Domestic Enemies: The Reconquista

by Matthew Bracken

  “I don’t think so! Honestly, I think I could eat everything on the menu. Twice! What do you recommend?”

  “Well, their steaks are fantastic, especially the filet mignon. Or, you could try the seafood. The mahi-mahi is usually very nice. Perhaps we should begin with an appetizer; would you like to try the shrimp quesadilla?”

  “Oh yes, please, that sounds wonderful,” she replied, sliding back her chair. “But first, I’ve got to go and wash up—I’ll be back in a moment.” The bodyguards eyed her carefully but didn’t impede her path. Why should they? There was no way down the mountain in the darkness, except for the tramcar. Besides, she was enjoying the cozy ambiance and spectacular views from the Altavista. It was absolutely hypnotic, after five years of seeing nothing but desolate Oklahoma prairie. Moreover, after five years of prison rations, she badly wanted to enjoy the delicious dinner to come, beginning with the strawberry margarita she had ordered.

  She could think about escaping later.

  ***

  The tramcar seemed to go faster and faster on the way down, as the lights of the city drew closer. Ranya had drunk too much, two of the large margaritas. Basilio supported her as they stood together in the swaying tram. The descent was dizzying, she was bordering on vertigo, but it was not at all unpleasant. She felt like she was floating and gliding, freefalling weightlessly as she stared out through the front windows at the approaching city lights.

  Upon leaving the tramcar, Basilio guided her down the back steps from the platform, and she slid into his Jaguar. She would have gladly stayed in his Jag forever. She was quite certain that it was the finest automobile ever conceived by the mind of man, a masterpiece of human engineering. Its seat drew her in like a gentle embrace; the soft jazz pouring from the stereo speakers seemed to pluck at strings and keys within her very heart.

  After leaving, they drove a short distance down Tramway Road, and then Basilio smoothly made a right turn into a residential area. Once again, there was the reassuring presence of the black Suburbans in front and behind the Jaguar, protecting them from any possible harm. The Suburban in the lead stopped by a little guard house under an intensely bright light. Soldiers wearing berets and carrying rifles allowed it to pass. Basilio merely nodded to the soldiers as they waved him through, and he took another right turn, and began to climb up into the foothills again.

  Ranya periodically glanced across at him. She was quite certain that she had never been so close to any man as strikingly attractive as Basilio Ramos, this dashing leader of the elite Falcon Battalion. In the soft instrument panel glow within the Jaguar, his profile shone like a god. When he turned and smiled back at her, she almost melted into the soft leather seat, overcome to breathlessness by his movie star handsomeness. Now she understood why he wore a gleaming gold Rolex watch: any other wrist adornment would have been beneath him.

  They passed fabulous luxury homes on multi-acre lots, and finally they reached another gate at the very top of the road. At this gate they were greeted by more troops wearing berets and carrying M-16s. This property was surrounded by a high ironwork fence; the top of each bar was crowned with a small black arrowhead. On either side of the driveway there was a tall column made of stone masonry. An arched iron double gate swung apart in the middle to allow them to enter.

  The private driveway curved upward for another hundred yards, and then she saw the house. It was more of a mansion than a mere house, she observed.

  “Basilio, whose place is this? Who lives here?”

  “Actually, the people own this property now. The former owner decided he didn’t want to pay his taxes, and he gave it to the state. Now it’s designated as the official headquarters for the leader of the Batallón Halcón.”

  “And that would be…you?” she tittered. It seemed like the most incredible good fortune that she had met Basilio Ramos. The house was a palace, a fairy tale castle, and certainly no less than this prince of men deserved.

  “Yes, at the present time, that is my privilege, to serve the people in that capacity.”

  She giggled again. Besides everything else, Basilio was so incredibly witty!

  The three-story pueblo-style mansion was built into a steep slope. Wide curving stairs on the left side led up to a veranda and the front doors. Ramos pushed a console button, and the middle of three garage doors on the right side of the house rolled open. He pulled the Jaguar into the garage, and turned off the motor as the door slid down behind them. There were two other cars already in the garage: a silver Mercedes to the right, and a black Jeep with a hard top to the left.

  He opened Ranya’s car door, and took her hand to help her up from the Jaguar’s cushiony embrace. She thought it was the most incredibly gallant gesture she had ever experienced. He led her by the hand through the garage, and into a tastefully decorated recreation room centered around a billiard table, and up two sets of stairs. Then he guided her down a short hallway lined with elegant artwork, and into and across an enormous bedroom to a pair of French doors, which he opened before her. The summer breeze was a sweet caress, carrying the scent of jasmine.

  They were standing side-by-side at the edge of a room-sized balcony, against its ornamental-iron railing. He said, “We’re not as high as we were on the top of the mountain, but it’s still a nice view, don’t you think?” The lights of the city spread below them toward the horizon.

  “It’s just as beautiful, Basilio, just as beautiful. I never knew Albuquerque was so lovely. I don’t know what I expected, but I never imagined it would be like…this.”

  Then Ranya turned to him, pressed her hungry body against his, ran her fingers through his gorgeous hair and slid her arms around his neck, finally lifting her parted lips to his, unable to deny herself for another moment. Basilio Ramos was the most astonishingly handsome and charming man she had ever met, and she was going to show him her affection tonight, in every possible way that she could imagine. It must have been the margaritas, or perhaps it was the altitude, but she felt an entirely new kind of sensual urge spreading warmth through her body…and her needs would not be denied.

  After their first prolonged embrace and deep kiss on the balcony, she whispered to him, “Please Basilio…please…take me to your bed.”

  11

  Wednesday June 25

  The San Diego police cordoned off a hundred yard stretch of the cement boardwalk, and all of the beach behind it, for the on-location film shoot. It was the first full light of Wednesday morning, and only a few walkers and joggers paused from their daily exercise to observe the modest production. The director was fussing over the spokesman, making final adjustments prior to shooting the public service announcement.

  “I’m sorry Bob, but the hair is just not working,” said the gaunt director, who was dressed from head to foot in skin-tight black leather. From behind, he could pass for a teenager, but his boyish body was betrayed by his deeply lined face. “The light is perfect, but your, um…new hair…how can I put this delicately…it looks like it was planted in little rows. It’s…thin. When we come in for the close-up, it won’t look natural. It just does not convey charisma. Bob, are you really, really sure we can’t try one of the toupees?”

  “We’ve been over this: no wig! What do you think I am—a friggin’ fairy?” Bob Bullard chortled when he said this, and the diminutive director was not sure if it was meant as a good-natured jibe or…something else. Earlier, during makeup, Bullard had threatened to rip his arms off and use them for shark bait. He had exactly the same strange smile on his face when he had made those other jokes…if they were jokes.

  The fat unshaven cameraman was wearing a stained gray sweat suit. He was standing behind his tripod-mounted Sony, a lit cigarette in one hand, and a cup of 7-11 coffee in the other, waiting. In a raspy voice he said, “Listen Bjorn, we’re losing the light. We’ve got maybe ten minutes to get this shot before the sun is all over us. Put the Homeland Security hat on him. It’ll be fine.”

  “The baseball hat? Oh, that is so clic
hé! Are you certain?” implored the director. A female assistant appeared with the cap, and placed it on Bullard’s head.

  The gruff cameraman said, “Look, it’ll work, and we haven’t got all day. It’s more Bob’s image anyway. That’s it Lindsey, a little higher— right there!” The ball cap was navy blue, with the letters DHS across the front in white. “Now, Lindsey honey, just bring the reflector in tighter, with more of an up-angle. Yeah, that’ll do the trick—perfect. Come on people! Is everybody ready?”

  Bob Bullard was wearing a light blue windbreaker and khaki slacks, casually standing on the boardwalk in the Pacific Beach section of San Diego. The film location was overlooking the ocean, with a long fishing pier and a distant point of land jutting toward the horizon in the background. He had his hands in his jacket pockets, an avuncular smile on his face and a sparkle in his blue eyes. On the boardwalk off to either side, extras were waiting to move on cue. An animal trainer had seagulls penned in a dozen wire cages, ready to release one at a time.

  The skinny leather-clad director gave one more look around and called, “On my mark: three—two—one…ACTION!” The plastic timing slate snapped shut in front of the camera lens.

  After a beat, the center of all of this attention began his rehearsed script. “Hi, I’m Bob Bullard, your regional director for the Department of Homeland Security.” As he spoke, he walked a few steps across the boardwalk toward the camera, and then he stopped on his mark. A circular logo patch on the left breast of his windbreaker read “U.S. Department of Homeland Security” around a tiny blue eagle.

  Off camera, the director pointed a finger, and an attractive twenty-something girl in a red one-piece swimsuit walked behind Bullard from the left. She was carrying a small surfboard under her arm, her golden hair lifting on the breeze created by an unseen fan.

  Bullard continued with his memorized lines of text. “As we all know, this has been a year of difficult problems and unique challenges. But with challenges, also come opportunities.”

  A seagull wheeled off into the sky and out over the sea behind him.

  “Once again, the Southwest Region has led the nation in security awareness and preparedness. We should all be proud of that record, but we can always do better. I don’t need to remind you that improving homeland security means improving the economy, and increasing everyone’s prosperity and well-being.”

  From the right, a middle-aged Hispanic couple pedaled behind him on a pair of bicycles, grins plastered across their health-exuding faces. In the distance beyond the white sand, a pair of surfers paddled out through the smallish waves.

  “So let’s all pitch in, and help your Department of Homeland Security to help you! Let’s do everything we can to win the war on terror and economic sabotage. Report suspicious behavior, and please give your full cooperation to law enforcement at safety checkpoints. And don’t forget: you can earn cash rewards for reporting illegal firearms, or stockpiles of hoarded gold. Call 855-GUN-STOP, or 855-USA-GOLD, and you can help to support your family, while you help to defend your homeland.”

  The camera closed in on Bullard’s smiling face, while a sailboat glided across the shimmering water in the distance.

  “Okay, CUT!” screeched the director. “Let’s try it again, people. Surfer girl—Shauna—next time, walk like this: show a little hip action, all right? We’re selling the American dream here sweetie, so don’t hobble by like you’re walking on broken glass, okay?”

  “Can I just wear my sandals, then?” she whined, clutching her arms around herself against the morning chill, her board was lying on the cement.

  “No, you cannot wear sandals. Barefoot! See, it’s right here in the script: ‘barefoot surfer girl walks by.’ And think warm everybody, think warm! Okay now, places...get ready…and…on my mark, three—two— one—ACTION!”

  “…Hi, I’m Bob Bullard, your Southwest Regional Director for the Department of Homeland Security...”

  ***

  The convoy rolled out of the city on I-40, westbound across the chaparral scrubland under a cloudless sky. There were more than a dozen pickups and SUVs, each carrying a squad of riflemen from the Falcon Battalion. The trucks bristled with black M-16s. The troops carried over one hundred of the “new” rifles Ranya had found among the mini-storage garage full of surplus rifles.

  They were taking them to what had previously been a public shooting range to sight them in, that is, to ensure that the spot where their adjustable sights were aimed would precisely coincide with the spot where the bullets would actually strike. This was no trivial matter. As delivered from the factory, the sights could be a foot or more off from the point of bullet impact at 100 yards, making the rifles useless beyond close range. Once properly sighted-in, the rifles would be capable of hitting a man-sized target at 400 yards or more.

  Ramos had said that the full unit movement would also serve as a show of force, to show the obstinate gringos exactly who was the new boss. Eventually, they had to accept the fact that they were no longer in charge in Nuevo Mexico. If they didn’t like it, he had said, there were plenty of other Anglo states where they could choose to live.

  His black armored Suburban was in the center of the column. Once again he sat behind the driver, next to Ranya, but this time another soldier was seated to her right. She felt trapped. At no time since her capture at Chulada did she have an opportunity to escape. To make her predicament even more difficult, she had to pretend to enjoy the company of Basilio Ramos, and echo the Falcon Battalion’s enthusiasm for overturning the old order in New Mexico. She stared straight ahead, her hands folded across her lap, recalling her bizarre and disturbing morning.

  ***

  Basilio was already gone when Ranya had finally awakened, with a crushing headache and a mouth like sun-dried pond scum. It had taken her several minutes to orient herself in the strange bedroom, and determine that she was alone. Naked and alone, in a strange bed, in an unfamiliar city. She untangled herself from the silk sheets, slowly raised herself up to a sitting position, and the room tilted and whirled. She fell back, staring up at a stationary ceiling fan, bracketed between mahogany bedposts.

  When she was able, she loosely wrapped the pink top sheet around herself, staggered across the room and checked the bedroom door, which was made of dark wood against the surrounding white plaster walls. The brass handle turned at her touch, but she didn’t open it, afraid that there might be a guard waiting outside. Instead, she quietly locked it from the inside by pushing in its gold button. Her brown backpack and yesterday’s shopping bags were lined up against the wall near the door.

  Her eyes were only partly opened as she stumbled to the bathroom, looking for a glass of water and a bottle of aspirin or Tylenol in the medicine cabinet. She averted her gaze from the mirror until the cabinet door was open, unwilling to see herself in her present condition. Straining to focus, peering at the rows of prescription and non-prescription medicines while leaning against the sink and quenching her thirst, she had her sudden revelation, and the memories came flooding back. Oh, the things she had done with that man…

  Ranya leaned against the pink marble counter top, her eyes closed and her temples throbbing.

  She found some Tylenol and washed down two caplets, then began reading the other prescription labels, printed in both English and Spanish. She returned to the bedroom and found a pencil and a scrap of paper, and then with weak fingers she laboriously copied down the names of a dozen unrecognized pills and capsules, careful not to disturb their positions on the shelves.

  With the list safely hidden, she showered quickly, afraid that Basilio might return unexpectedly at any time. She was grateful that her short hair took only a minute to shampoo and rinse. After drying, she wrapped a bath towel around herself, and cleaned her teeth with a new brush, studying them carefully in the mirror, appreciating her slow transformation back to something approximating a human. Then she opened the small makeup kit she had picked up yesterday at the salon, and applied just a little
blush and clear lip-gloss. She enjoyed these routine feminine rituals again, after her five years of Spartan life in the camps. Wanting to blend inconspicuously with the Milicianos, she dressed in her green fatigue-style pants and a matching green shirt from the mall’s outdoor outfitting store, and laced on her black and brown ankle-high cross-trainers.

  The glass-paned doors to the bedroom balcony were not locked, and from outside she could see far down the driveway toward the wrought iron double gate, and its guardhouse. A high fence of iron bars with arrowhead tips delineated the property line, leading to the gate. A half dozen Suburbans and pickups were parked along the drive, and there were armed guards on duty at the gate. The backs of other luxury homes were visible on the dusty slopes descending toward the city. A pair of iridescent black and purple butterflies distracted her for a moment, twirling over the balcony railing and above the house, spiraling high in the sunlight. Then she went back inside.

  The bedroom had an office alcove with a desk and a computer, facing a window with a panoramic view of the city. She sat down to search the internet for the names of the unknown drugs on her hand-written list, but the screen informed her that it was “unable to establish a connection, try again later.” On the screen there was an icon of a stack of books, she clicked on it and found the computer’s own internal encyclopedia. The “Omnipedia’s” home page informed her that it had been automatically updated only yesterday.

  One at a time she carefully typed the scientific names of each unknown drug into the search box, and on her third try she found a “morning-after pill” which had been approved by the FDA. She pondered only a moment and decided she would take it. The possibility of having another baby, this time fathered by Basilio Ramos, horrified her. God might not forgive her, but she would not risk bringing another innocent child into the world inside a prison, while shackled to a steel table. If there was a new life even now growing within her…well, God could add yet another to her growing list of sins.