“Hell, my own father was first-generation Cuban, but he sent me to military boarding schools in Virginia when I was a kid, just so I’d grow up thinking and speaking in English, ‘like a real American’ he said! He just wanted to make me a regular ‘un-hyphenated American,’ which is what I am. But then the FBI flipped it all back around on me. The FBI considers me just another Hispanic on their ethnic diversity chart, all because of my last name! ‘Oh, Garabanda, why don’t you go on down to New Mexico? They’re your people, you’ll fit right in.’ My people? Hello? Uh…no offense, Luis.”
“None taken. I know what you’re saying.”
“And now the same FBI Headquarters is telling us to look the other way, while the Milicia is terrorizing the state with M-16 rifles! It just makes no sense; it’s making me completely crazy! Those Marxist Aztlan lunatics have hundreds of fully automatic M-16 rifles from God knows where, and my bosses could care less!”
“Not hundreds, Al. Thousands.”
“What? Thousands? How do you know that?”
Carvahal answered, “I heard Vicegobernador Magón’s staff talking about the rifles, when we were up in the training camps. They’re from Belen.”
“There’s a big national guard armory at Belen.”
“Yeah. That’s where the rifles are from. I’m not sure who approved it, but the rifles are coming right out of the armory there. They’re not stolen, or bought on the black market or coming from south of the border. They’re surplus government property, being turned over to the Milicia.”
“Damn… You know… Aw, crap. I should have figured as much,” said Garabanda, disgustedly shaking his head while looking at the ground. “So the federal government, my government, our government…is arming the Milicia. Shit. Oh, shit…” He sighed deeply, one hand on top of the gravestone, leaning against it for support. “You know, ordinarily, we’d investigate something like this as a major theft of government property. I mean, the Bureau and the ATF, man oh man! We’d be all over a redneck militia in Alabama that had even a couple of fully automatic weapons. Or semi-autos, for that matter. It’d be SWAT City, Waco time! But I’ve already been told to back off, and stay away from the Milicia de Nuevo Mexico. Period—end of story.”
“So the federal government is either totally brain dead and unaware of what’s going on down here…”
“Oh, they’re aware of it,” Garabanda interjected. “They’re not only letting it happen, they’re obviously facilitating it, if they’re passing out rifles. So they know what’s going on.”
Carvahal was equally disgusted. “They’re basically neo-communists up in Santa Fe, and Washington is helping them get a foothold in the United States. Helping them! No wonder Wayne Parker feels so at home here,” he said bitterly.
“Wayne Parker always was a commie-loving son of a bitch,” said Garabanda. “He made his first billions trading with the Soviets, and now he’s into Chinese factories up to his eyeballs.”
“That’s nothing new,” added Carvahal. “It’s just like Armand Hammer, cutting deals with Lenin and Stalin. Or like Peter Kosimos today. He comes to America, becomes a citizen, makes billions of dollars speculating on currencies—and then he gets into bed with the Red Chinese. One thing I’ll never understand is how billionaires like Wayne Parker and Peter Kosimos can turn around and shaft their own country.”
Garabanda replied, “Wayne Parker owns almost a million acres up in Torcido County, and I’m sure he doesn’t want it taken away under the Land Reform Act. You just know he’s cutting deals with the state to hang onto his ranch.”
“No Alex, it’s beyond that, it’s not just simple greed. He’s a oneworlder, just like Kosimos. A true believer—it might as well be his religion. He’s donated billions of dollars of his own money to the U.N., for God’s sake! Governor Deleon says that Parker is going to ‘donate’ most of the Vedado Ranch to the World Conservancy Group. Of course, he’ll get to stay on, as the ‘manager’.”
“Of course,” agreed the FBI man. “So his ranch is the perfect place to hold this little meeting next week. The one you told me about in the Toy Hut.”
“Oh, the Vedado Ranch is totally perfect for secret meetings,” said Carvahal. “It has its own jet runway, and miles and miles of privacy. The next President of Mexico will be there, and so will U.S. senators from both parties.”
“Has the governor mentioned what the meeting’s agenda is going to be yet, or any more of the guests who are coming?”
“No, he’s still out of the loop—Magón is still running the show behind his back. Deleon just knows what Senator Kelly told him on the phone.”
“Thank God that Ed Kelly is such a drunken idiot,” said Garabanda. “So what do you think the meeting’s going to be about?”
Luis Carvahal, paused, gathering his thoughts. “Well, I’m guessing it’s about a new federal status for New Mexico, and maybe for the whole Southwest. They wouldn’t be hosting the conference in New Mexico, if there wasn’t something in it for Santa Fe. Wide open borders, for sure. I mean, that’s already a given. Probably the right for New Mexico to control its own ‘immigration policy,’ without any interference from the feds. Maybe some kind of ‘autonomous region’ set up, so they can loot the state and not have to worry about any federal investigations. Maybe they’ll get to stop paying federal taxes, like Puerto Rico. And they’ll probably send you feds packing, any way you look at it.”
“Then say goodbye to America, and hello to Aztlan,” Garabanda replied sarcastically. “But hey, what’s the big deal about America keeping all fifty states, if we’re just going to be a region of the North American Community anyway? You just know the new Constitution is going to sell us down the river. Luis, I’ve been thinking about this a lot, ever since the Toy Hut. I think the Vedado Ranch meeting is going to be about more than just the Southwest. I think it’s going to be the ‘private convention’ before the public Constitutional Convention—but it’ll be the one that really counts. Kind of like the secret Jekyll Island meeting in 1913, before Congress passed the Federal Reserve Act. You know about that scam, right?”
“Jekyll Island?” answered Carvahal. “Oh sure, I know about it. Hey, I’m an historian now, not just a reporter. ‘The Creature from Jekyll Island’ is probably the most important economic history of the 20th century ever written, even if almost nobody ever heard of it. That was when J. P. Morgan had all of the big New York bankers and some crooked senators sneak down to his place in Georgia to set up the Federal Reserve. Then they had their paid-for Congressmen rubberstamp it in Washington.”
“Right, that’s exactly what happened,” agreed Garabanda, pleased that his informant was familiar with this little-known episode in American history. “Only this meeting won’t just be about letting the bankers print all the funny money they want. I mean, Jekyll Island was bad enough, look where that got us in the end—a ruined economy, and worthless blue bucks! No, this is going to be even worse, a lot worse. I think this Vedado Ranch meeting is about the big prize—the new Constitution.”
13
The Falcons’ pickups and SUVs parked along the dirt road behind the rifle range. The troops took their M-16s, magazines and ammunition and set them on the shooting tables, two rifles to a table, their barrels pointing down range.
Comandante Ramos told Ranya that he’d be back in a few minutes, and she should wait in the Suburban. With the windows of the Suburban down to let the morning breeze pass through, she watched the hundred men gather by the tables. There was nobody guarding her, nobody near her at all. Nonetheless, she knew that there was zero chance of successfully escaping now, even if the driver had left the keys in the Suburban’s ignition, which he had not. How could she outrun a hundred men armed with rifles, pursuing her in a dozen other vehicles?
Ranya briefly entertained the fantasy of finding the keys in another unwatched truck, then sabotaging all of the other vehicles and driving off in a cloud of dust…but she quickly discarded the idea. She was ten miles west of Albuquerque, in a God
-forsaken land where you could spot rolling tumbleweeds a mile away. There was nowhere for her to run that they could not easily catch her, so Ranya had to accept that her best opportunity this morning lay in establishing her trustworthiness. She could be left unguarded in a vehicle, and she would not run off. If her guards learned this lesson today, it would be enough. The next time that they left her alone, she might be able to suddenly escape and disappear.
So she waited and she watched. Assembled behind the line of shooting tables were one hundred lean troops in brown t-shirts and camouflage pants. One hundred brown berets, one hundred pins flashing silver in the New Mexico morning sunlight. One hundred ardent faces turned to their leader.
“Falcons! Primer Sargento Ramirez will be in charge today while you adjust the sights of your rifles. He has done this many times in the Mexican Army, in the Grupo Aeromóvil de Fuerzas Especiales. Listen to him, and this job will be done quickly and efficiently. Do your very best, because the ten riflemen with the highest qualifying scores will then compete in a separate championship. I will be here for the contest, to award the prizes. All ten finalists will win a telescopic sight that fits onto their rifle’s carrying handle. These optical sights provide four power magnification, and they have an illuminated crosshair for shooting at night. The ten best marksmen will also be given special consideration for promotion, and for a position in the Zeta Squad.”
Ramos paused for dramatic effect, and then he said, “In addition, as a special reward, the three shooters with the highest scores will also win Canadian Maple Leaf coins. They each weigh 31 grams, or one solid ounce of gold!” Ramos held a gleaming golden disc aloft, where it caught the sun. “Three of the golden coins will go to the winner. Two will be given for second place, and one for third. They were ‘liberated’ from rich Anglos, and there are many more where they came from, if you will fight with me for La Liberación!”
At this offering of rewards, the hundred Falcons began to shout and cheer, and many cried out that the golden coins would soon be theirs!
However, Ramos did not finish with the mention of the prizes. “And the bottom ten shooters will run the La Luz trail tomorrow morning, to pay for their sins! All the way to the top of the Sandia Mountain! If they cannot shoot straight, by God at least they will be able to run fast!”
His men burst out in raucous guffaws and laughter, and many picked up a chant of “Che! Che! Che!”
Ramos allowed them to cheer and call his nickname and whistle for a few moments, and then held up his palms to them, quieting them back down. “Now, some of you may be concerned that these rifles are not powerful enough, because they fire only the small 5.56mm bullet. Some of you say that the M-16 will only make a wound like an ice pick, and that you must shoot your enemy many times to kill him. Well, stop worrying. Chino, get the dog.”
Chino, taller than average and with the narrower eyes of the half-Asian, was one of Ramos’s personal bodyguards from the Escuadra Zeta. They were distinguishable by their tan combat vests, while the rest of the Falcons were wearing green web belts and H-harnesses over their brown Milicia t-shirts. Each web belt held four green pouches on the front, enough for twelve magazines. Some of the men had short military-length haircuts, but others, particularly the Zetas, had longer hair showing beneath their berets, in emulation of the Falcon leader whom they admiringly called Che.
Ranya observed the group, looking for their officers and noncoms. She could not see any distinguishing stripes or chevrons, but she did notice that some of the older and taller troops wore camouflage blouses that matched their trousers, instead of brown t-shirts. Several of this group had made the trip to the range with her in Ramos’s Suburban. These men did not have on H-harnesses, but only web belts with holstered pistols. They must be the leaders, she mused. Good socialists, they were eschewing overt symbols of rank. Nevertheless, all Indians need chiefs…and for an officer, the pistol is the ultimate symbol of authority. Not to fire at the enemy in battle, so much as to potentially use against one’s own disobedient or cowardly subordinates.
Ramos’s bodyguard led a limping mongrel pit bull from the back of a pickup truck onto the range, and tied its leash to a wooden target frame 15 yards from the shooting tables. It was obvious that the brown and white bulldog had placed second in a recent fight. The troops all turned to watch the animal on the other side of the range tables.
The stout dog panted in the sun, oblivious to its fate. Chino returned to the closest shooting table and picked up an M-16, inserted a magazine, charged it, shouldered it and aimed at the doomed creature. A hundred pairs of eyes flickered between the shooter and his living target.
A single shot was fired, and the dog collapsed onto its side, without making so much as a twitch or a growl. A shower of blood and tissue was visible on the bare dirt beyond its body, while a dark pool spread beneath the dead canine and soaked into the ground. The bodyguard placed the rifle down on the table and trotted back out, grabbed the dog by two legs and rolled it over to expose the gaping wound. A ragged exit channel the size of a fist had been blasted from the dog’s right side. The hundred Falcons crowded around the shooting tables, studying the terminal effects of the bullet, murmuring approval to one another with keen professional interest.
Ramos continued with his pep talk, and his troops turned around to face him again. “Men, in all of Nuevo Mexico, only the Batallón Halcón has this new ammunition. It’s specially made for the gringo anti-terrorist units—it’s the best stuff around. The bullets are very light, and very fast. They’ll go straight through armored glass and soft body armor, but when they hit a person, watch out! The bullets aren’t solid. They’re made of compressed powdered metals inside of a copper jacket, and when they strike flesh, they explode, as you have just seen. So don’t worry that you’ll have to shoot these big fat gringo ranchers three or four times with your M16s to kill them! With this new ammunition, our motto will be: one cartucho—one cowboy!”
The men burst into peals of laughter once again.
“Make no mistake: we are going to drive the Yanqui oppressors from this sacred land! And after we set the example and push them out of Nuevo Mexico, then our brothers will push them out of Alta California, out of Arizona and Texas, and out of all of the Indo-Hispano territory of Aztlan! We will drive the dough-faced gabacho settlers from all of the rightful lands of our fathers! No longer will our undocumented brothers and sisters from the south be forced to cut the gringos’ lawns and clean their toilets, smiling and groveling, while burning inside with humiliation!”
Ramos gestured broadly with his hands and arms, shaking his head. “No, instead we will burn the shameful treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo, which was signed by sold-out Mexican vendidos at gunpoint! We will end the illegal Yanqui occupation of our land, and create a new República del Norte, based on socialist principles of equality for all! We will begin new lives as free men, free from Yanqui imperialist domination forever! In time, this rich new Indo-Hispano nation will extend from the Golfo de Mexico to the Mar Pacífico, and the world will not be able to ignore us! We will take our rightful place at the world’s table at last! So my Falcons, I ask you, what do we fight for? We fight to throw off the heavy yoke of Yanqui oppression! We fight for our own place under the sun, we fight for respect, and we fight for a free land in America! Men, we fight for… Tierra y Libertad!”
“¡Tierra y Libertad!” the troops roared the slogan in unison.
“Men, I can’t hear you! What do we fight for?”
“¡TIERRA Y LIBERTAD!” was screamed from a hundred throats like a clap of thunder.
“Men, the Batallón Halcón will be growing rapidly in the coming months. Each squad will become the basis of a new platoon, until we are at full battalion strength. But I know that you all understand that we must not sacrifice quality for quantity, so this process will take some time. In the meantime, however, we have several critically important missions before us. First, none of us has forgotten the bloody matanza on the bus. We will never fo
rget nor forgive this massacre of our brother Milicianos! Friday, we will begin to exact our just revenge for this unprovoked atrocity!”
The Falcons erupted again in screams and whistles.
“Then on Saturday, we will provide security and carry out special missions during the March for Social Justice. And next week, we will be providing security for an important meeting that concerns the future of Nuevo Mexico, and all of the stolen lands of Aztlan. This meeting will include foreign leaders, as well as important gringos who are secretly on our side in the struggle. The success of this conference will be vital to the future of a free and independent Nuevo Mexico, so we must continue to train hard, and operate at the very highest level. That’s why we must make sure that our new rifles are as accurate as possible. We are the vanguard of the revolución in Nuevo Mexico, and if we fail, all of the hopes of our people might be crushed. So today, let every man shoot with the sharp eyes and the unerring aim of a Falcon!
“Primer Sargento Ramirez will direct the sighting-in of your new rifles. Remember: the ten best sharpshooters will win valuable prizes, and the ten worst will run the Sandia Mountain trail tomorrow, to the very top! Now, Primer Sargento Ramirez, carry out your orders!”
Ramos stepped back away from the group, turned smartly and strode to his left. Ramirez stepped toward the troops and bellowed out, “¡Pe-letones!” Five of the leaders Ranya had identified stepped forward from the mob at even intervals. Platoons of about twenty men immediately formed into neatly ordered groups behind each of the leaders. The troops stood at rigid attention, their backs to the shooting tables and the range. A smaller group, all wearing the tan combat vests of Ramos’s personal bodyguard detail, were formed up on the left of the platoons. Ramos walked past his Zeta Squad and said, “Chino and Genizaro—let’s go. We have a different job today.”
Domestic Enemies: The Reconquista Page 22