“Yes Comandante!”
Ramos’s Lieutenants and Sergeants gathered around him to hear his orders. Ranya was still on the ground behind her rifle, almost at their feet. Ramos said, “If he left on a moto, then he arrived on a moto. If he carried his rifle on a moto, then he must live nearby. We can find this bastard, if we move quickly. Chino!”
“At your orders, Comandante!”
“Take the Zetas up to the dirt road cutoff, look for his firing position. Check for booby traps, see what you can find.”
“Yes sir.” Chino left at a trot and jumped into the front of a brown Toyota 4X4 pickup, which immediately peeled out with a hail of dirt and gravel, and then tore up the paved road. The rest of the troops fanned out in a circular perimeter around the vehicles, their rifles pointing outward.
Ramos pulled out his cellular phone, and checked it. “Teniente Almeria, we have cellular coverage, thank God. Find out about any calls handled by nearby cell towers in the last two hours. The shooter was probably informed about our presence on the rifle range, and then he put himself into position in case we returned to the city this way. These calls may lead to the conspirators. Find out, get the records.”
“Yes sir.” Lieutenant Almeria was sitting in the back of a gray Toyota Land Cruiser that was bristling with antennas. The Land Cruiser had traveled behind Ramos’s Suburban in the convoy, and had pulled up close behind it when they stopped.
“Also, there may have been other ambushes placed on the roads we used to come to the range. If there were, then those shooters might be leaving their positions now. Contact Milicia headquarters, have them put flying roadblocks on all of the Interstate 40 interchanges, looking for weapons. They might get lucky.”
“Yes sir. Right away.” Almeria, the Falcons’ young communications officer, was round-faced, and wore gold-rimmed eyeglasses with dark sun lenses clipped over them. Besides Almeria and the driver, two other Falcons also were busy on radios and computers in the Land Cruiser.
The walkie-talkie on Ramos’s belt crackled, and he pulled it off. The handheld radios were digitally encrypted, so he spoke freely.
“All secure up here, Comandante. We located the position, and we found fresh shell casings, over.”
“Excellent. What kind of ammunition, over?”
“It’s Russian sir. 7.62 by 54, rimmed. Ten shells, over.”
“What does that tell you, Chino?” Ramos already knew the answer; he was testing his subordinate’s knowledge.
“Dragunov, sir. I’d say a Russian Dragunov.”
“I agree. Good work. Get back here now—we’re not finished today.”
The Russian Dragunov was a semi-automatic sniper rifle issued to Soviet and Eastern European troops during the cold war. The cartridge it fired was the same fired by many Russian belt-fed machine guns, and was slightly more powerful than the .308 or 7.62mm NATO round. Different versions of the long, sleek and deadly rifle had been legal to purchase in the USA, before the ban on semi-automatic rifles had gone into effect six years earlier.
“Teniente Almeria, do we still have a network connection? Can you get into the police sites?” Fortunately for the Milicia, they were still able to access the same law enforcement-only internet sites used by the other New Mexico police agencies. This was one of the residual benefits of flying the United States flag over the Capitol in Santa Fe…for the time being at least.
“Yes, we’re in the net.” Lieutenant Almeria had a keyboard on his lap, and a screen in front of him on a flexible bracket mount.
“See if you get any hits on people who owned Dragunovs, or who have purchased 7.62 by 54 ammunition. Give priority to the western Albuquerque zip codes.”
“I’m already working on it. This should only take a minute—if we keep the connection.”
Although there had never been a formal law passed creating a national firearms registration database, that minor legalistic hurdle had been bypassed years before. The same search engine technologies that powered Google and other data mining systems had been converted to law enforcement use long ago. Although firearms purchase information was not supposed to be held by the federal government, those privacy laws had been superseded by a secret Presidential Decision Directive buried within the third Patriot Act. Terrorists, it was reasoned, should not get a free pass, merely to ensure the confidentiality of right wing gun nuts. The complete record of all firearms purchase information was collected and maintained on classified Department of Homeland Security databases.
“No luck, Comandante, it’s not showing any Dragunovs. Now, wait a moment, here’s another list of Dragunov clones and imitations... There’s a Romanian PSL, it shoots the same ammunition, and uses a similar ten round magazine. No, I don’t see any Dragunovs or PSLs still on the list in Albuquerque. They were all collected and destroyed five years ago, all the ones that were listed in the national data base.”
Lieutenant Almeria cracked his knuckles, stretched, and lit a cigarette. “So let’s look at ammunition next. I’m bringing up credit card sales of shooting supplies. Okay, now here’s a list of ammunition purchases by zip codes…I’m narrowing the field to only 7.62 by 54 Russian. Got it, here it is. Now let me overlay this on the map…
“All right, I’ve got twelve ammunition buyers west of the river. Well…look at this. This fellow also bought four magazines for a Dragunov—the fool ordered them on his VISA card! Hah! Now, let me go into the DMV for a moment…and…here’s our man!” Almeria jabbed the “enter” key with a flourish, and a New Mexico driver’s license and vehicle registration information popped up in a full screen view. “Guess who owns a Kawasaki KLR 650 motorcycle, and spare ammunition magazines for a Dragunov, and who bought five hundred rounds of 7.62 by 54 Russian ‘sniper grade’ ammunition six years ago?” Almeria turned the computer screen toward the side window.
“Jan Pieter De Vries?” asked Ramos. “What kind of a name is that?”
“Dutch, or maybe South African,” replied his commo officer. “He’s also a member of the NRA and Gun Owners of America, and ay, chihuahua! Look at all of these gun magazines he subscribed to!”
“Well, why don’t we go pay this Mr. De Vries a visit, right now?”
First Sergeant Ramirez, at Ramos’s side, said, “It might be a trap, Comandante. Bait, to lure us into another ambush.”
“No, it’s too clumsy for that. His attack was on impulse. I think someone telephoned him a tip, and he acted on it. He identified the scout truck and shot it eight times, and then he fired two shots at our lead vehicle to stop our column, and then he fled. One magazine of ten bullets, and gone. Good fire discipline—fairly professional. But now he’s hiding, and his heart is beating like a rabbit’s. So let’s go see if the rabbit ran home! Teniente Almeria, find his house on your electronic maps. We’ll brief the mission right now. Maybe we’ll get lucky, and catch this Jan Pieter De Vries before he can make any escape plans.”
“¡Maldita sea!” swore Lieutenant Almeria. “I just lost the internet connection!”
“It doesn’t matter now,” stated Ramos, “We have enough information.”
“Here it is,” said Almeria, zooming in on his computer’s map. “7518 Cuttner Court is right here at the end of the Warner Ranch development, in this cul-de-sac.” He swiveled the screen toward the open window for Ramos and his gathered lieutenants to see.
Ramos studied the color map for a minute, and made his plan. “Okay…first stage: we’ll send Gamma Platoon as a blocking force out here almost behind his house, in case he runs out the back. Then the Zetas will go in the front as the assault team, with Alpha as backup. Beta and Delta will cordon the neighborhood. We’ve done this many times, the only thing different is it’s daylight, and we’ve never done it so quickly. Chino, are your Zetas ready for this mission? Do you have your assault bags?”
“Yes, Comandante. We are ready for these contingencies. Always.”
“Sir, the helicopter is inbound,” reported one of the other troops in the commo truck. “I
t’s two minutes away.”
“All right. Are the casualties ready to be transported?”
“Yes sir,” answered First Sergeant Ramirez.
“Good. Now, let’s get back to the plan. Sargento Ramirez…”
The radio crackled again. “Falcon Leader, this is Avispa, over.” It was the pilot of the Milicia’s Piper Supercub, just arriving overhead.
“Avispa, this is Falcon Leader, can you downlink your video to us, over?”
“Roger, I’m streaming it now.”
Lieutenant Almeria said, “We’ve got it.”
“Avispa, take a look at 7-5-1-8 Cuttner Court Northwest. Let’s see who is home.”
***
Cuttner Court was like many streets in the new Warner Ranch subdivision: nice upper middle class pueblo-style homes on half-acre lots. Seen from above, each house in Warner Ranch was a red tile roof. Like many similar neighborhoods, it was dotted with houses that were frozen in a partial state of construction, dreams which had not been completed when the currency had failed. Many other finished homes in the area were vacant, “walk-aways” abandoned to the banks by newly destitute owners, and by Anglos who had simply given up on living in New Mexico under the new regime. The abandoned homes were easily distinguishable from above by their dusty yellow lawns, the rapid result once the daily watering stopped.
The back of Cuttner Court opened onto the broken rocky expanse of Petroglyph National Monument, thousands of acres of ancient volcanic rubble, where prehistoric Indians had left their graffiti on hundreds of stone monoliths. The twenty Falcons of Pelotón Gamma now lay in wait behind Cuttner Court, a hundred yards from the north side of the subject’s back yard, well hidden behind black volcanic boulders. If De Vries bolted in that direction, even on his motorcycle, Gamma Platoon would take him down.
The little Piper, orbiting soundlessly high above, provided a sharp video picture of 7518 Cuttner Court. By now, Ramos and his men knew that Mrs. De Vries was still at work, and their two grown daughters had moved out of state. The presumed Mr. De Vries himself could be seen from above, puttering in his backyard, apparently gardening, or working on his underground sprinkler system.
His personal information, retrieved by the computer, indicated that he had a lot of time for gardening—he had been laid off from his position as a facilities manager for the University of New Mexico. Mr. Jan De Vries’s master’s degree in mechanical engineering from the University of Johannesburg had not helped him to pass the state’s mandatory Spanish proficiency test with a sufficiently high grade. He was evidently shown the door, after seven years of keeping the university’s infrastructure humming.
Three blocks from the De Vries residence, Ramos, Ranya and First Sergeant Ramirez sat in the middle seat of their air-conditioned Suburban, watching a laptop’s color video screen. The perspective on the house constantly shifted as the Piper circled, but the stabilized zoom image was more than adequate to follow the action.
The man they assumed was Mr. De Vries could be seen digging along the rear fence of his back yard, while four Zetas crept around each side of his house. For this suburban mission, the Zetas were disguised as a police tactical unit, wearing black Kevlar helmets, black uniforms, and black body armor. They were carrying their short M-16 carbines, with sound suppressors attached to their muzzles.
There was a chain link fence with a hedge growing along it on the back of De Vries’s property line; beyond it began the vast Petroglyph National Monument. His back yard was an emerald-green rectangle when seen from above. Along with a few sparkling blue swimming pools, it was one of a handful of colorful gems scattered at the edge of the desolate brown “high desert.” On the video, a black dog was briefly seen running to the north side of the backyard, and then it went down, shot by one of the Zetas sneaking in from that direction. Mr. De Vries jumped to his feet, turning and looking at that side of his house as he drew a pistol from his waist. Then the Piper’s orbital position put Mr. De Vries into the image shadow of a leafy sapling tree for a few seconds, and when he reappeared, he was lying motionless on the ground on his back, with several Zetas standing over him, their M-16 carbines pointing at his head and chest.
Chino’s voice hissed over the radio. “Falcon Leader—Zeta 1. Subject is down, area is secure, over.”
“Roger Zeta 1, we’re on our way.”
***
When Ramos’s Suburban arrived, Chino walked down the driveway to greet them, carrying the captured Dragunov rifle as a prize. The weapon was sleek, with a long slender black barrel extending well out beyond the almost yellowish wood of the fore stock. The black steel receiver showed a strong family resemblance to the Russian AK-47, except for the long telescopic sight mounted above it, and the square cartridge magazine protruding from the bottom. The exotic-looking hollow shoulder stock was laminated from layers of yellow and brown wood, with a pistol grip forward and a hollow skeletal frame behind. The Dragunov was one of the few weapons ever commonly referred to as sexy or beautiful. There was no mistaking the classic Russian sniper rifle for any other, except perhaps for its Romanian and Chinese cousins.
Chino was sweating profusely in his armor as he met his leader, but he was cheerful, his narrow eyes reduced to slits beneath his black helmet as he smiled. He passed the rifle to his Comandante, who cradled it appreciatively. Ramos then shouldered it and peered through the sight, scanning the rifle toward the distant mountains, before lowering it and returning his attention to the Zeta squad leader. A green off-road motorcycle could be seen in the De Vries’s now-open garage. It had been hidden behind a folded ping-pong table and covered with a blue plastic tarpaulin, which was now cast aside.
“Where was the rifle?”
“He was trying to bury it. He already had a place prepared under his back fence, but we were too fast for him.”
“Good work, Chino. Very good work.”
“Thank you, Comandante.”
“Do you know why he was going to bury this rifle under a fence?”
“I would say…to defeat metal detectors. It’s a steel fence.”
“Very good, Chino, very good. Say, do you like this neighborhood?
“Yes Comandante, it’s fine.”
“Well, you know what? Maybe we’ll keep it.”
14
“Mommy, why can’t I see Daddy? When is Daddy coming home?” asked five and a half year old Brian Garabanda. The barefoot child walked across the kitchen and looked directly into his mother’s face from a yard away. Karin Bergen was sitting Indian-style on the speckled terrazzo floor in her gray tracksuit, wrapping china plates in packing paper, after removing them from a cabinet under the counter. The dinner set had been a wedding gift, a decade ago. “It’s complicated, Bri-bri. It’s a grown-up problem.”
Little Brian pondered this new concept for a minute while she continued packing, and then he said, “Well, I think it’s a kid problem too. I want to see Daddy! I miss my Daddy!”
“Oh, sweetie, right now you can’t see Daddy.” She didn’t return his gaze, but continued wrapping dishes. Both of them had sky-blue eyes and medium blond hair—an accident of fate, not genetics.
“Why not, mommy? Why not?”
“Because…”
“Because why?”
“Because a judge said so.”
“A judge? What’s a judge? Judges are stupid!” Brian quickly reached over and snatched up a bone china teacup and then threw it down hard, shattering it on the kitchen floor. A dozen large and small shards skittered across the room.
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.
Domestic Enemies: The Reconquista Page 24