“I’m bored, I’m not flying nearly enough. The flight instructor gig sure ain’t working out. Nobody can afford to pay for lessons, especially not with fuel the way it is. Things are tight, there’s never enough money…you know how they cut the pensions when they changed the money. Thank God our house is paid off is all I can say—otherwise we’d be living in a tent.”
***
Alex Garabanda knew that this was no mere figure of speech. Thousands of retirees and the unemployed were indeed living in tents and RVs on new “campgrounds,” which seemed to be springing up like mushrooms. He adopted a more somber tone and asked his friend, “How’s Trudy doing?”
The pilot slowly shook his head while letting out a sigh. “She’s holding on. She’s a real trooper. She just needs more treatments than what she can get here.”
“Can’t she get what she needs on the outside? Private care, I mean.”
“She could if I was made of money. I just can’t play the insurance game any harder than what I already am. You know how government health care sucks for retirees—we’re at the bottom of every priority list. She just can’t get any more treatments here. Twice a week isn’t enough, and the dialysis machines they use are just crap. They’re friggin’ antiques, and they reuse the filters! You wouldn’t believe it, you’d think you were in Cuba or Mexico or something. It’s damned depressing. You know how New Mexico is, so just imagine how it is on a pension when you need extra medical treatment.” He took a long pull from his bottle of beer. “I swear to God Al, they just want us to shut up and die, without costing them any money.”
“So what’s the word on the organ donor list?” he asked.
“What list? We’re off the list—Trudy doesn’t make the cut. It’s the triple whammy: she’s over fifty, no dependent kids and not working. Three strikes and you’re out. The only waiting list she’s on is the hurry-up-and-die list.”
Garabanda let those words sink in, before responding gently. “Logan, I think we can help each other out. We don’t need much, we just need somebody to do a little flying—off the books. We can pay you for it. We can pay you real well.”
The pilot slowly shook his head, resignation written on his downcast face. “You must not know what dialysis treatments cost out on the private side.”
“I think I’ve got an idea how much. Anyway, I’m pretty sure we can help you out with it.”
“Al, I don’t know what you’ve been up to lately, or where you’d come up with that kind of money—and I don’t want to know. But I can’t pay for Trudy’s dialysis with wads of cash. They won’t accept it unless I have about ten kinds of disclosure forms filled out and approved. I have to pay with credit cards or bank drafts. Its all gotta be 100% kosher, legit, traceable electronic money. That’s the system, that’s how it works.”
“I know all about the system—I’m an expert. But I’m not talking about paying you cash.”
The pilot appeared puzzled. “I don’t understand. What then?”
“First, let me tell you what we need. We want to fly up to Torcido County on Wednesday, stay for a few hours, and then fly to San Diego. That’s it.”
The pilot quietly whistled. “Interstate. That’s a pretty tall order, that’s over a thousand miles one way, ballpark estimate. So what’s going on up in Torcido? Picking somebody up, or what?”
“Well, I’m afraid it’s a little bit more involved than that. You’re familiar with Wayne Parker’s place up there? The Vedado Ranch?”
“Sure. It’s got one of the only private jet-capable runways around, at least that I ever heard of. How much land does he have up there, a half-million acres?”
“More like a million. It’s roughly about forty miles on a side. Covers most of Torcido County.”
“That used to be Spanish Land Grant territory,” offered the pilot, “So how come Wayne Parker hasn’t been ‘land reformed’?”
“I’m not sure,” replied Garabanda. “I think it’s got something to do with the United Nations. He’s donating most of Vedado for a World Conservancy Site. It’s some kind of a UN deal. You know Wayne Parker—he’s a big one-worlder, so the commies up in Santa Fe tolerate him— at least for now. Plus, he practically bankrolled Deleon into office single-handed. I guess if you fork over enough dough, you get to keep your land.”
The pilot twisted open his second bottle of beer. “Al, for some reason I’m not getting the impression that Wayne Parker’s inviting you up for a party. What’s going on?”
“Well, it’s kind of complicated. He’s having some VIPs fly in for a conference on Wednesday, and I want to know who they are.”
“What’s the matter with the FBI, can’t you get your own airplanes? What are you asking me for?”
Garabanda paused, looking directly across at his friend. “The FBI isn’t behind this, Logan. This one is on my own. Well, on our own.” He nodded to Ranya, who was devouring her second beef and bean burrito. She had been a silent observer at the table during the exchange, and shot him back a challenging look at that comment.
The pilot replied, “What the hell are you talking about? Al, are you going freelance? What is this, an FLA operation? Or the Federal Underground? Man, I can’t afford to get messed up in that kind of shit—I need to keep my federal pension. If I lose the pension, we’re eating out of garbage dumps like all the trash pickers! I’ll lose all of my benefits, and that includes medical, and then Trudy won’t be eligible for any treatments at all! I mean, I’m sympathetic to the cause, but Al, I just can’t get mixed up with that underground cop business.”
“Logan, I swear that it’s got nothing to do with the Former Lawmen or the F.U. This is strictly on my own. I just want to know who’s coming to Wayne Parker’s conference. That’s it.”
“You just want to know who’s coming?” he asked sarcastically, “Then why don’t you just call up there and ask?”
Garabanda ignored his friend’s tone. “It’s not that kind of meeting. It’s very hush-hush, top secret. It’ll be enough just to find out who’s attending.”
“And how do you propose to do that?” The pilot pushed back from the table, his arms crossed.
“Well, I had a couple of ideas. First, I thought maybe we’d shoot a runway approach. Line it up and call it in like we’re expected, and then do a touch-and-go while they’re figuring out who the hell we are. Touch-andgo, and then haul ass. Film out of both sides of the plane, and record the tail numbers of the jets parked on the runway. Trace them back that way.”
“Oh, just like that huh? One shot on a touch-and-go fly-by, with video cameras rolling. You actually think that’ll work?”
“You tell me. Would it work? You’re the expert.”
“Maybe, it might—it depends on a lot of factors. It’s iffy though. So who do you think is coming? What’s the meeting about? What’s so important about it, that you want to go to all this trouble?”
Garabanda explained his belief that the Vedado Ranch meeting was going to be the covert precursor to the upcoming Constitutional Convention. This account took enough time for both of them to drink another beer, with the FBI man talking, and the pilot asking occasional questions and making a few comments. Alex finally concluded, saying, “So that’s it, that’s what I think is going to happen next Wednesday.”
“Well I can believe it,” agreed the former Border Patrol pilot. “Folks like Wayne Parker aren’t going to be satisfied to just let Philadelphia play itself out. They’re not going to just let the chips fall where they may, and actually leave the new amendments up to the delegates. Not even these phony delegates. You can bet they want it all set up first, pre-fabricated, a done-deal. They’ll just pay off the delegates. They’re billionaires, right? They can buy these delegates for pocket change. And anything Senator Kelly and Montaine are in on together, well, you just automatically know it stinks to hell, and that it’s some kind of a sellout. They’re both for the North American Community, those Quisling traitor bastards! That’s why they always kept a real border f
ence from being built. Why build a border fence, if you’re planning to get rid of the border?”
Alex Garabanda formed a slight smile, seeing that his friend seemed receptive to his ideas. “So, now that you know why I want to do it, what do you think? Can you do it? Will you do it?”
“Well, I’ll tell you the truth, I’m not too hot on the idea of flying straight down a hostile runway, just to try to shoot some video. Too iffy. What kind of security will they have up there?”
“You’ve heard of the Falcon Battalion?”
“Hmmm…elite Milicia. I heard of ‘em. Land reform experts. They specialize in evictions.”
“Yeah, that’s them,” said Alex. “And based on their usual M.O., they’ll probably have some Blackhawks, and maybe some fixed wing planes too. They’ve used Blackhawks on their ‘land reform’ operations pretty often. They like to do air mobile ops, and come in hot.”
“Blackhawks? Now that’s a fast helicopter. That means we can’t use a 172—they’re not fast enough. Blackhawks will eat a 172 for breakfast. No way can a 172 get away from a Blackhawk.”
“You mean a Cessna 172?”
“Right. I’d have to get something faster. Maybe a 210T, from Tucson or El Paso. That’s a Cessna Centurion turbo—top of the line for single engine props. Plus, a 210 has the range to make it all the way to San Diego nonstop. But I’d have to spread some serious money around, this wouldn’t be easy to arrange…”
“How much money are you talking about?” asked Alex.
“A lot. A real chunk. I can’t borrow the airplane without making it worth some people’s while not to notice a few irregularities.”
“How much, Logan?”
The retired pilot sipped his beer, looking across at the FBI man. “To do it right? Oh, ballpark figure, about three hundred grand. Two hundred for my part, and another hundred that I’ll need to spread around here and there. This is all hypothetical now, of course.”
Garabanda turned to Ranya. “Robin, can we handle that?” He had noticed her use of a cover name, and used it to refer to her in Logan’s presence.
“I think we can. Let me see.” She left her chair and went to her backpack on the floor by the back door, unzipped the flap and returned with a pair of white plastic tubes in her fists. Each compact tube was about three inches long and a bit more than an inch in diameter. She set one in the center of the table between the men. “25 ML” was written on the top in black magic marker. It was clear that the unusual plastic tube was purpose-made to hold something unique, something of value. She pulled an end-cap off the other tube and tipped it over, spilling a neat row of golden coins across the map like a fan of fallen dominos.
All of their eyes grew wide at the sight of the dazzling golden line, and broad smiles formed on their faces as if by magic. Alex Garabanda and his friend Logan each picked up a coin for closer examination. They were all Canadian Maple Leafs, stamped “9999 FINE GOLD, 1 OZ.” On one side was the distinctive maple leaf logo of Canada, and on the other, the profile of an English queen.
Alex Garabanda spoke first, while hefting the coin in the palm of his hand. He asked, “What’s an ounce worth these days? Seven thousand?” He quickly did the mental math, and came up with an estimate. The fifty gold coins on the table were the equivalent of $350,000 hyperinflated New Dollars. Ranya hadn’t hesitated to bring these two tubes full of gold coins to the table. Garabanda remembered what she had told him about stealing ten or fifteen pounds of gold from Basilio Ramos. One thing he knew for sure: he had carried her two bags into the house, and they had weighed well over that amount, by at least double or triple—each. He picked up the other plastic tube still containing twenty-five coins. Despite its compact size, it weighed about as much as an all-steel pistol. $175,000 blue bucks, in his hand.
“Seven thousand an ounce?” the pilot repeated, “That sounds right, but I’m not sure. Probably closer to $7,500. And besides that, you know what else these coins are worth? Ten years in Leavenworth. You know what they say: ‘only terrorists and the mafia need gold. America’s gold belongs in Fort Knox’.”
The FBI man grinned at his friend. “Yeah, well, what the hell. In for a penny, in for a pound, right?”
“Damn right!” the pilot agreed.
Ranya jumped in and insisted, “Twenty-five now, and the rest when we land in California. Okay?” She took the full tube of coins back from Alex Garabanda’s open hand.
“Sounds fair to me,” Logan answered, still smiling.
Alex said, “You might even find a way to get Trudy back on the donor list with some of these, don’t you think?”
The pilot scooped up the twenty-five bright golden coins from the table, jingling them in his two hands. “Yes, oh hell yes, for sure, right to the top of the organ list! These will do just fine—I already know who’s going to get them. This is money you don’t need to deposit in a bank, with a government permission slip! This is real money. You just put it in the doctor’s hand. So, when do you want to fly?”
“Wednesday morning,” the FBI man answered.
“Up north to Wayne Parker’s ranch, then to San Diego?” confirmed their newly hired private pilot.
“That’s it. That’s the plan,” he agreed.
“San Diego is where Karin and Brian are, right?” asked the pilot.
“You never heard that from me.”
“Alexandro mi amigo,” he responded with a wink, “I never heard any of this.”
“Good, let’s keep it that way.”
The pilot nodded, his enthusiasm visibly growing. “I can do the whole trip in under 24 hours, from picking up the plane in El Paso to returning it. Sure, it’s doable. Oh yeah, I can do it! But forget your idea about the runway touch-and-go. There’s a better way. Much better.”
“What’s that?” asked Garabanda.
“Mini-UAVs. Drones. They’ve got a bunch of them sitting in the Border Patrol hangers in El Paso collecting dust. The brass just hauls them out to show reporters a demo flight once in a while, and then they go back in their crates until the next dog-and-pony show. We can carry a tactical UAV in the back of the plane, and launch it from the ground once we’re in range. That way we can stay out of the danger zone, and film the ever-loving crap out of everybody at that Wayne Parker shin-dig, in living color.”
“Won’t they be able to hear the drone?” asked Ranya, who had finished two burritos and two beers, wiped her mouth with a napkin, burped several times, and was leaning back in her chair with her thumbs hooked into her belt loops. The full container of gold coins was on the edge of the table in front of her, a white plastic tower.
“Naw, we’ll just take a Pelican 3. It’s too small to see when it’s at altitude, and its motor’s as quiet as a hummingbird. Sweet little Wankel rotary, runs on regular gas. Smooth as silk. It’s invisible and inaudible when it’s on the job. You’ll see. Then we can just sit on the ground about ten or fifteen miles away, and download the video. Once we’ve got what you need, we’ll recover the Pelican, and then we’re off to San Diego.”
“We’ll fly under radar?” asked Ranya.
“Where, to San Diego? No way, we’ll be on a declared flight plan for that leg. I’ll have it all squared away, no problem. Now up north, on the way into Vedado, sure, we’ll do a below radar approach for that leg. But don’t worry, I made a living chasing coyotes in planes for twelve years—I know all the tricks. I know how not to be seen.”
The FBI man told Ranya, “And Logan used to play the smuggler for pursuit training, and let the Customs boys try to chase him down. Hell, he practically wrote the manual on aerial pursuit! Isn’t that right?”
“Yeah, that’s true enough. But once we’re on the leg to San Diego, it’ll be a declared flight plan all the way. Well, almost all the way.”
Alex asked him, “Are you sure a 210’s going to be available on Wednesday?”
“You bet I’m sure. I know who maintains ‘em, who schedules ‘em and who flies ‘em. I know everybody down there, and I’m
still on the cleared list for check flights, as a private contractor. Al, a few of these gold coins in the right hands, and we could start a regular air taxi service, I kid you not! I mean, it’s not as if they’re actually using those planes or anything. They barely get any operational flying time along the border. It’s the same old song and dance: they don’t want us actually catching illegals; they just want to put on a good show for the media. So sure, it’ll be no problem taking one for 24 hours, no problem at all. They go off for maintenance, they do special VIP trips, they haul agents to conferences— you name it. No, it won’t be missed for one day. Not when I put some of these Maple Leafs in the right hands.”
“So you’re cool with doing this job? You know you’ll be risking your pension…”
“Al, the gold on this table is probably worth more than all of the pension money I’ll ever see in the rest of my life, especially after they switch the currency a couple more times. But that’s not as important as just getting this much all at one time. With this much, there’s a chance for Trudy to get the operation, and that’s a chance worth taking.” He looked back and forth between the two of them. “But you know what, that’s not even the only reason I’ll do it. The truth is, even without the gold, I’d be glad to fly this mission.”
He chuckled. “For once, I’ll be doing something really worthwhile in a government airplane! Not like back in the Border Patrol, when I was usually grounded while thousands of illegals crossed our sector, night after night. I can’t tell you how many times we were pulled back by the brass: ‘just stay on your X!’ That means don’t interdict them, just let ‘em through. You want to know what real frustration is? Being told by the whores and sellouts from Washington not to do your damn job, to just shut your mouth and ‘stay on your X.’
“So hell yes, let’s go on up to Torcido County and stick it to those treasonous rat bastards! Let’s film the whole damn party and nail their traitorous asses to the shithouse wall! Name ‘em and shame ‘em, in living color! You know Al, I always hated traitors like Montaine and Kelly the worst, I hated their stinking guts. It used to make me sick, how they’d come down to the border to hold a press conference, and talk about how they were finally going to get control of it. But you know, after all these years, they still never even built more than a few token miles of the damn fence!
Domestic Enemies: The Reconquista Page 49