Treaty Violation

by Anthony C. Patton

  “Probably the same place it departed,” Collins said: “an airstrip on the Guajira Peninsula.”

  Price gave Collins a thumb-up and faced Second Lieutenant Andrew Atkins. “I need up-to-date weather photos with details—wind speed and direction, humidity at the airport café, everything, to the point of absurdity. The Colombian pilots freak out about flying in storms.”

  “Yes, sir,” Atkins said and hustled to his desk.

  Price pivoted smartly on his left heel. “I need you to work some magic,” he said to Bruce Devlin, the U.S. Customs Service representative. “The two Citations have to launch ASAP from Barranquilla. This aircraft should have a full load of drugs.”

  “Already on it,” Devlin said. “As soon as the Colombian controllers are on board, we’ll be ready to launch.”

  Price knew the rules well. He had to. Federal laws and regulations delineated the role of the military in law enforcement activities. The Posse Comitatus Act made it illegal to use the military to enforce civil law. Title 10, United States Code, prohibited the military from directly participating in arrests, searches, or seizures. The Foreign Assistance Act prohibited U.S. personnel from performing law enforcement activities overseas. Because of these restrictions, Colombian nationals, aka Host Nation Riders, rode aboard U.S. aircraft to coordinate with the Colombian military or law enforcement agencies for endgame operations. This transfer of power ensured Colombia acted as a sovereign nation when shooting down suspect aircraft.

  Price pivoted on his left heel and gestured crisply to Master Sergeant “Skip” Higgins, his trusty Senior Watch Technician. “Call our guys in Bogota; tell them we need two Host Nation Riders ASAP. And check if the A-37s are ready to launch.”

  Higgins nodded and picked up the phone. “Sir, should I call Colonel Vasquez?”

  Price nodded. “I have to see our friends in the next room about an airplane,” he said and walked to the adjoining room.

  Inside the room, airmen were crouched over glowing green radar screens scrutinizing radar data and punching keys on their computers. The idea was simple: if a plane wasn’t on an official flight route, if it hadn’t filed a flight plan, if it was flying too low, if it was flying too slow, then the verdict was guilty: a bad guy.

  Ground and airborne radars vacuumed the skies around the clock and blew raw data through computer servers that filtered out legitimate air tracks to create a visual display of potential bad guys. The bad guys learned to avoid some radar sites and flew past others with impunity, but many also knew the filtering criteria and planned accordingly to avoid detection. The battle seemed hopeless at times. Like many service members, Price considered the war on drugs a noble concept, but many people complained that billions of dollars were being wasted to stop two steps short of accomplishing the objective.

  Despite the war on drugs, cocaine flowed unabated into the U.S., roughly 300 metric tons a year, enough to fit on one ship but account for a measurable sliver of GDP. The drug cartels spent millions of dollars on technology and bribes, and had evolved into an efficient network of interdependent nodes along a supply chain, from the seeds in the fertile mountain soil to the white powder on an addict’s nose. Money was the name of the game, and the counterdrug warriors couldn’t compete with the criminals who were satisfying an insatiable demand they played a role in creating.

  The airmen stood their watch, taking pride in the few times their efforts led to an arrest or the destruction of an aircraft. They were on the front lines, fighting someone they could call an enemy: criminals intent on selling drugs to the citizens of their nation. So they sat, watching their radarscopes, looking for the next bad guy.

  Price leaned over Senior Airman Phil Andrews’ shoulder. “Did you have radar coverage of this guy when he left Colombia?”

  Andrews looked back. “No, sir. He caught us by surprise. The P-3 started tracking him a few minutes ago.”

  “I have a good feeling about this,” Price said and stood tall, “but I need you to find him as soon as possible. Can you do that?”

  Andrews grinned. “I’ll find that son of a bitch! I mean, I’ll try to—”

  “You got it right the first time,” Price said. “Find that son of a bitch.” He slapped Andrews on the shoulder.

  On the operations floor, Master Sergeant Higgins set the phone down. “Sir, the Colombians have two A-37s ready to launch.”

  Price gestured to Devlin. “How does it look?”

  “My guys are fueled and ready to go,” Devlin said and held a small headset to his ear. “The Colombian Host Nation Riders are heading out to our planes now.”

  Price nodded and picked up the radio. “Viper, Viper, do you still hold the aircraft on radar?” He waved at Colonel Vasquez, the Colombian liaison officer, when he entered.

  “This is Viper…that’s affirmative,” a voice said on the radio speaker. “Interrogative, status of our diplomatic clearance to enter Colombian airspace?”

  Price swore under his breath and gestured for Higgins to make a phone call. “Viper, be advised, still working the pursuit clearance. Do not, repeat, do not enter Colombian airspace until you receive diplomatic clearance. How copy?”

  “Good copy…Viper standing by.”

  “We need that clearance ASAP,” Price said to Higgins. He gestured for Colonel Vasquez to look at the computer screen.

  “Captain Price,” Devlin said, “we’re ready to go.”

  Price gave Devlin a thumbs-up and focused his attention on Colonel Vasquez. “Sir, the aircraft was heading north and suddenly turned south. We believe he’s returning to the Guajira Peninsula. Two Citations and two A-37s are on deck in Barranquilla. We should launch now.”

  “How’s the weather?” Vasquez asked.

  Price gestured to Atkins, who rushed over with a satellite photo.

  “Looks good on the north coast,” Atkins said and handed the photo to Vasquez. “That small storm is out of range and dissipating. Cloud coverage is minimal—”

  “I think it’s obvious,” Price cut in, “the weather is fine.” He gestured to Vasquez. “Sir, it’s your call.”

  Vasquez analyzed the photo and nodded. “I’ll recommend to my people that we launch.”

  Price resisted a smile and nodded professionally. He handed Vasquez the phone and pressed the auto-dial button for the operations center in Bogota.

  “This is Viper…interrogative, status of our clearance?”

  Price picked up the radio. “Viper, the clearance is still pending. Continue pursuit.”

  Vasquez analyzed the weather photos as Higgins called for an update on the diplomatic clearance. Price and Devlin moved to the computer to calculate when the aircraft would enter Colombian airspace.

  Higgins set the phone down, obviously not pleased. “Sir, they’ll have the diplomatic clearance soon.”

  “Soon?” Price asked and gestured to Vasquez. “Sir, we have to launch now. Is there anything you can do to help?”

  “When did you request the clearance?” Vasquez asked.

  Price exhaled. “We made the request a little late; we didn’t know the aircraft would turn south before dropping the cocaine.”

  Vasquez lifted his hands defensively. “We need approval, which can be difficult to obtain at this hour.”

  Higgins and Devlin looked eager to speak but Price preempted them. “Sir, you have A-37s ready to launch. Isn’t the next logical step to grant diplomatic clearance?”

  “This is Viper…We’re approaching the twelve nautical mile line for Colombian airspace…Status of diplomatic clearance?”

  Price grabbed the radio. “Viper, still working the clearance. Maintain radar contact as long as possible.”

  Price turned to Vasquez. “Sir, could you call someone?” Vasquez nodded. “In the meantime,” he said, “I’m launching the Citations.”

  “Without the A-37s?” Vasquez asked.

  “We have to locate the aircraft,” Price said. “The Colombian controllers can vector in the A-37s after they launch.”r />
  “You need our permission to launch the Citations,” Devlin said.

  Price stared at him brazenly. “Do you have any objections?”

  Devlin grinned and chuckled. “Hell no.”

  Price groaned and grabbed the radio. “Magic Zero One, Magic Zero Two, be advised: you are cleared to launch.”

  “This is Magic Zero One,” the voice on the radio said. “Copy, cleared to launch at this time.”

  Devlin pumped his fist and returned to his desk. Higgins sat and typed journal entries in the computer logbook.

  “This is Viper…We stopped at the twelve nautical mile line…Will lose aircraft soon unless we get clearance into Colombian airspace…How copy?”

  Price picked up the radio and looked at Vasquez, who could only shrug. “Viper, copy your last. Maintain radar contact as long as possible. Still working clearance.”

  “They’re still trying to locate the Director for approval,” Vasquez said. “But they’re launching the A-37s now.”

  “This is Viper.” The room fell silent. “We lost radar…Awaiting further orders.”

  Price grabbed the radio. “Viper, copy your last. Remain in an orbit pattern.”

  Price turned to Devlin. “Do your guys have radar contact yet?”

  Devlin shook his head. “We needed more time.”

  “Keep them in pursuit,” Price said. “They might find him.”

  “Like finding a needle in a haystack,” Devlin said.

  “Keep looking,” Price said and turned to Vasquez. “We’ll vector our aircraft in the general direction. We still have a chance.”

  Colonel Lance Dupree entered the operations floor. “Have we killed the bastard yet?” Heads popped up. Some airmen stood at attention. “I heard we’ve got a live one.”

  Price didn’t appreciate unannounced visits, especially from Colonel Dupree. “Sir, we detected the aircraft leaving the Guajira Peninsula a few hours ago. The P-3 just lost radar contact because we’re still waiting for the diplomatic clearance.”

  Dupree rubbed his hands and glanced at Vasquez.

  “The aircraft took us by surprise because it turned south before dropping the cocaine.” Price hated making excuses, but the Colombians had no reason to delay the approval.

  “Why didn’t we attack this guy when he was still on the deck?” Dupree asked and pressed his finger against the computer monitor. “Why give him time to launch?”

  “In an ideal world we would,” Price said, “but we can’t launch the A-37s fast enough. The suspect aircraft are usually airborne and feet wet before we detect them on radar.”

  Dupree looked at Vasquez. “Life would be a lot smoother if we destroyed the aircraft with the drugs before they take off.”

  Vasquez shrugged. “We’ve tried—”

  “Captain Price!” Senior Airman Andrews said and rammed open the door, “I got him on radar!” He handed a piece of paper to Price and stood nervously at attention. “Good evening, sir,” he said to Dupree.

  “Let’s hope so,” Dupree replied.

  “Good work,” Price said, with a glance at Dupree.

  The minutes ticked by slowly as the air conditioner hummed, the closest thing to silence on the operations floor.

  “This is Magic Zero One.” The voice on the radio said. “We have the aircraft on radar…The A-37s have been vectored in by the Colombian controllers.”

  Price quieted the cheering airmen and picked up the radio. “Magic Zero One, good copy. Standing by.”

  “This is Magic Zero One…We got word the A-37s have been cleared to fire…I say again, the A-37s are cleared to fire.”

  All eyes fixed on the computer monitor. The snail-paced action was the most exciting video game in town. Price stood aside and waited patiently. He’d done all he could—vector in Colombian fighters for the kill. Unfortunately, the staff weenies would judge his work a success or a failure depending on whether the Colombians destroyed the aircraft, which was beyond his control. A part of him suddenly felt comfortable chasing drug dealers in Panama, but his days were numbered.

  “This is Magic Zero One…The A-37s have fired on the aircraft…A direct hit…The aircraft is dropping in a trail of smoke…I say again, a direct hit…This guy is history!”

  Price smiled as the others cheered and slapped high fives.

  “Good work, Captain Price,” Dupree said and slapped him on the shoulder. “Good work, boys!” he added and pumped his fist. “You did us all proud tonight!”

  SEVENTEEN

  Nicholas paced in Dirk’s office with a satellite phone. The coffee and morning sunlight couldn’t deceive his biochemistry much longer. With no real expectation of success, bordering on delirious masochism, he dialed the number again. The feminine digital voice asked him to leave a message. He recognized he wasn’t thinking rationally when he theorized the computer might respond with a different message if he raised his voice. Finally, he acquiesced that Elliot and Sammy were dead and the shipment was lost, along with the five million dollars.

  Nicholas pounded the table. Perhaps Elliot and Sammy were with Cesar’s men and had turned off their phone to hide from the police. He called Cesar.

  “Cesar,” Nicholas said. Eddy told him to hold. Nicholas resorted to drumming his fingers on the desk. “Have you heard anything about last night?”

  Cesar had heard from his men.

  “What the hell’s going on?”

  He manipulated Cesar’s response to salvage a sliver of hope, but no luck. From what Cesar understood, a Colombian A-37 had shot down the plane.

  “I see,” he said and hung up.

  Dirk entered the office. “Still working, I see”

  Nicholas shrugged and rubbed his coarse stubble.

  Dirk set some folders on his desk and sat in his chair. He cleared his throat and leaned back. “The military confirmed the A-37s destroyed the plane. I doubt the pilots survived.” He didn’t look angry, or pleased. “According to the report, the plane returned to Colombia before making the drop. What the hell happened?”

  Nicholas lifted his hands in defeat. From what he understood, a pilot’s chances of survival were the same whether or not he dropped the drugs. The secret to success was avoiding the Colombian A-37s on the return trip.

  “I don’t know,” he admitted. “I grilled them until they repeated the plan forward and backward.” He stood erect, refusing to let the situation defeat him. “I read every report I could find about drug operations. The plan was perfect.”

  “Except for the pilots you chose,” Dirk said.

  Nicholas’ instinct was to defend himself, but Dirk had a point.

  “They probably freaked out when the Navy P-3 started tracking them,” Dirk said. “We can’t worry about that now. My concern is the military was tipped off.”

  Nicholas couldn’t believe his ears.

  “They had exact details about the shipment,” Dirk said. “When I asked Colonel Dupree about the source, he told me it was Manuel Espinosa.”

  Nicholas groaned and nodded knowingly. “He was in Cesar’s penthouse last night when we finalized the deal.”

  “You met him?” Dirk asked. “Does he know who you are?”

  Nicholas shook his head. “We didn’t use names, but if he’s working for the military, it’s only a matter of time before they figure it we’re working with Cesar.”

  Dirk paused, deep in thought. “Listen,” he said with a coach’s enthusiasm, “run the next shipment, but be more careful. I recommend you feed Manuel some bogus information. We can’t afford another mistake, literally, and we can’t tell Colonel Dupree to stop his operation without exposing ours. The referendum is next week. No money, no military bases.”

  Nicholas nodded. “Did Tyler have any problems like this?”

  Dirk shook his head. “He ran them the same way you did, which suggests Manuel started providing information to the military only recently.” He gestured outside. “I scheduled a tour for you at the operations center at Howard Air Force Base. Le
arn how they do business so we can avoid this problem the next time.”

  Nicholas nodded, embarrassed. Ten years ago, the operations center would have been his first stop, not a pile of intelligence reports. Too many years at headquarters had bred bad habits. The truth was he’d covered ninety-eight percent of the details; but as K always had told him, the last two percent always bite you in the ass.

  “How did this operation originate?” Nicholas asked.

  Dirk appeared to be collating memories. “After the negotiations failed, we started developing new plans to maintain military bases in Panama post-1999. The problem was we weren’t sure which politicians supported us.” He rolled his eyes. “Everyone was playing the

  ‘I hate gringos more than you do’ game.”

  “That’s when Tyler recruited Minister Hernandez,” Nicholas said.

  Dirk nodded. “We knew he wanted us to stay, and he helped us understand the political calculus.” Chuckling, he added, “The problem was most of the politicians were neither for nor against our staying. They wanted money, something our negotiators refused to offer. Hernandez helped us understand that President Mendoza would approve the deal if we helped him win reelection. After that, K approved it and we developed the operation.”

  “K?” Nicholas said.

  Dirk grimaced as if caught in a lie. “K flew here to ask Tyler to run the operation. He even offered him a promotion back in Washington for him and Helena to settle down for a few years.”

  Nicholas gestured for Dirk to continue.

  “K and I spoke with President Mendoza, and I spoke with Cesar, but Tyler gets a lot of the credit. We practiced good old-fashioned diplomacy: the art of letting others have our way. We made them offers they couldn’t refuse.”

  Nicholas was surprised. Tyler had never mentioned K’s visit or the promotion offer. “Seems like Tyler ran a flawless operation.”

  Dirk’s hesitant nod suggested tepid enthusiasm. “He ran two solid shipments, but he was losing control. He and Helena were having problems. I offered him time off to help her—everyone knew she was using cocaine—but he was obsessed with blaming Cesar for her problems. Her father, Minister Hernandez, was no better. He spoiled her.” He paused and stared out the window. “Tyler let his personal life interfere with his professional life. Anyway,” he turned to Nicholas, “getting back to our original discussion, at the operations center you’ll meet the watch officer who was on duty last night.”