Domestic Enemies: The Reconquista (77 page)

“But what about the Border Patrol?” she asked.

“Border Patrol?”  Halsey spat in his cup.  “The Border Patrol’s scared to death of the
pandillas
—they just hide.  You got a dozen trucks full of
pistoleros
with AK-47s coming, you think the Border Patrol’s gonna jump out and get in their way?  Hell no—they run and they hide.  Sorry Logan, but that’s a fact.  They know the federal government won’t back ‘em up— Washington doesn’t want an ‘incident.’  Hey, you know something? As bad as it is in Albuquerque and Santa Fe, at least the Milicia keeps some kind of order. Southern Arizona’s just completely out of control.”

“Yep, it’s bad over there,” agreed the Sheriff.  “It just plain sucks to live in Phoenix or Tucson, and a lot of folks have given up and left.  Most of ‘em head north, but we get some of them.  We have plenty of room in Cantrell County for folks who bring something to the table.  Sometimes, it’s just military experience, and that’s fine.  It’s all been by word of mouth, and they just started coming.  That’s how we got folks like Flint, just friends of friends, lots of ex-military buddies.  We’ve picked up almost a hundred new families in the last year alone, and almost every one of them joined the Deputies.  I won’t lie to you, it’s not easy living here, it’s damned tough—but at least you don’t have to worry about your kids getting their throats slit for their sneakers.  Compared to southern Arizona, life here is
tranquilo
. But if the Milicia came down here and attacked our homes, well then, the proverbial
mierda
would hit the fan—big time. We’d have no reason not to go on the warpath and start taking scalps. Folks around here all say the same thing: they won’t be chased off their land.  This is it, do or die.  This is where they’ll make their stand.  Just let the Milicia come down here.  Just let them try.”

Halsey spat into his cup again and expanded on the Sheriff’s theme. “There’s at least five hundred folks in this county that can shoot a horsefly off a cow pie a mile away, and that’s on a windy day, and they’re all windy.  Around here, kids get a rifle before they get a bike.  Folks like that, you just leave ‘em the hell alone, if you got a lick of common sense.”

The Sheriff said, “Just between us, that’s mostly what the ‘cell phone tower jihad’ is about.  It’s just a friendly warning to Santa Fe: don’t push your luck, amigos—you’re in our range.  So it’s sort of ‘live and let live’ between us and the reconquistas, at least for now.  I mean, this is one mighty big state!  Did you know that New Mexico is number five, right after Montana? Well, that means we’re big enough for the communists to just stay the hell out of these parts.  Plus, there’s no Spanish Land Grants down here to give ‘em an excuse.  Believe me, Santa Fe don’t want to kick over a nice quiet little hornet’s nest called Cantrell County.  No ma’am, they most surely do not want to start a blood feud with us.”

“And we’re not the only county that feels this way, not hardly,” said the Chief Deputy.  “If you’ve been hanging out in Albuquerque and Santa Fe lately, you might have the impression that the communists are running this state.  Well, that’d be a very wrong impression.  You seen any signs written in Spanish around here?  Hell no, and you won’t.  Santa Fe hasn’t sent a state car into this county since the election: they know better.  Now we just run our own affairs as we see fit.”

Ranya said, “I passed through Mountainview last week, that’s a little town southeast of Albuquerque.”

“We know where it is,” replied the Chief Deputy.

“There were no signs up in Spanish there either,” she said.  “None that I saw, anyway.”

“I suppose,” said the Sheriff, “that you can tell there’s no love lost between us and the communists up in Santa Fe, and there ain’t.  But this fight’s not about Spanish or English! We got no problem with the Old New Mexicans, none.  They’re family, kin you might say.  A bunch of my best deputies are Spanish. Hell, aside from the Indians, they were here first, right? And besides, we’re all married in together, we always have been.  We’ve all got Spanish cousins and in-laws, so it ain’t that.  No, it was those damned illegal aliens—New Mexico just plain got over run! It should have never come to this—and it all goes back to the federal government in Washington.  If those traitorous Quisling bastards had done their lousy jobs and stopped the invasion years ago, we wouldn’t be in this mess today!  And now it looks like those traitors in Washington are getting ready to sell off what’s left of America, at that bogus Constitutional Convention in Philadelphia.”

Halsey added, “Yeah, that’s going to be the mother of all traitor conventions.  That’s where the communists are going to stick in the knife, and break off the handle.  You can just feel it coming.” 

The Sheriff said, “So anyway, we can appreciate what you folks did up in Torcido County today.”  He looked directly at Alex, and then at Logan.  “You remember that oath we lawmen all took way back on Day One, when they swore us in?”  The Sheriff held up his right hand, and looked across the table at his Chief Deputy.  “I do solemnly swear to support and defend the
Constitution
of the United States, against all enemies, foreign
and domestic
, so help me God.”  Well, as far as I can tell from your computer movie, that little get-together up at Wayne Parker’s ranch today, that was nothing but a traitor convention—all domestic enemies, every last one.  If you’d a dropped a Daisy Cutter right on Wayne Parker’s mansion and cratered the whole place, down here in Cantrell County, we’d have stood up and cheered!  So if you nailed Whitman and Kosimos with that UAV drone, well, I’d say that the taxpayers never got a better return on their money, ever.”

Halsey said, “Yeah, if that wasn’t the head of the snake, it was damn close to it.”

“Yes sir, it was,” the Sheriff agreed, nodding.  “So I just want you to know, we’ll do whatever we can for you here in Cantrell County.  If things don’t work out for you in California, if you need somewhere to keep a low profile for a while, this is the place. We’ve got two square miles for every man, woman and child, and we’d love to have a few more patriots move in.  Logan, I’m sorry we can’t help your wife out, we don’t have a dialysis machine, but it sounds like you’ve got a good plan going, to fly her up north. And a crackerjack pilot like you ought to make a decent living, what with his own Cessna 210, am I right?  Once it’s repainted, I mean.”

Logan gave him a look of surprise at this candor.

“Yeah, yeah, I know, a Sheriff ought not to talk like that.  But things are different today.  Everything’s different today, everything!  Right and wrong?  Legal and illegal? Those are important, sure—but right now, they’re not the
most
important thing.  Right now, everything just comes down to patriot—or traitor.  Everybody has to pick a side, and I know which side I’m on.  The same side as you folks—and proud to be.  Right to the bitter end, even if it’s a lost cause.”

35

James Holcomb almost never
left the San Diego Federal Building before Bob Bullard.  If Bullard stayed late, so did his Chief Staff Officer.  By six o’clock in the evening, he’d usually be found hovering nearby in the DHS director’s offices, hoping to hear Bullard say, “Jim, why don’t you knock off for the night?”  Holcomb rarely if ever heard those words.  

Tonight Holcomb came into the inner office and placed a printout on Bullard’s desk, while his boss finished a phone conversation.  After he hung up the phone, Bullard picked up the paper, and slipped on his reading glasses.

“What’s this?”

“Boss, you asked me to let you know if anything popped up on Ranya Bardiwell.”

“Who?”

“Ranya Bardiwell, the Arab.  She escaped from federal detention in Oklahoma two weeks ago.  You know, the Malvone affair, back in Virginia?”

“Gotcha, I’m tracking. Let me read it.”

From: Frederica Chupatintas, FBI ASAC Albuquerque Field Office To: Gretchen Bosch, IRS Criminal Investigations Division San Diego Subj: BOLO Escaped Federal Fugitive Ranya Bardiwell

Hi Ms. Bosch, You may remember me from the Albuquerque FBI Field Office. Anyway, I just came across a BOLO notice that may be of personal concern to yourself and Karin Bergen.  To make a long story short, I have learned that the federal fugitive Ranya Bardiwell (see attached link) is thought to be the birth mother of Ms. Bergen’s son Brian. The adoption records are sealed, and there is no reason to believe that Ms. Bardiwell is aware of Brian’s current name or location, but I thought I should give you a head’s-up. Frederica Chupatintas

After scanning the printed email, Bullard said, “Interesting.  Small world, huh?  I had Gretchen Bosch in here just this morning. Well, I think she can take care of herself.  Nice catch Jim, but I don’t think it’s a problem.  Keep checking though, you never know.”

“Will do boss.”

Bullard reread the letter, while Holcomb stood in front of his desk. Sometimes strange coincidences happened in life, that was a given. Still, his antennas were twitching.  Unseen wave patterns were welling to the surface, he could feel it.

“And Jim…go ahead and put taps on their phones and emails for the next week.  Check the transcripts, and let me know if anything funny pops out.”

“Taps on who?”

“Gretchen Bosch and her girlfriend.  Umm…and her ex-husband.”

“Her ex-husband?” asked Holcomb, looking surprised.  “Gretchen Bosch was married to a man? But I thought she was a les…”

“No, not Gretchen Bosch—her girlfriend’s ex-husband.  I forget her name, look it up.  Her ex-husband’s an FBI agent in Albuquerque.  If Bardiwell tries to make contact, it might show up on the tapes.”

***

Flint wore night vision goggles,
and didn’t say much during the three-hour flight from Ripley, across Arizona and the bottom of California.  The cabin interior was completely dark, with only the faintest glow from the instrument panel.  Once again, Alex sat up front in the co-pilot’s seat on the right side.  Ranya didn’t begrudge him this.  Although he wasn’t a licensed pilot, he knew far more about flying than she did, and he knew the esoteric radio procedures.  If their hired pilot tried any kind of a double cross, well, she was sitting behind him with a pistol, and there was a second set of controls in front of Alex.  (She now had five extra pistol magazines and four boxes of Cor-Bon ammunition for her .45 caliber pistol, all of it purchased at the “Gun and Pawn” on Main Street in Ripley.)

They lifted off from the town’s nondescript towerless airport just after dusk. The plane was a four-seater Piper Cherokee, with low wings that swept up from the bottom of the fuselage.  They had to walk across the wing root to climb into the cabin, a new experience for Ranya.  After her recent flights in high wing planes, the Piper seemed to offer the entire sky to her. The tradeoff was losing a swath of terrestrial landscape on each side of the plane, not much of a loss on a night flight.  She decided that on balance she preferred high wing planes.  The Piper’s three wheels didn’t retract, and the plane cruised at only 160 knots of airspeed, which she now realized was not fast enough to outrun a Blackhawk helicopter if they were jumped en route.

They flew low-level through the mountain passes from Ripley the short distance to the state line, and then the pilot called in a bogus flight plan from Springerville Arizona, to Palm Springs California.

Their flight path took them across Arizona just north of Phoenix. Ranya was sitting on the left side behind the pilot, so from their cruising altitude she was able to see the lights of the vast city spreading to the southern horizon beneath her.  While she watched, an entire rectangular section pulsed off and then back on, and then went black.  A few moments later, an adjoining square went dark, and then another.  In just a minute, half of the lights of Phoenix were extinguished, leaving enormous black spaces, crossed by highway lights that must have been on different power circuits.  In a few more minutes Phoenix was behind them, and once again they flew over a completely black world.  For a while Interstate 10 provided some frame of reference, and she could see occasional headlights inching along it, but the highway gradually diverged off to the north of their air route.  Sitting in the darkness, she wondered how they would find Brian in a city of more than a million people.  She worried about whether she could truly trust Alex, or if he was planning to ditch her once they found the boy.  Eventually she nodded off into dreamless sleep.

Three hours into the flight, the pilot cancelled his declared flight plan, and called in a new flight plan to a private airstrip in eastern San Diego County.  Their new destination’s runway was clearly lit, and the pilot pulled off his night vision goggles before he brought them down smoothly and taxied to a stop near a row of hangars.  They were met at the plane by an SUV.  After more than three hours of flying through pitch darkness, they were glad to be on the ground again, and with enough ambient electric light around them to see clearly.

Flint went off to arrange for refueling and a tie-down for the night. Ranya had paid him four more one-ounce gold Krugerrand coins to lay over for four days at the casino’s hotel.  He was to wait for their phone call or even for their sudden unannounced arrival, and he was to be ready for an immediate departure at all times.  Alex gave him a new prepaid cell phone, and instructed him never to use it, but only to leave it turned on, and await either their call, or their arrival.  The pilot knew that he might even be asked to land on a road for the pickup, for which he happily agreed to be paid extra.

Unloading the plane was a cumbersome process for the stiff and tired passengers.  The driver of the SUV was wearing a tan casino uniform with shoulder epaulets.  He spoke to them in unaccented English.  He was accompanied by a security guard, also in uniform, carrying a compact M16 carbine.  Ranya thought that both of them could quite possibly have had some Native American blood flowing in their veins, but perhaps there was somewhat more of the Italian vintage.