American Government to legalize and control drug use, or do something to curb demand. Repeal of the prohibition laws eventually stopped the violence in the 1920s and ‘30s when booze smuggling created the same conditions. In the early days of Prohibition, the Americans used the Border Patrol mostly for illegal immigration control, so violence against Agents had been largely avoided. Violence on the Mexican side between warring booze smugglers, however, was similar to the current situation.
The bottom line was that the Mexican government could do nothing more to stop the flow, while trying to protect its citizens. Most public officials in Mexico were either benefiting monetarily from the drug trade or were dead trying to stop it.
Agency Ambush
Shortly after arriving at work, Cybil received a message that Director Vitale was calling a staff meeting. She told Rachael that she’d been summoned. When she arrived down stairs, Jamie Montes was sitting by the table. She hadn’t seen him for a week.
Vitale was agitated and didn’t engage in any of his usual friendly foreplay speaking to his staff. “Okay, you all heard the news about the border agent killed on the Internet. Don’t tell me any of you smart intelligence people didn’t.”
He’d obviously been accosted by someone in authority.
Addressing Rachael first, “Well Ms. DDO of Mexico, et al, tell me what went wrong that got an American butchered on YouTube!”
She wanted to come across the table and grab his necktie but responded instead with restraint, “Sir, what do you think we had to do with it?”
He shot back, “We pay millions a year to the cartel boss in Juarez, and you don’t see! You’re trying my patience, Ms. Aston. If you don’t see it, I’ll damn well find someone who does!”
Jamie Montes had a serious scowl on his face, staring directly at Rachael without saying a word. Several of the people in the room were looking down at the table, but Vitale’s vitriol remained directed at her. He had not been confirmed in his new position yet. He still had enemies in the Senate.
She retorted, “Director Vitale, you and I have discussed this. You know that I’ve been sidestepped since my arrival (looking at Montes momentarily), so I’m not going to accept the responsibility for what goes on under Project Sandcastle.”
Vitale shot back, “Don’t mention specific classified projects here. We aren’t set up for that this morning.”
She continued, “Fine, so let’s talk about the only project in Mexico that has millions of dollars going to Hector Cardenas.”
“Ms. Aston, you have been warned. We will not discuss it here!”
“Mr. Director, we sure as hell will. You threw it in my face with your opening remarks, so it’s on the table.”
Montes remained silent, but was looking less smug as Rachael held her ground. Men commonly misjudged her.
Vitale turned red and started to pound his fist on the table but checked it, looking at Montes, “So what have you got to say about this!”
Montes looked less self-assured when confronted by the Director instead of his boss.
“Well, Sir. As you know, I’ve been in the field meeting with individuals one would logically connect with these acts. On the other hand, my dialogue with them involves fighting the War on Terror, and I’ve never claimed that our efforts were aimed anywhere else.”
Rachael interjected, “You mean that your dealings with these cutthroats are one dimensional? We’re the United States, and these people are getting blood money from us. How can you say it’s not our business?”
Montes looked at her, “Simple. My project is fighting the War on Terror in Mexico. Drugs are not our business.”
She responded in terse language, “Look, you actually help these guys sneak drugs into the U.S. as part of their payment. Don’t you get the moral connection?”
He responded in a relaxed tone, “Why, Rachael. This isn’t me. Don’t personalize it. It’s the CIA. I will not demean the organization by responding to your innuendo.”
She looked back at Vitale saying, “There’s your answer, sir. The CIA is playing a balancing act, aiding the drug trade in exchange for help with the War on Terror.”
He started to speak as she continued, “Frankly, Sir, we, us, seem to be balancing a moral and legal imperative against an illusion of threat of terrorists in Mexico. I, for one, would like to have a complete re-appraisal of our mission objectives under the un-named project.”
Vitale responded, “Uh, this is a fine breakfast discussion, but it’s off the mark. I want to know what we could’ve done, and where the dike cracked.”
Exasperated, Rachael answered, “The CIA does not seem to have appropriate intelligence in Mexico. It’s not our mission, apparently.”
Vitale shot back, “Well, I can’t say that. I’m going to call it a flaw in our management, and something we will correct. That will be all, Ms. Aston.”
She started to speak but Vitale rushed from the room. She planned to talk to Montes in her office, but he quickly exited down a different corridor and disappeared.
Meanwhile, in his office with the door closed, Sandy Vitale made a call from his cellphone to a familiar number. When answered, he said, “We seem to have it under control ... yes, have a pigeon, if we need one.” The call ended with no more dialogue.
Carolyn
Peter was awash with conflicting emotions in the office. On the one hand, he wanted to continue savoring the memory of the night with Rachael. He thought he had a fighting chance to win her back, but it would take time and no more heroics on his part. On the other hand, the border situation for John Stokes was getting worse. He needed to talk to him, but it would be several more hours before he would normally wake up for night duty. He busied himself in the office for a few hours, then his phone rang. He answered, “Major Shields.”
Her voice was weak. “Peter, please don’t tell John I called.”
“Carolyn?”
“I just needed to talk to someone.”
He sat down and turned away from the door, “Sure, anytime, what’s up?”
“Peter, that agent that was cut up on the net, he’s from John’s region. They got attacked night before last night, and some of John’s men were shot. One was taken away. I’m so scared.”
He felt almost as close to Carolyn as John. “What’s he been telling you, Carolyn?”
“Oh, you know. Don’t worry. I’m careful. That kind of stuff. Peter, it’s worse than we thought when he went down there. What can I do?”
He wished there was an answer, “Look, Carolyn. I talk to John pretty often, and it is dangerous down there, but he’s trained and equipped to handle it.” He wished this was enough of an answer, but knew the situation was getting worse.
“Is the Government doing anything to help them?”
“Yes, of course. Everyone in Washington saw the news, too. If John needs anything, he can request it through channels, and you know I’ll do everything within my power to help.”
She was sobbing quietly. “I know. I just feel so helpless. I don’t want the girls growing up without him.”
“Neither do I. I won’t let that happen!” He regretted his outburst, as quickly as he said it but couldn’t get it back. He had just guaranteed his friend’s safety -- something no soldier could do.
“Thank you, Peter. I needed to talk to someone, and you’re the best person I know.”
They ended the call, and he stared at the wall, worried about John but also thinking about the promise he’d made to his friend to watch out for Carolyn if anything happened to him. Between his broken love life and impossible promises, he was digging deep -- again.
The O-Club
Gorman was waiting at the Bar when Stokes arrived. Both wore civilian clothes. He sat down beside his Lieutenant and ordered a beer.
After some short quips about life on post, Stokes asked, “Tell me, Rick, what’s it like in your real job?”
He chuckled. “About like this. I’m a State Trooper detailed in southern New
Mexico. Do a lot of traffic stops of Mexicans who turn out to be illegals or drug smugglers.” He took a quick swig from his beer.
“Any hostiles?”
“Yeah, once in a while. I’ve been at it about three years out of the Corps and probably drawn my weapon about eight to ten times.”
“Ever use it?”
“Not yet. I don’t usually get near anything suspicious without backup. Most of the people I catch are harmless. Sometimes they’re high or drunk and just want to be macho. If they show a weapon or get aggressive, they usually drop it pretty quick with our lights and loud voices. Sometimes we have takedowns.”
“So what do you think? Are these people here on the border the same guys you catch on the Interstates?”
“Most of these are okay, just looking for jobs. But the bad Mexicans are extremely violent -- sadists. I don’t get how humans can be like these guys.
“Yeah, they’re real animals.”
Both officers were drinking quickly, so they decided to go to a table for dinner. Neither one wanted to get drunk in front of the other.
They talked a little about their families. Stokes was older with two girls, and Gorman had only been married for less than a year. They wanted kids, but nothing, yet.
As dinner arrived, Stokes said, “Look, Rick, what can we do to get our guys back?”
Rick asked, “Do you think Washington will help?”
Cutting into his rare steak, Stokes replied, “I don’t know what they can do. There’s no more manpower. We’ve tapped out the military and money for homeland protection. The