Domestic Enemies: The Reconquista (32 page)

Karin turned and grabbed the straps of his denim overalls, and shook him, his head snapping.  “What’s the matter with you? That was part of a set! Damn it!  You’re going to clean that up, mister!”

Brian burst into tears, and buried his red face in his little hands. Karin softened, and hugged him against her shoulder, rubbing his back.

“I’m so sorry sweetie, I am so,
so
sorry.”

Between wracking sobs, he wailed, “I don’t wanna go to Sandy Eggo! I don’t wanna see a killer whale called Shampoo!  I wanna see my Daddy! I hate Mommy Gretchen!  I hate her!  I already have a Mommy!  Why can’t I see my Daddy? Why?”

***

If the battalion felt any great degree
of sorrow or regret for the loss of their three comrades in the sniper ambush, they managed to hide their lamentations more than adequately, while chasing a soccer ball around the field with raucous abandon.  It was Beta Platoon versus Gamma, shirts versus skins, with both teams wearing their camouflage BDU pants and boots.  They had returned to the
Batallón Halcón’s
base an hour after the ambush, and the subsequent immediate-action raid on Mr. Jan De Vries’s house.  Perhaps the swift revenge taken against the Anglo sniper had erased some of the sting of losing their comrades. 

In any event, the Scorpion casualties had come from Alpha Platoon, the remaining members of which were currently licking their wounds and commiserating in their dormitory barracks.  Their dead and injured had already been airlifted to the UNM hospital.

Ranya marveled at their base, the former New Mexico Academy, previously an ultra-elite college prep boarding school.  It was located in northeast Albuquerque, only two miles from Basilio Ramos’s mansion in the Sandia Heights.  The academy was a lush 200-acre oasis enclosed by high walls, and surrounded by calm tree-lined suburban neighborhoods. Now, instead of preparing the children of New Mexico’s wealthiest families for college, the academy was home to the Falcon Battalion.

The officers sat on wrought-iron patio chairs drinking cold beers from an ice chest, in the shade of a long row of maple trees.  Their brown berets and cigarette packs lay on the glass-topped tables.  The sleek and deadly Russian Dragunov rifle, which had been captured on the raid, was passed from one leader to another to be examined and admired.

Across the sports fields, five miles away to the east, the Sandia Mountains presented a suitably dramatic backdrop.  The small group of Falcon leaders was gathered behind the former headmaster’s brick residence, where his back lawn merged with the complex of sporting fields. They watched their troops playing soccer and discussed the day’s events, from the rifle range, to the one-man ambush and the ensuing raid, which resulted in the gringo sniper’s death.

Ranya had not been specifically invited to join them, neither had she been given any other instructions, so she sat near Basilio Ramos, on his right side.  She didn’t partake in their discussions, which were conducted in Spanish too rapid and colloquial for her to follow in detail.  Wearing dark wraparound Oakley-style sunglasses, she was able to discreetly study the men around her, or tune them out, as she chose.  

She was confused by Basilio’s on-and-off, hot and cold reaction to her.  Ranya marked it down to his shifting priorities—when he was with his mini-battalion, she was an unneeded accessory.  When he needed a rifle expert, he would call upon her.  Now, amidst his subordinate officers, her function seemed to be purely ornamental.  She was el Che’s current
amiga
, a living, breathing symbol of his alpha-male macho supremacy.

Today at least, she was able to pop open her own can of Tecate beer, and not worry about something being slipped into it.  After her experience with the strawberry margaritas, she had decided that she would not drink anything which did not come directly out of a tap, or which she had not opened personally.

A wooden gazebo on the former headmaster’s back lawn had been enclosed with wire mesh and converted into an aviary.  Inside, a raptor was perched on a T-shaped stand, tearing with its cruelly-hooked beak at the remains of a small furry creature pinned in its talons.  The reddish-brown bird was probably a Harris hawk and not a falcon at all, Ranya decided. No doubt a battalion mascot—and another decorative prisoner like herself. Was the bird ever allowed out for hunting, she wondered?  If the hawk was allowed to fly free, would it return to a master’s gauntleted hand? Or would it disappear forever, back into the wild?

Four of the Zetas, including Chino and Genizaro, sat at a separate table thirty feet behind the Falcon leaders.  Ranya noted that they were sipping non-alcoholic soft drinks.  They were once again wearing their tan combat vests, with their carbines resting close at hand.  Even within the walls of the academy, Basilio’s security detail was plainly taking their duty seriously.

The conversation among the leaders alternated between animated commentary on the soccer game, and an informal after-action debrief of the day’s activities.  It was decided that in the future major battalion convoy movements should be accompanied by the Piper or another aircraft overhead, equipped with video and infra-red cameras.  The consensus was that the isolated sniper and his motorcycle would have been ferreted out by an aircraft on patrol, or even by a UAV drone if one was available.  An aircraft waiting on the ground even five minutes away was too slow in its reaction time to be of any use in warding off danger.

Ramos and his subordinate leaders spent several more minutes discussing the need for more airplanes and helicopters to be tasked in support of the battalion.  The fuel for the extra flying hours this would demand would have to be found, somehow. Ramos assured his lieutenants that he was going to personally take the matter to his superiors, and demand they be provided the airplanes and helicopters they needed in order to conduct their missions properly.  Their Spanish was fast, diversely accented and full of colloquialisms Ranya couldn’t catch, but the gist of their discussion was perfectly clear.

They also discussed the merits of confiscating the houses on the culde-sac in Warner Ranch, where the sniper Jan De Vries had been killed. Most of the houses were already vacant or still unfinished, and the cul-desac had potential as a battalion stronghold in far western Albuquerque.  It would benefit battalion morale to begin providing selected troops with concrete, tangible rewards for their efforts toward the liberation of Nuevo Mexico.

Ranya sipped her cold
cerveza
in silence, hiding her thoughts behind her dark sunglasses, brooding.  She was getting nowhere. Her son was only a few miles away, and she was stuck, trapped, a virtual prisoner. When the attention of the group turned to the soccer field, after a bold takeaway and a fast race toward the distant goal, she leaned in towards Basilio Ramos, and said, “I need to speak to you.”

“What? Go ahead.”

“In
private
,” she replied, so that only he could hear.

“Eh? Oh, yes.  Come on, let’s go for a walk.  I’ll show you around our new Falcon Academy.” He picked up his brown beret from the table, put it on and carefully adjusted it, and they left the informal officer’s assembly.  The four Zetas rose at the same time, slinging their carbines to hang in front at the ready.  They spread into a wide box, the four corners a hundred feet from their Comandante.

Once they were alone (except for his ever-present shadows), Ramos switched to English. “You know, most of the people who live in this city have never seen the inside of this place—it was only for the rich.  For
la gente
, the ordinary people, the New Mexico Academy was known only by its outer walls—if they even knew it existed.”

They strolled side-by-side on a paved walkway, which meandered between brick faculty homes and a half-dozen enclosed tennis courts. His hands were joined behind his back, hers were at her side.

“If they were so wealthy, then why did they give up their academy?” she asked.

“Well, the richest families began leaving New Mexico when Deleon was elected, and the school lost many of its students.  Then there was a new tax put on properties over 100 acres inside of the city.  Frankly, the law was passed to allow us to confiscate this place, and a few others that we needed.  But even without that law, we can basically take any property we need.”

“What about the Constitution?”

“What Constitution? The gringo Constitution?”  Ramos smiled, and laughed.  “Who bothers about that anymore? Don’t worry—the gringos are too busy putting out fires in their big cities to worry about what we do here.  This academy was an important symbol of Anglo power in New Mexico.  It was important to take it away, as a lesson to the oligarchs. Look around you: the rich
gabachos
enjoyed baseball, tennis, handball, racquetball…there’s even an indoor swimming pool! Nothing was too good for those rich boys! I’ll tell you something, my troops have never lived so well.  For my men who come from dusty little villages and crowded barrios, this Falcon Academy is a paradise.  Now, what did you want to discuss?”

What indeed!  Was last night’s ardor already forgotten by him? She had planned her words on the return drive, while half-listening to his officers discussing the day’s events.  Now that she could address him alone, her words came haltingly.  “Basilio, I have to know what I am, who I am.  To you, and to the battalion.  Outside of New Mexico, Ranya Bardiwell is hunted by the gringo
federales
.  Here, I have no name, no identity. I can’t live like this, I just can’t!  Who am I?  What am I?  I have killed for the Milicia, and I have taken up arms for the battalion, but still I am nobody.  How long can I exist as your shadow, as only the Comandante’s
amiga
?”

He turned in front of her, his hands on his hips, cocked his head and smiled.  “It’s not so bad to be my lover, is it?”

She looked briefly into his eyes, hazel like her own, and then away. “I don’t know.  Basilio, that wasn’t me, last night.  I must have been very drunk.  No—I’m sorry—I didn’t mean it that way.  I mean, I don’t regret it, what happened, but still…  That’s not how I am.  Not who I am.  You must think I’m very cheap, after last night.”  She folded her arms across her chest, turned and stared at the captive hawk caged in its gazebo aviary.

“No, of course not…”

“You have to lead your battalion—I understand that.  I respect that. There are many important missions coming for the Falcons, I know that. But I want to join the effort too, and to do that, I need a name of my own, so that I can win my own place in the people’s struggle.”

“I understand. We can give you a new identity, that’s not a problem. Most of my men have new identities.”

“I don’t belong with your men, with the Falcons.  There must be other units where I could fit better.  Perhaps as a translator? Or with the student Voluntarios?  Or even as an ordinary Miliciano.”

“Hmmm…  Well, you can’t simply join the Milicia, just like that. First, you need to go through their training course to qualify, and that means six weeks in the north, in the mountains.  It’s very rugged, even brutal.  I’m sure you can handle it; there are some female Milicianos, but…frankly, not all of the regular Milicianos are the best troops.  And forget about the student Voluntarios: most of them are trash, completely useless.  We tolerate them only for the propaganda value their presence brings to the
revolución
. Very soon we’ll be sending most of them home.”

“Then I would prefer to join the regular Milicia, to earn my own brown beret.”  Ranya had thought long and hard about her best escape options, and was making this offer as a gambit, to transform the current status quo.  She hoped that by volunteering for the Milicia, she would clearly demonstrate her dedication to the ‘people’s struggle.’  By volunteering, she would prove her ideological reliability, and increase the chances that she would be allowed to slip from her gilded cage.  It was certain that as long as she was merely “el Che’s woman,” she would not be able to escape the encircling grasp of his bodyguards, wherever they went.

“Yes, of course, you could do that.  A new Milicia training class begins Monday.  If that’s what you really want…”

“Yes, it is.  It’s what I want, very much.”

“Well then, we’ll need to get you a new name and identity papers. Fortunately, this is standard procedure.  We control the entire process now, from birth certificates, to driver’s licenses, to registering to vote.  Everything.  In the meantime, you are welcome to stay at my house.”

“Thank you Basilio…but I have to tell you, that after last night…I’m…I don’t know how to put this.  After five years in the camps, without a man, and then last night…  I’m afraid I’m really rather…”

“I understand.”

“I couldn’t…”

“Don’t worry.  I really do understand.”  He turned, and they resumed their walk together.  “Ranya, would you like to go out to dinner again? If you’re going to go up to the camps for Milicia training, I can assure you, you will not enjoy the meals.  You may even wish you were back in your old camp in Oklahoma.”

She laughed. “Oh, no, there’s no chance of that!  Thank you Basilio. Yes, I would very much enjoy going to dinner with you.”

“Well, I’m finished here anyway.  Let’s go back to my house, and you can do whatever you need to get ready for going out.”

They returned to the patio area near the soccer field, walking side by side but making no public display of affection.  Ramos was in uniform, and he had his appearance as Comandante to maintain.  His junior officers and NCOs respectfully stood up as he approached.

“
Caballeros
,” Ramos began in rather formal Spanish, “I have an announcement to make.  Our Arab friend ‘Señorita X’ has enjoyed her time with us so much, that she is joining the Milicia.  She will begin her training next week!”

His officers and NCOs broke into grins and actually applauded.  “Oh, she’ll make a fine troop!  She’s already a dead shot!  She should be an instructor, not a student!”

***

Ramos excused himself from the group.
He quietly told Ranya, “Come on, let’s go,” and they headed for their vehicles with his four bodyguards in tow.  When they reached the parking area by the gym, he said, “We’ll take a Suburban, but this time I’ll drive.  I like to be unpredictable.  It’s better for my health.”