Domestic Enemies: The Reconquista

by Matthew Bracken

  While First Sergeant Ramirez barked out his instructions, Ramos and his two picked men walked back to the black Suburban.

  ***

  They drove a short distance away from the rifle range, the two bodyguards in front, Ranya and Basilio Ramos in the middle seat. The land here was less than perfectly flat, and they stopped with a low rise between themselves and the rest of the Batallón Halcón, well off to the side of the rifle range. The Suburban was parked by a pair of picnic tables in the shade between two oak trees. Forty miles to the west, the peak of the 11,000-foot tall Mount Taylor was visible above the dry plain.

  The two Zetas carried seven hard and soft rifle cases from the back of the SUV, and then began opening them and carefully laying the rifles on the table parallel to one another. Five of the rifles had gleaming hardwood stocks; two were stocked with black synthetic material. All seven had long black telescopic sights mounted on top of their receivers.

  Ranya and the Comandante stood by the table, studying the weapons.

  “You know what happened to the bus, Monday morning?” he asked.

  “I heard about it. Fascist snipers ambushed a bus carrying Milicianos, somewhere east of Albuquerque, on the other side of the mountains. The enemy snipers killed many of them.”

  “Yes, that’s right. Twenty-two Milicianos were killed, and eight more were wounded. The Yanquis stopped the bus with a bullet through the engine, probably from a fifty-caliber rifle. The Milicianos were unable to return effective fire, so they could not stop the gringos from killing them, one at a time. They were as helpless as babies to defend themselves from the long-range snipers, so they died. And that’s not the only time that fascist snipers have hurt us—the bus massacre was only their most recent atrocity. That’s why it’s so important for the regular Milicianos to receive proper rifle training, and of course, that is why it’s even more important for our Falcon Battalion. We have a very important mission next week, and we need to be ready, all of us.”

  Chino carried what looked like gym bags from the truck, and placed them on the table. From the nylon zipper-top bags, he removed small cardboard and plastic boxes of cartridges, and set them by each rifle, corresponding with their calibers. Though half Asian he was tall, six feet or so, with a shaved head beneath his beret. The other bodyguard, Genizaro, was shorter but more powerfully built. He had the straight black hair and profile of an Indian, but the light skin color and gray-blue eyes of a northern European. Acne pits and several knife-fighting scars had ravaged his face. Both men had blue tattoos on their arms: indecipherable calligraphy, symbols and numerals. Chino had additional tattoos on his neck, and tear drops beneath the corners of his eyes.

  An old term jumped into Ranya’s mind: halfbreed. Both Chino and Genizaro were half-and-halfs, but they could not have been more different in appearance. In contrast, Basilio Ramos appeared to be 100% European. Yet here were all three of them, fighting for a common Hispanic homeland. And here am I, she thought—ethnically Arab, born in America, and raised Catholic. A Christian Arab—another misfit.

  Ramos continued, while Ranya looked over the weapons. “But I’ve also considered what you said about the Zeta Squad’s short carbines, about how they are no good at long range. I want some of my men always to be ready to shoot back at the gringo snipers. Even our new M-16 rifles won’t be enough, not when the gringos are shooting their big guns.”

  “You’re asking me to train the Falcon Battalion’s counter-snipers?”

  “Yes, counter-snipers for my Escuadra Zeta. To begin with, I want you to teach these two Camaradas to be my personal counter-snipers, in case we are attacked from long range. I want you to sight-in all of these rifles, and then I want you to pick the very best of them. After that, I want you to show Chino and Genizaro how to shoot them.”

  “Well, I’m sorry, but it’s not as simple as that! Being a sniper is more than just a matter of aiming a rifle and pulling the trigger. Firing the rifle is only one part of sniping. It takes many weeks just to learn the basic skills a sniper needs, and I’m hardly qualified to teach that course of instruction.”

  “Yes, I’m sure you’re right, but for now I only need these two men to be able to shoot very well, with the best of these rifles.”

  “Whose rifles are they?” she asked innocently.

  “They are mine—I mean—they belong to the state now, to the people. They were confiscated from gringos, on their ranches and at road blocks.”

  “What crimes did they commit?” she asked with an earnest expression.

  “What crimes? What crimes did they commit? Why, they had sniper rifles! Just look at them: every single one of these rifles has a telescopic sight on top. All sniper rifles have been illegal for years now, if you hadn’t heard while you were away. So, which ones are the best?”

  “The best for what? For out here on the flatlands, in the mountains, in the city?”

  “Well, for all of that. For shooting enemy snipers, before they can shoot at the leaders of our government.” The two bodyguards snickered at this remark. “Can you find the best ones, and sight them in today? Right now? Say at…200 meters?”

  “Sure, that’s no problem. You’ll want to get bipods, and mount them under the front of the rifle stocks. Most of the time, your snipers will be shooting from…” Ranya searched for the words in Spanish. “From the prone position, laying down on the ground. Bipods will make the rifles steadier, and much more accurate.”

  “Yes, of course. We can get bipods.”

  “But Comandante, why at that distance? Why at 200 meters? That’s too close, I think. These are rifles for hunting big game animals. Elk, moose, brown bears…” She checked the calibers of the weapons, stamped on their receivers. “You only want to keep the ones that are very high velocity, the ones that will shoot with a flat trajectory. Forget these two— they’re too slow. They’ll shoot like a rainbow at long range. Now these are better: you have a 300 Winchester Magnum, a .338 Lapua here, this one’s a 7mm Remington Magnum…keep them. This .308’s not bad either, and match grade ammunition is easier to find for a .308. You know that .308 caliber is basically the same as 7.62 NATO, right?”

  “Yes, of course I knew that,” replied the Comandante, sounding less than certain.

  “Well then, okay, these four are a good start. These are all serious rifles, and so are their scopes. My father used to build custom rifles like these. Today we’ll find out which are the most accurate among the four, with the ammunition that we have.”

  Ranya picked up and shouldered each rifle in turn, hefting them, looking through their scopes, working their bolts with her right hand. “These are all fine for what you want. I think that these can hit a man at a thousand meters if you have match-grade ammunition, but we’ll need to shoot them to know for sure. But we should sight them in at 400 meters, or even 500. That way, your counter-snipers will only have to make a smaller elevation correction, if they need to shoot at very long range. If somebody is shooting at you from 800 or 1,000 meters, your rifles need to be set up to get right on them fast. In my opinion, 200 meters is too close to zero-in these rifles.”

  “No, I think 200 meters is better for now,” said Ramos. “I don’t think it’s likely that our counter-snipers will have to shoot past 500 yards, so let’s zero them in at 200 meters. It’s more realistic for my men. Maybe later you can train them to be better marksmen, at longer ranges.”

  “Well, it’s not usually how this is done. That’s all I’m saying.” She caught herself: why was she actively helping these men to become better snipers? To ingratiate herself with Basilio Ramos, and to gain his trust, of course. Even then, there had to be limits to her assistance. She just didn’t know where the limits were.

  “But you can do it, can’t you? Sight them in so that they’ll hit precisely where the crosshairs are aimed, 200 yards away?”

  “Yes, of course I can do it, if that’s what you think is best, Comandante.”

  There was the sound of a shrill whistle blast from ove
r the rise, which was immediately swallowed by the much louder sound of a solid fusillade of rifle fire. The unbroken volley from one hundred M-16’s tapered off after a few seconds, then regained its full volume, tapered off and rose again, and then died off, the final bursts finishing suddenly with another whistle blast. The three men and Ranya grinned at one another.

  The Falcon Battalion had just test-fired and broken-in their “new” thirty-year-old rifles, with three magazines each, just as she had suggested. These nine thousand rounds had also been fired as a morale-boosting “mad minute” for the Falcons, demonstrating to them the fearsomeness of their combined firepower.

  It also boosted Ranya’s confidence, to know that Ramos and his battalion were accepting her advice. She smiled back across the table at them and she said, “Well, those old M-16s aren’t virgins anymore,” and they laughed with her, nodding approval at their Arab rifle expert Ranya Bardiwell, la ejecutora, the executioner.

  “Now,” she said, “Let’s forget those M-16s, those little dog shooters. Let’s see what some real rifles can do.”

  ***

  As a security precaution, the battalion left the range by an alternate route, returning to the city from the northwest. The convoy was preceded by a scout vehicle driving a mile ahead: a small gray pickup truck with four troops keeping a low profile in the back. In keeping with Ramos’s personal preference from previous conflicts in other countries, it had a radio call sign named for a dangerous creature, in this case “Scorpion.”

  After five miles, the two-lane blacktop made a right turn to the east and ran ruler-straight back towards Albuquerque. The convoy only rarely passed a private sedan or work truck on these barren high desert outskirts of the city. Ramos’s black Suburban was once again embedded in the middle of the column.

  For the return trip, Ranya arranged to be sitting against the passenger side door of the middle seat, staring out through the armored glass while the others spoke in rapid Spanish, discussing the day’s training evolutions. Often it was too fast for her to follow.

  “Primer Sargento, I think it went well,” said Ramos. “I was pleasantly surprised to see that most of the men qualified at the expert level. You’ve done a fine job of training them.”

  “Thank you sir. All they needed were good rifles.”

  “Well, they seem to be satisfied with them.”

  “Yes sir, especially with the new ammunition. The rifles shoot very well, that’s true, and we want the men to be confident with them. But even so Comandante, out here in this kind of open country, the M-16’s are marginal at best. Even with the special ammunition, we’ll be outranged. The fact is, past a few hundred meters, the 5.56mm is just too light to do much damage, and the desert winds will push the bullet off target. We really need to get some serious battle rifles—7.62mm rifles. If there is any way we could obtain M-14s from the same armories which supplied the M16s, well, that would be very beneficial.”

  “M-14’s? With the wooden stocks? They’re even older than our M16s.”

  “That’s true, but it doesn’t matter. They can hit targets much farther away than our rifles, and with a much heavier bullet. Old or not, they’d be better for us in the plains and the mountains. This is not like the jungle fighting you were accustomed to in South America.”

  “Hmm… I see your point, Primer Sargento. I’ll pass your request up the chain, but I don’t know if we’ll be able to get them, or not. I don’t even know if such rifles as these M-14’s are available.”

  “And some real machine guns, belt-fed machine guns, to protect our vehicles. I don’t have to tell you how vulnerable we are, with the troops in unarmored vehicles.”

  “Belt-fed machine guns will have to wait. For now, M-16s are all we will be allowed to use. It’s a delicate balance…a matter of appearances. It’s a political matter.”

  “¡Malditos políticos! It’s always the politics over the soldiers! When I hear that, I want to line those politicians up against a wall!”

  Ramos laughed, as did the other men in the vehicle. “I understand how you feel, Primer Sargento. I feel the same way, at least ten times a day. I’ll keep pushing for heavier weapons, but you know how the politicians are. Pendejos políticos, all of them.”

  “Well even if we can’t get better weapons, we should look into armoring more of our vehicles. It’s simple enough to put steel plates inside the backs of the trucks. The extra weight will slow them somewhat, but on balance, armor is…”

  The ceiling-mounted radio above Ramos crackled with sudden urgency, and he grabbed the microphone from its clip.

  “Falcon leader, this is Scorpion, we’re taking fire…”

  Immediately another voice came over the radio: “What the hell? Falcon Leader, this is Falcon 1, we’ve been hit! We’ve been hit!” Falcon 1 was a Dodge crew cab pickup, the first vehicle in the actual column, not counting the scout far out ahead.

  Ramos grabbed his radio and spoke into it. “Scorpion, Scorpion, report, over?”

  “Falcon leader, this is Falcon 1—Scorpion is off the road, it’s rolled over, it’s on its back, on its back, over!”

  “Falcon 1, this is Falcon Leader, do you have casualties, over?”

  “Negative, no casualties.”

  All of the men and Ranya slid down in their seats as they passed the area where the first vehicle in the column had taken fire moments before. They were already nearing the location of the overturned advance scout. “Falcon 1—keep going, keep pushing, let’s get up there!” Next Ramos contacted their on-call Piper Supercub, call sign Avispa, or wasp. “Avispa, Avispa, do you read me? Get airborne, we have contact on Paradise Road, one mile east of the turn, over.”

  “Falcon Leader, this is Avispa. We’re rolling now; we will be over your location in five minutes.”

  “Roger Avispa—Break—Scorpion, do you read me?”

  There was no reply from the scout vehicle. The front of the column was drawing even with the wreckage.

  “Falcon 1, cover Scorpion from the front and take care of his casualties—we’re going ahead. All forward vehicles, stay out of the left lane, we’re going past you.” In the black Suburban, Ramos said, “Get down everybody; we’re going to swing into the front.”

  They passed the overturned gray Toyota pickup that had been their scout vehicle at 60 miles per hour, traveling in the oncoming lane. Falcon 1, the point vehicle of the column, had stopped in front of the scout, which was lying wheels-up in the ditch on the right side of the road.

  They briefly noted bodies on the road and the shoulder as they blasted by, the rest of the convoy following close behind them, swerving and barely missing colliding with the vehicles that had stopped to render aid to the scouts. They all hunkered down low, fully expecting to hear and feel bullets tearing into the Suburban, wondering if its three-inch-thick Lexan front windshield would stop rifle slugs. Even the driver was down so low, that he was peeking out from the level of his steering wheel.

  Ramos spoke into his radio and to the passengers in his own truck at the same time. “Okay, get ready, get ready to stop, we’re pulling off to the right, keep control everybody, drivers, both sides, contact front, okay now, STOP!”

  The black Suburban braked and hit the shoulder at a slight angle, tearing through the dirt and creosote bushes and bouncing off the rocks, negotiating the transition from asphalt to scrubland and sliding to a halt in a thick cloud of dust at a 45 degree angle away from the road. As soon as the Suburban was halted, the passengers leaped out of the right side and rear doors with their weapons. Ranya went to the open back doors of the Suburban and pulled out a rifle case, they were still loaded from the range for this type of contingency. She grabbed a tan range bag and crouched behind the SUV’s back wheels near the shoulder of the road, where she could see straight up the pavement. In a moment the .300 Winchester Magnum was uncased, its gleaming black barrel lying across the range bag for support, and then she was prone on the dirt behind the rifle and seeking the enemy sniper through her ow
n scope.

  On both sides of the road, the other vehicles had disgorged their troops. They were kneeling or sitting with their rifles across their knees for support where the grass and weeds were taller, or lying prone where there was less cover. The riflemen with their M-16s began laying down suppressing fire, peppering likely enemy hiding places ahead of them. Some of the Falcons on the forward perimeter were in Ranya’s likely line of fire, but she saw no enemy targets and thus had no reason to shoot.

  Comandante Ramos was standing hunched over behind the Suburban with First Sergeant Ramirez; both men were scanning ahead through binoculars. Ramos said, “There he goes, look at his dust trail. Ahh, he’s already gone. Have the men cease fire.” A rough dirt road angled away to the right, a half mile ahead. The road ran in a straight line, but over rolling terrain and through cuts where the rocky ground was broken with small escarpments. Occasionally at the front of the dust trail, the helmet and shoulders of a man could just be seen—he was on a motorcycle and already well out of range. Through magnified optics, he could be seen riding southeast toward the Albuquerque suburbs on the western bank of the Rio Grande, traveling through the uninhabited volcanic badlands of the Petroglyph National Monument.

  The stocky middle-aged First Sergeant blew his silver whistle and bellowed “Cease fire! Cease fire!” and the shooting abruptly stopped.

  Ramos said, “He’s gone. Shit! He’ll disappear before the plane gets here. How many casualties do we have?”

  Another sergeant, in his full camouflage BDU uniform and pistol belt, reported. “Two dead, three injured Comandante. One of them needs to be evacuated immediately. He may die—not from bullet wounds, but from the crash. Our medicos cannot do anything more for him here.”

  “Yes, yes. Let’s get the helicopter—call the state police, have them contact the air ambulance and get it here. Do it!”