“A society of sheep must in time beget a government of wolves.”
“Right now, I don’t want you to take me to Ottosson. I want you to show me the videos you took,” Pops told Will as they met at a pre-determined location about twenty miles from where Ottosson was being held.
“Pops, before you watch this, you must understand we did what we had to do to get Ottosson to give us this information.”
“Son, if you did what I think you might have done with this scumbag, I’m not sure how reliable the information will be. I’ve seen men who have had the snot beaten out of them and would give their captors any information, true or not, just to stop the pain. Doesn’t mean it’s real.”
For the next two hours Will and Beard showed Pops and Dyson the videos of Ottosson’s interrogation. Pops winced, then got up from his chair from the very first moment Ottosson was struck on the foot with the sledgehammer.
“None of what you will see from here forward is life-threatening to him,” said Will. He couldn’t help but notice how uncomfortable Pops was with the blow to Ottosson’s foot.
“Boys, I’ve seen this method before, and I’ll tell y’all right now that most men will say anything you want to hear to stop the pain.”
“Sir, we asked him open-ended questions that we either knew the answers to or ones in which we had some evidence he was connected,” offered Beard.
“Go on; show us the rest of the tape,” directed Pops.
Pops and Dyson watched the rest of the tape without much emotion except from Dyson, who got very uncomfortable with Ottosson’s guttural screams when the voltage was ramped up on his scrotum.
“What do we do with this information now that we have it?” asked Will. “We’ve got to get Zach outta jail. This should do it.”
“Except that it will put you two boys in jail. I’m glad I’m seeing this outside my jurisdiction ’cuz I’d be obligated to haul you boys in.”
“Hell, Pops, this is learned behavior by these CIA spooks. They do this crap all over the world, I’m sure,” commented Dyson.
“Sir, no disrespect, but I’m not sure if we have time to argue the morality of enhanced interrogation techniques. I will tell you it has helped us avoid serious terrorist attacks you don’t even know about. We’ve got a mass shooting of eight hundred people, many of whom were kids, and there’s evidence that ties this directly back to the White House,” said Will.
“Son, we understand that. It’s not been proven that the stories you get as a result of torture are consistently reliable. Not to mention that some poor innocent son of a bitch could be tortured. It completely skips due process and, as much as you boys are protectors of the Constitution, I would imagine that would be important to you.”
“It is, sir, believe me.”
“Ya know, son, I think of the Constitution kinda like the Bible. You can’t pick out that piece there and this piece here to suit your fancy,” Pops told them. “I’m sure the CIA taught you this was acceptable. King George, Stalin, Hitler, Mussolini and other tyrants tortured their people. Terrorists torture people.” Pops turned from Will and Beard toward Dyson, “Damn it, Dyson, exactly when the hell did this country fall to the dark side? We used to be better than this? We won the Big War without torturing anyone,” said Pops, shaking his head.
Will didn’t want to argue with Pops, but was intent on having Pops see things his way. “Sir, now that you have this information, what do you want to do with it? The damned Deep State is so vast, I’m not sure who we can trust. Do you have people in law enforcement at the federal level you can trust?”
Pops pulled his paper cup up to his mouth to spit some tobacco juice, generated by the pinch between his bottom lip and gums, into it as he pondered Will’s question. “I know this. If you turn Ottosson loose, none of us will ever hear from him or see him again. They’ll get rid of him. Now, if Ottosson was somehow in Texas where we could arrest him and keep him in protective custody, that would be the first step. There are very few Yankees in D.C. I can trust. You gotta remember that most of them boys at the FBI would love to do to me what you just did to this Ottosson fellow. The damned governor is no help; he’s part of the problem. He has too many ties to D.C. and I don’t trust him as far as an armadillo can piss.”
“We understand. We can get him to Texas, Mr. Younger.”
“What about that Russian? If what Ottosson claims is true, and I believe it is, I want that son of a bitch.” Pops stopped, glaring at them. “Surely your spooks across the pond can find this nut job terrorist?”
“Sir, he’s the best we ever faced in the CIA. If he’s been handsomely paid and has decided to really disappear, then we will have a very hard time finding him. Outside of Osama Bin Laden, he’s the most wanted man by the CIA for twenty years, but the public will never hear his name. He’s killed at least six of our operatives over the years and dozens more from other countries. He’s smart, very smart, and he’s brutally effective.”
“He may be smart but, like all criminals, he’ll make a mistake. When he does, I plan to be there to make him bleed for taking down the governor and those poor kids,” Pops vowed.
Pops and Dyson got back on the Citation to take them back to Dallas. They sat quietly in their seats without speaking for nearly thirty minutes.
Finally, Dyson spoke up, “The Pops Younger I’ve known for forty years would have slapped handcuffs on those boys for kidnapping and assault.”
“Yep, you’re right, Dick. In normal times. These ain’t normal times. You can consider us undercover, waitin’ for the right opportunity to take it all down.”
“That was a lot to take in, Pops. You can’t carry this burden alone. We’ve got to find some help.”
“There isn’t any at the federal level. I used to laugh at this Deep State thing as some invention of conspiracy wackos. Hell, the proof of how deep and how wide this thing runs is we’ve got nowhere to go with the information we just learned. Who the hell do we trust? We have Senator Perez and that’s about it,” complained Pops. “I think we need some trusted sources in the press. If those boys end up with Ottosson back in Texas, then we can make some progress. That video’s credibility will be challenged by the torture. Damn, I really wish they hadn’t done that.”
“The IRS commissioner’s assassination will ramp up the search for Will and the rest of Zach’s crew like never before. I give them even odds to make it back to Texas with Ottosson,” said Dyson.
“They’ve got a network of fellows just like them. They’ll make it.”
“Sounds like you have a plan.” Dyson glanced at Pops.
“Ottosson isn’t safe, even when in custody. If the Russian knows we’ve got him, and if he doesn’t know yet, he’ll know soon enough, he’s wily enough to reach him no matter where we hold him. It’s very important that he be kept safe. And besides, Ottosson is how I can draw out the Russian.”
“So you are going to use Ottosson for bait for the Russian?”
“Like a jackrabbit in a bear trap! Wherever he’s holed up, as soon as he knows we have Ottosson, you can bet the Russian will not be far away.”
Pops and Dyson continued to discuss strategy, all contingent upon them successfully transporting Ottosson to Texas. Pops informed Dyson that the only safe place he knew to put Ottosson was in the Death Row Unit of the Huntsville State Prison in Texas.
“The Death Row Unit is a maximum-security facility,” said Pops. ”What could be better?”
Surely, Volkov couldn’t reach Ottosson there…
Dyson received a call late in the evening from Will. The van carrying Ottosson, along with Turnbow, Beard, and four others, were in Texarkana and would be in Dallas in the wee hours of the morning. They decided on a rendezvous point in Dallas, and the Texas Rangers were going to escort the van another two-and-a-half hours south to Huntsville. Then, and only then, would Pops rest. He would have Ottosson secured away to plan the next steps of how this damaging information to the entire Republic could be divulged.
By 3:00 a.m., Pops and Dyson both were getting concerned that they had not heard from Will. He was an hour and a half late at the rendezvous point in south Dallas. The Texas Rangers had staged six vehicles along the route to fall in line in front and in back of Turnbow’s van to lead him to Huntsville.
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.