Crucial Conversations: Political Reach - Obligations and Permissions
By
Mark Farenbaugh
I was working in the U.S. Embassy in Colombia as part of the Air Force Mission of the US Military Group (USMGP). The year was 2000, and I had been deeply immersed in counterdrug operations that were highly important due to the nature of US politics at that time. Counterdrug operations were well accepted as belonging to the US military mission due to their ability to verify, track, and react. Simply said: To the State Dept, the military is an extension of politics.
Closely associated with counterdrug operations were counter-terrorist operations, but at that time, they were only conducted by the State Department, meaning the CIA. The CIA and the military operated under separate funding authorities, which allowed them to exchange information but were restricted from conducting joint operations unless their mission sets had the approval of the U.S. ambassador.
However, from the Colombian criminal perspective, those two mission elements had no distinct identity; the ever-emergent leaders within the dark world of drugs and terrorism were there for a mixture of power and money. Violence and death always accompanied their efforts and were commonplace.
Our ambassador (Chief of Mission) and her Deputy Chief of Mission kept a close watch on which resource (military or CIA) was targeting which criminal element. Therefore, I stayed in my lane as much as I could unless I was asked to deviate.
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One long day was ending at the embassy compound in Bogotá, and I was moving slowly toward the exit gate when my cell phone rang from an unidentified number.
“Hello,” I answered, not giving my name.
“Is this Lt Col Farenbaugh?” asked a kind and professional female voice.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“This is the ambassador,” said the soft voice. "Mark, where are you?"
“Just departing the embassy at door 2, Madam Ambassador. How can I help you?”
“Oh, that’s good. Could you please come to my office?”
“Yes, ma’am. I’m on my way.”
I turned and stepped up my pace. Ambassadors don’t make direct calls without an urgent need. I knew in the back of my mind that this wasn’t going to be accompanied by pleasantries. It had to be operational, or I knew something the ambassador didn’t, and it couldn’t be voiced over open comms.
My mind raced: Did any of our counterdrug operations drift into counter-terrorism areas?
I entered the ambassador’s front office, where her secretary was smiling pleasantly. “Hello, Colonel Farenbaugh.” She knew me well. “Please go right in, she’s waiting for you.”
I continued to the closed office door, then gently knocked and entered.
“Hello, Madam Ambassador.”
“Hello, Mark. Please close the door.”
I closed the door. The ambassador stood up as I approached her desk. I could see that she was anxious.
“This will take only a minute to explain, but I need you to get to the highest-ranking person in the Colombian Air Force and get permission to allow our CIA aircraft to land at the Colombian base in the Eastern part of La Guajira at Buenavista Air Base.”
She went on to explain that one of the CIA’s observation vans (meaning clandestine spy vans) was attacked by a group of Colombian members of the Fuerzas Armadas Revolucionarias de Colombia (Revolutionary Armed Forces of Colombia – FARC). The CIA was in the middle of an operation and was in a location that was close enough to collect major information needed by the US Embassy to prevent a terrorist attack. The FARC somehow found them and riddled the van with machine guns until all were dead, then departed the area on foot.
The ambassador was livid and directed a quick response. Only the CIA’s death squads could do this, and time was limited for any success. Her intel was that they were headed to the border of Venezuela, where CIA operations might lose them. She needed permission to land some assets as close as possible without letting the (compromised and corrupt) Colombian police forces know; that meant landing them at the Colombian Air Force base.
“I understand, Madam Ambassador. I will immediately head to the CAN (Centro de Administración Nacional – basically, the Pentagon of Colombia), where the Air Force Chief of Operations is still in his office. Will they need to land this evening?”
“Yes, they are refueling in Barranquilla and can take off immediately. Please do your best to get their permission to land and possibly recover there as well. One night only. Their tail number is N122971.” She knew I would need that, but telling me this in her office meant something else.
“I will do my best, ma’am, and let you know.”
“Thank you.”
As I turned to exit, the ambassador spoke again.
“Oh, Mark, would you please leave your cell phone with me?” It was not just a simple request. She didn’t want me to be tracked as leaving her office and heading to the CAN, then returning to her office.
“Yes, ma’am. Of course.” As I placed my cell phone on her desk, I thought of a possible obstacle.
“Ma’am, if the Colombian general denies my request, what response should I give him?” I needed this for leverage, knowing how the Colombian Air Force detested the CIA.
“Tell them that we will give the final three Schweizer aircraft to the police.” Perfect!
The U.S.-built Schweizer aircraft is a special-mission surveillance platform ideally suited for counterdrug operations. It resembles a miniature U-2—much smaller and slower—but can stealthily loiter above a target at 5,000 feet without making a sound. It can remain aloft far longer than the pilots’ bladders can endure. As part of my Foreign Military Sales (FMS) projects, I had already delivered two of the five aircraft promised to the Colombian Air Force.
I turned and departed the ambassador’s office, but decided to stop by the military attaché’s office on my way out of the Embassy compound.
“Hi gentlemen, how are you doing?” I knew they would be there late, since I had once been an attaché and knew the hours were long.
“Hello, sir. How can we help you?” They knew me and wondered if I was there to give them some “material.”
“I am headed to the CAN. May I have a bottle of Jonny Walker?” The attaches have an unlimited supply of alcohol for their representational events.
“We will need a name.”
“Can I give it to you later? In person, of course.”
“Yes, sir. Just let us know.” They had no problem giving me the bottle, since they knew that I knew the rules: Not for personal use.
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I knocked, then entered the front office of the Colombian general with whom I had conducted many counterdrug operations. His very pleasant—and beautiful—secretary recognized me and greeted me with polite salutations.
“Buenas tardes, mi coronel. ¿Cómo está?” Her smile could melt stainless steel.
“Muy bien, Sandra. Gracias. ¿Está disponible el general?” — Very well, Sandra. Thank you. Is the general available?
The Colombians who frequently worked with gringos understood that we are more direct than Latinos, and my arrival at such a late hour was a signal that my purpose was either serious or important. Absolutely no time for flirting.
She smiled brightly and tried her best English. “Please, to enter,” she said, as she escorted me to the general’s closed door and opened it. Her perfect form was, indeed, a distraction.
The general seemed somewhat surprised to see me. He controlled all the radar information in the country and knew there had been no intrusion by a narco target – there was therefore no operational reason for me to be there. Good, he did not hear about what happened in the Guajira.
“How are you, Colonel? How can I help you?” he asked, his eyes drifting to the bottle of whiskey in my hand.
I stepped up to his desk and set the bottle on its corner in silence.
“General, I hope all is well. I have a small problem—we’d like to land a couple of CIA aircraft at Buenavista Air Force base tonight. In fact, as soon as possible. They’ll be taking off and landing periodically and would also need to remain overnight—but just one night.”
The general’s smile turned into a frown. He did not like the sound of it. After a few seconds of thinking, he started shaking his head. “Impossible.”
“Sir, this is an urgent request from the embassy. I do not control the CIA nor any of its operations.”
“No. Debemos mantenernos alejados de la CIA. Está en conflicto con nuestra política.” No. We must keep our distance from the CIA. It conflicts with our policy.
“Sir, I need to emphasize the urgency of this request. If we can’t use your airfield, I’ll have to inform the embassy — and they’ll divert the remaining three Schweizer aircraft to the police.”
His facial expression turned from stern to shocked.
He knew I didn’t have the authority to redirect FMS assets. That would have to come from the ambassador. His eyes focused on various parts of his desk, obviously trying to quickly digest what the risks were, then finally on the desk phone.
Without a flicker of emotion, he lifted the phone and called the base commander at Buenavista. Permission was granted.
He hung up, then looked at me as if realizing he’d never asked me to sit.
“Please, sit down, Colonel.”
“I wish I could, sir, but I’ve got more work to do.” I needed to get back to my cell phone.
I said my goodbyes and left, leaving the whiskey where I had placed it…..hoping the gift would take some of the political sting out of the cards dealt to the general.