Domestic Enemies: The Reconquista (26 page)

The iron fence wrapped around the side of the property beyond the swimming pool, terminating against a cliff-like part of the slope.  The steep uphill side of the property was not fenced, but it was guarded by at least the one rifleman that she could see.  The same fence ran downhill and in front of the house; she had seen it from the bedroom balcony.  She carefully noted the overall physical layout of the grounds, and the sentry’s locatio.  The present reality, however, was that she was trapped inside of a fenced compound within an exclusive gated neighborhood, which was swarming with armed Milicianos.  If she was caught while trying to run away during a poorly conceived and executed escape attempt, she knew that she would not be given a second opportunity to flee.

When Ramos had finally returned to the house after a training run with his troops, he informed her that they were going to a rifle range to sight in their new M-16s.  He had seemed pleased to find that she was already showered and dressed appropriately.

***

An hour later Ranya was leaving the city,
but she was still a prisoner in every sense.  She was in the exact middle seat of the Suburban that was in the center of the armed convoy.  On this trip, Ramos was accompanied in his command vehicle by other leaders of the Falcon Battalion.  She saw no overt signs of rank, but she could tell by their ages, lack of visible gang tattoos, and complete uniforms that Ramos was with his officers and noncoms.  Only the driver and one Eurasian man in the back, whom she recognized from yesterday, were from Ramos’s personal bodyguard detail.

Ranya was still angry and disgusted, keeping a measured distance from Ramos, avoiding eye contact, doing her best to disguise her feelings as cool professional detachment.  Discussion of the procedures they would use to quickly and efficiently sight-in the 100 rifles competed for the attention of her mind, which otherwise drifted between thoughts of escape, and last night’s activities.  Despite the discomfort caused by her present company and circumstances, she was interested in seeing what the “new” forty-year-old M-16A1 rifles could do in the hands of the Falcons.

Ranya sat between Ramos and a short but powerfully built man about fifty, who had the look of a career professional noncommissioned officer, right down to his bristly gray crew cut.  His woodland pattern camouflage uniform was sharp and crisp; his black jump boots gleamed with a high polish.  They spoke in Spanish.

Ramos asked her, “How long do you think we’ll need, to finish all of the rifles?”

“What kind of range is it? How many shooting positions are there?”

“It was a public shooting range before, but now the public has no need for weapons.  Today it’s the property of state security.  It has, I think, more than fifty firing positions on a two hundred meter target line.”

“Then we can do it in two relays.  Even if we go slowly, I think it will take less than one hour for each relay.  How much ammunition do we have?” Ranya’s use of “we” was deliberate and calculated.

“Don’t worry; we have a mountain of ammunition. A truckload.”

“Well, okay then, first you’ll want to fire a few magazines through each rifle. Aimed or unaimed, it doesn’t matter.  That’s just to smooth off any burrs or defects in the barrels, since they are new and have never been shot.  Then let them cool down, and fire groups of five shots at a very small target, only fifteen meters from the shooters.”

“Fifteen meters?” asked Ramos, skeptically.  “That sounds too close.”

“She is correct, Comandante,” said the sergeant on Ranya’s right side. “This is the best way, for the M-16.  If you try to shoot at a more distant target without first sighting in this way, you may never even hit the paper around the target, and you won’t know which way to adjust the sights. With an M-16, at fifteen meters the bullet strikes exactly where it will also strike at 200 meters.  In the first case, the bullet is still going up, and at the longer range, it’s coming down.  But at both fifteen and at 200 meters, the sights are aimed at the same point where the bullet will hit.  Once we have the rifles sighted in at fifteen meters, it will be easy to hit the targets at 200 meters, and then adjust them more precisely.  Then when the rifles are perfectly sighted at 200 meters, you simply flip the rear sight over to shoot at 400 meters.  The
señorita
knows her rifles—that’s just how we did it in the army.  That would be the Mexican Army, señorita. In the
Fuerzas Especiales
.”

Ramos asked him, “You’ve done this before,
Primer Sargento
Ramirez?  Sighted in so many rifles in one day?”

“Sí Comandante!  Many times!  But never with forty-year-old ‘virgin’ rifles.  And these M-16A1’s are excellent rifles, believe me.  They weigh a full kilo less than the newer model A2 rifles, and these old rifles are true
ametralldoras
, machine guns.  They can shoot either single shots, or fully automatically.  The newer A2s fire only single shots or three rounds at a time.  I never understood why the gringos changed the rifles. They were better before.”

Ranya said, “It was to make them more accurate at longer range, out to about 500 meters.  They have a heavier barrel, with a faster twist to the rifling grooves inside.  And with heavier bullets, the newer rifles are slightly more accurate—but it’s only a small difference. There is nothing wrong with these old rifles.  Nothing at all, as long you have the right ammunition for them, and they are kept very clean.”

The middle-aged senior sergeant laughed. “I heard about the trick you did in front of the
junta
, with that stupid Miliciano’s dirty rifle! You became famous that day señorita, yes you did!  Now the men call you
la ejecutora
, the executioner.  But don’t worry—you won’t find a dirty rifle in the
Batallón Halcón
. These men are all chosen, they are not common trash like they accept in the regular Milicia.  Most of the
Batallón
have served in elite units in their old countries—paratroopers,
fuerzas especiales
…

“And yes,” the sergeant continued, “Some of them may have the tattoos of the
pandilla
s, the criminal gangs, but don’t let that deceive you. They’re excellent troops, or they would not be Falcons—we pick only the best of the best.  Every Falcon is a double volunteer, first for the Milicia, and then for the Battalion. They are all making a clean start in Nuevo Mexico, even the worst
pistoleros
and
criminales
. They are tired of always running, of always being hunted like animals.  You could say that the Battalion is their French Foreign Legion: it’s a chance for a new life!  They are extremely motivated.  Believe me, they keep their rifles very clean, and they obey orders without question.”

“And if they don’t,” added the Comandante, “
Primer Sargento
Ramirez puts his big paratrooper boot right up their ass.  And if they would dare to disobey a direct order, they would be shot.”

“That is the only way, señorita,” said Ramirez, smoothing the brown beret resting on his lap.  “It is harsh, but it is the only way.  Not like in the gringo army, where they permit
maricón
soldiers to sleep with one another, and curse at their officers to their faces.”

Ramos said to her, “This morning while you slept, we ran ten kilometers of the La Luz trail, halfway up the mountain above our battalion headquarters.  Not one man fell behind on the run—they don’t want to lose their Falcon insignias!”  Then Ramos addressed one of his personal bodyguards, seated behind them facing to the rear. “
Camarada
Chino, what does that Falcon badge mean to you?”

“
¡Tierra y libertad
, Comandante
!
  Land and liberty!”

“Yes, yes man, I know all of the slogans.  But what does that insignia mean to you, personally?  What is that badge going to bring you? Speak freely,
camarada
.”

“As you said, a new life, Comandante!  A new name and papers to stay in
Nuevo Mexico
forever, and someday even a house of my own, so that I can have a wife and raise a family.  Yes, it means a new life, a good life, with respect,
con safos
, and nobody can mess with that!”

“And what will you do to keep that silver falcon on your beret, Chino?”

“Anything,
mi Comandante
! Anything at all!”

12
 

Alex Garabanda arrived for the meeting first,
in his unmarked Crown Victoria.  He had the only automobile in the northern part of the Mount Calvary Catholic Cemetery, and no other visitors were in sight on this Wednesday before lunchtime. He parked the burgundy four-door sedan in the shade of a row of leafy maples, on the left side of the narrow asphalt road.  The car was facing out of the graveyard, in case he needed to make a quick exit.  The driver’s side, the gasoline cap side, was toward the trees.

Garabanda kept his windows up and the air conditioner running, even though it wasn’t oppressively hot outside, only in the low eighties.  His tinted windows were closed to make it more difficult to see him, in case anyone was watching.  He had detected no sign of surveillance as he meandered the two miles from the Field Office to the meeting site.  When the new state government’s security teams followed him, they were usually clumsy and obvious, following him openly to send a message of intimidation.  Today he had detected no tail while conducting his SDR, his surveillance detection run.

The hundred-acre
camposanto
was a refuge for the living as well as the dead, a cool green oasis in a dry and dusty city.  The old cemetery was nestled in the southwest corner of Albuquerque’s “Big I,” the intersection of north-south running Interstate 25, and the east-west Interstate 40. Soaring ribbons of concrete weaved and curled atop colossal pillars only a few hundred yards away on the other side of the trees.  The sound of traffic made a steady rumbling background hum.  Surface streets and highway access roads ran beneath the “Big I” in all directions, permitting myriad opportunities for ingress and egress from the neighborhoods around the graveyard, for one versed in their intricacies.  The FBI often stashed witnesses at several of the nearby chain motels on the other side of I-25, and Alex Garabanda knew the area well.

At 11:15 AM, Luis Carvahal’s battered Toyota Celica arrived and slowly passed Garabanda’s FBI “bureau car” going in the opposite direction.  The men nodded subtle greetings through their windshields. The white Celica drove on a short distance, traveled around a loop in the memorial park’s road, then returned and pulled over.  Its front bumper was almost touching the back of the Crown Vic.

The two men climbed out of their cars.  Garabanda slipped on a black Arizona Diamondbacks ball cap and dark sunglasses; he left his jacket and tie in the Ford.  They didn’t shake hands, but stood by their respective vehicles.

Carvahal said, “I’m on fumes, I barely made it here.  I don’t know what I would have done if you hadn’t of been here—there’s no way I could have made it home.  I really appreciate this.  Gasoline is liquid gold these days.”  He was wearing jeans and a navy polo shirt, his curly gray hair was uncovered by any hat.

“No problem,” replied Garabanda. “I can fill up on the Air Force base anytime.  That way I can keep my accounts square with the office, and not attract any attention from the bean counters.  Did you bring the extra jerry cans?”

“I couldn’t.  I’ve got a neighbor lady across the street who watches me like a hawk, and she was home today.  Hell, she’s practically always home.  I have a tenant living in my garage now, so I have to park out on the street.  Then just when I was getting ready to leave, the old witch came over to ask me about the March for Social Justice.  I couldn’t load the gas cans in front of her, so I left them behind.  I guess maybe I’m getting paranoid in my old age.”

“What, is she your ‘block captain’?”

“Something like that.  Fat little commie bitch! When they get around to organizing ‘committees for the defense of the revolution,’ she’ll be
numero uno
in line.  She was the first one in our neighborhood to fly the flag with the star.”  Flying the modified New Mexico flag with the red star inside of the circle at the center of the Zia design, was a sign of support for the Deleon government and its socialist ideals.  The new Zia with the red star was also showing up on bumper stickers, car magnets and ball caps, and of course, it was on the front of the Milicia’s brown t-shirts. 

“You take what, eleven or twelve gallons?” asked Garabanda.

“Eleven, max.”

“Okay, I’ve got the hose ready, let’s do it quick.”  Garabanda had created his own transfer system from three-quarter-inch clear vinyl hose, and a 12-volt fuel pump, which was wired to a cigarette lighter plug.  In a price-controlled economy where there was little of value to purchase with the rapidly inflating Federal Reserve “blue bucks,” it was useful to reward informants such as Luis Carvahal with precious gasoline.  He ran the hose from his own gas tank and passed the other end to Carvahal, who stuck it into the Toyota’s.  A long twisted wire led from the small black pump to the 12-volt plug.

When Garabanda stuck the plug into his cigarette lighter the pump began to whine, and orange liquid filled the clear hose.  Racing air bubbles showed the direction and speed of the fuel’s passage.  The hose and small electric pump lay on the asphalt against their tires, shielded from casual view.  Even if someone drove past, they would not be able to see the operation in progress.  Anyway, in this era of chronic gasoline shortages, “private deals” were common and for the most part accepted as a part of normal life.  That is, unless one’s staunchly socialist neighbor took a personal interest in your private business.

Garabanda asked, “So, how is El Gobernador? How was Tierra Andalucia? At least both of you made it back.”

Tierra Andalucia was a town north of Santa Fe, thirty miles from the Colorado line.  For generations the surrounding area had been a flashpoint of anger and confrontation over the lost “Spanish Land Grants.”  As a part of the 1848 Treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo ending the Mexican American War, these
mercedes
, or land grants, had been promised in perpetuity to the heirs of the families with grazing and hunting rights on them.  During the decades after the signing of the treaty, most of the land grant territory had been lost in swindles, stolen, or was simply absorbed by the U.S. federal government as National Park and National Forest land.  The heirs of many of these original New Mexico land grant families had nursed their family resentments across the generations.  Now, the more radicalized among them were strongly backing the Deleon “Land Reform Act” in hopes of seeing their land rights restored.