Domestic Enemies: The Reconquista (66 page)

(In truth, a brainy previous girlfriend had earned the degree for him. Once he had received his Masters, he’d dumped her—but in the end, it was his name on the degree, not hers.  The mandatory Master’s Degree had been the last check-off on his ever-ascending path up to the lofty ranks of the Senior Executive Service.  Although few ordinary citizens had ever heard of them, SES’s were the civilian “generals,” the entrenched high-ranking bureaucrats who actually ran the federal government.)

Bullard remained seated behind his massive mahogany desk.  “Nice to see you again Jay, what can I do for you?  Did you bring the new CART Team leader?”

The question threw Teague off balance.  “Uh, yes, Special Agent Bosch is waiting outside.  I’m not really sure why you want to meet a GS14 though, it seems…”

“Oh, you know me, Jay—I’m a very hands-on kind of leader.  I like to get to know my new troops. Welcome them aboard.  So, what’s on your mind?”

Teague sat opposite Bullard, and pushed a small white envelope across the desk to his superior.  “Take a look at these: they’re showing up all over Southern California.”

Bullard opened the flap on the envelope, and a dozen small gold coins about the size of dimes spilled out.  Bullard slipped on reading glasses, and then reached into a desk drawer for a large rectangular magnifying glass. “Okay, I’m seeing some one-tenth ounce gold coins.  What about them?”

“Well, sir, they’re flooding the local economy! They’re going to wreck any chance we have to stabilize the New Dollar, and that’s going to mean big problems for the Digital Dollar program, and eventually for the conversion from the dollar to the Amero.”

Bullard reached across his desk and pulled over a small high-intensity reading lamp, and trained the bright light on the coins.  “Nice workmanship, first class.  Those Indians do a fine job of minting.”  He turned all of the coins over, examining them with his magnifying glass.  “Geronimo, Sitting Bull, Osceola, Crazy Horse—nice artwork. Nice. So, what’s the problem?”

“Well, it’s illegal, that’s the problem!”

“How is it illegal?  These are only one-tenth of an ounce, and with all of the different Indian chiefs, clearly they qualify as numismatic coins, collectibles.  So how are they illegal?”

“Director Bullard, can’t you see that these coins are a deliberate attempt to circumvent the gold law?”

“Not my problem, Jay.  The law says that gold coins under a half ounce are legal, up to a total of five ounces of gold per person.  These are only one tenth of an ounce, and besides, they’re collectibles.  So unless the law is changed, I’m not sure what you’re expecting me to do about it.”

“But the Indians are melting down all kinds of gold to make these coins, so the intent to evade the law is clear.  What’s the difference between an illegal one ounce Krugerrand, and ten of these?”

“The difference is that one-tenth ounce collectible numismatic coins aren’t illegal, that’s what.”

“But…”

“Jay, what the Indians do on their reservations is their own business. That’s settled law, just like the casinos.  We’re certainly not going to conduct any raids on the reservations, that’s just out of the question. Okay?”

“But…!”

“That’s all, Jay.  If you feel that the law needs to be changed, fire off a letter to your Congressman.  Now, send in Ms. Bosch. Thanks for your time.”  Bullard spun around in his chair, looking out of his massive armored-glass window, curtly dismissing the preppy asshole.  

Jay Lattimore Teague was an idiot, if he expected help in combating the growing proliferation of the “gold dimes.”  Bob Bullard knew all about the new coins, he’d been out to the Golden Arrow and the other Indian casinos at least a dozen times.  He’d seen the antique German minting machine in operation at the Golden Arrow Casino, and he knew the process from start to finish.  Everything from gold wedding bands to gold ingots was accepted as payment at the Indian casinos.  

Out at the Golden Arrow, the raw metal was melted down, purified, and minted into one-tenth and one-quarter ounce “collectible” gold coins. The Indian coins were then traded for thick stacks of blue bucks.  The Indian casinos had become flourishing black market currency exchanges. The legality of this situation was somewhat undefined, but Bob Bullard’s stance was as clear as a cut diamond: he would not interfere with the gold business on the “sovereign” Indian reservations.

At least, not as long as the Golden Arrow Casino continued to deliver 250 of their gleaming new “gold dimes” to him every week.  At the current rate, one thin gold dime was worth $725 New Dollars.  Next week, it would probably top $750, but the price in paper dollars didn’t matter—his deal with the Indians was set in gold and only gold.

Ms. Bosch rapped on the door.  Reading between the lines of her personnel file, Bullard already knew that she was a testosterone and steroid-abusing butch lesbian, with resulting anger management problems, a penchant for extreme violence, and no regard whatsoever for the civil liberties of Americans.

In other words, she was the perfect candidate to lead an IRS CART team running asset seizure operations.  After studying her file, he was certain that he’d be able to recruit her into his private stable of crooked federal officers.  Her CART team would eventually become his personal tool, doing his bidding and acting on his behalf.  Jay Lattimore Teague would be unable to prevent this from happening.  Unlike the last supervisor of San Diego’s CART unit (an incorruptible Mormon who was currently being reassigned to Fargo, North Dakota), Agent Bosch promised not to be overly fastidious on the accounting end, after the assets were seized.  There would be more than enough to satisfy both Uncle Sam and Gretchen Bosch, with a little left over for Bob Bullard.

***

Gretchen Bosch looked to be every bit as tough
as her file photos and her reputation.  Bullard rose from behind his desk and shook her hand across it.  She had a grip stronger than most men, and her eye contact was prolonged and fearless.  They were the same height, but Agent Bosch had the shoulders and arms of a serious weight lifter.  She was wearing a man’s gray sport jacket over a white t-shirt, and loose-fitting khaki slacks.  This was a bit informal, but not out of regulation, and besides, this was her moving week.  She was not yet on duty.  Moreover, it was no longer permissible to demand old-fashioned gender-normed standards of grooming and attire.  If Gretchen Bosch wanted to dress like a man and wear her hair in a flattop, well that was her business.  Anyway, to Bob Bullard’s thinking, it was better to deal with a straight-ahead dyke, than with a limp-wristed fairy, who on any given day might decide to prance into work wearing lipstick and a skirt.  Both forms of on-the-job cross-dressing were now 100% protected as a matter of law, but Bob Bullard knew which type he preferred.

“Welcome to San Diego, Agent Bosch.”

“I’m glad to be here sir.  I appreciate what you did for me back in Albuquerque, getting me out of that jam.”

Her voice was low and gravely, the result of either hard drinking, too much screaming during SWAT training, smoking cigarettes, or taking steroids.  In her case, he decided it was probably a combination of all four. He could see that she had probably once been an attractive woman—if one was attracted to members of communist East German swim teams. Although her blue eyes sparkled, her crew cut and complete lack of makeup or lipstick announced her sexual orientation loud and clear.  This didn’t bother Bob Bullard.  In fact, he saw it as a big plus. Gretchen Bosch obviously didn’t give a shit what anybody thought about her.  Her natural aggression (undoubtedly boosted by steroids and male hormones) had been amply demonstrated when she attacked her girlfriend’s ex-husband with a baseball bat.  Now it was up to him to channel her ferocity toward more productive ends.

“No problem, agent Bosch, I was glad to help.  We need agents out here with your assertiveness.  Southern California is too damned laid back for its own good, and I’m sorry to say that beach-bum attitude even creeps into our operators.  Our contraband team needs a hard-charger to put the fire back into them.  I think you’ve got what they’ve been missing.”

“Thank you sir. You won’t be disappointed.”

“We’ve got a long list of suspected contraband hoarders, but the last CART team leader was too damn legalistic.  He just didn’t see the big picture, and frankly, I’m afraid it’s not much better with your boss, Mr. Teague. Washington’s not paying us to come up with excuses—they’re paying us for contraband asset recovery.  Are we on the same page, Agent Bosch?”

“Loud and clear, Director.  I’ve got no time for pencil-neck geeks and their lame-ass excuses.”

“Good. And remember, the asset recovery incentive has been raised to twelve percent.  If you do your job to the max, that could double your salary. Maybe even more than that, if you’re…creative.  Creative, and aggressive.  So don’t be shy about using the bullion purchase lists—we’ve got names and addresses going back for years.  As far as I’m concerned, anybody with a name on those coin dealer lists is fair game.  That list is probable cause in my book. Use the ground penetrating radar, and the new tomoscopes for the walls. They’ve been getting great results.  Ninety percent of the time, it’s buried in their backyard, or hidden in their walls. You’ll find some guns that way too, and that’s all gravy.”

“Yes sir.”

“Good.  So, you’re reporting for duty next week?”

“That’s right sir, Monday.  This is our moving week.”

“Do you want to stay downtown, or are you looking for a house?”

“Well, we have a little boy, and we’d like a yard for him to play in. We’re staying in the Fed Tower until we find a place.”

“Uh huh, great.  That’s where I live.  I love it there, but I can understand your wanting a house.  Just stay on the west side of I-5—don’t even think about the east side.  It’s too dangerous.  There are a few nice neighborhoods over there, but overall it’s not worth it.  At least the San Diego PD keeps the west side swept clear of dirtbags.”

“We were thinking about finding a house up around Mission Bay, or Pacific Beach.”

“Oh, that’s nice up there, very nice.  Seaworld, the beaches, all that. Have you checked the forfeitures and foreclosures printout?  The July listings should be out already.”

“Yes sir, we’re using it for our house hunting this week,” she replied.

This was one of the bennies of serving in federal law enforcement while the economy was in the toilet: being able to pick up plum real estate deals, for a fraction of what they would cost a civilian.  This was especially true when you factored in the FEMP, the Federal Employee Mortgage Plan, which held interest rates to half of prime, and required no down payment.  “You’ll be able to save a bundle on a repo, just make sure the neighborhood is safe.”  Bullard rose from his executive chair, putting out his hand to shake hers again, and dismissing her.  “Welcome aboard, Agent Bosch.  I hope you have a productive tour in San Diego.  We’ll talk again soon.”

“Thank you sir, I’ll look forward to that,” she growled cheerfully.

29

Logan’s planned arrival time was ten AM,
and at five after the hour they heard the faint sound of an airplane engine to the south.  Less than a minute later, a white Cessna streaked over them thirty feet above the road, rocking its wings.  The turbocharged Centurion was a high-wing single engine plane like the Maule-7 Ranya had flown from Texas, but it was much sleeker, with retractable wheels and a swept-back tail.  Parallel blue stripes along the white fuselage were the airplane’s only embellishment.

The plane flew beyond them, climbed into a steeply banking racetrack turn, and lined up on the road coming back.  It was obviously a good flying trick to make a downwind landing with no margin for error, and all at minimum altitude below radar.  The Centurion came roaring back toward them, wheels now locked down, crabbing against the crosswind. 

It touched the road a thousand feet beyond the brown pickup truck that marked the nominal end of the temporary landing strip.  Braking hard, it stopped only fifty feet from where they stood by the road.  The engine was switched off and the propeller spun down and stopped. The left side pilot’s door opened and Logan jumped down, wearing khaki pants, a matching khaki short-sleeve shirt, and tan hiking boots. He might have been retired from government service, but he looked like a professional aviator today.

They had already discussed and planned the seating and loading arrangements, and knew exactly what to do to minimize the plane’s time on the ground.  The co-pilot’s right-side seat was already folded forward to allow Ranya to climb into the back.  The disassembled wing and fuselage of the borrowed Border Patrol UAV drone extended from the center of the baggage area in the rear, and forward between the headrests of the rear seats.  The men quickly brought the bags to the airplane, and Ranya passed them over the rear seats, loading them into the baggage area, followed by the Dragunov rifle.  Their backpacks went onto the floor and the empty fourth seat on the left side in the back.  

Then the three of them scrambled around to the tail of the plane and put all of their weight on its horizontal stabilizer, lifting the nose wheel up from the pavement.  Once the nose was free, they were able to walk the Cessna around 180 degrees in its own space on its two back wheels, until it was aligned on the road facing upwind.

This accomplished, they climbed into their seats and both doors were closed and latched.  They fastened and tightly cinched their seatbelts, and the men slipped on headsets.  Logan switched the hot engine back on, waited for a few seconds, and eased in the throttle while the turbocharger spooled up with a whine.  Then he let off the toe brakes and in a moment they were accelerating down the ribbon of gray pavement.  At 60 knots the plane lifted smoothly into the air, and the pilot brought the wheels up. Ahead of them to the north rose the mountains that were their destination, already dominating the horizon. 

“You don’t get airsick, do you?”  Logan asked Ranya, almost shouting. He lifted his right earpiece to hear her answer.