Domestic Enemies: The Reconquista (33 page)

His four Zeta bodyguards, in an identical black SUV, preceded him through the main gate and out of the Academy.  This security vehicle circled through the quiet residential neighborhood outside of the wall, and then looped back and gave the ‘all-clear’ on a walkie-talkie.  Only then did Comandante Ramos pull out to follow them.  Ranya was sitting across from him in the front passenger seat.

Ramos noted the time on the console’s digital clock, it was five PM. Alone with her again, he spoke in English.  “Don’t get the wrong idea, but I like to check the gringo radio stations.  I want to know if they’ve heard what happened today.”

He switched the radio to the AM band, and then he tuned in an English-speaking talk radio station.  They caught the national news headlines first.  The Compton fire in Los Angeles was still inexplicably raging out of control after a week, destroying several square miles of the city. This was tentatively blamed on an incipient three-way civil war between Hispanic, African-American and Asian gangs.  Lawlessness and anarchy were spreading across greater Los Angeles, with a flood of desperate refugees fleeing the zone of total destruction in Compton.  Martial law had been declared, and Marines from Camp Pendleton were being sent in to restore order.  Fortunately for the national economy, the vital railroad tracks and fuel pipelines leading out of the ports of Long Beach and Los Angeles had not been seriously damaged by the fires.

The standoff and siege of the Muslim Quarter was ongoing in Detroit. The Imams were asking for the International Red Cross and Red Crescent to be allowed in, to witness that children and the elderly were dying of hunger.  Police marksmen were picking off armed Muslim gunmen inside of the barricaded enclave, and in return police cars were the targets of snipers and improvised explosive devices.  So far, the President was resisting enormous pressure to send in regular infantry troops, and terminate the insurgency by force of arms. The grim specter of an impending “American Fallujah” lay over the nation.

The private ownership of more than five ounces of non-jewelry and non-numismatic gold had been outlawed.  The new amnesty period for redeeming gold coins and bullion (at the fixed exchange rate of $1,000 per ounce in “New Dollars”) would not be extended beyond the end of June. The collection of the now-illegal gold was expected to run smoothly, since privately owned gold had already been registered under the previous “gold amnesty program,” which was no longer in effect.  The President was glowingly compared to FDR, for having the resolute courage to take these stern but necessary measures, intended to shore up the faltering dollar and stabilize the national economy.  A recent public opinion survey showed that large majorities supported confiscating the illegal bullion from “ultrarich speculators and gold hoarders.”

Meanwhile, “currency regularization” with Canada and Mexico was back on the fast track in Congress, as part of the President’s “North American Community” initiative.  The new “Amero” was expected to replace dollars and pesos within one year.

At six minutes after the hour, local afternoon talk host Rick Haywood began an angry monologue. “We have an update on the story the KNMR radio news team broke this morning. That was about last night’s fatal one-car accident, where three people died when their car ran off of Tramway Road.  Here’s what we know so far: a reliable source says that only hours before the fatal accident, the three victims were in a verbal altercation with some of our ‘brown-bereted guest soldiers’ at the Sandia Tramway lift station. The argument was so heated that the ‘brown-bereted guest soldiers’ felt the need to point machine guns at the three Americans—who ‘coincidentally’ were later found dead.  That’s the story as we reported it earlier today.”

Ranya stared straight ahead, trying not to tremble, picturing the three Americans alive at the tramway last evening. She remembered Chuck, the mouthy Texan wearing the cowboy hat, and his two timid local relatives. Murdered, she was quite certain, for embarrassing Basilio Ramos in public. Murdered, no doubt on his orders, on the very night that she had been so charmed by him.

“And this next part is brand new—it’s another tip from one of our many loyal and patriotic friends still working in law enforcement.  The victim’s car was a white Nissan Altima, but when it was towed back out of the ravine this morning, our police source reports that it had black paint streaks along its driver’s side.  Just a wild guess, but if you can find enough gas to be out driving today, you might want to look out for a black SUV or pickup, with fresh white paint on its passenger side.  Just a suggestion, just a thought, not that it will matter in the long run—except maybe to a few of us stubborn gringos they can’t run out of New Mexico.”

Haywood paused and took a deep breath, muttered to himself, and continued his monologue.  “In other news, or perhaps, just perhaps, it’s related news, there seems to have been a serious traffic accident out on west Paseo del Norte earlier this afternoon.  It seems that a truckload of ‘brown-bereted guest soldiers’ flipped over for no apparent reason.  No reason at all. This accident may or may not be related to the brown-bereted guest soldiers making an armed house call in Warner Ranch shortly after the accident.  During the armed house call, one lone holdout gringo seems to have succumbed to acute lead poisoning, along with his dog.

“As I said, it’s impossible to know for certain if the ‘accident’ on Paseo del Norte is related to the ‘lead poisoning incident’ in Warner Ranch.  Some folks have even suggested that the driver of the brownbereted guest soldiers’ truck might have suffered from a severe case of lead poisoning himself, right before his truck flipped over.  But of course, there’s no way to really know for sure.  And since none of this will be in your local Quisling newspaper or on traitor television, I suppose it’s possible it never really even happened anyway.  But hey, what do I know? I’m just your humble radio host, passing along what comes in, broadcasting as always from a secure, undisclosed location…”

Ramos stabbed the radio on-off button, silencing the talk show host. “Shit!  That filthy gringo bastard!  Now even the police are calling him with tips—even after we fired all of the gringo cops!  Oh, that
pendejo
! Of all the right-wing reactionary fascists on the radio, he’s the worst!”

Inwardly, Ranya was applauding this feisty Rick Haywood—he sure had plenty of guts to talk the way he did about the Milicia.  She had to suppress her laughter at each mention of “brown-bereted guest soldiers,” so only with difficulty, she mirrored Ramos’s stern visage. She knew that she needed to continue wearing her Marxist mask, to convince him of her dedication to
la causa,
the cause.  

And anyway, what was it to her if the gringos or the Hispanic radicals won the battle to control New Mexico? Why should she care if New Mexico went socialist, or even communist, and broke away from the United States?  What had the U.S. federal government done for her, other than murder her father, kill Brad Fallon, imprison her and steal her baby? She was here to find her son, not to take sides in this budding civil war. All she cared about was finding her son, and to do that she needed to escape.

“Basilio, why don’t you have that fascist arrested, for sedition? Or for conspiracy—it sounds like the terrorists are using him to pass along information. Why isn’t he arrested?”

Ramos looked across at her, then back at the road ahead. “Well…that’s a complicated question.  Believe me—I’d like nothing better than to see Haywood chained to a wall in front of a firing squad.  He’s been a thorn in our side ever since I arrived.  But he’s also been a valuable source of intelligence.  Our Special Surveillance Group traces every call, every email that he gets.  It all fits together quite well, and so far it’s been useful to let him spew his hate.  But don’t worry: his usefulness is almost at an end. We’ll grab Haywood when the time is right, and make an example out of him.  It’s all a question of timing.  Just wait until Saturday—Saturday will change everything.”

15
 

Thursday June 26

Basilio Ramos wasn’t accustomed
to waiting in public. Sitting on a park bench for ten minutes, even obscured beneath the hanging branches of a willow tree, made him feel like he had a bulls-eye target taped onto his oxford shirt.  On the other hand, he knew that there were few places in New Mexico as safe for him as the university, especially with his four primary bodyguards surrounding him at a discreet distance.

On short notice, Comrade Inez from the clandestine Revolutionary Council had asked to meet him at nine o’clock Thursday morning, and she was late. She was only now walking around the duck pond in the center of the campus, in the green space between the imposing Fidel Castro Library and the university administration building where she worked.  For the meeting, Ramos had discarded his usual camouflage uniform and brown beret, in favor of wearing jeans and a pale blue button-down shirt, open at the collar.  He could easily pass for a young professor, he thought.

With school finished for the academic year, there were not so many students strolling around the shady paths on the perimeter of the small lake, which had always seemed to him to be the lively heart of the university campus.  The duck pond’s fountains were not working, and a froth of yellow scum was beginning to build up on the water’s edges.  For some unknown reason, the overall maintenance of the university’s physical infrastructure seemed to be in serious decline.  Probably due to various parts shortages, he reflected. Another symptom of the faltering economy.

Most of the young
Voluntarios
who had come to Albuquerque were staying on the other side of the campus, in and around the dormitories and sporting complexes.  Apparently, these idealistic volunteers had little interest in the library, and why should they? They had come to Nuevo Mexico to make history, not to read about it on dry and dusty pages. 

Inez arrived alone, wearing a navy blue pants suit, her black and gray hair pulled back in a ponytail.  Ramos didn’t rise to greet her, or make any overt display of even knowing her.  She gave a last look around, and then sat on the open end of the bench, in the obscuring shade of an overhanging willow tree.

“So, Basilio, how is the girl working out?  The Arab?”

“Bardiwell? She’s been fine.  Just fine.”

“You have your rifles sorted out? She was of assistance to you?”

“Oh, very much so.  She found hundreds of perfectly new rifles in that garage.  More than thirty years old, and never fired.”

“Excellent.  So, you’re ready for the March for Justice? Your men will not be in their uniforms, correct?”

“Some of them will be, and some will not.”  She had no need to know the details of the operational planning.

“Saturday is going to be a very important day, a very exciting day for our movement!”

“Yes, of course.”  He mused that Comrade Inez had no idea just how exciting.

“And you are moving ahead with the punishment mission? For the bus massacre?”

“It’s on for tomorrow, if nothing causes the plan to change.”

“Good. Attacks like that
matanza
must be answered in blood.  It’s a simple calculation: if we don’t return blood for blood, we lose face, we lose respect, and
la revolución
loses momentum.  Our enemies must fear us: they must understand that when they strike at us, we will exact blood revenge!  How did you select the target?  The closest ranch to the bus attack?”

“Not entirely, it’s a few miles from where the bus was ambushed. We found part of a topographical map near the bus massacre; we think it was dropped by one of the snipers.  The ranch has a dirt air strip—it was marked with an X on the map.”

“You don’t think it was left intentionally, as bait for a trap?”

“We considered that, and we’ll be ready for anything, but no, we don’t think it was deliberate.  Not at all.  This ranch has been a problem for a long time; the owners are ‘Old New Mexicans.’  The idiots must think that because they have some Spanish blood, they’re immune to land reform!  So anyway, they’re being obstinate and holding out.  It’s 14,000 acres, and it’s the last big ranch in Monterey County that’s not under state control.  They’ve been ignoring the land reform laws, and they’ve been setting a bad example for the other ranchers.  Now we’re going to make an example of them.”

“Good,” she said.  “Resistance is contagious.  It has to be smashed.”

Ramos continued, agitated.  “They were offered a hundred acres and some of their buildings if they complied, but they wouldn’t listen to reason.  Even after the Land Reform Commission settled two hundred landless
pobladores
on part of their ranch, these stinking
pocho
bastards still didn’t get the message.”

“That was under the Idle Lands Act?”

“Right, we used that to put the settlers on their ranch, but they’re still holding out and refusing to give up one damned acre!  Then after the bus
matanza
, we found the map with the X…and we’re not giving them any more chances.  We’re going in hard, and we’ll be prepared for anything. This land reform mission is a top priority for Vice-gobernador Magón, and we have everything we need.  We’ve even have two state guard helicopters

for the air assault, and a transport plane…”

“A transport plane?  Really? I didn’t realize we had them.”

“It’s a Canadian twin-engine plane; it used to fly sport parachutists out of Coronado Field.  It’s called an Otter, and it’s amazing—it can even take off from a soccer field!  I had a frank discussion about aviation support with the
vicegobernador
, and now the plane is ours, whenever we need it.  It’s perfect for us—in a state this big, it gives us the kind of speed and range we need.”

“You’re dropping paratroops on the ranch?”

“No, not this time, there is no need.  Maybe in the future we will. This ranch has its own runway.  The plane will land right after the helicopters, and bring in twenty more troops.  The rest of the battalion will arrive in trucks after that.  On a ranch that big, there are a lot of areas to secure, all at once.”