Treaty Violation (12 page)

Price injected the data into his operational planning calculus to help him decide whether to burn more tax dollars on a pursuit aircraft. “What’s your source?”

“I can’t disclose that,” Collins said. As his security clearance demanded, he was protecting sources and methods. Like many priests of the nation’s spy world, the cult of secrecy seemed to be his primary source of professional satisfaction.

Price concluded the report probably had come from a human source or a communications intercept. Photographs couldn’t provide that type of information. He’d worked with intelligence guys long enough to learn their lingo, and long enough to realize that the world
of espionage possessed an element of intrigue. Waiting four years to be denied a cockpit hadn’t made for a thrilling career, but at least he’d found a productive job working with airplanes.

“How confident are you?” he asked calmly.

“Couldn’t be more reliable,” Collins said.

Price nodded and pointed at the computer monitor. “Then can you explain why the aircraft turned south before dropping the drugs?” he asked. “The Navy
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, call sign Viper, got radar lock on him south of Haiti. I don’t care what you do—go to the secret chamber, if you must—but find out where this aircraft is going to land.”

“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
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37
s 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
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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
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37
s 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.”

“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
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37
s 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
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37
s 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
-
37
s?” Vasquez asked.

“We have to locate the aircraft,” Price said. “The Colombian controllers can vector in the
A
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37
s after they launch.”

“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
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37
s 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
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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
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37
s 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.