Domestic Enemies: The Reconquista (22 page)

“Alex, you need to remember your position, and your area of responsibility in this Field Office.  I want your squad to find out who is shooting at the communication relays and stop it from happening.  That’s it! The Milicia is a New Mexico state matter—and none of our business! They were duly authorized by the
Asamblea
, and that’s the end of it. Anyway, that’s not why I asked you to come in here.”

“Can’t we at least stage a friendly pretext to check some of the rifles’ serial numbers, and find out where they came from?”

“No, we cannot.  Let’s move on.”  Chupatintas sighed deeply, calming down, ritually smoothing papers on her desk, taking off and folding her reading glasses.  “I heard about the custody hearing.  You may not believe me Alex, but I’m highly sympathetic to your situation.  Losing your partial custody…it must be tough on you.  Very tough.  And I want to help you, I really do.  So I’ve arranged for you to fill an open slot in Santa Fe next week, at the bi-annual Southwest Regional Diversity Workshop.  Park Luecking can handle your squad while you’re gone—he’s up to speed on

the radio tower investigation.”

“But, I…”

“No buts.  I already cleared it; it’s a done-deal.  Alex, you could even qualify as a Federal Diversity Instructor—now that would be a terrific bullet point on your next proficiency evaluation!  High marks from the workshop will go a long way to getting you a new hearing from Judge Obregon. A long way.”

She paused, and adopted a quieter, almost conspiratorial tone.  “As it so happens, I know Galatea Obregon.  Socially, you might say.  We work out at the same gym, and sometimes we golf together.  Anyway, I’ve tried to convince her that you’re not a complete Neanderthal.  It was simply inexcusable that you were attacked with a baseball bat at the picnic.  And I said so at the Board of Inquiry, I put it on the official record.”

“Thanks, Frederica.”

“No problem, I was glad to.  But obviously I have no control over the IRS, so if they’re not going to discipline Gretchen Bosch, then it’s out of my hands.  Now, back to your custody problem.  If you get high scores at the diversity workshop, if you qualify as a diversity instructor, that would be a big help.  Maybe you can pick up a letter of commendation, something concrete showing a decisive attitude correction concerning your homophobia.  A little extra credit, if you catch my drift.  If you did, then Galatea—I mean, Judge Obregon—she
might
be open to holding new custody hearings in only three months, instead of six.  This is all informal, mind you, very back-channel…”

“Three months before I see my son again? He’s only five years old!”

“Well it’s better than six months!  You should be grateful.  At least the judge is leaving the door opened a crack.”

“Depending on my ‘attitude correction’?”

“That’s right.  It all depends on you, Alex.  On your attitude.  You’ve been your own worst enemy—you need to get in step with the times.”

***

“You saved us at least a day
getting the rifles ready,” Ramos told her.

“It was simple,” she shrugged. “The newer rifles still had their delivery tags on them.” 

“Well, you’re the one who noticed them.  The rifles were delivered at night, and I never saw them until they were already thrown into that heap. Anyway, I want you to know how much I appreciate it, saving us this time. I’d like to take you out for a nice dinner, if you wouldn’t mind.”  The rifles were now sorted into three categories, neatly stacked in separate adjoining garages.  It was almost 7 PM, and they were pulling down the overhead doors at the mini-storage.

“That would be nice, thank you for the offer, Basilio.”  What else could she say? In spite of his courtesy, she was his prisoner. 

“All of these rifles came from the National Guard Armory,” he said. “They were so old, that it never occurred to us that many of them had never been fired.”

Growing up in a gun store, the M-16’s evolution was well known to Ranya Bardiwell.  “The military switched to the M-16A2s in the 1980s, the ones with the round hand guards and the heavier barrels.  I guess the New Mexico National Guard received one of the last shipments of the old style rifles, and never issued them.”  

Ramos said, “So they’ve just been collecting dust for thirty years.”

“I suppose so.  But why didn’t the Milicia choose the newer rifles, the A2’s?  Why did they give you these old A1’s?”

“You’ll have to ask somebody else—that was a political decision,” he replied.  “The Milicia has official status, that is, we have the full support of
el Gobernador
. The
Asamblea Legislativa
created the
Milicia de Nuevo Mexico
by law, but they couldn’t create much of a budget.  Even after firing the gringo cops and saving all of that money, the budget is still a shambles.  The new money is a joke!  Our troops are barely paid, they receive just a pittance in blue dollars. What really motivates them is the promise of free land, and citizenship for those without papers.  There was no money in the budget for fancy new weapons.  We have to take what we can find, or what is given to us.  What else could the
Asamblea Legislativa
do? They had to create the Milicia, even without a proper budget.”

“What about the National Guard?” asked Ranya.  “Why didn’t Gobernador Deleon just activate the New Mexico National Guard, after the gringo police were fired?”

“Most of the guard is still in the Middle East, and they’re under federal control, so that was never an option.  Somebody had to maintain order and enforce the Land Reform Act, and that’s why the Milicia was commissioned. It’s not a new idea; it’s been very successful in South America.  We created similar ‘popular forces’ in Venezuela and Brazil, after they passed their own land reform laws.  Otherwise, the rich landowners would never give up an inch!  But I’m not sure how Santa Fe decided which weapons we would receive.  I’d like to get some M-203s, the M-16 rifles with the 40mm grenade launchers, but I’m told we can’t have them.  At least not yet! It’s something to do with our official status as a ‘paramilitary police auxiliary’.”  He laughed.  “We’re paramilitary, but we must not appear too military, not for the time being.”

“Can’t you get into the armory?” she asked.  “Couldn’t you just take what you need?”

“It doesn’t work that way, I’m afraid. We have certain… arrangements with the federal agencies.  Cooperative arrangements, you might say.  So these rifles were carried out of an armory without, shall we say, all of the correct paperwork.  That may be the reason why we were given the oldest rifles.  They arrived one night in a rented truck, and that was that.  I’m not sure who approved the transfer.  I don’t know how high up the decision was made, on either side. We just received the rifles, magazines, and ammunition, that’s all I know.  But your discovering that 280 of them were brand new, and unfired…well, that saved us at least a day of preparation. We know that at least these 280 rifles won’t jam, and that they’ll shoot straight.”

She pretended a smile.  “No problem, anything for the people’s cause.” After her firing squad experience, Ranya had decided to wholeheartedly “spout Marxist gibberish” at opportune moments.

“Please, call me Basilio.”

He was at least a very good-looking man, she thought.  She hoped she wasn’t overdoing the eye contact, or coming off as excessively flirtatious. She worried that her acting was too transparent.  “Okay…Basilio.  I know the gringo snipers have been causing problems, from what the Jefe said. He told me about what happened to the bus, yesterday.  Your own men are carrying the short M-16 carbines, and they’re okay for very close fighting, but they’ll be useless if you get attacked from longer range.  You’ll want your Falcons to carry these rifles, these unfired M-16A1’s.  With their longer barrels, they’ll have much greater velocity and range than your carbines.” 

Ranya wanted to give him enough information to appear to be genuine in her desire to improve the Falcon’s combat effectiveness, but she was conflicted on how far to take this.  In reality, the M-16s, with their tiny 5.56mm bullets, would never be a match for the 7.62mm and larger bullets the “gringo snipers” would be firing at them.  Their enemies, with scoped high-powered hunting rifles and other semi-auto military style rifles in 7.62mm, would continue to slaughter the Milicianos from well beyond the effective range of their 5.56mm M-16’s.  She knew this and much more, but she had no desire to impart this information unbidden.  As soon as possible, she planned to escape from Basilio Ramos and his men.  The less she taught them about marksmanship, the better.

They walked from the garages toward the parking area by the mini-storage offices.  Ramos’s four personal bodyguards, with their carbines hanging at the ready from slings, shadowed them in a box formation.

10
 

“Let’s take another car tonight,”
he told her, walking toward a forest green Jaguar sedan.  He held the passenger door open for her, and then went around and climbed into the driver’s seat.  He thought the “Jag” would impress her, and judging by her wide eyes and her body language, it did.  Inside, the plush leather front seats embraced one’s body in exquisite comfort, and the burnished walnut interior was a treat for the eyes.  He tossed his beret onto the dashboard, and ran his fingers back through his hair.

They left the mini-storage with one Suburban in front and another behind, and headed north on Tramway Boulevard.  The sun was low in the western sky across the city, casting deep shadows on the furrows and folds of the Sandia Mountains looming above them to their right.  The little convoy put on their flashing caution lights, and moved swiftly around the sparse traffic and through the red lights with only a pause.

Ramos said, “Perhaps it’s not my position to say so, but you look very nice with your new hairstyle.  I like it.”

“Thank you.  I was afraid that I might look like a boy with it this short.”

“A boy? Not a chance of that!”

“I’m glad to hear it, Basilio.”

“The ladies at the salon did a fantastic job.”

“And I want to thank you for that.  I felt like I was reborn.”

“Oh, you’re very welcome.  It was my pleasure.”  He turned and smiled at her, and she smiled back.  “So, how do you like the car?”

“I love it, is it yours?”

He laughed.  “Not exactly.  The former owner had tax problems with the state government.  Now, the people let me use it.”  

“The people have good taste.  A Jaguar for a Falcon.  It suits you perfectly.”

“Thank you, I agree.  I hope that I will always be able to serve the people in this leadership position.”  He chuckled softly to himself, and switched on the FM stereo.  An old song by Shakira was playing:
Dónde Estás Corazón
. When it was over, Ramos pushed the button to listen to the AM stations, and quickly tuned in to the sound of an Anglo voice speaking English with a cowboy’s drawl.

“Rick Haywood!” he snapped, “Oh, I hate this gringo bastard! He makes me so furious; he makes my blood boil!  Every day he incites the Anglos to resist the land reform, every day he makes insulting jokes about the
Español Solamente
law. He calls our Gobernador ‘Fidel-Deleon’, as if comparing him to the great Castro was an insult!  Haywood is the king of right wing ‘hate radio’ in Albuquerque, but believe me—we’re going to deal with him very soon.”  Then Ramos unexpectedly switched from his Spanish to speaking in lightly accented English.  “Listen Ranya, I hate this guy Haywood, but I like to listen to him sometimes.  I like to hear what the Anglo resistors are planning.  It’s very useful for keeping up with their next moves.  Oh yes, I speak English!  I was raised in Los Angeles; are you surprised?”

“Not at all, you’re obviously very well-educated,” she answered, switching languages in step with him.

“Thank you. Your Spanish is also quite good.”

“You are being generous, Basilio.”

“When we are in private like this, I want to speak with you only in English, okay?  I want to be able to speak English as perfectly as I can, and I don’t get enough practice these days.”

“That’s fine with me.  We’ll speak English together.”

“You know Ranya, I was born in Buenos Aires, but I was raised since a small child in California.  My mother was Larissa Ramos; she was a news broadcaster.  She was on Channel 43 in Los Angeles every night, and she was on Telemundo on the weekends, on an international show.  She was very famous in California, on Latino television.  You know, she came to America when she was only 18, when she was a fashion model.  She was on many magazine covers; she was very popular.  Maybe you heard of her, of Larissa Ramos?”

“No, I’m sorry, I never did.  I was raised in Virginia, and for the past five years…”

“I know…the prison camp.  In Oklahoma.”

“Yes.”

“Well, when she was a fashion model my mother was living back and forth between Argentina, Brazil, Mexico and California.  I had the ‘luck’ to be born in Argentina.  This was just before she moved to Los Angeles, and got her first television jobs.  No big deal, right? That’s what you might think, when you are very young, and your life is like one long party.  My mother was very famous, almost like a movie star.  Very beautiful, very intelligent.  We had a wonderful life, in Los Angeles.  Private schools, tennis and horse riding lessons, our own swimming pool…”

“What happened to her? Is she…?”

“Yes, she’s…she passed away, I’m afraid.”

“I’m so sorry to hear it, Basilio.  Both of my parents are also dead.”

“Do you know what happened, Ranya? Do you know what happened to her? The Jews.  The damned fascist neo-con Jews run that city—they own LA!  My mother was very progressive in her views.  She was a supporter of the people’s struggle in Latin America, and in the Middle East. Especially in the Middle East.  So even though she was on Spanish television, the damned Jews found her, and they had her fired, to silence the truth of her ideas.  The Jews!”  After a minute of silent seething anger, Ramos composed himself, and said, “Only two years after they had her fired, she died from taking too many pills, and too much alcohol.  It was so sad, so sad…  She was only 37 when she died…  Anyway, when I discovered that you were an Arab, I knew that in you, I would find an ally.”