Volkov switched to the other canister, only to be interrupted by someone knocking at the back door, asking when they would have food again. Volkov yelled that it would be a while, hoping to chase the would-be patron away.
Volkov unscrewed the next canister, carefully removing the first of four fully automatic flat-black rifles. These rifles, sometimes known to gun enthusiasts as “bullpups,” had the unique feature of the firing mechanisms being engineered behind the trigger and made part of the gun stock. This made the rifles extremely compact, easily storable, and very maneuverable in tight quarters.
Once all the bullpups were out of the canister, Volkov put his hand fist out to the others waist-high and they bumped fists in unison. He reached to a phone below the counter and dialed a number. Through three other resources, Volkov got an instant update on police presence at the gates.
“Volkov, we will either die today, or we will all be rich beyond our imagination! Screw these Americans!”
Next, each man pulled a costume out of a large cardboard box that would normally carry hamburger buns. They slid these over their overalls. Each costume had a thin black hood that covered most of their faces and all of their heads. The costumes had Velcro attachments that went down the side, which made it easy to rip them off. They hauled medium-sized canvas duffle bags from the corner of the truck. The bags were adorned with stickers of cartoon characters and were half-full of candy. Moving the candy around, they stuffed their rifles into the space vacated by the goodies. Each duffel bag had a strap that went over the carrier’s head so the bag was affixed to their bodies, chest high.
Each of the men wore masks of well-known cartoon figures on their heads, ready to pull down over their faces. Except for the different cartoon characters, the four looked identical. Volkov had gone so far as to specifically recruit three other former special operatives, two from Russia and one from Venezuela, who were almost identical in body build and height.
“Synchronize now,” instructed Volkov.
The four looked at their watches to sync times.
“Good luck, men! Let’s go!”
The door of the Cajun Delight was opened slowly and the men, in full cartoon-character costumes with large duffel bags of candy, stepped down the four metal steps to the truck and walked in four separate directions.
The four cartoon characters spread out on the sprawling festival grounds and, for the next forty-five minutes, they met kids, handing out candy and getting pictures taken with literally dozens of youngsters by their parents. The crowds, especially the parents, were really enjoying how well these cartoon characters interracted with the children.
Volkov had just finished giving some children more candy when he looked at his watch and walked a short distance to the port-a-can area. The festival had set up four separate areas for port-a-cans, including two that were handicapped-accessible. Dozens of festival-goers were lined up at each location.
Volkov calmly walked into an unoccupied handicapped port-a-can, much larger and with more room than the standard port-a-cans, and locked the door. He took his costume and mask off, shoving them back into the canvas bag. Then he pulled the black, thin ski mask over his head, revealing only his eyes. He cocked his rifle to load the first shell and looked at his watch again. He waited two minutes for the top of the hour as he squinted, trying to look through the crack in the door at the crowd went about its business.
At exactly 4:00 p.m., Volkov launched Madison.
Opening the door slightly, he looked around for anyone who might be focused on the bank of port-a-cans. All he saw were several dozen people waiting for their turn on the cans.
Aiming the tip of the rifle muzzle barely out the door, Volkov held the trigger down for brief spurts of .223 bullets, spraying through the people standing in line at the cans. Although the rifle had a suppressor, it couldn’t disguise the sound of gunfire completely. With the vortex of sounds from four stages and the noise of the carnival rides, nobody outside the immediate area could connect the muffled rat-a-tat-tat of the bullpup rifle with live fire.
Creating a grisly scene, Volkov mowed down everyone standing in the vicinity of the port-a-cans, including some who started to run as people started dropping around them. His goal was to eliminate as many witnesses as possible who saw him step out of the port-a-can. He then turned and showered all the port-a-cans with rounds, instantly killing anyone in the cans doing their business at the worst possible time in their lives.
The screams of the wounded echoed throughout the grounds, sounding eerily like the screams of people on the daring carnival rides. The only thing that would make festival-goers think something was amiss was the unthinkable carnage on the ground around them.
Volkov was indiscriminate. He shot everyone in sight, including children, even putting rounds into baby strollers. Next, he calmly walked out of the port-a-can area with his rifle. He moved around the bank of port-a-cans to the opposite side. Again, he began spraying automatic .223 fire into anyone and everyone. Soon, the crowds began to realize what was happening as blood, guts and the wailing of the wounded began to panic everyone near him. People started running in all directions, with the heaviest concentration sprinting toward the nearest exits.
At first, police were confused about reports coming over their radios, initially thinking a carnival ride had malfunctioned and some people had gotten hurt.
Volkov walked fast in a designated direction, methodically shooting at anything that moved and even at the wounded writhing on the ground. He changed magazines effortlessly, never losing a step and with very few seconds lost to reload. He continued to be indiscriminate, spraying bullets on carnival rides, into food seating areas, and even food trucks. He made a special effort to spray Cajun Delight with bullets as he passed the unmanned food truck, making sure not to hit the tire or the propane tanks that actually contained propane.
Two hundred yards away, one of Volkov’s crew was crouched and waiting in another handicapped port-a-can. He had just followed the exact same steps to create the same carnage Volkov was dealing out.
Volkov was down to his last magazine, which was his plan. As he took his last shots, he timed it perfectly to reach the bank of port-a-cans, where his crew member waited, within three very long minutes. Volkov ducked into the can just behind the corner port-a-can holding his crew member, stepped inside, and banged with his fist twice on the back plastic wall. His crew member exited immediately, taking up where Volkov left off, spraying anything that moved, walking briskly in the direction of the next bank of port-a-cans.
Now police and security were beginning to realize the gravity of the situation but, with the chaos that ensued and the brisk movement of Volkov, it was hard to distinguish any accurate location or description.
Once Volkov heard the gunfire resume, he immediately peeled his overalls and mask off and stuck them down into the gross muck of the port-a-can, making sure the overalls, gun and mask were underneath the concoction of chemicals, human urine, and feces. The gun was collapsible and Volkov had no problem sinking it to the bottom of the deposit well in the port-a-can.
Volkov exited the port-a-can wearing his Cajun Delight work clothes and began running as if in panic mode to blend into the crowd back toward his food truck. Numerous times while running, Volkov had to jump over dozens of victims he had killed or wounded on his rampage.
The crew member who had taken up the baton from Volkov had reached the next bank of port-a-cans right on schedule, within three minutes, duplicating Volkov’s march of death through the festival in exactly the same method, with exactly the same brutality and disregard for children, adults, elderly or wounded. Two bangs with his fist on the back of the handicapped port-a-can and the next crew member was off and shooting as he buried his clothes and weapon in the slop of feces, exactly as Volkov had.
Finally, the rotation reached the fourth crew member and, within a minute of leaving his port-a-can, he encountered two sheriff’s deputies who returned fire but missed him. The dep
uties, armed only with handguns, were no match for the Russian special ops criminal armed with what amounted to a machine gun. He mowed them down with two short bursts. A man in his mid-forties, crouched behind a metal trash can, opened fire on the crew member from a long distance with a small caliber handgun. He had obviously ignored the weapons ban notice at the entrance. The Russian sprayed the trash can with a burst of armor-piercing .223 rounds that launched the can in the air and knocked the man with the handgun back five yards as the rounds exploded into his chest.
When the fourth and final crew member discarded his clothes and weapon in the same manner, he also ran back to the Cajun Delight.
All four fled the festival through an exit with thousands of others and met at their van as prearranged. The chaos and stampede of people hampered the dozens of police trying to make sense out of the pandemonium.
Reports on the radio indicated there was one shooter, wearing a ski mask, dressed in black overalls with a patch showing an outline of Texas with a skull and crossbones below it. Volkov’s plan essentially was like a cattle drive, pushing the crowd to the next shooter, making it much easier to target their victims.
It was cold, calculated, and effective, and it was completely over in twelve minutes, hardly enough time for the police to get organized and mount an effective response in the face of thirty thousand frantic festival-goers running panic-stricken in every direction. They were dealing with wounded and an overwhelming crime scene they couldn’t possibly contain.
Police cars, SWAT, and ATF crews reached the festival grounds within ten minutes. Police helicopters appeared overhead, and the police were treating the festival as if an active shooter was still at large. Dozens of ambulances were held at the entrance because they believed an active shooter was still on the premises. Authorities had no idea it was actually four shooters, as they all operated in the same manner, dressed exactly the same, had the same height and build, resulting in the same description by witnesses, and wreaked their despicable butchery in the exact same manner.
Soon, the gleeful sounds of the carnival rides, music and laughter were replaced by the wailing of festival-goers who had seen the unspeakable deaths of their own family members and others, especially children. Slowly, SWAT and people inched their way through the festival acreage, creeping behind every tent, trash can, food truck and vendor booth, not knowing where the shooter was. Brave EMT personnel started to attend to the casualties behind the line of police as they advanced through the festival.
The local ABC affiliate in Dallas was the first to break into regular programming during a college football game with the desk anchor stating, “There has been a mass shooting at the Children’s Literacy Festival in south Dallas. Initial reports are…wait a minute… I need to make sure this is correct.” She looked over to her producer. “Yes, I’m told this is correct, that there are likely hundreds, yes, hundreds of dead. Oh, my God!” She looked at the producer again. “We will break in as this story develops. We are told there is still an active shooter and this is a scene in progress.”
Dallas Chief of Police Harold Birmingham ordered the scene contained, meaning the police would not allow anyone to leave the premises. They closed the interstate from both directions and moved the survivors off the festival property. Some were standing on the frontage road, and even on the interstate. Live helicopter news crews captured the incredible scene on live television.
Initial reports of the bloodshed that came in from police and EMT radios were indescribable. The inordinate number of children killed, coupled with the horrific and traumatic fatal wounds from the armor-piercing rounds, caused many police to stop in their tracks, drop to their knees, and cry. EMTs were overwhelmed, as many were screaming into their radios for more medical assistance and trauma supplies. The stress on police, SWAT, and the ATF was visible in their faces.
Officials tried to separate the crowd into two groups, but the hysteria was so bad that it was a difficult challenge. They tried to separate those people missing relatives and likely still in the festival from those whose families or groups were intact. One combat veteran turned police officer said it was more chaotic than a battlefield scene. Police made people in the crowd hold their hands up because of the possibility that the shooter was mixed into the immense crowd.
The news media, which arrived before the police, could contain the scene and keep them at a distance, mixed with grieving family members, broadcasting the horrific heartbreak and utter panic to the world.
One by one, officials came to each person in the crowd to get names and to ascertain if they had anyone of interest to interview further while the search for the shooter continued, tent by tent, booth by booth and ride by ride. At least four food trucks were on fire, and police believed their propane tanks could explode and endanger the SWAT teams. Fire trucks were slowly making their way through the frontage roads, which had turned into parking lots. Hundreds of officers and SWAT units from nearby communities poured in to assist, with many parking two miles away and hustling on foot to get to the scene.
A sheriff’s deputy approached Volkov, who was sitting on the freeway, along with his three crew members, with their hands in the air.
“Your name?” asked the female deputy sheriff.
“Nicoli Orlov,” he told her.
“Do you have ID?” she asked.
“It’s on my food truck that terrorist shot up! See my truck,” he said, pointing to his shirt with Cajun Delight embroidered on it. “He shot my truck. We are lucky we do not die.” Volkov motioned toward the fairgrounds. “When can I get my truck?” he asked. “When can I get my truck?”
The deputy seemed disinterested, not noting anything special about this food vendor except that he was a foreigner. She moved on to another person, skipping the crew members entirely. She didn’t have a single ounce of suspicion about the crew of the Cajun Delight food truck.
Several hours passed, and bottled water made its way in to relieve the crowd still being held. It soon became clear that hundreds or even several thousand festival-goers had gotten completely off the property, fleeing for safety and possibly allowing the shooter to escape.
At nearly 9:00 p.m., almost five hours after the first shots were fired, the police announced the festival had been fully cleared without finding the shooter, and efforts were focused on identification and recovery of bodies and searching for any wounded or hiding survivors.
A corporate VIP tent that had been set up at one of the festival entrances had been turned into a makeshift morgue, but it soon became obvious that the huge tent was not big enough.
The mayor, who had arrived by helicopter an hour after the shooting began, pulled Chief Birmingham to the side and away from other authorities.
“I know it is really bad, but exactly how bad is it, Chief?” asked the mayor.
“Man, it’s horrible. Right now, the body count is over six hundred, sir and we aren’t nearly done. The worst part of it is that at least half or more are kids.”
“God help us all,” said the mayor sorrowfully.
Eventually, as the night wore on, the city brought in buses to take the crowd to three different sites. Officials told the survivors that the passenger cars still at the festival were impounded until the investigation was complete and that it might be weeks before they got them back.
As the news and graphic images, cell phone videos taken by survivors, and other details of the carnage began going viral, the outrage throughout the country built quickly and with extreme intensity.
President Bartlett issued a statement condemning the gun culture, the NRA, and claimed that Congress had not done enough to protect the public from gun violence.
By midnight, the death toll had reached an incredible eight hundred sixty-four dead, including four hundred seventy-three children, the youngest being four months old, shot in his baby stroller. Hospitals throughout the Metroplex had quickly been overwhelmed with level one trauma patients, and medical personnel were caring for another three
hundred eight wounded, with more than eighty of those in critical condition. Air ambulances and Life Flight helicopters ran shuttles to other hospitals in Fort Worth and some all the way to Houston.
Volkov and his crew members finally boarded a bus after 11:00 p.m., which took them to a mall parking lot in Arlington where taxis and relatives were waiting to pick up survivors. Each bus had a SWAT member on board who watched the passengers carefully, looking for any clue the shooter might be on their bus.
Volkov and his three crew members stepped off the bus and got in line for a taxi, finally getting one and crowding in. Twenty minutes later, the taxi dropped them off at an apartment complex in Fort Worth. When the taxi was out of sight, the foursome walked three blocks to an office building where they had parked an SUV. Volkov entered the door code, unlocked the SUV, picked up the key fob beneath the front seat, started the vehicle, and pulled out of the parking lot.
Finally, the four let out a deep breath almost in unison, but nobody spoke. Even these hard-core special ops criminals had never conducted an operation where they indiscriminately killed children.
An hour and a half later, the crew reached the county airport in Waxahachie, which was not manned and had no tower. A fueled Cessna 206 was parked and ready to go. Volkov and the crew climbed in and turned on a switch that sent a signal to the airport to light up the runway, then fired up the Cessna and lined up into the wind to head south to Houston.
A little over an hour later, the Cessna, piloted by Volkov, landed at a similar county airport near Houston. By mid-morning, Volkov and one other were on a flight to London, with the other two on a flight to Paris.
Less than twenty-four hours after Volkov fired the first shot in what was the worst mass shooting in American history, all four perpetrators were out of the United States, and authorities had no clues as to the identity of the shooter.
Purge on the Potomac Page 27