Special Agent

by Dan Arnold

  I could see where the cars and trucks had come in off the county road and I followed the tracks up to the fence line. There was no real gate, just a gap, with a wire gate, and a twisted wire to keep it closed.

  I opened it and walked out onto the pavement. I needed to identify some landmarks, so I could easily find this gap again. The gap in the fence appeared to be the first worn spot past the driveway to the old farm house. That property was just around a curve and about a half a mile as the crow flies, down-hill from this spot on the road. The clearing in the woods was perfect for my needs.

  I pulled the wire gate aside. Then I walked back down the trail through the woods, to the farm house where my truck was parked. Five minutes later, I was parked in the clearing, with the wire gate closed behind me. I pulled the tarp off the things I had covered in the bed of my pickup.

  I spent the next few hours testing and practicing with my multi-rotor, remote control aircraft. I had spent several thousand dollars on this baby. Most of that money had been invested in the cameras and gimbals that provided stable and brilliant images to my monitor. The battery powered aircraft was high tech enough that it could be programed to fly a particular pattern, or I could control it with a joystick, out to about three quarters of a mile.

  It had another limitation though; it only had a flight time of about twenty minutes before it would need new batteries. The thing was so smart, if it sensed the batteries were getting low, it would return to the launch point and land itself. I had brought extra batteries and a charger that was plugged into my diesel pickup. I had custom painted the little aircraft and disabled the running lights, so it would be very difficult to see, day or night.

  I soon learned that the programed flight was what I needed in this situation. It could fly down to the farm house in about one minute and circle at a given distance and altitude, for about fifteen minutes, and then fly back and land beside my truck. I found that an altitude of about one hundred feet made it virtually impossible to see or hear from the ground, and provided excellent video to my monitor. The primary video camera was capable of low light photography and it had an excellent zoom lens. The other camera did thermal image, and/or “night vision,” video photography. The multi rotor drone aircraft had been reasonably priced; the cameras had cost a fortune.

  Once I had the program worked out and had tested it a couple of times, I had pretty well used up all the batteries I’d brought with me, so I packed up and headed into the town of Gladewater, to get more batteries and something to eat. A body needs to recharge too.

  By four o’clock that afternoon, re-stocked with batteries and other essentials, I was headed back to the clearing. The meeting at the farmhouse wasn’t scheduled to start till six o’clock, but when I drove down into the clearing in the woods, there was a truck parked there. The tailgate was down and a folding ramp leaned against it. I recognized the truck. It belonged to Kevin Watkins.

  I shut off the big diesel and got out to look for Watkins. It was evident he had unloaded an ATV and gone for a ride. I couldn’t hear a motor running anywhere, so I suspected he had gone to the farm house. I decided to sneak on down there and have a look. Then I remembered why I had brought the multi rotor aircraft.

  Ten minutes later, the multi-rotor was circling about a hundred and fifty feet above the farm house. There was no immediate sign of the ATV. I decided to see if I could lower the aircraft to look into the hay barn. I knew this would be risky. If the drone was anywhere near the farmhouse or the hay barn when it lowered out of the sky it could be spotted by Watkins. Using the joystick, I took a minute to circle it out away from the back of the hay barn and slowly lower it. I was sweating now, partly because of the afternoon heat and humidity in the woods, but mostly because of apprehension.

  I was able to point the camera straight down as I lowered the aircraft. This gave me a good view directly below the aircraft, which helped prevent me from flying it into a tree, fencepost, or some other object sticking up from the surface of the abandoned hay meadow. Once it was about six feet above the hay meadow, I reoriented the camera, focused on the hay barn and sent the aircraft slowly in that direction. I watched my monitor carefully. By the time the drone was about a hundred feet from the hay barn, I could see into it. I used the zoom for the first time and I was able to fill the screen with an image of the ATV that Watkins had parked there. I could also read the license plate on the SUV that it was parked beside. Someone else had come to the meeting more than an hour early. I hit the record button.

  Five minutes after that, I had successfully brought the multi-rotor back to the clearing. I took all my gear and eased back into the woods, out of sight of anyone else who might show up early for the meeting, intending to park in the clearing. This possibility was fraught with danger. If someone did show up in the clearing and they saw my truck, a truck that didn’t belong there. I would be in trouble. I had to risk it because anywhere else I could park the truck would be too far away to operate the aircraft.

  This was the place I had to be.

  Fifty-Six

  From my hiding position back in the woods, I considered the way Doug had told Gary things were going to go down. Gary told me Doug had assembled an elite team of FBI agents. Once the meeting started, there would be road blocks on the county road to prevent anyone from approaching or leaving the site. These road blocks would be manned by Texas Rangers. The FBI strike team would arrive in five SUVs and there would be a helicopter providing eyes in the sky. The FBI agents would quietly surround the farm house while the meeting was in progress and hit hard in a coordinated assault, using flash-bang grenades and teargas. Everyone at the meeting would be arrested, and anyone who resisted or attempted to fight would be shot. Gary was to drop to the ground the moment the assault started. In that way, he would be out of the line of fire, if any gunfire broke out, which after the stun grenades and teargas, was highly unlikely. Once the arrests were made, Gary could be handed over to the Marshal’s service for protective custody, until it was time for him to testify at the trials. When the trials were completed and the felons locked away, Gary would live the rest of his life with a new name in a different location.

  It was a pretty good plan. I was concerned about all the things that could go wrong. What if there was another roadblock using the same local LEOs? I knew Doug would have already considered that and had a plan of action. He had spent several days planning the raid and would have spent some time considering every imaginable scenario. This was the kind of thing the FBI knew how to do. They had learned the hard way. I couldn’t help remembering the FBI raid on the Branch Davidian compound in Waco that left 74 people dead, including 20 children. On the other hand, the old farmhouse was not a compound. There were only about a dozen men, and no children. The men inside were not prepared for some sort of government raid. I figured I could count on the FBI. Surely, the mistakes of the past would be remembered and avoided in the present.

  I remembered Doug had handled the unexpected changes in the first attempt at finding the meeting location, with confidence and care. This time there would be air support and the meeting location was already known. I wondered if the FBI helicopter would be able to spot my multi-rotor aircraft. I doubted it. My little flyer would be very difficult to spot against the forest land below, much lower than the FBI chopper would be flying, and when I heard it coming, I could move the multi-rotor away from the area entirely.

  By a quarter to six, no other vehicle had showed up in the clearing. I moved out of my hiding place and got my high-tech little aircraft ready to fly. At about five minutes to six, my multi-rotor was circling over the farmhouse and I was able to recognize Gary’s truck as it came down the driveway. In another five minutes, I had managed to photograph every vehicle parked outside, some in the hay barn and a couple of men who were smoking cigarettes in the yard. A little after six, I had to bring the aircraft back for fresh batteries.

  Six fifteen found my multi-rotor circling the farmhouse again, but everyone was indoors
and there was nothing to see. I rotated the aircraft to get a look at the county road in the distance. As I did so, five black federal SUVs in a line, eased to the side of the road and cruised to a stop. They could not have been seen from down at the farmhouse, even if sentries had been posted.

  The sun was low in the sky now and the light was fading. I saw about twenty FBI agents deploy from the vehicles, but they didn’t go down the hill toward the farmhouse. They had their weapons ready and they spread out along the side of the road, but it appeared they were awaiting orders to move in. I took a moment to zoom in and try to spot Doug, but the men were all in heavy, black combat gear and the helmets, ski masks and goggles or face shields obstructed my view.

  I had to bring the aircraft back for fresh batteries. As I prepared for the next flight, I became aware of the sound of a helicopter, a quick search of the sky showed a distant chopper circling high above the farmhouse, the low light of the setting sun showing it to be a black speck. I pulled my binoculars out of the truck and studied the chopper for a moment. It was an unmarked Sikorsky UH 60M Blackhawk, without the stubby wings or weapons pods that attack helicopters typically carried. I figured there were probably eight or ten additional FBI tactical agents on board.

  I sent my multi-rotor back to the farmhouse. A little after six thirty, and still no movement from the FBI agents on the ground, it was nearly dark now. I was proud of my camera. Even in the low light it was sending perfectly clear images to my monitor.

  By seven fifteen. It was fully dark and all the lights were on in the farmhouse. The helicopter was no longer visible overhead, having no running lights, I couldn’t see it. I could barely hear it, somewhere in the area. I lowered my aircraft, now hovering only fifty feet above the farmhouse, to just a few feet above ground and zoomed in on a window, to get a glimpse of what was going on inside the building. It appeared everyone was gathered around the table which had been moved to a more central point in the room. I couldn’t make out Gary or anyone else in particular because the men nearest the window were blocking my view.

  By a quarter to eight, I was on my next to last set of batteries. I had just put the multi-rotor back into its circling program over the farm house. I was watching the monitor as some of the men came out the front door. My camera could see them fairly clearly standing in the yard in the light that spilled out through the windows and the open door. I zoomed in and saw that one of the men was Gary. The men in the group appeared to be talking and relaxed, They were drinking beer and chatting; unaware there were twenty FBI agents just a couple of hundred yards away, an un-marked helicopter and a remote control aircraft circling overhead. More men started to come out of the farmhouse. I panned back out to get a look at the whole scene.

  There was a sudden streak of light and instantly my monitor was overwhelmed with a flash of white light. At the same time, I heard the roar of an explosion. I looked away from the monitor and saw a ball of fire over in the direction of the farm house. I looked back at the monitor and saw that my aircraft had lost the image of the farmhouse and was being buffeted by turbulence, the picture jerky and pixelated. I thought surely it would go down. Somehow, the multi-rotor got itself back under control, as it circled away from the worst of the super-heated air.

  I switched to manual control and got the aircraft and camera pointed at the place where I thought the FBI agents would still be standing out by the road. I couldn’t see anything out there but the reflected light of the burning building, the glare of the fire flickering and rolling over the trees and brush between the house and the road.

  I remembered my thermal imaging camera also had night vision capability, and in a moment I had switched it over. I saw on my monitor many glowing images of men moving fast away from the road and down toward the burning farmhouse. That was the FBI agents moving in. I switched back to the other camera and rotated the vehicle to put the focus back on the men in the yard. Just then, a bright light lit up the yard and I realized the helicopter had arrived on the scene. I had been vaguely aware of the sound of the chopper approaching, but too intent on what I was seeing to have paid it any attention. The Blackhawk was hovering with its spotlight illuminating the men in the yard.

  The force of the explosion had hit the men in the yard, throwing them to the ground. As the FBI agents arrived at the burning farmhouse they began shooting the half a dozen men who were struggling to get away from the burning building. There was no return fire from the men who had just come out of the RAG meeting. I could clearly see Gary where he lay on the ground, staying down and still, just as he had been instructed to do. I saw an FBI agent stand over him and shoot him in the head, more than once.

  I was frozen, stunned by what I had seen and in a state of shock. What had just happened? What had caused the explosion? Why did the FBI shoot everyone? Why did they shoot Gary? Were there any survivors?

  Fifty-Seven

  I managed to get my mind and body working again. My aircraft only had a few minutes of battery life left. I circled the multi-rotor up and away from the carnage and switched to thermal imaging, looking for movement away from the scene of destruction. In a moment I saw something on the ground moving fast in my general direction. It was moving too fast to be a person. I could see it was someone on an ATV, traveling without headlights, up the trail away from the mayhem. I brought the multi-rotor back to the truck and was waiting as the ATV eased into the clearing.

  The ATV had some sort of specialized muffler, making it surprisingly quiet. It merely puttered as it approached. When it was about twenty yards from my truck, I switched on the headlights and lit it up.

  Watkins was blinded by my headlights. He stopped the ATV.

  “Throw your hands up, Watkins,” I yelled.

  I had the front sight of my .45 centered on his chest. He had no trouble hearing me, but he couldn’t see me because I was behind the truck’s headlights.

  I could see him thinking about reaching for the gun he had somewhere on his person, but he was just smart enough to know he was probably outgunned.

  The engine on the ATV stopped puttering, and Watkins put his hands up high.

  “Keep your hands up and step off that thing.” I instructed him.

  He did, and as I approached him with my .45 centered on him, he stood next to the ATV, as still as if he were frozen.

  “Who are you and how do you know me?” he asked.

  My answer was sharp and filled with rage.

  “I’m John Wesley Tucker. Gary Babcock was my friend and because of you, he’s dead.”

  Watkins just stood there, with his hands up, about six from me. I had both my hands extended, keeping the .45 motionless; my sights fixed, center mass, my finger on the trigger.

  “Reach very slowly with one hand and toss your gun off to the side. If you make one wrong move, I’ll blow a hole through you where your heart used to be.” I told him.

  I was aware of the sound of the Blackhawk, still hovering somewhere in the distance.

  Watkins slowly lowered his right hand and gently pulled a revolver from a holster on his right hip. He carefully tossed it aside. A revolver can discharge, if there is a shell under the hammer when it hits the ground, but that didn’t happen. It landed softly in the tall grass on the other side of the ATV.

  “Put both hands on the seat of the ATV and spread your legs, you know the drill.”

  I intended to pat him down and bind his hands behind him with a cable tie I’d tucked into my belt. I was certain Watkins was the only survivor of the raid on the meeting. I needed him alive.

  As I stepped toward him he twisted suddenly and something hit my hands, knocking them numb and my gun fell away. He moved to swing again and I realized he had a telescoping ASP in his right hand. I stepped straight into him, inside the swing, and as I slammed down on his extended forearm at the wrist, with my left hand, I simultaneously drove my open right hand up against his elbow. He screamed as I heard the crunch and snap of his elbow joint being destroyed in the violent hyper-exten
sion, the ligaments and tendons breaking away, the meniscus tearing. Even as he dropped the telescoping baton, I brought my right elbow back in a strike to the side of his face, then I stepped to the side and kicked him on the outside of the knee of the leg that held most of his weight. It popped and gave way under him. He fell to the ground, moaning. I knelt on his back then and pulled both his hands behind him, tightening the cable tie around his wrists. His right forearm was twisted, pulling on the elbow joint. When I pulled that arm up behind him he screamed again. With two major joints badly damaged and his hands bound behind him, Watkins was completely debilitated. I knew the pain would be excruciating. I had a hard time caring. Surgery and time would eventually repair most of the damage.

  I was thinking of Gary, whose body was lying dead, next to a burning building.

  It only took a moment to find my .45 where it had landed after the stinging blow to my hands from Watkins’ ASP knocked it away. I examined my handgun and found it undamaged. I holstered it. In the process, discovering while my left hand and right wrist were bruised, they were otherwise unimpaired.

  Watkins didn’t even try to get up. I don’t think it would have been possible. I found his ASP in the grass a couple of feet away. I picked it up, telescoped it closed and slid it under my belt. I found his revolver on the other side of the ATV. It was a .357 magnum, loaded with hollow points. I put it in my waistband, in the small of my back. When I patted him down, I found a large folding knife in his right front pants pocket. It had an eagle and snake motif on each side, showing through the clear plastic handle. It was exactly as Gary had described it to me. I put it back in his pocket.