Domestic Enemies: The Reconquista (31 page)

“It’s Russian sir.  7.62 by 54, rimmed.  Ten shells, over.”

“What does that tell you, Chino?”  Ramos already knew the answer; he was testing his subordinate’s knowledge.

“Dragunov, sir.  I’d say a Russian Dragunov.”

“I agree. Good work.  Get back here now—we’re not finished today.”

The Russian Dragunov was a semi-automatic sniper rifle issued to Soviet and Eastern European troops during the cold war.  The cartridge it fired was the same fired by many Russian belt-fed machine guns, and was slightly more powerful than the .308 or 7.62mm NATO round.  Different versions of the long, sleek and deadly rifle had been legal to purchase in the USA, before the ban on semi-automatic rifles had gone into effect six years earlier.

“
Teniente
Almeria, do we still have a network connection?  Can you get into the police sites?”  Fortunately for the Milicia, they were still able to access the same law enforcement-only internet sites used by the other New Mexico police agencies.  This was one of the residual benefits of flying the United States flag over the Capitol in Santa Fe…for the time being at least.

“Yes, we’re in the net.”  Lieutenant Almeria had a keyboard on his lap, and a screen in front of him on a flexible bracket mount.

“See if you get any hits on people who owned Dragunovs, or who have purchased 7.62 by 54 ammunition.  Give priority to the western Albuquerque zip codes.”

“I’m already working on it.  This should only take a minute—if we keep the connection.”

Although there had never been a formal law passed creating a national firearms registration database, that minor legalistic hurdle had been bypassed years before.  The same search engine technologies that powered Google and other data mining systems had been converted to law enforcement use long ago.  Although firearms purchase information was not supposed to be held by the federal government, those privacy laws had been superseded by a secret Presidential Decision Directive buried within the third Patriot Act.  Terrorists, it was reasoned, should not get a free pass, merely to ensure the confidentiality of right wing gun nuts.  The complete record of all firearms purchase information was collected and maintained on classified Department of Homeland Security databases.

“No luck, Comandante, it’s not showing any Dragunovs.  Now, wait a moment, here’s another list of Dragunov clones and imitations...  There’s a Romanian PSL, it shoots the same ammunition, and uses a similar ten round magazine.  No, I don’t see any Dragunovs or PSLs still on the list in Albuquerque.  They were all collected and destroyed five years ago, all the ones that were listed in the national data base.”

Lieutenant Almeria cracked his knuckles, stretched, and lit a cigarette.  “So let’s look at ammunition next.  I’m bringing up credit card sales of shooting supplies.  Okay, now here’s a list of ammunition purchases by zip codes…I’m narrowing the field to only 7.62 by 54 Russian.  Got it, here it is.  Now let me overlay this on the map…

“All right, I’ve got twelve ammunition buyers west of the river. Well…look at this.  This fellow also bought four magazines for a Dragunov—the fool ordered them on his VISA card!  Hah!  Now, let me go into the DMV for a moment…and…here’s our man!”  Almeria jabbed the “enter” key with a flourish, and a New Mexico driver’s license and vehicle registration information popped up in a full screen view.  “Guess who owns a Kawasaki KLR 650 motorcycle, and spare ammunition magazines for a Dragunov, and who bought five hundred rounds of 7.62 by 54 Russian ‘sniper grade’ ammunition six years ago?”  Almeria turned the computer screen toward the side window.

“Jan Pieter De Vries?” asked Ramos.  “What kind of a name is that?”

“Dutch, or maybe South African,” replied his commo officer.  “He’s also a member of the NRA and Gun Owners of America, and
ay, chihuahua
!  Look at all of these gun magazines he subscribed to!”

“Well, why don’t we go pay this Mr. De Vries a visit, right now?”

First Sergeant Ramirez, at Ramos’s side, said, “It might be a trap, Comandante.  Bait, to lure us into another ambush.”

“No, it’s too clumsy for that.  His attack was on impulse.  I think someone telephoned him a tip, and he acted on it.  He identified the scout truck and shot it eight times, and then he fired two shots at our lead vehicle to stop our column, and then he fled.  One magazine of ten bullets, and gone.  Good fire discipline—fairly professional.  But now he’s hiding, and his heart is beating like a rabbit’s.  So let’s go see if the rabbit ran home!
Teniente
Almeria, find his house on your electronic maps.  We’ll brief the mission right now.  Maybe we’ll get lucky, and catch this Jan Pieter De Vries before he can make any escape plans.”

“¡Maldita sea!”
swore Lieutenant Almeria.  “I just lost the internet connection!”

“It doesn’t matter now,” stated Ramos, “We have enough information.”

“Here it is,” said Almeria, zooming in on his computer’s map.  “7518 Cuttner Court is right here at the end of the Warner Ranch development, in this cul-de-sac.”  He swiveled the screen toward the open window for Ramos and his gathered lieutenants to see. 

Ramos studied the color map for a minute, and made his plan. “Okay…first stage: we’ll send Gamma Platoon as a blocking force out here almost behind his house, in case he runs out the back.  Then the Zetas will go in the front as the assault team, with Alpha as backup. Beta and Delta will cordon the neighborhood.  We’ve done this many times, the only thing different is it’s daylight, and we’ve never done it so quickly.  Chino, are your Zetas ready for this mission? Do you have your assault bags?”

“Yes, Comandante.  We are ready for these contingencies.  Always.”

“Sir, the helicopter is inbound,” reported one of the other troops in the commo truck.  “It’s two minutes away.”

“All right.  Are the casualties ready to be transported?”

“Yes sir,” answered First Sergeant Ramirez.  

“Good.  Now, let’s get back to the plan.
Sargento
Ramirez…”

The radio crackled again.  “Falcon Leader, this is
Avispa
, over.” It was the pilot of the Milicia’s Piper Supercub, just arriving overhead.

“
Avispa
, this is Falcon Leader, can you downlink your video to us, over?”

“Roger, I’m streaming it now.”

Lieutenant Almeria said, “We’ve got it.”

“
Avispa
, take a look at 7-5-1-8 Cuttner Court Northwest.  Let’s see who is home.”

***

Cuttner Court was like many streets
in the new Warner Ranch subdivision: nice upper middle class pueblo-style homes on half-acre lots. Seen from above, each house in Warner Ranch was a red tile roof.  Like many similar neighborhoods, it was dotted with houses that were frozen in a partial state of construction, dreams which had not been completed when the currency had failed.  Many other finished homes in the area were vacant, “walk-aways” abandoned to the banks by newly destitute owners, and by Anglos who had simply given up on living in New Mexico under the new regime.  The abandoned homes were easily distinguishable from above by their dusty yellow lawns, the rapid result once the daily watering stopped.

The back of Cuttner Court opened onto the broken rocky expanse of Petroglyph National Monument, thousands of acres of ancient volcanic rubble, where prehistoric Indians had left their graffiti on hundreds of stone monoliths.  The twenty Falcons of
Pelotón Gamma
now lay in wait behind Cuttner Court, a hundred yards from the north side of the subject’s back yard, well hidden behind black volcanic boulders.  If De Vries bolted in that direction, even on his motorcycle, Gamma Platoon would take him down.

The little Piper, orbiting soundlessly high above, provided a sharp video picture of 7518 Cuttner Court.  By now, Ramos and his men knew that Mrs. De Vries was still at work, and their two grown daughters had moved out of state.  The presumed Mr. De Vries himself could be seen from above, puttering in his backyard, apparently gardening, or working on his underground sprinkler system. 

His personal information, retrieved by the computer, indicated that he had a lot of time for gardening—he had been laid off from his position as a facilities manager for the University of New Mexico. Mr. Jan De Vries’s master’s degree in mechanical engineering from the University of Johannesburg had not helped him to pass the state’s mandatory Spanish proficiency test with a sufficiently high grade.  He was evidently shown the door, after seven years of keeping the university’s infrastructure humming.

Three blocks from the De Vries residence, Ramos, Ranya and First Sergeant Ramirez sat in the middle seat of their air-conditioned Suburban, watching a laptop’s color video screen.  The perspective on the house constantly shifted as the Piper circled, but the stabilized zoom image was more than adequate to follow the action.

The man they assumed was Mr. De Vries could be seen digging along the rear fence of his back yard, while four Zetas crept around each side of his house. For this suburban mission, the Zetas were disguised as a police tactical unit, wearing black Kevlar helmets, black uniforms, and black body armor. They were carrying their short M-16 carbines, with sound suppressors attached to their muzzles.

There was a chain link fence with a hedge growing along it on the back of De Vries’s property line; beyond it began the vast Petroglyph National Monument.  His back yard was an emerald-green rectangle when seen from above.  Along with a few sparkling blue swimming pools, it was one of a handful of colorful gems scattered at the edge of the desolate brown “high desert.”  On the video, a black dog was briefly seen running to the north side of the backyard, and then it went down, shot by one of the Zetas sneaking in from that direction.  Mr. De Vries jumped to his feet, turning and looking at that side of his house as he drew a pistol from his waist. Then the Piper’s orbital position put Mr. De Vries into the image shadow of a leafy sapling tree for a few seconds, and when he reappeared, he was lying motionless on the ground on his back, with several Zetas standing over him, their M-16 carbines pointing at his head and chest.

Chino’s voice hissed over the radio.  “Falcon Leader—Zeta 1. Subject is down, area is secure, over.”

“Roger Zeta 1, we’re on our way.”

***

When Ramos’s Suburban arrived,
Chino walked down the driveway to greet them, carrying the captured Dragunov rifle as a prize.  The weapon was sleek, with a long slender black barrel extending well out beyond the almost yellowish wood of the fore stock.  The black steel receiver showed a strong family resemblance to the Russian AK-47, except for the long telescopic sight mounted above it, and the square cartridge magazine protruding from the bottom.  The exotic-looking hollow shoulder stock was laminated from layers of yellow and brown wood, with a pistol grip forward and a hollow skeletal frame behind.  The Dragunov was one of the few weapons ever commonly referred to as sexy or beautiful.  There was no mistaking the classic Russian sniper rifle for any other, except perhaps for its Romanian and Chinese cousins.

Chino was sweating profusely in his armor as he met his leader, but he was cheerful, his narrow eyes reduced to slits beneath his black helmet as he smiled.  He passed the rifle to his Comandante, who cradled it appreciatively.  Ramos then shouldered it and peered through the sight, scanning the rifle toward the distant mountains, before lowering it and returning his attention to the Zeta squad leader.  A green off-road motorcycle could be seen in the De Vries’s now-open garage.  It had been hidden behind a folded ping-pong table and covered with a blue plastic tarpaulin, which was now cast aside.

“Where was the rifle?”

“He was trying to bury it. He already had a place prepared under his back fence, but we were too fast for him.”

“Good work, Chino.  Very good work.”

“Thank you, Comandante.”

“Do you know why he was going to bury this rifle under a fence?”

“I would say…to defeat metal detectors.  It’s a steel fence.”

“Very good, Chino, very good.  Say, do you like this neighborhood?

“Yes Comandante, it’s fine.”

“Well, you know what? Maybe we’ll keep it.”

14
 

“Mommy, why can’t I see Daddy?
When is Daddy coming home?” asked five and a half year old Brian Garabanda.  The barefoot child walked across the kitchen and looked directly into his mother’s face from a yard away. Karin Bergen was sitting Indian-style on the speckled terrazzo floor in her gray tracksuit, wrapping china plates in packing paper, after removing them from a cabinet under the counter.  The dinner set had been a wedding gift, a decade ago.  “It’s complicated, Bri-bri. It’s a grown-up problem.” 

Little Brian pondered this new concept for a minute while she continued packing, and then he said, “Well, I think it’s a kid problem too. I want to see Daddy!  I miss my Daddy!”

“Oh, sweetie, right now you can’t see Daddy.”  She didn’t return his gaze, but continued wrapping dishes.  Both of them had sky-blue eyes and medium blond hair—an accident of fate, not genetics.

“Why not, mommy? Why not?”

“Because…”

“Because why?”

“Because a judge said so.”

“A judge? What’s a judge?  Judges are stupid!”  Brian quickly reached over and snatched up a bone china teacup and then threw it down hard, shattering it on the kitchen floor.  A dozen large and small shards skittered across the room.