Domestic Enemies: The Reconquista (64 page)

“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 fence 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!

“And now that the socialists are running New Mexico, it’s worse than ever. There’s no border, no border at all—it’s just wide open.  They won’t even let the Border Patrol get anywhere near the line anymore, can you imagine?  It’s ‘too dangerous,’ they say.  Too dangerous!  Yeah, just let the Mexican Army and the Milicia take care of the border, they do a
fine
job! And after the Constitutional Convention, well, just forget it.  There just won’t even be a border any more, not even a make-believe border.  The new border will probably be the Colorado state line—if we can keep Colorado!”

Alex steered him back onto the subject at hand.  “Okay, let’s talk about how we’re going to do this.  We’ll need to be picked up Wednesday. I have to drive up to Santa Fe early tomorrow morning to register for my workshop, and after that, I’ll be free. We’ll need the right air maps; we’ll have to check out the landing strips…”

“Oh, I can do all of that,” offered the pilot.  “Wednesday is good. Wednesday gives me plenty time to get everything squared away for the flight. It’ll be a piece of cake—
no problema
.”

28
 

Wednesday June 2

In the bone-dry badlands
halfway between Albuquerque and Santa Fe, a small combination mini-mart and diner served the nearby Indian reservation.  The humble establishment was located only a few miles west of I-25, but there was no sign of the highway here.  In this region of bluffs, buttes, ravines and rock formations, the low building could easily be overlooked as just one more random outcropping.  The place might have begun as a doublewide trailer, or maybe it was just a ramshackle structure built one sheet of plywood at a time.  It was impossible to tell which part was original, and what had been added incrementally over the decades. The entire exterior was painted the same faded gray, blending to dun brown where the dust crept up the sides.