Domestic Enemies: The Reconquista (29 page)

Chino, taller than average and with the narrower eyes of the half-Asian, was one of Ramos’s personal bodyguards from the
Escuadra Zeta
. They were distinguishable by their tan combat vests, while the rest of the Falcons were wearing green web belts and H-harnesses over their brown Milicia t-shirts.  Each web belt held four green pouches on the front, enough for twelve magazines.  Some of the men had short military-length haircuts, but others, particularly the Zetas, had longer hair showing beneath their berets, in emulation of the Falcon leader whom they admiringly called Che.

Ranya observed the group, looking for their officers and noncoms. She could not see any distinguishing stripes or chevrons, but she did notice that some of the older and taller troops wore camouflage blouses that matched their trousers, instead of brown t-shirts.  Several of this group had made the trip to the range with her in Ramos’s Suburban.  These men did not have on H-harnesses, but only web belts with holstered pistols.  They must be the leaders, she mused.  Good socialists, they were eschewing overt symbols of rank.  Nevertheless, all Indians need chiefs…and for an officer, the pistol is the ultimate symbol of authority.  Not to fire at the enemy in battle, so much as to potentially use against one’s own disobedient or cowardly subordinates.

Ramos’s bodyguard led a limping mongrel pit bull from the back of a pickup truck onto the range, and tied its leash to a wooden target frame 15 yards from the shooting tables.  It was obvious that the brown and white bulldog had placed second in a recent fight.  The troops all turned to watch the animal on the other side of the range tables.

The stout dog panted in the sun, oblivious to its fate.  Chino returned to the closest shooting table and picked up an M-16, inserted a magazine, charged it, shouldered it and aimed at the doomed creature.  A hundred pairs of eyes flickered between the shooter and his living target.

A single shot was fired, and the dog collapsed onto its side, without making so much as a twitch or a growl.  A shower of blood and tissue was visible on the bare dirt beyond its body, while a dark pool spread beneath the dead canine and soaked into the ground.  The bodyguard placed the rifle down on the table and trotted back out, grabbed the dog by two legs and rolled it over to expose the gaping wound.  A ragged exit channel the size of a fist had been blasted from the dog’s right side.  The hundred Falcons crowded around the shooting tables, studying the terminal effects of the bullet, murmuring approval to one another with keen professional interest.

Ramos continued with his pep talk, and his troops turned around to face him again.  “Men, in all of Nuevo Mexico, only the
Batallón Halcón
has this new ammunition. It’s specially made for the gringo anti-terrorist units—it’s the best stuff around.  The bullets are very light, and very fast. They’ll go straight through armored glass and soft body armor, but when they hit a person, watch out!  The bullets aren’t solid.  They’re made of compressed powdered metals inside of a copper jacket, and when they strike flesh, they explode, as you have just seen.  So don’t worry that you’ll have to shoot these big fat gringo ranchers three or four times with your M16s to kill them!  With this new ammunition, our motto will be: one
cartucho
—one cowboy!”

The men burst into peals of laughter once again.

“Make no mistake: we are going to drive the
Yanqui
oppressors from this sacred land!  And after we set the example and push them out of Nuevo Mexico, then our brothers will push them out of Alta California, out of Arizona and Texas, and out of all of the Indo-Hispano territory of Aztlan! We will drive the dough-faced
gabacho
settlers from all of the rightful lands of our fathers! No longer will our undocumented brothers and sisters from the south be forced to cut the gringos’ lawns and clean their toilets, smiling and groveling, while burning inside with humiliation!”

Ramos gestured broadly with his hands and arms, shaking his head. “No, instead we will burn the shameful treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo, which was signed by sold-out Mexican
vendidos
at gunpoint!  We will end the illegal
Yanqui
occupation of our land, and create a new
República del Norte,
based on socialist principles of equality for all!  We will begin new lives as free men, free from
Yanqui
imperialist domination forever!  In time, this rich new Indo-Hispano nation will extend from the
Golfo de Mexico
to the
Mar Pacífico
, and the world will not be able to ignore us! We will take our rightful place at the world’s table at last!  So my Falcons, I ask you, what do we fight for? We fight to throw off the heavy yoke of
Yanqui
oppression!  We fight for our own place under the sun, we fight for respect, and we fight for a free land in America!  Men, we fight for…
Tierra y Libertad!
”

“
¡Tierra y Libertad!
” the troops roared the slogan in unison.

“Men, I can’t hear you!  What do we fight for?”

“
¡TIERRA Y LIBERTAD!
” was screamed from a hundred throats like a clap of thunder.

“Men, the
Batallón Halcón
will be growing rapidly in the coming months.  Each squad will become the basis of a new platoon, until we are at full battalion strength.  But I know that you all understand that we must not sacrifice quality for quantity, so this process will take some time.  In the meantime, however, we have several critically important missions before us.  First, none of us has forgotten the bloody
matanza
on the bus. We will never forget nor forgive this massacre of our brother Milicianos! Friday, we will begin to exact our just revenge for this unprovoked atrocity!”

The Falcons erupted again in screams and whistles.

“Then on Saturday, we will provide security and carry out special missions during the March for Social Justice.  And next week, we will be providing security for an important meeting that concerns the future of Nuevo Mexico, and all of the stolen lands of Aztlan.  This meeting will include foreign leaders, as well as important gringos who are secretly on our side in the struggle.  The success of this conference will be vital to the future of a free and independent Nuevo Mexico, so we must continue to train hard, and operate at the very highest level.  That’s why we must make sure that our new rifles are as accurate as possible.  We are the vanguard of the
revolución
in Nuevo Mexico, and if we fail, all of the hopes of our people might be crushed.  So today, let every man shoot with the sharp eyes and the unerring aim of a Falcon!

“
Primer Sargento
Ramirez will direct the sighting-in of your new rifles. Remember: the ten best sharpshooters will win valuable prizes, and the ten worst will run the Sandia Mountain trail tomorrow, to the very top! Now,
Primer Sargento
Ramirez, carry out your orders!”

Ramos stepped back away from the group, turned smartly and strode to his left.  Ramirez stepped toward the troops and bellowed out,
“¡Pe-letones!”
Five of the leaders Ranya had identified stepped forward from the mob at even intervals.  Platoons of about twenty men immediately formed into neatly ordered groups behind each of the leaders.  The troops stood at rigid attention, their backs to the shooting tables and the range.  A smaller group, all wearing the tan combat vests of Ramos’s personal bodyguard detail, were formed up on the left of the platoons.  Ramos walked past his Zeta Squad and said, “Chino and Genizaro—let’s go.  We have a different job today.”

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.”