demanding that Saddam Hussein withdraw his forces.
In other such news, negotiators remain hopeful for the release of American hostages still held in Lebanon. It is believed the recent release of Irish citizen Brian Keenan signals a new opportunity in that direction.
However, intelligence experts remain noncommittal following the murder of Marine Lieutenant Colonel William Higgins. Higgins was abducted February of last year by suspected Islamic terrorists. A videotape purporting to show his execution was released, but the American government did not officially declare him dead until two months ago.
This is TSN, the Texas State Network…”
“Should’ve known, nothing but bad news,” Micah muttered to himself, shifting his weight in the seat and switching the radio off. He and his wife Abby had two sons, both of whom were currently serving in the Marine Corps. A former combat Marine himself, he had a better idea than most of what going to war really meant. It had been a long time since the thought was discussed so freely among those with the power to do so, and by all indicators those discussions were in dead earnest. And when war talk occurs in dead earnest among such people, that’s a sign of what will most likely result: a lot of other dead people.
These disturbing thoughts banished any further hope of a short nap and Micah crawled out of the cab of the Dodge to stretch his legs. Slouching in the driver’s seat had badly skewed the gig line for his uniform, and by habit he hitched the Sam Browne belt around to line everything back up.
Running his thumbs along the inside waistband of his issued trousers, he smoothed the bunched material of his long-sleeved gray wool shirt. The warming temperature of the afternoon made him want to remove the uniform’s obligatory blue tie, as well as the frontal body armor that trapped and magnified his body heat. But Max Grephardt wanted a photograph of Micah in his highway patrol uniform for friends back in Germany, and a strong sense of professional pride made Micah want to look his very best when that photo was taken.
He checked his watch again and scanned the skies to the southeast from under the brim of his hat. They should be showing up any time now, if they were