Domestic Enemies: The Reconquista (28 page)

Instead, with massive support from various Hispanic “immigrants’ rights” groups and other left-leaning foundations, he had pressed his demand to vote all the way to the Supreme Court…and he had won.  The Supreme Court, in its famous 5-4 decision, ruled that negligence in securing America’s borders against illegal immigration on the part of the federal government, could not be held against “undocumented workers who played by the rules and paid their taxes,” once they were established in America—legally or not.  The State of New York had sleepwalked through an aimless and desultory case for denying the vote—and citizenship—to “undocumented workers.”  

Following Ortiz v. New York, a stunned America woke up to discover that there were not only an amazing forty million illegal aliens hiding in plain sight across the land, but that sixteen million of them immediately qualified to vote.  In a nation split 50-50 down party and ideological lines, these sixteen million brand-new voters were recognized to be the certain majority-makers in future elections.  Both parties immediately set record lows for cravenness in pandering to their perceived “needs.”  Chief among their “needs” were liberal new family reunification laws, and these instant citizens—illegal aliens only the year before—began bringing the remainders of their families to the USA.

Overnight, wavering Democrat states became locks, and swing states with large Hispanic populations went solidly “blue.”  The result was the recent election, which had swept Gobernador Deleon to power in Nuevo Mexico, and had also brought radical Democrats to power in the White House and both houses of Congress.

Thus came the political tsunami that swept all before it, a tidal wave triggered by a mere pebble, an undocumented lawn maintenance worker named Fernando Ortiz.

***

Carvahal continued with his history
of political upheaval in New Mexico. It was a subject that consumed him, yet he rarely had an opportunity to share his passion.  The former newspaper reporter burned for a receptive audience for his stories, and today, Alex Garabanda was it. “Meanwhile, at the same time, more and more Anglos began to feel unwelcome down here, threatened even, and they began to leave the state in droves. They were voting with their feet, until that became another flood—leaving! And the Anglos took a lot of the tax base with them when they went, which sure didn’t help.  Our demographic tilt kept gaining momentum from both sides, and as it did, the politics became more and more openly socialist.  Just look at where the new voters were coming from—socialism was all they knew!  Now we’re practically a little Venezuela, on our way to becoming the next Cuba.”

Garabanda said, “Believe me, I’m familiar with how ethnic politics works. I’ve been living it too, in a way.  FBI Headquarters thought that just because I have a Hispanic name, I’d be perfect for ‘Nuevo Mexico.’ It’s the federal version of ‘
etnogeopoliticos
,’ only they call it ‘multiculturalism.’  I mean, I speak terrible Spanish, and anyway, my father was Cuban, and my mother is Italian.  As if Cuba and New Mexico have one damn thing in common, other than Spanish names on the maps!  But to FBI headquarters, an Hispanic is an Hispanic, whether he’s a blue-eyed Basque from Northern Spain, a
mestizo
Indian from Peru, or a black Dominican.  To the FBI, Hispanic is Hispanic is Hispanic!  It’s just crazy!  

“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 20
^th
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.”