Their bill was paid in the manager’s office, in gold. Their total for the two-room suite, their room service meals, the boutique, the men’s clothing store, the new luggage and their helicopter shuttle flight to La Jolla was converted from $33,840 New Dollars to 4.75 ounces of gold. The one-week rental of a Ford Explorer SUV cost five more ounces, along with a hefty 25-ounce “security deposit.” In effect, they had bought the vehicle, which would be delivered to them in the safety of La Jolla.
She paid the 34.75-ounce bill with 35 Krugerrands, and received three tiny gold coins in change. Two were slightly smaller than a dime, and the other was even smaller, only about the diameter of a .45 caliber shell casing. Close examination revealed that each was struck with an arrowhead on one side, and the profile of a famous Indian chief on the other. The manager suggested that she exchange more of her one-ounce gold coins for the more “useable” 1/10th and 1/20th ounce coins. He assured her that the gold coins were accepted readily across Southern California, despite anything to the contrary that she might have heard from the government. Ranya accepted his offer, trading ten of her one-ounce coins for one hundred “gold dimes,” as the manager off-handedly referred to them. He also quoted her the current exchange rate of gold to paper dollars, so that they would not be taken advantage of in San Diego. Today, one ounce of gold was worth $7,125. She didn’t ask who set the price, it didn’t seem to matter.
Dressed in their new clothes, they rolled their own luggage from a hotel side entrance along a paved golf cart path, to the helipad where a sleek cobalt blue Eurocopter was waiting for its 11 AM departure.
She sat in the back of the luxury helicopter next to Alex, with their bags on the empty seat and at their feet, eschewing the separate luggage compartment located behind them. The seats were soft cream-colored leather, almost as comfortable as the seats in Basilio Ramos’s Jaguar. An executive wearing a charcoal suit took the empty cockpit seat next to the pilot—the civilian chopper only had one set of controls, on the right side.
Two women, trim and attractive thirty-somethings, sat in two of the middle seats. Both were wearing designer everything, from top to bottom. Ranya guessed that their visible jewelry was worth enough to feed a small African nation for a year. She wondered if their obviously rich husbands were getting their money’s worth.
The helicopter’s turbine moaned, its blades began to spin, and a few moments later they lifted off. The reason for the casino’s profligate use of night time electricity was immediately visible: a nearby barren mountain ridge sprouted a row of a dozen enormous white towers, each topped with a slow-turning three-bladed propeller. Evidently, the casino Indians were plowing their profits back into building their own independent infrastructure.
She thought that the land beneath them could have been New Mexico between Albuquerque and Santa Fe, but more gray than red. There were the same boulders, dry hills carved by ravines, and the occasional green valley following a meager watercourse.
Ranya listened carefully to the rich women in front of her, trying to pick up their accents and the current slang, in order to better her own ability to pass herself off as one of them.
“I always sit next to the dealer, always. I just wait for a seat to come open, or I won’t play. I’m sick of stupid amateurs who don’t know how to play blackjack—they just screw up the cards I should get.”
“How much were you up last night?”
“Ninety five thou. I should have quit, but I couldn’t! Still, I had a good night. Paid for my room, the flight, everything.”
“Don’t you love getting paid to gamble?”
“Oh, you know it!”
Both ladies giggled.
“Too bad we can’t claim these trips as a deduction. ‘Reason for visit: to exchange paper for gold.’ I mean, have you tried to pay for anything with blue bucks lately? Even my pool boy wants gold!”
“Are you still using Roberto? He’s a cutie.”
“Oh, God no. I caught him stealing, and I canned him. And that’s not all—I made sure the little creep lost his crossing permit. It’ll be a cold day in hell before he works in La Jolla again. Good riddance!”
“You fired him? What did he steal?”
“Not much. Towels, mostly, and some liquor from our pool bar. But it’s the principle of it. I just can’t stand a thief.”
“I know what you mean.”
“So, what are you doing this afternoon?”
“Oh, I thought I’d go up to Rancho Santa Fe, and play tennis with Talia and Stephanie at their club. Maybe swim some laps.”
“You’re not driving, are you? Remember what happened to Monica. Her husband paid two million, and they still cut off her ear.”
“Oh hell no, I’m done with driving. I’m flying. I’m not taking any chances.”
“That was so awful what they did to Monica! They could have just sent her ear rings for proof, but no, the sick bastards had to mail Ronnie her ear too!”
“Yeah, well, I guess it worked. He paid up fast after that.”
“Hey, how much kidnap insurance do you guys have?”
“Ten mill.”
“Same here. But I’m still never driving east of I-5 again.”
“Are you joking? I won’t even drive on I-5.”
“Who needs to go east of I-5 anyway? Just send a servant, if you need to get something over there.”
“A-men!”
***
Bob Bullard was sitting behind his desk, idly clicking between surveillance camera views of San Diego. He was waiting for his next scheduled visitor to be announced, before helicoptering up to LA for a quick afternoon visit. Jim Holcomb knocked and entered.
“Boss, the fireworks are all set. For our end of it, we’re putting all of the federal tactical teams on standby.”
“Uh-huh, good. We don’t want any problems. Washington wants to see that San Diego is still an All-American city—these Navy bases mean a hell of a lot to them. They call San Diego the ‘western anchor,’ and they don’t want to see it end up like Los Angeles. So, they finally got the fireworks problem straightened out?”
“Yes, but what a nightmare that was! Just try to find one COSCO shipping container in the whole Port of Long Beach, when they have a three-week backlog! But we lit some fire under their asses, and they found it. The container was trucked down last night with a police escort. Those Italian brothers are going to run the show out on the bay, same deal as every year. They’re already loading the barge.”
“So how big is this show going to be? We want a good one,” said Bullard.
“They say they have enough rockets for a solid half hour of the big stuff, plus a gigantic grand finale—heavy on the red white and blue. We’re still working out the city government logistics, but it’s going to happen— the mayor’s office has agreed to cooperate. Mayor Valdepeñas was dragging his feet, but we finally got him on board.”
“What was his problem?”
“Oh, he just doesn’t want to look like a gringo-lover,” explained Holcomb. “I don’t think he really cares about the 4th of July one way or the other, himself. He just wants to show his political base that he’s not a Yankee lap dog. Word is he’s getting ready to run for governor. You know how they are—Aztlan Aztlan, Über Alles…”
“What’s that, German?” asked Bullard.
“Aztlan über alles? Well, yeah, I mean, it’s all about race for those guys. ‘For la raza, everything. Outside of la raza, nothing.’ That’s their official motto, you know.”
“Well Jim, it’s not like the reconquista boys kept it a big secret, what they planned to do after they took power.”
“You’ve got that right,” Holcomb agreed. “What did anybody expect, after they elected one of the founders of FEChA as the mayor of Los Angeles? I mean, those FEChA guys wrote the Plan of Aztlan in the first place.”
“FEChA, smecha,” scoffed Bullard. “This is all just power politics. In the end, it just came down to numbers. Racial politics, and raw numbers. Out with the
old, in with the new. The Anglos wouldn’t fight for California when they had the chance, and now their time is over.”
“Well actually, they did fight, or at least they tried. They passed Prop 187, remember? But the judges threw it out.”
“Oh, come on, that wasn’t much of a fight. Face it, the Anglos rolled over. The la raza crowd called ‘em racists every time they made a peep about illegal aliens, and the gringos crawled into a corner and hid. The liberals out here thought they could hold hands and sing Kumbaya with the reconquistas, and everything would be mellow... Obviously, they thought wrong. The conservatives, they were a lot smarter. They voted with their feet, they just took off. And every Anglo that left was replaced by three or four more illegals…”
“And their anchor babies,” added Holcomb.
“Yeah, and their anchor babies—millions and millions of reconquista anchor babies. Instant citizens, instant welfare cases. And then came the big amnesty…and that was all she wrote.” Bullard pushed away from his desk, leaned back in his black leather executive chair, and sighed. “You know, I wonder if this’ll be the last big 4th of July in San Diego?”
“Why would it be?” asked Holcomb.
“Oh, I’m hearing rumors, that’s all. After the Constitutional Convention, who knows what’s going to happen? Everything might be changing around here, everything. The California delegation to the Con-Con are all Aztlaners, and they won’t sign off on any amendments unless they get autonomy for the Southwest. Nothing is going to pass out of the Philly Con-Con unless the Aztlaners get what they want, right off the top.”
***
Chino finally arrived, riding the green Kawasaki KLR-650 on-and-off road bike from Ramos’s villa in Sandia Heights. He was wearing jeans, a dark windbreaker, and a black full-face shield helmet. The Comandante of the Falcons and his specially picked team of Zetas were waiting at Coronado Airport, a small general aviation airfield in northeast Albuquerque, not far from his villa and the Falcon Academy base.
The bottom of the Twin Otter’s open side cargo door was four feet above the tarmac, and the Zetas wasted ten minutes searching around the hangars until they found a twelve-foot scaffolding plank sturdy enough to use as a ramp. Corky Gutierrez, the plane’s pilot, arrived in his little white pickup while they were pushing the bike up the wooden board. He was the former owner and operator of Coronado Air Sports, a parachuting and sightseeing company.
He braked hard, got out, and marched up to the Comandante. “I was just at flight ops—what’s this about you selling my airplane, Ramos?” he demanded.
“Can you wait until we get this damn bike in the door?” Ramos turned his back on the pilot. The Kawasaki weighed several hundred pounds, and it was no easy task to roll it up the steep ramp. Two men were on each side of the bike, steadying it and pushing it. Once its front wheel was inside of the fuselage, Chino climbed aboard, and walked it across to the right side of the plane, to lash it to the cargo tie-down bars.
“Ramos, you’re not selling my Otter! No fucking way, Jose!”
Corky Gutierrez was a sorry excuse for a Latino man. He was half gringo anyway, on his mother’s side, and with his wild brown hair, bristly walrus-like mustache and green eyes, he looked more like a hippie than a warrior for Aztlan—which he was not, and never could be. Today he was wearing typical dress: a faded ball cap, a red Hussong’s Cantina t-shirt, khaki cargo-pocket shorts, and ratty sneakers. Beyond his Albuquerque house, his girlfriend, his hangar and his airplanes, his loyalty was an open question. Today his questionable loyalty was a minor consideration. With Ramos and five armed Falcons on board, Corky’s allegiance would be 100% guaranteed.
Corky Gutierrez was the Otter’s pilot and former owner, before the plane had been confiscated by the state for the use of the Falcon Battalion. He continued to fly for the Falcons on a contract basis, paid mainly with promissory notes and some occasional blue bucks. Ramos understood that Gutierrez hoped to regain outright ownership of his planes, and he played up to that hope.
This was a standard tactic during liberation struggles, to enlist property owners in effect to work for the state, while vainly attempting to retain control over their former property. Sometimes this was done with ranch owners, who gave up legal title to their land while staying on as a “consultant” or a “manager,” in the futile hope of regaining ownership after a future regime change. In this way, ranch operations could continue without disruption, or in this case, the Twin Otter airplane could be kept flight worthy, and available for the use of the Falcons as needed.
“Corky, we’re not selling the airplane. We just had to put something down on the flight plan. We couldn’t say, ‘reason for flight: kidnapping two gabacho traitors in California,’ now could we? Look, we’ll just fly to San Diego, stay a few days, and fly back. We’ll say the buyer didn’t like the plane, whatever. It doesn’t matter—it’s just a cover story.”
“You’re not lying to me, are you?” Corky was calming down.
Ramos held up his right hand. “I swear to God.”
“And you’re paying for the gas?” the pilot asked.
“I wouldn’t say ‘paying’ exactly,” explained Ramos. “But that goddamned maldito fuel truck better be here in five minutes, or somebody over at flight services is going to die! They’ll take my paperwork if they know what’s good for them—they can send an invoice to the state. Hey Corky, you know those rulacho assholes, why don’t you run over there and get that fuel truck moving? Tell them what I said: five minutes, or somebody’s going to die!”
The Comandante knew that even out of uniform, his Zetas were a terrifying group. Maybe even more terrifying, without the discipline implied by their uniforms. Corky Gutierrez jumped into his Japanese mini-pickup and tore across the tarmac back toward flight services.
With the motorcycle aboard and secure, the wooden plank was shoved inside. It was replaced by the Otter’s own hinged aluminum ladder, which hooked to the sill of the cargo door. The airplane’s actual cargo door rolled up inside and out of the way, for opening in flight to conduct parachute operations. Gear bags and equipment boxes were carried from Falcon Battalion pickup trucks, and loaded aboard.
Depending on the mission, the plane could be left entirely open for cargo, or it could carry twenty persons in seats, or up to thirty parachutists sitting on the bare cargo deck. For this trip, they had installed one row of six seats down the left side of the plane, between the cargo door and the cockpit bulkhead. This kept the right side and rear of the cargo area open for their baggage, weapons, equipment and the motorcycle.
Ramos carried a bundle from his own jeep, a black nylon zipper case. The dead South African’s Dragunov rifle was going with him to California. Perhaps he would be able to use it on this mission, if a long shot was his best option. But no matter what, the incriminating rifle was not coming back to Nuevo Mexico, even if he had to throw it out of the airplane in flight. He stood at the open hatch; the cargo deck of the Otter was at the level of his ribs. He leaned inside of the plane, and slid the rifle case forward just along the inside of the fuselage. It fit beneath the aluminum legs of the removable seats, stowed all the way on the left.
One more rifle case attracted no particular attention. His Zetas were also bringing scoped M-16s, M-4 carbines, and several bolt-action scoped hunting rifles. In fact, these were the very rifles that Ranya Bardiwell had sighted-in. It would be pleasantly ironic to use one of these rifles to nail the bitch, if she couldn’t be captured alive.
Although they had the long guns in order to cover every contingency, it was more probable that they would need to use firearms that were more concealable in the city. For close range work, they brought a selection of .45 caliber Ingram MAC-10 machine pistols, extra magazines, ammo and suppressors, as well as their own personal sidearms. No matter what situation they confronted in San Diego, Comandante Ramos was confident that his team would be able to adapt, overcome any problems, and accomplish their mission.
Even though rumors of h
is being relieved of command of the Falcon Battalion were beginning to circulate, the Zetas did not question his orders to prepare for a one-week special covert operation in San Diego California. Even Lieutenant Almeria responded without question, bringing his portable communications and surveillance equipment, which were packed in a variety of metal and fiberglass cases. The pudgy glasses-wearing Almeria seemed excited by the prospect of an undercover mission in California, eager to join the elite Zetas on a special operation wearing civilian clothes. Ramos knew that tech support troops usually were thrilled to come along on these ops with the shooters. It made them feel like James Bond, for once in their lives.
The four Zetas he had specially selected for the mission were more blasé. In or out of uniform, it was all the same to them. Chino and Salazar had both spent years in San Diego and Southern California, and were looking forward to visiting old friends. Carlos Mendoza he picked because he was easy-going and made few demands, while being extremely loyal and dedicated to his Comandante. Genizaro he picked, well, because he was Genizaro. He could be depended on to follow orders without question, and pull the trigger, no matter what.
While it was true that Comrade Inez had given him this mission, Ramos had no way of knowing at what level of the state government it had been cleared and approved, or if it had been at all. If he could bring back Ranya Bardiwell and Alexandro Garabanda, and the recording equipment that had filmed the Vedado meeting from the drone, he might yet salvage his command. If not…well, he’d lose his villa at the very least. Of course, considering what Ranya Bardiwell was likely to reveal under interrogation about the circumstances of her last night at his villa, Basilio Ramos considered it highly unlikely that she would make it back to Nuevo Mexico alive…
Domestic Enemies: The Reconquista Page 62