AN INTEL AIRCRAFT INTERCEPTED THE CALL and immediately transmitted coordinates to Mafnas, who trained cameras on the target and then fired imagery to Gary, who called Pinzon. It was a hot lead, Gary told the Colombian commander. He should order the Search Bloc to strike.
But Pinzon seemed bored by it all. “We get leads all the time,” he told Gary. This one would be another dry hole like the rest. Hours passed as Pinzon sat on his hands. When he finally ordered his men to move, it was only because Gaviria called and intervened. Even then, Pinzon’s response wasn’t so much a strike as a slow-motion farce that crawled loudly up the hill where the cordless call carrying Escobar’s voice had come from. A deaf drug lord could’ve heard them coming. And surprise: When the Search Bloc found Escobar’s hideout, Escobar was gone.
Gary was livid. He called me to vent his frustration. “I don’t think this guy has any intention of going after Escobar. I’m not sure whether he is scared or on the payroll.”
The next day, new phone calls generated a new fix and a new opportunity for a strike. Instantly, Gary asked Pinzon to start prepping for a raid. Pinzon initially agreed, but again showed no signs of action.
Again Gary called me. “This mission ain’t gonna go.”
“Why not?” I said.
“When it looked like Pinzon wasn’t moving again, I went to his house. He answered the door in his pajamas.”
From that day on, we hung Pinzon with a new nickname: “Pajamas.” And after that, there was more discussion about whether he was on the take. In the end, we gave him the benefit of the doubt and decided he was more likely a coward.
On the third day, we brought the P-3 down from SouthCom to do some pinpoint geo-locating. So the citizens of Medellin wouldn’t spot it, we directed the aircraft commander to orbit above ten thousand feet. But at that altitude, the geo-locating gear wasn’t returning precise coordinates, so Busby decided we should bring the bird lower. Somebody saw it and the next day, a Miami paper helpfully ran a headline that went something like “U.S. spy planes flying over Medellin.”
SouthCom went nuts. The J-3 called me, machine-gunning questions: “What were you thinking?” “What was the purpose of lowering the altitude?” and my personal favorite, “Who authorized you to direct that aircraft to fly so low?”
“Ambassador Busby,” I said, playing my trump card.
“Well, the P-3 is outta there. We’re ordering it back to Panama.”
“You’ll have to talk to the ambassador about that.”
At that moment, I was grateful Busby was the kind of man he was. Between Pinzon, the reluctant Search Bloc and SouthCom’s constant mothering, I already felt like a pinball, and the mission was only three days old.
Busby prevailed. We were able to keep the P-3 as long as it stayed high. During the first week, the SIGINT kept rolling in. Several times we tried to get the Colombians to launch assaults, but they wouldn’t. We couldn’t blame them entirely. Many had seen friends and family members die on Escobar’s orders.
About halfway through week two, the SIGINT dropped off completely. Human intel also dried up. Escobar either went underground or fled. We decided we’d better concentrate on turning the timid Search Bloc into a more formidable force.