“Art Yoder?” Hunter asked, looking up at the man. “Army colonel and All-Army racquetball champion? It’s been a very long time, Sir. I thought you looked familiar.”
“Army Special Forces,” he replied, as if that was a separate service. Maybe to him it was. He was obviously a Vietnam vet. His mood eased up a little. “And I did play a little racquetball. Have we played before? I don’t recall.”
Yoder and Lynche continued to exchange glances. “Sir, we played a couple times while I visited the POAC,” Hunter said. “Then I played with Bobby Saunders in Cleveland. He said you and he met several times at the National Singles Championships.”
“That was me. That was a long time ago. I haven’t played in many years.”
“I don’t look forward to the day when I can’t play anymore.” Hunter sensed the colonel didn’t want to discuss racquetball. He was there on business and wanted to get on with it.
Hunter tried to get a better look at the quiet aircraft obscured by the two men and finally said, “Greg, I haven’t seen any of these except on the Internet.”
“Let me show you what we brought for today’s demonstration. This is your basic Schweizer SA2-37B two-seat, single-engine, low-noise profile airplane. It’s optimized for low-altitude surveillance and reconnaissance. This one has a suite of infrared and electro-optical sensors to monitor activities covertly on land and sea. Endurance about fourteen hours.”
“She’s beautiful with those sleek, conformal antennae. I expected more a muffler system like the YO-3A. Our pilots will mutiny if they hear fourteen hours. They’re old and have to piss every few hours.” He grinned broadly at Lynche, hoping for and receiving reciprocation.
“We’re early. Have you had breakfast? I know where the best breakfast tacos on the planet are made.”
“Sounds like a plan to me.”
“Do I need to put security on this?”
“That would be fantastic.”
Hunter turned to the driver of the Border Patrol truck. “Alex, can you and Ray make sure no one fingerfucks that airplane? I’ll take these gentlemen to Julio’s for some tacos and a chat. Want me to bring you back something?”
“Sir, Roy and I will stand guard. We’ve already had breakfast. Your National Guard Counterdrug Task Force at your service, Sir.”
“Thanks, Alex.”
First Sergeant Alexandro Duron opened the door, got out, and moved aside so Hunter could sit behind the wheel. Lynche and Yoder entered the four-door vehicle, and Hunter drove off the airport property.
“I forgot how wide open, flat, and dry it is in Texas,” Lynche said. “In Maryland, it’s wall-to-wall trees.”
Hunter nodded. In the rearview mirror, he saw Yoder’s eyes following every passing car. His eyes narrowed and brows furrowed.
“Duncan, I have to ask what’s the real deal with illegal immigration? I swear every other vehicle we pass has Mexican license plates. Back home, some folks think we should build a fence along the border to stop illegal immigration.”
Hunter nodded. “First the tags. Those people have bona fide legal documents. Illegal aliens either have none or have counterfeit papers. That’s what makes them illegal. If you have a job and a house in Mexico, you can come over here just like we can go over there to visit and shop.”
“Interesting.”
“I didn’t know any of this until I took this job. It’s truly fascinating work. Let me tell you a story. The guy who’s watching your plane, First Sergeant Alex Duron, and I went to a little town outside Houston to take delivery of some above-ground storage tanks. I got a G-ride—sorry, an unmarked sedan—out of the motor pool, and we drove six hours to get there.
“Alex had the same shirt on when you met him, Border Patrol green with a USBP patch over his left breast. That’s recognized anywhere within 500 miles of the border. In big gold letters on the back are the words AIRCRAFT MAINTENANCE.
“So we drove up to the corporate main office right near the plant. When I stepped out of the car, I looked over to where the huge plant was making six-, eight-, and ten-thousand-gallon above-ground storage tanks, those with the pebbly finish.”
“Yeah. I know the kind you’re talking about.”
“Right. I can tell you that every one of the plant workers watched our unmarked vehicle enter the parking lot. When Alex got out in his green Border Patrol shirt, they threw down their tools and ran for the fence to get as far from the car and that shirt as they could. They were really high-tailing it.
“I told Alex, ‘Tell ‘em we’re not here to bust anyone and to get back to work.’”
Lynche and Yoder smiled, then burst out laughing with a you-have-to-be-kidding-me look. They shook their heads in amazement.
“I can’t make that shit up,” Hunter said. “It got better. As I turned to the CEO and company leaders who came out to greet us, the CEO had an expression of sheer terror. He tried to find the right words, but what came out was, ‘I swear they have good I-9s.’
“I looked at him and said, ‘They obviously aren’t that good.’ The point is there are millions of those guys with completely bogus documents in the country working all kinds of jobs. They have bogus identities. Some are probably stolen. What can you do when the democrats look at each one as a potential voter? It’s crazier than you can possibly image. It won’t be long before we elect an illegal alien with great bogus papers. Mark my words.”
“That’s incredible, Duncan. The fence?”
“When you leave here, head north twenty miles past the dam and see how the mighty Rio Grande has carved its way through 500 feet of solid granite. We have this amazing moat two, three, four hundred feet across with walls that are 400 feet high of smooth granite. If someone can cross there, a little fence won’t slow him down. Politicians who think a fence is the answer are idiots. They don’t come out here to talk to the Border Patrol agents who know what we need to secure the border, and a fence isn’t it. You’re little airplane might be the trick, though.
“Anyway, go out to the Tucson and Yuma Sectors and look at the desert. That’s another natural fence. The Rio Grande is a moat. Strategic fencing from Otay Mesa to the Pacific to separate Tijuana and San Diego is the right answer. Fencing 2,000 miles of open country and private property is pure stupidity.”
“That makes sense,” Yoder said.
“You can see what’s wrong with liberalism here on the border. The liberals go out of their way purposely to prevent law enforcement from enforcing the law, while facilitating other illegal activity. Republicans are in a constant state of war with the Democrats. One side wants to secure the border. The other side undermines the law and the efforts of law enforcement. Pick any topic, and it’s the same. Out here, it’s the trenches, and you see it all up front and personal.
“If you talk to a Border Patrol agent, you’ll find they’re all exasperated. To a man they won’t say we need fences but surveillance aircraft and more ground agents. It’s really simple. When they come over the fence, you need an agent waiting to apprehend them.
“I wish there was a video of Iranian students pouring over the US Embassy fence. Maybe that visual would drive the point home. A fence is only as good as the ladder needed to scale it. It won’t even slow people down. You need a law-enforcement officer on the other side to deter or arrest them.”
The mention of Iranian students changed Yoder’s demeanor for a moment. Hunter wondered if he said something out of line or if the comment resonated with the man with the flattop.
“Duncan, that’s the most common sensical…. Is that a word? Thing I have ever heard on the topic.”
“Thank you, Sir. The rest of the story is, in 1995 there were only 5,000 people in the Border Patrol. More emphasis is coming our way. What we need are more planes and agents. I think quiet airplanes are the ticket for areas that don’t need fences. Ground agents and aviators get it. Strategic fences are needed in metropolitan areas like Laredo, El Paso, and Tijuana. Guess what? That’s exactly where they are.
> “There’s fourteen miles of fence in San Diego from Otay Mesa to the Pacific Ocean. It works, but not because there’s a fence. It’s because when someone steps over, there’s a boot on the ground and an agent right there to apprehend Juan Valdez and his buddy.
“Without an agent to apprehend, a fence barely slows them down, so why bother unless you’ve got the manpower to apprehend? The real problem is illegal documents in the hands of illegal aliens. There’s a whole industry on the other side of the border making counterfeit docs. Fixing that problem is a whole different story. That’s the issue no one in politics will talk about.”
“What do you mean?”
“Illegal or bogus documents fuel two different parts of the political process. Those on the right produce jobs, like building those fuel tanks. They benefit greatly from low-cost labor, so they make money and grow the business.
“It’s a little different on the left. One part is the democrats don’t believe in border control and view anyone coming over as a potential voter. The other part’s related to bogus documents. The dirty secret in law enforcement, at least here on the border, is when the police or Border Patrol pull over illegal aliens. Let’s just call them poor, but they have fistfuls of documents. It’s no surprise when one of them gets pulled over and he flashes a Michigan driver’s license or a Social Security card issued from Connecticut.
“They get free stuff, whether it’s health care or food stamps, under multiple names, then they sell any extra they have. It’s another form of welfare. The other thing they do with those bogus documents is vote. What’s that Chicago saying? ‘Vote early and often?’ These folks have it down to an art form. The reason democrats are hostile about voter ID laws is that they wouldn’t be able to win an election unless they stole it.”
Hunter guided the Border Patrol truck into Julio’s parking lot. “If these aren’t the best tacos you’ve ever had, I’ll buy you dinner, too.”
The men ordered, and Hunter led them to a corner table so they could talk. “Greg, you can expect at least five Chief Patrol Agents and I don’t know how many pilots in my hangar. I want you to know the people you’ll be dealing with today. The chief’s deputies, and assistant chiefs are mostly very conservative patriots. The other chiefs who aren’t here are definitely not interested in improving the capabilities of their sector.
“Things are so bad under this democratic administration that some agents siphon gas from seized vehicles so they can get back into the field and catch bad guys. Our budget’s really thin, and it’s made that way on purpose. So there’s no money to buy new aircraft.”
“That’s not a good sign.”
“It might get better soon. I understand Congressman Hernandez or one of his staffers will be there, too. He’s the first Republican to win this district, and the BP leadership has high hopes he’ll be a magic bullet for the Border Patrol, at least in Del Rio Sector.”
Yoder deadpanned, “Sounds like things are looking up.”
Hunter smiled. “I also broke the code on how to get money.”
Breakfast tacos were delivered to their table with a large bowl of salsa and chips.
“Let me know what you think of the salsa,” Hunter said, pausing to take a bite. “There’s a wildcard. I don’t know the Chief of Air Ops very well. He’s hard to read. I think he views me as a competitor, but, by law, I can’t take over his job.”
“You aren’t an agent?”
Hunter shook his head. “No. However, I’m the highest-ranking non-agent on the Border Patrol. I got the job when the GAO almost shut down USBP aviation. It was really just a flying club and might still be in some sectors. Anyway, the Chief of Air Ops Doug Crabb may also come. I think he and a contingent from El Paso Sector will fly in. I can’t emphasize enough that this is a very big deal. My chief went over his head to get you here. I’m way out over my skis, too, but Chief Burgher is my sponsor and likes what I provide him.”
“You have to have a sponsor,” Yoder said.
“10-4. I want you to know there are some friendlies, like Chief Baker from Laredo. He’s the first African American Chief Patrol Agent and could be President someday. He’s an amazing man. There’s Chief De la Montoya from McAllen. He’s a close friend of Chief Burgher. Of course, we’ll have Chief Burgher here. You can’t miss him. He’s the tallest guy in the Border Patrol, maybe taller than Art.”
Hunter chuckled. “I heard when he was a field agent, illegals took one look at that giant man and became so docile, Paul just had to say, ‘Get in my truck.’ After that, my intel isn’t so good. The senior pilots have repeatedly claimed the Schweizer doesn’t work, and I heard it again yesterday from our chief pilot. I know it’s all crap, but they’re the senior aviators here. If there’s any pushback, that’s where it’ll come from.”
Lynche listened to Hunter talk while biting into a soft, round, filled tortilla. “Duncan, these tacos are fantastic, and the salsa is absolutely the best I ever tasted. You’re right. These are amazing. Art?”
“Makes me want another one.”
Lynche waved his hands and said, “No mas. No mas!” He returned the remains of his taco to his plate. “The CEO of Schweizer said no one from the Border Patrol has ever expressed interest in his aircraft.”
“He told me the same thing when I spoke with him,” Hunter said. “I told him I absolutely believe it. It seems reasonable to expect the rank-and-file Border Patrol pilot just wants to do the mission, while older pilots want to fly air-conditioned helicopters during the day, then go home. The older guys will tell any lie to keep from working hard or flying at night. There are several who have ceased being patriots.”
“Duncan, these tacos are so good, they must be illegal.”
“It’s the salsa. It’s the best on the planet, and it’s one of the best-kept secrets in Texas.”
On their way back to the airport, Hunter motioned through the windshield to the clearly visible buildings and expansive maquiladoras on the Mexican side of the border. “There are watchers over there with telescopes. I’ll bet heads exploded when you guys landed and I picked you up.
The comment got Yoder’s attention. “Watchers?”
“Yes, Sir. I learned long ago we can’t do anything without someone knowing or watching us. You can see we’re less than a mile from the border. You can see the maquiladoras. We’re more effective in apprehensions and seizures when we can mask our operations. I’d move the air operations out to the Air Force base if I could and operate it like, well, like I expect the CIA would conduct air operations.”
Lynche beamed broadly. “You’re a smart man, Duncan. That’s exactly what I’d do.”
CHAPTER FOUR
0900 October 10, 1996
US Border Patrol Maintenance Hangar Del Rio International Airport, Del Rio, Texas
Chief Patrol Agent Paul Burgher, a broad six-foot-six-inch man with hands the size of hubcaps and fingers as thick as screwdriver handles, walked to the seated assembly of Chief Patrol Agents, Deputy Chief Patrol Agents, Assistant Chief Patrol Agents, Patrol Agents in Charge, and a Congressional staffer. Except for the pilots, everyone wore business suits with a tie. The agents in dress suits and flight suits carried their weapons in shoulder holsters.
“I’d like to thank Mr. Lopez from Congressman Hernandez’ office for making the trip from San Antonio.”
Hunter applauded, establishing the protocol for recognizing each attendee.
“I’d like to also recognize Chief of Air Ops, Douglass Crabb, Chief Louis Baker of the Laredo Sector, Chief Raul De la Montoya of the McAllen Sector, and Chief Ron White of the El Paso Sector. The security folks wanted to make sure I announced this brief is at the TS/SCI level. This requires special access, so everyone’s clearance has been verified. Is that correct? I thought so.
“OK. I asked our Aviation Director to see if we could get more information on different aircraft to improve our ability to secure the southwest border. Today, we have Mr. Greg Lynche from the Schweizer Aircraft Company. Mr.
Lynche retired from the CIA after a distinguished thirty-five-year career and was a member of the Senior Intelligence Service. He served in leadership positions around the globe as Chief of Station, Chief of Counterterrorism, and Chief Air Branch. Ladies and Gentlemen, Greg Lynche.”
Lynche acknowledged all the dignitaries as Chief Burger did but added Duncan Hunter to the list, which earned Duncan a round of applause. Greg Lynche quickly went over the challenges facing Border Patrol agents and suggested the aircraft he brought could solve most of their problems.
“One of the greatest liabilities to aircraft doing field work was that once an illegal alien or smuggler heard it, everyone scattered.” He related an Arab proverb. “The eagle that chases two rabbits catches neither. With a low-noise aircraft, you control the aural environment and are able to identify targets, coordinate an interception, and control the apprehension or drug seizure from an acoustically silent platform. I like it, because you can also look over the border and see what’s over there and what might be coming.”
Most of the audience nodded and were poised for his next bullet point when the Del Rio Sector Chief Pilot said, “No disrespect, Chief, but we’ve tried these technologies before, and they don’t work in this environment.” He seemed proud of his statement, and some of the other agents in flight suits either nodded or rolled their eyes.
Lynche nodded to Hunter and asked, “Art?”
Duncan moved quickly to a cart with a large TV on the top shelf with a VCR player on the lower shelf and rolled the cart in front of the assembly of Chief Patrol Agents. Art Yoder waited for Hunter to turn on the two devices before he inserted a tape and pressed Play.
The Chiefs leaned forward for a better view. The Chief Pilot hadn’t anticipated that Lynche would ignore him.
As an image came to the screen, Lynche said, “I don’t know who said that, but let me tell you what we did last night on our way to delightful Del Rio, Texas. We took on gas at Corpus Christi and flew along the coast from Brownsville to Del Rio. We flew up the Rio Grande. This is what we recorded of the activity along your border.”
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