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Monday morning was a different story. My State Department cell phone was ringing at 0600.
All the powers wanted to come and talk with the five this morning. I guess asylum was not out of the question if the stakes were big enough and the information was valuable enough.
I fed them breakfast pancakes, waffles, steak and fruit with ice tea, orange juice and lemonade, along with today’s issues of the Iran and Pakistan papers.
All the big wigs arrived and after I gave the introductions, I went into the back to allow them to discuss whatever. I worked on the computer for an hour before I needed to leave to go to the office. I sent a text to one of the security men to come and stand guard and put them back in their cells after the VIP’s left.
Back at the office I met with Andy on the security zone; it would be ready to go in thirty days. We went over the final details for closing the border between Tijuana and California for traffic returning to California.
We decided on thirty days because we had seven hundred and fifty men and ladies that had been working 24/7 for a month. They needed a break; many needed to see their wife and kids or girlfriends. I decided to send them home for two weeks R&R with hazard pay to continue. Andy agreed and started putting the plan in motion.
The other five hundred men would maintain the patrols and keep security at the established camp sites, move several of the camps and set up the new camp at Tijuana. Once that was done they would get two weeks off. Then the security zone would go in full swing and the last pipeline would be started.
I had just finished my planning with Andy when the powers called wanting me to come back to the Fort Smith jail. It only took a few minutes to go back there.
‘‘We have had some productive talks and therefore a lot to review. We need your assurance that you will take no action against these men until we look at their request and what they are offering,’’ Secretary of State Dick James said.
‘‘Are you agreeing to paying all costs related to their stay from today on?’’ I asked.
‘‘Yes, I can authorize that,’’ Dick James said.
I closed the doors to the jail, ushering the group to the office for a private conversation.
‘‘So you are going to grant them asylum?’’ I asked.
‘‘It’s not a sure thing yet, we have to evaluate everything they are offering with what they want. You know the game. The biggest thing is their wives and children; Iran would be brutal to them,’’ Bob Smith said.
‘‘They want us to try to get them out but we think that is all but impossible,’’ Art Cummins said.
‘‘Let me think on it a while to see if I can pull any rabbits out of my hat,’’ I said.
The conversation was over so I locked the jail and went back to the office. Robert had texted me while I was finishing up with Art.
‘‘I have located two areas that look like they are manufacturing plants for a lot of the drugs shipped north to the US. Both are close to the Guatemala border near Tapachula.”
‘‘I used thermals from an intelligence satellite. The temperatures increased three hours after truck loads of coco leaves were delivered, usually before dusk each day. Another indicator was there is a tributary that leads to the ocean. There were reports of cartel boat works and shops there that are building the semi-submersible boats that are being used and that cartel cigarette boats and the semi-submersibles have been seen in the river,’’ Robert said.
‘‘I don’t think our contracts with Mexico can be stretched to go that far,’’ I said.
‘‘But then again, who knows. Keep digging,’’ I said.
Another week went by with no word from the powers as to what the plan was for the Iran five. I did make several trips to the jail myself and asked a few questions about their family members, basically children and wives. We had a long talk - they asked if I had heard anything from Washington.
‘‘We have a saying here, ‘It’s above my pay grade,’ that means I am not included in those conversations,’’ I said.
‘‘From your prospective the longer it drags out the better the outcome may be for you,’’ I said.
It was the first week of November, three weeks to Thanksgiving. The geese were flying. The girls and I had picked up our hunting licenses with all the stamps a few days ago. All of us were looking forward to the season this year; it was one more thing we could do together.
It wasn’t the cold freezing blinds of yesteryear. They now had gas heaters and pumps to keep them dry. The VIP friends that had been invited to go goose hunting needed a good experience, not freezing to death.
I remembered as a kid hunting with Dad and standing in knee deep water that was so cold it had ice forming on the top.
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B J Jones the Story of My LifeChapter 108
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