Purge on the Potomac

by Roberts, David Thomas;

  “Sir, what is that that you handed to those gentlemen?”

  “A laptop computer,” said the man, who was one of Turner’s operatives.

  “I can see that, sir. Why do these gentlemen want it? Where is it from?”

  “I found it right over there.”

  “Where? Point it out to me, please.”

  The man pointed to an area near the crash site.

  “How did you find it?” Lawson demanded.

  “I hooked it on a spinner bait when I was fishing.” The man looked confused.

  “So it was under water?”

  “Yes, sir, it was,” the operative replied.

  “How deep was the water where you found it?” Lawson wanted all the details.

  “Well, I’m not exactly sure, sir. My spinner bait hooked it. I would say maybe just a foot or two deep.”

  Lawson looked at his crew. They knew why. How was it that both Pops and his teams missed this evidence.

  “Who told you to call these men, sir?”

  “Well, I knew it wasn’t good anymore, but someone pumping gas at the marina told me there was a reward for any electronic devices found in the lake and I was to call a certain number if a phone or anything like that was found. Do you know how much the reward is?”

  “No, damned if I don’t,” said Lawson, irritated that Pops’ men had the foresight to offer a reward if anything was discovered later.

  “Sir, this may be evidence in a crime. I don’t know about any reward, but how much were you looking for?”

  “Heck, I don’t know. I’d be happy with a case of Budweiser,” said Turner’s operative, who was turning in the acting performance of his life.

  “Get him some damned beer, all his contact information and get this back to the lab immediately,” said Lawson, instructing one of the agents to take the laptop.

  “Gentlemen, I’ll ask you to keep your hands in the air until we are out of the parking lot.”

  “Sir, there will be hell to pay for this. Pops Younger ain’t going to take kindly to you federal boys drawing down on us like that,” said the lead Ranger. “In fact, I ain’t real fond of it myself.”

  “You can tell Mr. Younger thanks for doing business. Tell him he owes me a case a beer. I paid his reward for him! See you gentlemen later.” The agents retreated to their vehicles and screamed out of the parking lot.

  While this scene was playing out at the Shell gas station, less than a mile away, Turner’s operative swooped in and picked up Ottosson, literally. Ottosson still could not walk on his feet, which had been broken by the sledge hammer.

  He had convinced the kind old lady who had taken care of him to stay quiet, and that Zach’s operatives were actually his cousins. Ottosson’s charm with the ladies proved to be very valuable to his survival the first night on the lake. Even bloodied and hurt, he convinced the woman to take him in.

  Zach’s team was streaking to the Addison Airport to meet Pops’ jet. He instructed the pilots to keep the engines running, telling them they could file a new flight plan upon arrival once he had loaded a few more “guests.”

    

  On the way back to the FBI lab in Dallas, the agent holding the recovered laptop in the back seat began to carefully inspect it. It looked pretty clean to him for a laptop that had been at the bottom of a lake for days, even if it was only in a couple of feet of water.

  Lawson was feeling pretty good about himself. He had outsmarted Pops Younger. Heck, he might even get a promotion and get back to FBI headquarters in D.C. over this. He had never seen the Bureau so focused on recovering evidence, so much so that he was fully aware the attorney general, and even the president, were briefed on progress daily. He couldn’t wait to tell his superiors.

  Lawson’s cell phone rang.

  “This is Lawson.”

  “Sir, we have a call from the manager of a private FBO at Addison Airport. He says there is a chartered Citation sitting on the tarmac, engines burning, waiting to pick up some additional passengers, but hasn’t filed a flight plan yet.”

  “Probably just some corporate suits who can’t decide where they want to go next or waiting for some strippers to join them on a flight to Vegas. What’s your point?” Lawson asked.

  “Sir, another pilot remarked that Pops Younger is on that jet.”

  “Say that again? You are saying Younger is on that jet? How do they know this?”

  “The captain of the charter was chattering away to other pilots in the air that he was carrying the famous lawman. Couldn’t wait to get his autograph.”

  “Where are those Ranger SUVs headed right now?”

  “Let me check, sir,” the man said. Moments passed and Lawson’s head began spinning. Surely Younger was there to personally pick up the laptop, but why the charter? Why not a state-owned aircraft? And surely he would know by now that his Rangers were minus the evidence. He’d likely just return empty-handed and sore as hell, he figured.

  “Sir, the pilot just confirmed with the FBO on tower availability, runway length and runway lights at Huntsville Municipal Airport.”

  “Huntsville, Texas? Where the prison is?”

  “That’s affirmative, sir.”

  “What the hell is he up to?”

  “Sir,” said the agent from the backseat. “I popped open the battery compartment and it says Property of Mesquite Independent School District. I’m not a certified computer guy, but from what I can tell, there isn’t a hard drive in this computer. Looks like it was robbed of parts at some point. Where in hell would any information be stored on it?”

  “Son of a bitch, we’ve been duped. Younger is still there waiting on some other kind of evidence to be delivered. That whole scene at the crash site was a ruse. Call Addison tower and tell them to turn it all off―all of it! Turn all units to Addison Airport now! Right now!”

  “Sir, I don’t understand. Tell them to turn what off?”

  “The runway lights, the tower―everything! Do not let that plane take off!”

  At the same time Lawson was screaming into his cell phone, two Ford crew trucks pulled up to the gate of the FBO, telling the girl inside the tail number of the aircraft that was waiting on them. At an FBO, its customary for a vehicle to go through a gate and drive right up to the plane to deliver occupants for the flight.

  The FBO manager now had his interest piqued. Something was going on here and he was determined to see what it was. When the two pickup trucks pulled up, it took three people to lift another man, who couldn’t walk, into the aircraft. He called the FBI back and told him what he saw.

  “What in the hell are they doing? Who are they loading into the aircraft in such secrecy?” Lawson’s mind searched for answers.

  “Oh, my God, they’ve got Ottosson! That’s got to be Ottosson!”

  “Sir, should I call it in? Want me to call D.C. right now?”

  “No, we don’t know for sure.” Lawson wasn’t confident enough to alert D.C. What if he was wrong? He’d rather just be the hero and snatch him away from Younger.

  The Citation was already taxiing to take off into a south wind. The taxi would take a few minutes as they were at the far south end of the runway, and they needed to taxi for two miles to point back south. When they got to the end of the runway, the pilot asked for clearance from the tower to take off. Suddenly, the runway lights went dark.

  “Sir, the tower is telling me they have a power failure and it will be several minutes for the back-up generators to supply power and light them back up.”

  Pops peered back at Ottosson, who looked to be in pretty bad shape.

  “Tell them we have a medical emergency on board and to get those lights powered back up!” Pops instructed the pilots.

  Dyson, Zach, Pops and two of Turner’s operatives were getting more nervous by the minute.

  “I don’t like it, sir. I don’t trust it one bit. What are the odds the lights go dark on us like this? They know something!” yelled Zach.

  “Uh-oh, we’ve
got company, sir!” yelled Dyson as a flood of flashing lights could be seen entering the tarmac from the south side, heading directly toward the plane.

  “I’ll be damned. No way that carpetbagger is that smart,” said Pops.

  “Someone informed them. No way he figured this out.” Dyson glanced at Zach.

  “Surely, after all of this, you think one of my guys would cooperate with them?” demanded Zach.

  “We’ll have time for that later, but we’ve got to figure out how to get out of here with him,” said Dyson.

  “Call the Texas National Guard commander right now. I want our Apaches at Huntsville now,” said Pops, referring to a squadron of Texas Air National Guard Apaches stationed in Conroe, Texas, just thirty minutes south of Huntsville. This group was under the ultimate command of the governor. “This is a direct order from me. No need to call Austin.”

  Pops stood up and walked bent over with his large frame to the cockpit and got right between the two pilots.

  “I need you to take off immediately. Do you understand me?”

  “I’m sorry, sir, without runway lights there’s no way.”

  “Maybe you didn’t hear me. You’ve already got this bird pointed in the right direction. Now take off!”

  The captain was extremely flustered with all the goings-on, but the young co-pilot didn’t seem to be fazed.

  “Son, how many seconds does it take for this thing to scream down the runway and take off?”

  “It depends sir, on wind, weight of the aircraft…”

  Pops pulled out his pearl-handled revolver and put it to the captain’s head.

  “I rightly apologize for my behavior, but I’m telling you right now, the weight of the western world is on your shoulders. If you don’t take off this very instant, the world as you know it is over anyway, so I might as well go ahead and put a round into your onion so you don’t have to see what you caused!”

  The aircraft lurched forward as the young co-pilot powered up the engines.

  “I just have to keep her straight. I’ve got these floodlights but we’ll get going fast enough to outrun them.”

  The Citation jet began roaring down the dark runway. The tower was screaming at the pilots to stop. It reminded Pops of times as a kid when they would drive down two-lane highways in west Texas as teenagers and turn off the headlights until somebody would lose their nerve and flip them back on. Only this time, the Citation was screaming down the runway at peak speed of one hundred eighty miles an hour with a light head wind providing lift to the wings.

  “Am I seeing this? Am I seeing this? Is that aircraft taking off in the dark?” yelled Lawson at nobody in particular as they were speeding directly toward the Citation on the taxi runway. “Can’t the tower do something?”

  The event was happening too quick to get a reply. Lawson had an initial thought of jumping over to the Citation’s path, but it was clear at the rate it was approaching them that the jet would have no way to stop, even if they were in the path of it.

  As the co-pilot powered up, the captain was still not functioning, overwhelmed in the moment, plus Pops had a gun to his head. Pops ripped him out of his seat the second they started rolling down the dark runway and was now sitting in the captain’s chair.

  “Fix him a damned drink or something, but keep him the hell outta here,” he instructed Zach.

  Inside the cabin of the jet, everyone was white-knuckled as the jet roared into the darkness directly toward the flashing police lights.

  Lawson knew it was too late to stop the aircraft, although he was amazed Pops would try to take off without runway lights.

  “Stop, stop!” he yelled at his driver as he jumped out of the SUV to see if the Citation was going to make it.

  Less than a hundred feet from him, the jet being flown by the co-pilot reached the airspeed it needed to lift off slowly.

  As Lawson looked at the aircraft, there was Pops Younger with his straw Stetson cowboy hat in the captain’s chair.

  Pops looked out the pilot’s window, with the cockpit lights still on, looked at Lawson directly and tipped his cowboy hat as the jet slowly rose.

  “You’ve got to be kidding me? Did we just see that, sir?” asked another FBI agent.

  “Hell, even the tower saw that. Did any of you know Younger was also a pilot? Damn, you’ve got to admit, that was something,” said the agent holding the laptop they thought was the prize.

  “Shut the hell up!” Lawson screamed. “Get on the radio and get units to Huntsville Airport. I want them there before that plane lands. Get busy; I want that plane tracked in case they go somewhere else. We’ve got what, about twenty minutes?” figured Lawson.

  “The FBI office in Houston is an hour away at least. They’ll never get there on time,” said Lawson’s second in command.

  “Call the local sheriff. This is a national security matter. I’m calling Washington. Maybe they can scramble an F-16 or something to escort them in.”

    

  “Good job, son! Way to go!” Pops said to the young co-pilot. “Huntsville is still the destination, but I need you put on your afterburners or whatever you call it to get us there as quick as you can.”

  “Sir, I’m getting radio traffic from the FAA demanding that we return to Addison, Love or DFW. I’m being told they are scrambling F-16s and they will shoot us down if we don’t land. Holy crap!”

  “Dick, where are the nearest F-16s? Can they beat us to the spot?”

  “Damn, Pops, there’s some at Ellington, some at Fort Hood, and maybe a few Texas Air National Guard squadrons here or there. Would they really shoot us outta the sky?”

  “Mr. Dyson, please recall that the Deep State killed hundreds of kids as a means to an end. I guarantee you that our cargo,” he nodded toward Ottosson, “is so potentially damaging to them that they wouldn’t hesitate. Remember, they are telling everyone this is a national security issue. They will have a built-in excuse. We better get there in a hurry,” said Zach.

  The co-pilot’s eyes became as big as saucers.

  “Are y’all really serious, or are you bullshitting me?” he asked.

  “Maximum power, son. Maximum power,” Pops urged the co-pilot to stay focused.

    

  “We’ve got two F-16s scrambled on orders of the president!” announced Lawson to his crew. “They are lifting off from Ellington Force Base south of Houston. It’s going to be close.”

  “What’s their orders, do you think?” asked the agent still holding the laptop”.

  “My guess is, if it’s that serious, which it appears it is, they’ll shoot it down.”

  “Pardon me, sir, for being just a little bit skeptical, but shooting down a civilian aircraft with Texas Rangers on it? What the hell would Pops Younger be involved with that would threaten national security?”

  “Agent, you’re not here to question orders. You’re out of line. This is not my decision. You just heard; it comes from the president herself. Dismissed.”

  Chapter 63

  “Are we at last brought to such a humiliating and debasing degradation, that we cannot be trusted with arms for our own defence? Where is the difference between having our arms in our own possession and under our own direction, and having them under the management of Congress? If our defence be the real object of having those arms, in whose hands can they be trusted with more propriety, or equal safety to us, as in our own hands?”

  - Patrick Henry (1736-1809)

  Founding Father, American Revolutionary Hero & Orator

  “Seven minutes out, sir,” said the co-pilot.

  “What do you show on radar?”

  “I’ve got four low-flying aircraft directly in our path about eight miles south. Not moving too fast.”

  “Can you tell what kind of aircraft?” asked Dyson.

  “My guess is choppers. Going too slow to be anything else,” said the co-pilot.

  “Is there a tower there? I don’t remember,” asked Pops.


  “There is, sir, but it’s not manned this time of night,” the co-pilot answered.

  “Is the runway lit?” asked Dyson.

  “As soon as it detects my transponder, it will light up. Should see it very soon. Sir, the choppers are splitting up, two going east and two going west.”

  “Friendlies?” asked Dyson.

  “It would appear so to me, knowing what I know. Those are likely our Apaches, sir,” stated Zach confidently.

  “What do you think the FBI’s plan is?” asked Dyson.

  “If I was that carpetbagger and I couldn’t get my people to the Huntsville airport in time for our landing, next thing I would do is call the local Walker County sheriff,” chuckled Pops.

  “Why is that humorous?” asked Zach wryly.

  “Me and that sheriff go back a long way. Hell, I served in Korea with his daddy. He’s probably the most Yankee-hatin’ SOB wearing a badge in Texas! If he was alerted by the FBI that it was me on this damned bird, he’d lock down that airport tighter than a prom queen,” announced Pops.

  “I hope you’re right,” said the young co-pilot.

  “He’s shootin’ straight,” reassured Dyson.

  “There’s the runway!” shouted the co-pilot, sharply banking the Citation to the east to make his final approach.

  “What ya got on radar now?” asked Pops.

  “Still got those choppers. Appears they are hovering at a couple hundred feet and have spread out around the airport, but they have left us a lane to land.”

  “There’s a lot of flashing lights down there,” noted Dyson.

  “Sir, they’ve got the towers manned now. I’m getting a signal from the tower,” said the co-pilot. “Uh-oh… I hope that’s not what I think it is,” said the co-pilot, pointing at the radar screen after he zoomed out to show a larger viewing area, indicating two blips approaching and moving significantly faster than any other aircraft viewable in the Houston air traffic corridor.

  “I’m sure those are F-16s. We need to put this thing down now!” stressed Zach.

  Everyone got quiet as the Citation descended to the runway a couple of hundred feet below them. All of them, including Ottosson―who was now awakened and slightly coherent―were doing the math in their heads to see how much time, if any, they had to reach the ground before the F-16s were close enough to use their air-to-air missiles.