Special Access

by Mark A. Hewitt

  For the next hour, Lynche and Yoder relayed where they were and what they saw, highlighting the location and movement of hundreds of illegal aliens, some in columns of 120 or more, and obvious drug smugglers, some in columns of ten to forty human mules carrying huge bales on their backs.

  South of Laredo, a dozen horses carried large bales of something across the shallow Rio Grande. In four instances, snakes of seventy to 120 illegal aliens and smugglers passed within twenty feet of Border Patrol vehicles with agents inside.

  “We know these are Border Patrol vehicles. We used an infrared night-vision laser spotlight to verify the Border Patrol emblem on the side of the truck as well as the J-tag license plates. We wished we had your radio frequency. We could have helped.”

  Lynche and Yoder’s five-hour flight documented over 1,000 illegal aliens entering the US without being apprehended or detected, as well as over 200 drug smugglers with countless pounds of contraband that evaded detection and apprehension. The FLIR captured an invasion of illegal activity, long suspected but never caught on film before. The shocked audience was in turmoil.

  Lynche, beginning his wrap-up, fast forwarded the video. “I think you’ll like this. This was extraordinary. We were surprised there had been no activity for a long while when I saw something flash on the FLIR that didn’t look like a rabbit or a javelina. You can see from this aspect there’s no thermal image, but, when I came around 180 degrees, there’s a guy sleeping. If you get on the other side of his lean-to, he disappears. I hadn’t seen that before, but I think he’s hiding under a thermal blanket.

  “Now let me fast forward a bit. Here we go. I think this is a Border Patrol helicopter flying right over the guy. We were at 1,500 AGL at that point, and I think the helo was at 500 feet. And you can see the helicopter had a FLIR ball on the nose.

  “The guy on the ground heard the helo coming, threw up the blanket to mask his heat signature, and hunkered down. We stayed on station for ten minutes, and it looked like, once the helo was out of aural range, well watch what happens. For those in the back, the guy crawls out from under the blanket, stands up, snatches the thermal blanket, and runs east.”

  The crowd murmured. Some shook their heads in disbelief.

  “Mr. Hunter thinks, if you had one of these aircraft flying this corridor, the sensor operator could have talked to ground agents and vectored them into position to capture. I’m sorry. I meant to apprehend those people on the film. Please note the high level of clarity on the video. This quality is possible only with a low-level quiet aircraft and a great FLIR flying above the targets.”

  “What altitude is that?” A pilot asked.

  “That’s classified. We were flying between 500 and 2,500 feet, basically north, VFR without lights, to prove our point.”

  Chief Patrol Agent Crabb looked at Chief Burgher. “We could really use those airplanes.”

  Crabb turned his head to the Del Rio Sector Chief Pilot and momentarily glared at him. The body language and facial expression were unmistakable. Mr. Lopez from the Congressman’s office suddenly stood and walked toward Lynche, Yoder, and Hunter. The five chiefs joined the group in the middle of the hangar, ignoring the other attendees.

  Chief Burgher soon left the pack, threw up a big hand, and waved. “That’s all, Folks. Thank you for coming. Let’s go into the conference room.”

  Hunter was astounded by the reaction of the senior Border Patrol Agents and whispered to Lynche as he was dragged toward the conference room, “Nice work, Sir.”

  Art Yoder watched the pilots’ reactions. His arms crossed, he walked to Hunter and said, “Duncan, I think you made an enemy for life.”

  Hunter smiled and nodded. He didn’t need to look back to know what happened behind him.

  He sat there, staring ahead. The Chief Pilot’s rage was visible. Ronnie Hawley, his assistant, leaned over and said, “Charles, calm down. They’ll never be able to buy one of those things.”

  The Chief Pilot and Patrol Agent in Charge of the Del Rio Sector Air Operations shook his head, stood, and walked out of the hangar to his office. From his desk phone, he made a call. “We have a problem.”

  He glanced out the window where the Schweizer was parked, shook his head, picked up his old truck keys, and left.

  An hour-long meeting with the five Chief Patrol Agents, Mr. Lopez, Lynche, Yoder, and Hunter, resulted in a commitment from the Congressional aide to have the Congressman meet with Lynche and Yoder when they returned to Washington, DC. Hunter sketched out a pilot program with a concept of operations, what Yoder called a CONOP. A handful of quiet aircraft would be used during the night, flown by contract pilots operating from airfields away from the prying eyes of border watchers.

  When the issue of funding arose, the aide indicated the Congressman would start work to find funding for three aircraft, but the Border Patrol couldn’t count on receiving the earmark, since the funding could and would likely be siphoned off by the Democratic I&NS Commissioner and reprogrammed for something else.

  “What about using drug forfeiture funds?” Hunter interjected. The three-second pause was shattered by Chief Burgher.

  “That’s brilliant, Duncan. I think we could make a case that the aircraft would also be used for detecting drug smugglers.”

  “Quiet aircraft pilots could contact DEA or Customs just as easily as they could contact Border Patrol agents when they found a drug op going down,” Hunter said.

  Lynche and Lopez asked simultaneously, “How do you get drug forfeiture funds?”

  The men looked at each other and laughed.

  “Duncan, you want to answer that?” Chief Burgher asked.

  “Sir, I provide an official request to the DEA for what I’d like to do. I’ve received over two million dollars for several projects, one of which is right around this corner. I think I’ve broken the code on how to get drug forfeiture funds as well as aircraft and vehicles that have been the property of drug lords.”

  “What’s around the corner?” Mr. Lopez asked.

  “Let me show you.” Hunter walked around a bulkhead and stopped in a large workspace.

  Work benches were outfitted with different pieces of test equipment, including oscilloscopes, multi-meters, radio-frequency generators, power supplies, soldering guns, lighted magnifying glass rings, and rate tables for testing gyroscopes. Special and common hand tools hung from boards and racks of spare parts and consumable items like terminal ends, splices, and light bulbs.

  In the middle of the shop was a Piper Super Cub, minus its wings, that was being rebuilt. A mechanic was sticking out from the side, wedged into the cockpit, installing the rudder pedals. All that was visible was the man’s jeans and boots and a green polo shirt with BORDER PATROL AIRCRAFT MAINTENANCE on the back.

  “Sir, this is the DOJ’s first and only FAA-certified Repair Station. I received five hundred thousand dollars to completely establish and outfit a repair station, and we have every piece of test equipment we need to fix law-enforcement aviation electrical and electronic systems. My guys fix Border Patrol, Customs, and DEA aircraft, as well as Department of Public Safety and anyone else who wants to use our repair station. Our clients include aviation units for the San Antonio and Houston Police Departments. We even fixed the governor’s plane when it came through here and broke down.”

  Lynche glanced at Yoder. “What’s the advantage of your having a repair station?” He walked up to the fuselage and looked inside the little airplane.

  “Sir, take this gyro, for example. Before we had this repair station, if we had a bad gyro, it was sent to a repair station, and they charged us $2,500 to crack open the case and another $3,000 to repair it. Then it took several weeks to turn around. A gyro costs $6,500 new. My guys can overhaul one in a couple hours and give same-day service for less than fifty dollars. We overnight it back to the law-enforcement unit.”

  Chief Burger beamed.

  “What’s this airplane doing here?” Lopez asked Duncan. “Are you fixing it?” />
  “In their spare time, my guys overhaul Super Cubs and return them to the Border Patrol fleet. We have a dozen aircraft that crashed over the years. We get the frames straightened and put in new wiring, an engine, and avionics. After we recover them, we deliver them to the air ops unit that needs them. After the first one was delivered to Laredo Sector, everyone in the Border Patrol wants one of our refurbished Super Cubs.”

  “And, they’re very effective,” Chief Burgher said. “You get a young agent up there, and he’ll find illegals all day long.”

  “What are the chances you can get some drug forfeiture funds?” Lopez asked.

  “For quiet airplanes? In the past I’ve asked the DEA to transfer a couple of aircraft that we integrated into our fleet. I haven’t asked for specific funds for quiet aircraft, but if that’s all it takes, Sir, I’ll work it,” Hunter said. “I’ve been very successful in that arena. You need the right justification, and timing is everything.”

  “I’ll brief the DEA chief,” Chief Burgher said. “Duncan has some other ideas that would help us tremendously, like the quiet airplanes.”

  No one noticed Lynche and Yoder quietly exchanging raised eyebrows and imperceptible nods.

  As the meeting broke up, the senior Border Patrol agents departed out the hangar’s back door, while Chief Burgher escorted the Congressional aide to his vehicle. Lynche and Yoder promised to stay in touch.

  After Chief Burgher departed, Hunter turned toward the large hangar doors toward Mexico. He led Lynche and Yoder back through the hangar and out to the long-wing Schweizer airplane.

  “I think that went well.” Hunter beamed like a lighthouse on a dark night.

  Lynche patted his back. “You’re a master of understatement.”

  He raised a heavy eyebrow at Yoder, who nodded.

  Hunter understood it was time to get the old spook and colonel on their way. “I can’t thank you enough for coming to our little patch of Texas. You might be able to sell a few airplanes.”

  Hunter placed his hand on the sun-baked cowling of the quiet airplane, appreciating its lines and beauty and thinking how cool it would be to fly.

  “Duncan, would you be interested in a job proposition?” Yoder asked, interrupting the younger man’s reverie.

  Hunter slowly cocked his head, his brows narrowed. He saw sly smiles etched on the two men’s faces. After gently patting the quiet spy plane, he asked, “What did you gentlemen have in mind?”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  0900 December 15, 1997

  Central Intelligence Agency Washington, DC

  Training for an operation demanded strategic resources, plans, schedules, and practice. They worked in secret locations in the early days under the watchful eye of a senior intelligence officer in a basement room of the CIA’s old headquarters building. Hunter and Lynche, sometimes accompanied by Yoder, nearly drove each other crazy with the level of planning necessary for their CIA handler to approve the operation and receive the official Notice to Proceed. Hunter insisted on full mission planning, consistent with his fighter pilot training. Going from startup to shutdown, he covered every contingency in between.

  Wraith ops were one-time flights in and out, in stringent secrecy, and the only surprise Hunter wanted to deal with was a light gripe. “We plan for every situation. We always have a backup plan. We plan for the unexpected. We’re dealing with men and machines. Anything that can go wrong will, and whatever happens, it’ll come at the worst-possible moment. Greg, your bride will beat my ass if I let anything happen to you. Let’s get this show on the road.”

  The men made mock-ups and models of compounds they would fly over or around. In support of those unique, top-secret Agency operations, overheads, or satellite photographs from the National Reconnaissance Office or the National Geospatial-Intelligence Agency were provided for operations and mission planning. The photographs were extremely detailed, with levels of granularity and resolution not available from commercial sources.

  During his first op with Lynche and Yoder, Hunter complained of the lack of training aids to conduct mission planning. The fact that they would fly at night, while their practice sessions took place in a well-illuminated room, didn’t sit well with him. He insisted on conducting the tabletop exercises and practice missions with night-vision goggles.

  Lynche balked at first, then he saw the value of training until everything on the mission checklist became routine. The DCI’s senior intelligence officer monitoring the mission planning asked if there was anything else they could to do improve the success of the mission.

  “Yeah,” Hunter said. “Get us a full-motion simulator.” The three men stared at him, thinking he was joking.

  His silence and demeanor conveyed his seriousness. “I know where we can get one. We would just need to upgrade the cockpit and find it a place to call home.”

  Yoder yawned. Lynche was cranky. He asked, “How do you get a YO-3 simulator?”

  “The hard part is acquiring the full-motion platform. Then we need a donor cockpit, but even then, we can make one. Then we need the cockpit updated to resemble the Wraith’s, complete with NVG-capable lighting. Ever hear of EDA? Excess Defense Article is like DRMO for airplanes, ships, and anything huge and expensive—like a full-motion simulator.”

  The CIA handler asked, “Can you give me exactly what you need and a POC? If we get this huge EDA thing, where will it go?”

  As Hunter wrote a dozen bullets and handed the list to the man with the blue badge, he said, “I vote for Schweizer’s. Saul Ferrier has a building capable, and they could do all the cockpit mods and maintenance on the simulator, and he has a SCIF. We could do mission planning there and practice in the sim.”

  The second day of mission planning, as the three men entered the new headquarters building, the security crew stopped Hunter for trying to carry in a custom-built resin model of a Y0-3A on a long wooden dowel, covered by a Wal-Mart bag to hide its unique features.

  Security eventually relented after the DCI got personally involved. Yoder, Lynche, and Hunter passed through the turnstiles with their green contractor badges. “You think maybe one day we can get a large model built and have it hanging up there with its big brother and sisters?”

  The three men looked up. Suspended from the ceiling of NHB’s glass-enclosed atrium were one-sixth-scale models of the U-2, A-12, and D-21 reconnaissance aircraft. The CIA developed the U-2 to collect imagery of the former Soviet Union. The supersonic A-12, built by the CIA to replace the U-2, held speed and altitude records that remained unbroken. The D-21 drone extended the A-12’s capabilities into high-threat areas.

  “Greg, I think your YO-3A would be in good company.”

  Hunter’s quiet airplane on a stick simulated flying over an overhead of the operational target, just like attack and fighter pilots across most militaries did for briefing and debriefing flights. The little model provided enough three-dimensional frame of reference and different viewing aspects.

  “That really is a good idea,” Lynche said later. “You really can plan better with a visual aid and study the contingencies. I guess you can teach an old dog new tricks.”

  “Three cheers for us old farts.” Hunter smiled.

  CHAPTER SIX

  0830 July 13, 1998

  Near East Division Offices, CIA Washington, DC

  Nicholas Lloyd Dolan scanned a month’s worth of weekly reports. The case officer and analyst for Pakistan of Near East Division returned from two weeks’ vacation in Zion National Park, Utah, and found his return to work in McLean unfocused at best. Two cups of black coffee weren’t enough to kick-start the old gray matter into performing real analysis.

  Mondays were always challenging, as reports and dispatches arrived in bundles from the twenty-odd US embassies that submitted them over the weekend. Nick Dolan’s indifference to the dispatches from Pakistan almost ended up at the bottom of a manila file or tossed in the burn bag when he gripped the documents and composed himself.

  Exhali
ng, he said loudly, “Focus, Nick!”

  A cursory glance of the dispatch from the Chief of Station in Islamabad didn’t register anything notable the first time. Upon second glance, though, it was curious. The administrative equivalent of kicking the can down the road, he highlighted the narrative and wrote in the margin in green ink, Check info/send to the FBI & State. Missing from the marginalia was a follow-up by date.

  The dispatch was attached under the signature sheet on the message board. Embassy dispatches are at least classified Secret. That one was considered Confidential, the lowest security classification. The dispatch was fuzzy and blurry coming off the printer, but it was clear enough to read.

  Verify with DOS validity of citizenship of a candidate running for senator in the state of Michigan. Local asset insists the candidate traveled to Pakistan under British passport in 1980s. Previous confirmation the subject met with suspected terrorists, attended mosque and training camp. Local asset had chance meeting with candidate last month in Washington, DC. Candidate now US citizen?

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  1100 October 22, 1999

  US Border Patrol Maintenance Hangar Del Rio International Airport, Del Rio, Texas

  A jet engaging its reverse thrusters was enough to get Duncan Hunter out of his chair and leave his office to investigate. Stepping into the bright sun, he waited until his eyes adjusted before trying to locate the jet. Del Rio didn’t get many jets, as the runway was too short for anything without reverse thrusters.

  When jets visited, they were usually filled with exotic big-game hunters heading for ranches with populations of exotic species of horned animals—ibex, oryx, and whitetail bucks with racks that redefined trophy. A quick check of his Rolex Submariner confirmed he needed food soon.

  Hunter turned to walk back to the hangar when the Chief Pilot pulled his decrepit Ford pickup in front of the pilot’s office and hurried inside.