Purge on the Potomac

by Roberts, David Thomas;

  At 3:21 a.m., the Rangers could hear Garland police radio transmissions regarding a vehicle crash on a bridge over Lake Roy Hubbard on Interstate 30 inbound. It was the same interstate that Will’s van was traveling from Texarkana.

  “Get on the radio and find out what vehicles were involved,” Pops ordered one of his Rangers.

  “They are reporting multiple fatalities,” answered another Ranger.

  Dyson and Pops looked at each other. Certainly, this couldn’t be them, but Pops had a gut feeling something was wrong. Will was exactly like Zach Turner, punctual as hell and very good at communication. He would have gotten a message to them if he was going to be late, even with a communications lock-down. This was way too important.

  Then came the news. The Garland police were reporting over their radios that the accident was a single-vehicle accident in which a gray van rolled several times before careening into Lake Hubbard. Divers were on the scene preparing to dive in twenty-six feet of water. One body had already been recovered.

  “Get me there now!” yelled Pops to Dyson and his Rangers. They sped the fifteen miles from the rendezvous point to the scene of the accident.

  Garland police were surprised to see Texas Rangers appear on the scene, and even more surprised to find it was the legendary Pops Younger.

  “What the hell is Pops Younger doing here?” asked one of the police officers.

  “I heard something about national security from one of the Rangers, but hell, it’s Pops Younger here on our accident scene. Wow,” uttered a young police sergeant.

  “Why the hell aren’t those divers in the water?” demanded Pops to the local police.

  “We need daylight, sir. The lake is so murky, the lights they brought to dive with aren’t strong enough to see six inches in front of their faces.”

  “Damn, can’t they at least get to the vehicle?”

  “We haven’t found it yet. All we have are eyewitness accounts about the van. We have a body over there on the grass.”

  Pops and Dyson hurriedly walked over to the body covered by a sheet.

  “Go ahead.” Pops motioned for Dyson to pull back the sheet.

  “Son of a bitch, that’s Beard. Damn it! Son of a bitch!” barked Pops.

  Pops turned quickly to the Garland police officer in charge of the accident scene, “Where are the witnesses? I want to speak to them right now.”

  Pops was led over to a small group of people who were standing around, talking to police and anxiously waiting to see if the divers could come up with anything. Pops talked to several of the witnesses, who only saw the van flip and careen off the bridge into the lake but didn’t see how it happened or what caused it to lose control. They reported lots of sparks flying, but Pops mentally noted that it was before the van flipped. They all claimed they didn’t see a second vehicle enter the lake, so the police were treating it as a single-vehicle accident.

  Eventually, all the Texas Rangers who had been staged at various points on I-45 to escort the van containing Ottosson to Huntsville made it to the accident scene. Dyson had his Rangers start their own investigation.

  The entire interstate was closed going westbound to Dallas while the accident investigation and recovery of bodies was underway. The police were looking for skid marks and any clue they could find. The Department of Public Safety officers, under the command of the Texas Rangers, showed up to help with the accident. It suddenly occurred to Pops that they had only closed down the westbound side.

  “Close the damned eastbound lanes,” he ordered a DPS officer, who wasn’t entirely sure why Pops wanted the lanes on the other side of the freeway shut down. With the morning commute coming, at least the outbound lanes would be open.

  A few minutes later, the closure of those lanes wasn’t happening fast enough for Pops.

  “I said shut down those damned lanes!”

  “Sir, we are waiting for other patrol cars to come up and divert the traffic one exit ramp back.”

  “I’m telling you right now to immediately close those lanes. If you have to climb over the damned guard rail and stop the traffic yourself, do it!” barked Pops. “I want it closed a mile and a half back east and west! Does everyone understand me, or am I stuttering?” yelled Pops, who was physically shaken by the death of Beard, whom Pops had grown fond of, and the possible loss of Will and a key witness.

  The sun came up at 6:36 a.m. that morning and the divers entered the water. Thirty-five minutes later, they located the van. The divers came to the shore to report five bodies were in the van. The van was lying on its side at the bottom of the lake. One by one, divers pulled up bodies and brought them to the shore. Pops and Dyson were beside themselves to see if Will and Ottosson were among the dead.

  Four bodies were recovered; however, none of them were Ottosson or Will. Dyson had also grown to admire and respect Will, despite his misgivings about his CIA past and differences early on. Somehow, some way, they both hoped the next body recovered was Ottosson and not Will.

  Finally, the divers brought another body to the shore. It was Will.

  Pops knelt down next to Will to view the body of his newfound friend, trying to do his job and not get emotional as he looked for any signs of what happened. Will had an obvious massive head wound from the crash but no other signs of foul play.

  “There’s got to be another body in the lake,” Dyson told the divers. “We know for a fact there was another person in the van, six in total. Keep looking.”

  A Texas Ranger came running up to Pops and Dyson. As he tried to catch his breath, he blurted, “Sir, I have six .223 shell casings back there on the ground about five hundred yards.”

  “On the other side of the freeway? Outbound or inbound side?” asked Pops.

  “Outbound,” said the Ranger.

  “Now you folks know why I wanted the outbound lanes closed, too! There’s evidence over there. Have everyone form a line and walk the entire scene. I’m talking a half mile either way. Do you understand me, men?”

  “Yes, sir,” answered the Rangers and DPS officers.

  As Pops and Dyson waited anxiously for the cranes to pull the van from the depths of Lake Hubbard, the combined law enforcement teams formed a line and walked, step by step, on both sides of the freeway, identifying eighty-six empty shell casings scattered around, on both sides of the freeway. Every shell casing was marked on the spot where it lay. Pops’ attention immediately snapped back to the lake. The crane was starting to pull up the van, and it slowly emerged from the water. Meanwhile, divers were scattered at different points in the lake, looking for the final body that would match Pops’ information about the number of passengers in the van.

  As the gray-colored van slowly began to emerge from the lake, Pops walked to the edge of the water, followed by Dyson, his Rangers and various law enforcement officers from the area.

  “Geez, Pops, look at that,” Dyson noted.

  “Sons of bitches. Damn,” said Pops.

  The crane swung the van, which had water pouring out of it from all the windows, to a predetermined area along the shore.

  The gray van had no windows or glass whatsoever. What caught their attention as soon as the van was fully visible were the bullet holes down the driver’s side of the van; lake water poured out of the perforations. As they walked around the van, they saw that the entire van was riddled with bullet holes down both sides, in front and in back.

  Pops instructed his team to immediately look for any cell phones, laptops or other equipment and to take any they found to his SUV. To Pops’ disappointment but not his surprise, no cell phones or laptops were found.

  “Sir, this is consistent with some wounds we have found on some of the bodies,” a Texas Ranger said.

  “Don’t you think it’s strange that the bullet holes are on both sides? Does that mean their assailant changed lanes or that there was a high-speed chase?” asked Dyson to nobody in particular.

  “Look at the direction of the holes on the driver’s side. These
shots were fired from an oncoming vehicle or someone in the median on the opposite side,” Pops stated. “The holes on the passenger side are pretty much straight on, meaning someone pulled up on that side and let loose.”

  “Who the hell is that?” asked Dyson, as two black helicopters, with the thud-thud-thud of chopper blades, moved toward them. One chopper hovered while the other set down on the empty interstate. As it got closer, the emblem on the side of the chopper became evident.

  “FBI?” Dyson stared at the ominous birds. “What the hell are they doing here?”

  Six men in suits emptied out of the first chopper as the second one landed about fifty yards away. The men walked straight toward Pops and the contingent of law enforcement surrounding the van.

  “What the hell do you want?” Pops asked Regional FBI Director Michael Jarvis.

  “It’s my understanding this accident involves several individuals wanted in connection with the IRS bombings and the murder of the IRS commissioner. We consider this a crime scene and will take over this investigation. You can have your people stand down. In the meantime, I’d like you to brief me on what has been done so far and what evidence you have,” Jarvis ordered.

  “When pigs fly,” Pops stated flatly, taking a cigar out of his front left pocket, chewing the end off it and spitting it at the feet of Jarvis.

  “Excuse me?” Jarvis looked astonished.

  “I said, when pigs fly.”

  “Younger, I don’t need any more of your homespun Texas wisdom. This crime scene is now under federal jurisdiction.”

  “Whose bodies do you think are over there being loaded by the coroner?”

  “Those are likely suspects in multiple federal warrants.”

  “We haven’t called you boys in. How the hell do you already know who these victims are?”

  “We’re the FBI, Younger,” snarled Jarvis disrespectfully. “We get paid to know these things. How many bodies do you have?”

  “We’ve recovered all the bodies,” said Pops.

  “Then why are there still divers in the water?” asked Jarvis.

  “Just being thorough,” snapped Dyson, who was also bent out of shape because of Jarvis’ attitude.

  Jarvis turned to the FBI agents behind him and nodded his head. Like automatons, the men turned to the van and went to take a look at it.

  “Looking for anything in particular?” asked Pops.

  “Of course.” Jarvis stared at Pops, insolence oozing from him. “Evidence of a crime. Who’s in charge of these divers”?”

  “I am,” Pops told him in a calm voice.

  “They will now take direction and orders from me,” Jarvis retorted.

  “When pigs fly,” Pops answered again.

  “These men were under federal warrant. This is now part of a federal investigation. This is a national security investigation.” Jarvis started to join his men. “I need my team to look at the bodies and see if we can identify them.”

  “You take one step toward those bodies over there and I’ll put a pop knot on your head so fast, you’ll think you were in a New Orleans whorehouse.” Pops fixed his steel blue eyes on the director’s dark eyes.

  “Younger, I’ve got orders.”

  “I don’t give a shit. This is my crime scene.” Pops took a step toward Jarvis. “Now take your boys and git your candy asses back on that bird, or you and I are gonna dance.”

  “Younger, you’re playing with fire. This is now a national security case. My orders come from very high up.”

  “Unless you got written orders from God himself, you ain’t touching my crime scene. This is my jurisdiction. Now scoot your ass outta here.”

  Jarvis turned and motioned for his men to come back from the van. They all walked back across the inbound lanes of the interstate and stood near the choppers. Two local police officers couldn’t help themselves and started clapping for Pops, to the dismay of the FBI agents.

  The divers continued to scour the lake for another body.

  Pops motioned to Dyson and walked away from everyone so nobody could hear their conversations.

  “Where the hell is Ottosson?” asked Pops.

  “He’s got to be in that lake somewhere, unless he got out before the van got riddled,” answered Dyson.

  “There’s no way Will let anyone nab Ottosson―under any conditions,” Pops said confidently. “Instruct the divers to also look for laptops or cell phones. If they find anything, I don’t want them to bring it up. Just mark the location. I don’t want any further evidence brought up while they are here.” Pops nodded to the FBI crew.

  “Got it, Pops,” Dyson said, walking over to the lake with a slight smile on his face.

  For the rest of the day, up until dark, the divers continued to search for another body and any further evidence, like a laptop or cell phone. Pops knew Beard always seemed to have multiple devices and, so far, only one had been recovered. He had no idea if that laptop could be saved or its contents recovered. He needed the video confession of Ottosson.

  The divers came back to shore at sunset.

  Ottosson had not been found.

  Chapter 60

  “There are no necessary evils in government. Its evils exist only in its abuses.”

  - Andrew Jackson (1767-1847)

  7th US President

  ABC News reported that the prime suspects―in the IRS bombings, in the mass shooting at the festival, and IRS Commissioner Ivan Stanislaus assassination―had been killed in a high-speed chase in a Dallas suburb. The anchor reported that white supremacists in the Free Texas organization, which had ties to the Texas independence movement, various Tea Party groups and other radical right-wing zealots, were involved.

  Hank Lofton and his crew moved their base of operation out of Texas after they knocked off the IRS commissioner. Lofton and his crew heard the news while in their new hideout deep in the Atchafalaya Swamp in southern Louisiana.

  Lofton’s crew remained somber because, if the news report was true, it would mean their lifelong Special Forces friends who didn’t agree with their approach to fight the Deep State had suffered the consequences that were meant for them.

  “Damn, Hank, I feel terrible,” said one crew member.

  “It ain’t right. No doubt about that. We need to confirm this is true. We have to send another signal, one that will confuse the feds and show them they got the wrong guys,” announced Lofton, rubbing his eyes and his forehead, as the stress of being hunted by the government was only surpassed by his grief over the loss of his good friend Will Turnbow.

  They had fought back to back in Afghanistan and other hotspots around the world.

  “I agree. They need to know those guys weren’t the only ones fighting the Deep State. There are more of us, and our numbers grow every day,” chimed in Jaxon Haines.

  “We’ve sent the message to Washington. Now it’s time the message was sent to Austin,” said Lofton. “It’s time to rid Austin of the carpetbaggers, RINOs and liberals.”

  “Ha, you’ll have to kill most of the residents to rid Austin of liberals!” laughed one of the crew.

  “Gentlemen, we have essentially rendered the IRS incapable of operating, simply out of fear. If we cut the head off the snake of the Deep State in Texas, we effectively do the same thing. We all know Governor Strasburg is a D.C. lackey. We will never get an independence referendum with him in office. This also needs to be very public. Hell, it might even make Austin weirder by nudging the liberal nutcases to move back to California!” joked Lofton.

  “Hank, they had zero evidence connecting Turnbow, Beard and those guys to the IRS commissioner. I’m just sick about this,” said a despondent crew member.

  “This is why you cannot forget our cause here, gentlemen. The feds will murder innocents. We’ve all seen this in our Langley operations, overseas and here on our own soil. I don’t believe for a second they believe they got the right people, but the story looks good and it boosts the prospects of Bartlett and those in power. Let’
s send them another message they won’t soon forget and dedicate our next move to Will and his crew!” announced Lofton vehemently.

    

  Pops remained close to the accident scene for two days, hoping they would find some clue to the whereabouts of Ottosson’s body or recover more of Beard’s or Ottosson’s devices. One more laptop was retrieved from the depths of the lake but it wasn’t clear yet whose it was.

  A black Jeep pulled up on the right median of the interstate, but was stopped by DPS officers. The inside lane of the inbound side of the interstate had been reopened, but the right two lanes were still closed. A man dressed in army fatigues got out and handed a note to a DPS officer, addressed to Pops Younger, and insisted that it be delivered to Pops at once. It stated:

  Please give me five minutes. I am with Lofton’s crew.

  It took about ten minutes to get the note to Pops. He opened it, read it and then asked, “Where is this guy? Bring him to me at once.”

  A few minutes later, Lofton’s crew member was face to face with Pops.

  “Sir, Lofton has no idea I’m here talking to you.”

  Pops looked at Dyson and said, “Get his vehicle outta here. Son, come take a walk with me.” The two started to walk along the edge of the lake, away from all the activity around the dive. The FBI agents, who had staked out a position not far from the accident scene, were straining to see who Pops was meeting with.

  “Don’t worry, sir,” said the crew member as he glanced to the FBI tent. “They can’t trace that Jeep to me.”

  “Son, are you telling me you stole a vehicle and drove it right up here among all this law enforcement presence? You’re either a dumb shit or you’ve got an incredible set of huevos,” chuckled Pops.

  “Well, sir, something like that.” The guy grinned.

  “First, let me ask you if you were part of that execution of the IRS dude?” asked Pops, who followed with the question, “and I’m sure you ain’t had nothing to do with the Dallas shootings?”