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     By the middle of spring, 1973, World Associates had purchased a new Cessna 172, modified it as a Sky Sentinel, and was demonstrating it for various law enforcement agencies around the country – prompting the Albuquerque Police Department to place an order for one.

     Albuquerque PD’s Special Purpose Vehicles.

     About this same time Hugh C. McDonald’s brother-in-law, who had retired from the U.S. Border Patrol, arranged for the Sky Sentinel to fly a two-week test for the USBP in the San Diego area.

       I got tapped to perform this test, and moved our demonstrator-aircraft down to Brown Field Municipal Airport – five miles inland from the coast, 13 miles southeast of San Diego, and 1.5 miles north of the US/Mexican Border.

     Brown Field looking east. The white dots with circles mark the border.

  

        Brown Field looking NW. Note the Pacific and San Diego Bay.    

     The madhouse Port of Entry at San Ysidro.

     I was assigned to the San Ysidro Substation, and I reported for Night Watch briefing, or “Roll Call,” on the 5^th of June 1973.

     Alright, dear reader, before you walk into this ‘briefing’ with me there’s a couple of points you need to be aware of:  

     Prior to 2003 the Border Patrol was a part of the INS (Immigration and Naturalization Service) and we referred to them as Border Patrolmen.  Since 2003, and the big facelift, they’ve become Border Patrol Agents.

     In 1973, along this section of the border, the Border Patrol was operating Piper Super Cubs – a tandem, two-seat, fabric-covered airplane. 

     The real horror was discovering that they weren’t using any observers!  The pilot was required to both fly and observe – dropping down to 50 feet in order to “cut trail” (check for fresh tracks)!  Needless to say one man can’t perform this task.  Therefore they had experienced many accidents, such as stalling out the wing with no room to recover – thus smiting the earth - and tangling with barely visible microwave towers or high transmission lines.  Because of this dangerous enterprise they were restricted to day-time operations only, which rendered the aircraft fairly useless since the majority of illegal foot-traffic crossed the border at night.

     At the time I didn’t fully appreciate what was going on – but all the clues were there – this entire operation was designed for failure.

     When I showed up for that first Roll Call, I had previously worked with thirty-six law enforcement agencies; being exposed to the worst and the best.  Right off the bat I could see this agency was in trouble.  The room was filled with zombies - patrolmen merely going through the motions – their morale at snake-belly level.

     Earlier that day the U.S. Border Patrol assigned one of their own as my observer.  His name was Stan (I’ve forgotten his last name) but I remember he was a lanky 36-year-old, with balding sandy hair, who proved to be enthusiastic about trying out the Sky Sentinel.  Being a quick study, he easily checked out on our communications system, searchlight and PA system. Stan was also a Vietnam Vet and had a lot of air-time in Hueys as an observer.  Therefore he was no stranger to the air, and I didn’t have to worry about him becoming “Alice in Wonderland,” once I got his butt off the ground.  He was also a 13-year veteran with the agency – thoroughly familiar with the area we intended to patrol – and spoke fluent Mexican-Border Spanish.  

     We also made a dry-run that same afternoon of the patrol area, as I was interested in locating any obstacles protruding above the earth’s surface that was abnormally high and unlit.  I was pleased to find, that as long as we maintain 1,000 feet above ground level, we’d easily clear all hazards.

     Border Marker.    

    At this period the flimsy border fence was pretty much a joke.

     

          Where the border fence ends in the Pacific.

     The country we were to patrol along the border was mostly empty desert with bluffs, gullies and gnarly brush.  What caught me off-guard though, was the number of footpaths I found all basically going from south to north.  The terrain was laced with them!  At present they were all empty – indicating to me that one great mob of people was passing through here at night.

     God A’ mighty, dear reader, it looked as though Moses and the children of Israel had been going through there!

      The footpaths marked in white.     

     Further along the border I discovered more footpaths.  

      “Hey, Pete...” Stan called on the interphone from the rear observer’s seat.

     “Yeah, Stan,” I transmitted from the pilot’s seat.

     “This setup back here with the extra windows is amazing.”  Stan elaborated, “I’ve got a swivel seat which allows me to actually face what I’m observing, instead of always having to twist at the waist like in a helicopter or the Piper Cub.  I’ve easy access to the communications unit, searchlight, PA system, optics, a desk to write on with my own set of flight instruments, hot coffee, water and something to pee in...I mean it’s really comfortable back here.  Man, I could do this for hours!”

     We each had a “pot to piss in.”

     “We aim to p-please, Stanley, I’m so happy you approve,” I chuckled.       

     Then Stan had an afterthought, “Hey, Pete...ya know what I should bring tonight?”

     “No...what’s that?”

     “This would be a perfect setup back here for a starlight scope.”

     “Jesus, Stan, c-can you really get one of those things?”

     “Oh yeah...I got a buddy in stores that owes me.”

     The night vision Starlight Scope MX-7794B/TVS-2B

          What the Starlight Scope can reveal in a pitch-black environment.

     As I said before, dear reader, Stan was a quick study and a Vietnam Vet; thank the U.S. Army.  He had previously used starlight scopes from the air in “Nam.”  As you shall see, Stanley saved my bacon.

     After reconnoitering the patrol area, we returned to Brown Field and went for a late lunch.  Stan took me to the best little Mexican restaurant on the border.  Like truck drivers, cops always know the best places to eat.  The shredded beef, green enchiladas and chili rellenos were the best I’ve ever had.  We also got a half-dozen shredded beef tacos to go.  This would be our “dinner” on the Sky Sentinel that night.

     After Roll Call, Stan and I sacked-out on couches at Brown Field’s Executive Lounge until it got good and dark.  We planned on flying till dawn the next morning – it was going to be a long night.

     We finally launched our patrol a little after 8:30 P.M.  I flew directly to the coastline - then headed inland towards the east as I paralleled the U.S./Mexican Border.  Out the left side of the Sky Sentinel, Stan and I had a perfect view of the patrol area.  Beyond, to the north, we could see the lights of San Diego’s City Limits. 

     And out my right window I could see the blazing lights of Tijuana, across the border, to the south.

     Looking down at the empty patrol area, 1,000 feet below, was like staring into a great black abyss.  From the backwash light of the two cities we were flying between, I’d get a sense of desert scrub and gullies, but just the merest hints.  I glanced over my shoulder at Stan, seated behind me at the observer’s station.  He had kept his word and snagged us a starlight scope.  Already he had the scope up to his eye.

     I don’t think we were in the air ten minutes, when we approached an area of fairly steep bluffs and deep gullies, east of San Ysidro, when Stan piped up on the intercom:

     “Holy Toledo...I got me six...no eight...Christ, hold on. No...make that eleven...single file on a foot trail!”

     I had to take Stan’s word for that, dear reader, for all I could see was black abyss.

     Then Stan added, “Hey, Pete, could ya give me a gentle turn to the left...I wanna stay on station.”

    So I smoothly rolled the Sky Sentinel into a slight, 15-degree, left bank. 

     “How’s that, Stan?“ I asked.

     “Excellent, Pardner, keep it just like this.”

     Then I heard Stan transmit on our FM Radio to the ground units, to set up an ambush.  All we had to do now was circle and wait, during which Stan made the following remark over the interphone:

     “Well I’ll be a sonaofabitch.  I can make out the coyote in the lead...damn...none of them are looking up.  They don’t hear us.  I love this stealth mode, Pete.  Honestly, it’s like being invisible!”

     I smiled to myself at his observation, remembering the first time I had experienced the same thing.  Since I wanted us in “stealth mode,” I had previously switched off our navigation, rotating beacon and strobe lights.  At present we were truly a “ghost ship” in the night – running totally silent and unseen.

     After what seemed an eternity one of the ground units informed us in a whisper – so the approaching “illegals” wouldn’t hear – that they were finally in position for the ambush.  Stan advised that he had both the ground units, plus illegals, in sight and to standby.

     “Where the hell are you guys?  We can’t see or hear the airplane,” one of the ground units transmitted in a whisper.

     “Relax...we’re right on top of you,” Stan assured him.

     Two or three more minutes ticked by, and then Stanley surprised everybody...including me!  He switched on our searchlight!  Wow!  A solid beam of daylight came out of the night sky and lit up all eleven illegals, in single file, on the foot trail.  For the first time I could actually see the ground and the suspects.  Unlike the helicopter’s “Nightsun,” that vibrates spastically, our “Locator’s” circle of light was rock-steady; giving the ground units their cue to move in.

     Stunned by the light, the illegals broke up their single file. Note the coyote in the red jacket.

     My first impulse was to apply power and climb - for I fully expected the illegals to split in eleven different directions – requiring me to increase the size of the searchlight’s beam with more altitude.  However, it was a good thing I hesitated – since what happened next thoroughly amazed even me.

     “PLACE YOUR HANDS BEHIND YOUR HEAD AND DROP TO YOUR KNEES!  OR YOU WILL BE SHOT!”  Stan broadcasted on our dual PA system in perfect Border-Spanish.

     And I shit you not, dear reader, that’s exactly what all eleven illegals did!  Talk about shock and awe!  Stanley was the sharpest tool in the shed!

     During its test phase, several times I’d previously been on the ground and heard the Sky Sentinel’s dual PA system from 1,000 feet overhead.  It always reminded me of what Moses must have heard at the “burning bush.”  But in this case, who knew God was a Mexican?

     I saw the ground units come out of hiding and calmly handcuff the illegals with plastic ties, then rope them together caravan-style, and hike back up to where the van waited to transport them.

     Throughout the rest of that night, Stan and I repeated this scenario again and again and again and...well, you get the idea, dear reader.  By the time the sun rose, I had lost count of the number we had bagged.

     Returning to my motel room at Brown Field, I wolfed down my last cold taco - followed by an icy Carta Blanca – shaved, showered and collapsed into bed.  Around 3:P.M. my phone woke me up.  Stan was coming to pick me up for Roll Call.

     At the briefing, I confronted some startling revelations.    

     Firstly: The “zombies” were gone!  These men swapped patrol stories from last night, smoked, drank coffee, laughed heartily, and made it very clear they couldn’t wait to get out on patrol.  Their morale was back and infectious.

     Secondly: When the sergeant gave his briefing, I was informed that last night we had bagged 134 illegals and set a new record!  The arrival of the Sky Sentinel had made this possible - which was the ignition of their high morale – finally the men had a tool that actually made a difference. 

     Thirdly: This unusual number of illegals had swamped their holding facilities – requiring the U.S. Border Patrol to lease a secured warehouse, from the U.S. Navy, for the overflow.  This last bit of news was met by cheers!

     After another great Mexican meal, and some sack time, Stan and I launched in the Sky Sentinel for another long night covering parts of two “Watches”: Night and Morning.  We repeated last night’s performance by nailing group after group after group of illegals.  However, the communications and response time by the ground units seemed much smoother and quicker.  The troops were learning how to use this new airborne tool to their best advantage.

     At Roll Call the next afternoon, I learned from the briefing sergeant that we had rounded up 186 illegals the night before – breaking our previous record! I additionally learned that in amongst these illegals they discovered cartel drug-mules with backpacks stuffed full of drugs.  We had stopped drugs worth tens of millions of dollars from entering the States.  Plus we had rounded up numerous felons wanted for theft, trafficking, rape and murder.  All in all an outstanding night!  

     After the briefing a grizzled, 23-year veteran walked up to me and placed both hands on my shoulders – looking me square in the eye.  I was in my World Associates’ dark-blue jumpsuit - which stood out like a hooker in church among all that room full of khaki – making me fairly easy to spot. 

     “Just wanted you to know,” the grizzled vet began, “that I never thought I’d see this day.  Goddammit...with a fleet of your little airplanes we could actually stop this flood of illegals.”

     Then his voice cracked...and I observed his eyes well-up.  Lost for words, he shook his head - then walked away as he wiped his eyes.

     I also got a big lump in my throat, dear reader.

     At that precise moment, someone tapped me on the shoulder.  I turned and came face to face with the watch commander - a heavy-set White male in his early forties, with thinning hair and wire-rimmed spectacles.  At first I fully expected a pat on the back and a hearty “well done,” like he had given me at yesterday’s briefing.  But then I noticed his hang-dog demeanor, along with body language that indicated his shoulders were bearing the weight of the world.

     Oh, Christ...what have I fucked up now?

     Without a word passing between us, he motioned for me to follow him.

     We entered his office down the hallway – he closed the door and indicated for me to sit.  Standing behind his desk, the captain moved some files around – stalling – apparently phrasing in his mind what he had to say.  He refused to sit...or look me in the eye.

     Now I’m really worried, dear reader, and began to fidget in my chair.

     At last he dropped the file, leaned forward - placed both hands flat on his desk – and looked me in the eye.  Apparently he decided to give me both barrels.

     “Pete...” he cleared his throat, and continued, “you won’t be going on patrol tonight with the Sky Sentinel.  I received a phone call today from my superiors in Washington...directing me to cancel the test.”

     It was like being gut-shot!

     “C-Christ on a cracker, Captain...w-why?”  I began.  “If I’ve done something to o-offend you or anyone here at the agency...please t-tell me what it is and I’ll make amends.”

     The captain held up his hand – stopping me – and collapsed into his big swivel chair.  He removed his glasses and began to clean them.

     “Pete...it’s got nothing to do with you,” he said.  Then dropped his glasses on the desk and looked at me.  “As has been pointed out to me by my superiors...it’s Wall Street.”

     Now I’m really in the dark.

     “W-What has Wall Street got to do with law enforcement?”  I blurted out.

     The captain sighed, and then added, “In this case...everything.”

     “Captain, I’m just a h-humble pilot...a throttle-jockey,” I elaborated.  “I haven’t a c-clue as to what makes Wall Street tick...let alone how it has any p-power over the U.S. Border Patrol.”

     “Okay...fair enough,“ the captain began.  “Who runs our government?”

     “Well...I’m told it’s our elected r-representatives,” I replied.

     “So when an ‘elected representative’ runs for office what’s the first thing he goes after?”  The captain asked.

     “Voters?” I surmised.

     “I disagree,” said the captain.  “It’s money...and lots of it...to run their campaign for voters.  And if they can cut a deal with the Devil...getting Wall Street to back them...having that kind of serious money behind them...they’ll breeze into office.  But once in office Wall Street will demand its pound of flesh.”

     “So w-what’s all this got to do with the Sky Sentinel?” I asked.

     “You designed your little airplane too well, Pete,” the captain explained.  “It’s outperformed our wildest dreams.  With a fleet of these birds patrolling from the Pacific to the Gulf Coast around the clock...I don’t have to be a psychic to see we’d stop our illegal alien problem dead in its tracks.  If I can see it...so can the fat cats on Wall Street...and it’s making them very nervous.”

     “Why in hell s-should they be nervous?” I asked naively.

     “Because you’re little airplane threatens the cheap slave-labor that supports American agriculture and industry.”  The captain replied, heaving a sigh, leaning back in his big chair and placing his hands behind his head.  “In other words, Pete, your airplane will be cutting into those fat cats’ bloated bonuses and golden parachutes.  And just as sure as shit runs downhill, Wall Street has already leaned on members of the government, to lean on my superiors in Washington, to shut the Sky Sentinel down ASAP.”

     Heaving another sigh, the captain opened a drawer, took out a cigarette and lit up. 

     I knew he was trying to quit, dear reader, which made me feel a bit guilty. 

     Watching his smoke rise to the ceiling, without looking at me, he said almost absently, “They gave me a choice, Pete.  Either shut your airplane down...or forget about my pension and start looking for another line of work.”

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     Later that night, as I flew solo up the Southern California Coast, returning the Sky Sentinel back to its home base at the Santa Monica Airport, I had a lot of time to absorb this stunning event.  The weather was good, the night was clear, and I marveled at all the dazzling lights of city after city jammed up against the various beaches.  It helped ease the shock a little.

     But as I said before, dear reader, all the clues had been there.  I had simply chosen to ignore them.  Everything about the U.S. Border Patrol was designed for failure.  Today, as I write this in the 21^st Century - according to the Discovery Channel – nothing has really changed.  They’re now using Quad bikes and Black Hawk helicopters (like killing a gnat with a hammer) all designed to make a lot of racket; giving the illegals plenty of warning and time to hide.  Not once has it occurred to them to use stealth in the dead of night – locating and surprising their suspects.  And so the flood of illegals continues across the border to meet Wall Street’s insatiable greed.  God help the beleaguered American taxpayer – who, in the end, always gets stuck with the bill.

      Say goodbye, dear reader, to American values and culture.

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