Patrol Agent in Charge Charles Rodriguez didn’t acknowledge Hunter with a wave or a flip of a finger. Hunter didn’t expect anything from him but contempt. From the first day, it was contempt. For four years, every day it was contempt. Maybe that day was special contempt.
Hunter, standing in the sun, recalled events leading up to that day. For four years, Hunter observed the internal workings and politics of Border Patrol aviation. Border Patrol Air Operations was a glorified flying club and good-old-boy’s network for a very long time. That was the official assessment from the old congressional watchdog General Accountability Office. Hunter’s fascination with all things airworthy led him occasionally to steal rides with friendly Border Patrol pilots in helicopters and Super Cubs. On a day when he jumped into the left seat of a helicopter going out on patrol, Hunter was curious when the pilot diverted around what he expected to be prime smuggling areas.
Before Hunter could ask, the pilot said, “Charles doesn’t want us flying over this area.”
The incongruity of a federal agent being told not to patrol a prime smuggling area made Hunter immediately suspicious.
A curious case of cause and effect occurred when Hunter left on a few weeks of leave or when he was on temporary assignment with the DOJ’s Office of Internal Audit. Hunter and Lynche's counterdrug work in Colombia, Peru, and Panama were felt immediately along the major smuggling routes into the US. Hunter would leave and ten days later, the number of drug seizures along the border dropped to nearly zero, because supplies dried up. Intelligence officers or DEA agents in Mexico heard the rumors, “Nothing from Colombia today.”
Chief Pilot Charles Rodriguez, seeing the relationship immediately, tried to determine what Hunter was doing for the DOJ’s Office of Internal Audit. “Auditing an aviation program” was enough to make the chief pilot and his friends wary of the former Marine pilot with no apparent law-enforcement background.
Several calls to other Border Patrol Air Operations units revealed the hunter sometimes engaged in auditing a USBP program. At other times, Hunter wasn’t auditing a USBP Air Operations program anywhere. When those situations occurred, Charles took notes and tried to locate the whereabouts of the Border Patrol’s missing Aviation Maintenance Director.
When Hunter worked in Del Rio, his impact on the US Border Patrol wasn’t limited to the aviation units but was also felt in the field. He sometimes responded to a field agent’s frustration when he said, “Sometimes, we just don’t know where to patrol. There are things we can do, like drag roads and cut sign, but oftentimes, we spend a lot of unproductive time chasing getaways.”
Hunter suggested folding a geographic information system into the electronic form used to process those who were apprehended for any infraction. The modified form captured and presented geographically referenced data using a point-and-click mouse to pinpoint the location where the illegal alien or drug smuggler was apprehended.
Working with the computer geeks in the IT shop, they developed a pilot system that did just that. After two months of data collection, the results were stunning and exciting. The data was graphically represented as red dots of increasing size to signify the scale of apprehensions. Large red blotches indicated high-intensity smuggling areas, while tiny dots suggested a random or accidental apprehension.
An unintended consequence of the program was that it also pictorially represented dead zones—areas where high-apprehension activity was expected, though the data didn’t show much activity. A famous satellite photograph of the world at night indicated civilization, activity, and life, with one exception—North Korea. On a map where areas north and south of the country are fully illuminated, the country is a dead zone without lights.
Just like the North Korea dead zone, the sector map of Del Rio had its own dead zone. The area above Los Reyes Ranch showed hundreds of apprehensions, and the area below it was the same, but the area encompassing the ranch was black, meaning no activity. Hunter knew that was the same piece of property that Charles Rodriguez mandated his pilots avoid.
The penultimate piece of the puzzle fell into place when communications technicians, who serviced the thousands of seismic sensors strategically placed along the border, found the sensors’ antennas on the Los Reyes Ranch were clipped, rendering them useless. The technicians reported several heavily traveled routes through the property.
After repairing the seismic sensors and installing several others while noting their locations, the technicians reported their findings to the sector leadership.
As Hunter sat at his desk one morning, Charles, in full pilot regalia—flight suit, patches, and sidearm—came into the maintenance office. He ignored Hunter’s good morning salutation and used the copy machine. A few minutes later, he backed away from the machine with his copies and scurried out of the building like a rat on a mission.
A few more minutes passed and Hunter went to make his own copies and found the Remove Original from Glass light was on.
When he lifted the lid of the copier, the last thing Duncan expected to find was a document stamped SECRET in red letters, at the head and footer, containing the ID number and location of all the new seismic sensors on the Los Reyes Ranch.
Hunter copied the document, flipped it onto his desk, and went to the pilot’s office. He greeted several of the pilots, one of whom was standing in front of the pilot’s office copy machine making copies.
Hunter walked into Charles' office. “Sir, I believe you left this in the copy machine.”
“Oh, yeah. We got new sensor location sheets. I had to update our flight books.”
“No factor. Have a great day Charles.” He left the building and returned to the maintenance facility and his office. He opened his two-drawer safe, extracted a hefty file, slipped the SECRET document inside, and went out the back door to the vehicle parking area.
Forty-five minutes later, Duncan Hunter left Chief Patrol Agent Burgher’s office empty-handed.
*
Hunter stood outside for five minutes before a Border Patrol pilot ran out of the pilot’s shack. Seeing Hunter, he made a beeline for him.
“Charles just retired,” the man said. “If you want to say anything to him, you need to do it now. He said he’s had enough and is moving to Seattle.”
Hunter crossed his arms as a flurry of activity went through the flight shack. An old white truck was being filled with boxes of pictures and other dust collectors from men in flight suits scurrying back and forth. Some of the mechanics filed out of the hangar and into the flight shack.
First Sergeant Duron joined Hunter on the tarmac. “Did you hear?”
Hunter nodded.
Ten minutes after Duron’s arrival, US Border Patrol Chief Pilot Charles Rodriguez led pilots and mechanics from the building as he hurried to his truck. Before opening the door, he gave Hunter a cold, hateful look and shouted, “I know it was you, motherfucker.” Rodriguez got in, slammed his door, and drove off.
First Sergeant Duron took a half-step to the side, standing in Hunter’s periphery to speak, but Hunter was expressionless and unemotional as the old truck roared away. Hunter turned to stare toward Mexico for a moment, wondering if anyone witnessed the event.
He turned back toward the hangar. “Show’s over,” Hunter said. “Everyone back to work.”
First Sergeant Duron glanced at the pilot’s office, then at Hunter’s figure as it disappeared into the maintenance facility, and wondered what he just saw.
CHAPTER EIGHT
0900 September 11, 2001
SOCOM Headquarters, McDill AFB Tampa, Florida
“Admiral O’Toole, Sir, your presence is immediately requested at the command post.”
“Is this related to the airplane that hit the World Trade Center?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“On my way.”
Three minutes later, Vice Admiral Mannix “Max” O’Toole scanned his ID card into the card reader, punched in his access code, and entered the SOCOM Command Post. Twelve paces
in, he was struck by the quiet and started to speak. On one large TV monitor, members of the Crisis Action Team watched a live feed of a Boeing 767 flying into the South Tower of the World Trade Center.
As a fireball and debris shot from the middle of the South Tower, Admiral O’Toole turned crimson and barked, “We’re under attack! Colonel Brown, set Threat Con Delta. Activate the CAT. Let me know when everyone’s here.”
Telephones rang. Admiral O’Toole moved to his CAT station, inserted and turned the Crypto Ignition Key of the STUIII, and started punching numbers when the device rang. The indicator showed a Washington, DC, area code.
“Captain Jackson, status! Any more aircraft out there? Anything from the Pentagon?”
“Yes, Sir. FAA reports at least four commercial aircraft stopped position reporting. Two jets may be inbound to Washington, DC. Nothing from Command Post.”
“Admiral O’Toole,” said, answering the STU. “Max, Spook. Do you know what’s going on?” Vice Admiral Ray “Spook” Dunhill, Officer of Naval Intelligence, asked. “Not much, Sir. We’ve gone to Delta. We know some commercial aircraft have dropped off the radar, with two probably inbound to you. After that, not much. I think this has to be Al Qaeda or Saddam.”
“Max, here’s what we think we know. At 0832, American Airlines Flight 11’s transponder stopped transmitting. Boston ATC indicated it was hijacked at 0838. At 0841, New York ATC lost communications with a United Airlines Flight 175 and assumed it, too, was hijacked. Those are 767s, and we have no idea how many souls are aboard.
“We think the second jet to hit the WTC was the United. No one has claimed responsibility, and there was no intel this was in the works. We’re flying blind. I have a call in to the CTC, but their lines are jammed.
“Here’s the bad news. At 0850, American Airlines Flight 77, a 757, also stopped transmitting and may be headed toward DC. FAA is shitting all over itself, and…hold on…. Let me call you back. I don’t think there’s anything to do right now but take cover and protect your people. Spook, out.”
Admiral O’Toole, replacing the handset in its cradle, turned to Colonel Brown. “I need the Delta commander to initiate a recall of his folks and have him get here as soon as he can. Captain Jackson, contact DEVGRU and get Captain McGee on the phone ASAP.
O’Toole and his staff fielded secure phone calls and SIPRNet traffic. It was difficult not to watch the monitors. Fire and smoke poured from two obscene scars in the WTC. A person fell from the building.
Did he jump? Max O’Toole glanced to the north wall of the CAT at the banks of clocks displaying local times across the globe. In Washington, DC, it was 0937.
Seconds later, American Airlines Flight 77 disappeared from the radar and struck the western side of the Pentagon.
“Admiral O’Toole?” a voice asked louder than the others. “Sir, the Pentagon has just reported the entire building shock.”
Everyone in the CAT took a deep breath.
“Sir, the Pentagon’s been hit. They’re evacuating.”
Two minutes later, the CAT’s FAA representative announced, “The FAA has ordered all planes in the air to land at the nearest airport.”
Smoke and jet fuel permeated the air in the Pentagon. The seventy-year-old Secretary of Defense was one of the last to leave the building and began assisting in rescue operations at the crash site.
At 0959, the South Tower of the World Trade Center began collapsing. A dozen people muttered in unison, “Oh, my God.” Members of the CAT and Admiral O’Toole were transfixed, as the building fell into itself.
“Admiral? United 93 is completely off the radar about eighty miles southeast of Pittsburgh. F-16s were en route to intercept, but no new details, Sir.”
Less than thirty minutes later, the North Tower collapsed. America was at war.
Several hours later, the President returned to Washington, DC, to meet with his full National Security Council at 2100.
Forty-eight minutes later, Vice Admiral O’Toole joined a STU-III conference call with the SECDEF, the CIA director, and the Chairman of the JCS. Someone spoke without bothering to use salutations or honors.
“Max, we’re virtually certain Osama bin Laden and his network were behind the attacks. A check of the passenger manifests of the hijacked flights turned up three known al-Qaeda operatives on the jet that hit the Pentagon. We’re learning it’s al-Qaeda, not Saddam. More to follow when we know.
“Osama bin Laden is in Afghanistan but exactly where isn’t known. We think the killing of Ahmad Massoud two days ago can’t be a coincidence.”
“Max, the President wants a plan to find and kill bin Laden and destroy al-Qaeda.”
Retaliating against Afghanistan, a country decimated by two decades of war, would pose a significant challenge not only to find Osama bin Laden but to find anything worth hitting.
“We’ll need to a quick-reaction force in country in very short order to find bin Laden, Sir,” Admiral O’Toole said. “I have the commanders of Delta and SEAL Team Six inbound. Getting a large S and D team in country will be a challenge. What are the chances of getting the Pakis to change sides and stop supporting the Taliban and al-Qaeda?”
“The President and the Secretary of State will lean on them, make them an offer they can’t refuse,” said the DCI.
“When can you brief the President?” the SECDEF asked.
“Sir, we have several plans that are war-gamed and practiced. Twelve hours?”
“We’ll do it via VTC. See you tomorrow.”
*
The War in Afghanistan officially began on October 7, 2001, as the armed forces of the United States, the United Kingdom, and the Afghan United Front (Northern Alliance) launched Operation Enduring Freedom in response to the September 11 attacks on the United States. The President enunciated the goal of dismantling the al-Qaeda terrorist organization and ending its use of Afghanistan as a base. The United States would remove the Taliban regime from power and create a viable democratic state.
*
Ten days after the Twin Towers fell, members of the US Army Delta Forces parachuted into Afghanistan and met with CIA agents at the Qala-i-Jangi compound near Mazari Sharif in northern Afghanistan. Based on the most-recent intelligence, Osama bin Laden was holed up in an extensive cave and tunnel system on the Pakistan-Afghanistan border.
Twenty-five SEALs from DEVGRU—the Gold Team—led by thirty-five-year veteran Captain William “Bullfrog” McGee, HAHO parachuted into Afghanistan’s Tora Bora area. For three months, snipers of SEAL Team Six killed Taliban and al-Qaeda in great numbers and at great distances but few of the top leaders. The lack of top AQ officials led the SEALs to believe the intelligence was poor and possibly even wrong.
By December 17, the last cave complex had been taken, and all defenders were overrun. No massive bunkers were found, only small outposts and a few minor training camps. A dejected team was extracted to Kandahar by two Blackhawks of the 160th Special Operations Aviation Regiment. McGee debriefed the members of SEAL Team Six Blue and returned to Norfolk. Failing to find and kill Osama bin Laden, Captain Bill McGee was removed as commander of DEVGRU/SEAL Team Six with orders to attend the Naval War College. For all practical purposes, the Navy’s most-decorated SEAL commander’s operational career was over.
CHAPTER NINE
0805 September 11, 2001
Laughlin Air Force Base Del Rio, Texas
“I know how they did it.” Hunter’s voice was forceful but hushed. He had called Greg Lynche two minutes after watching the second 767 fly into the South Tower of the World Trade Center.
“Good morning to you, too. What do you mean, you know how they did it? No one knows anything yet. At least, no one’s talking to me. This is unbelievable.”
He stared at the live TV feed of both Twin Towers burning. “Greg, I don’t know anyone at the FBI, but I think you might. You know everybody.”
“Hunter, you’re scaring me again,” Lynche replied half-heartedly.
“Here’s the dea
l Greg. Those two planes had to be hijacked. New York’s just one target. Washington is next, then maybe Chicago and LA, but there will be more. I know how they did it, and the guys who helped facilitate the hijackings were Muslim pre-board screeners at the departure airports. There will be significant chaos. I doubt the FBI will be able to move quickly enough. If they don’t, they’ll lose contact with the accomplices, and the evidence will be erased.”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa! Slow down. What are you trying to say?”
“Greg, the only way to get a weapon aboard an airplane, so you can hijack it, is if the pre-board screener, the guy sitting at the X-ray machine on the concourse, either doesn’t catch a weapon in someone’s carry-on baggage when it comes through it, or he’s in on the plan and is told to ignore anything going through his X-ray machine from, say, eight-thirty to nine-thirty. Hell, they can even look up from their screen and see who’s in line to come through. It’s probably too late, but this is what the investigators will find.”
Lynche wrote wildly. When Hunter got into one of his outpourings of consciousness, all Lynche could do was take notes and hang on.
“The FBI will find a group of Muslims were manning the X-ray machines at each of the airport concourses where those hijacked planes took off. If the FBI doesn’t tell those airports to lock down all passengers and get airport security to secure every surveillance tape, especially the four-channel video recorders that show what’s inside the X-ray machines and who’s coming through the magnetometer, they’ll lose the data on those tapes.
“You’ll see once this has settled down that a fairly large cadre of Muslims, Islamists, got those little minimum-wage jobs and quietly worked their way into being X-ray machine operators and supervisors—someone who could arrange people’s schedules.”
“…and was told to ignore anything that went through the X-ray machine during a certain window of opportunity.”
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