Domestic Enemies: The Reconquista (81 page)

“What’s that, German?” asked Bullard.

“
Aztlan über alles
? Well, yeah, I mean, it’s all about race for those guys.  ‘For
la raza
, everything.  Outside of
la raza
, nothing.’  That’s their official motto, you know.”

“Well Jim, it’s not like the
reconquista
boys kept it a big secret, what they planned to do after they took power.”

“You’ve got that right,” Holcomb agreed.  “What did anybody expect, after they elected one of the founders of FEChA as the mayor of Los Angeles? I mean, those FEChA guys wrote the Plan of Aztlan in the first place.”

“FEChA, smecha,” scoffed Bullard.  “This is all just power politics. In the end, it just came down to numbers.  Racial politics, and raw numbers.  Out with the old, in with the new.  The Anglos wouldn’t fight for California when they had the chance, and now their time is over.”

“Well actually, they did fight, or at least they tried.  They passed Prop 187, remember? But the judges threw it out.”

“Oh, come on, that wasn’t much of a fight.  Face it, the Anglos rolled over.  The
la raza
crowd called ‘em racists every time they made a peep about illegal aliens, and the gringos crawled into a corner and hid. The liberals out here thought they could hold hands and sing Kumbaya with the
reconquistas
, and everything would be mellow...  Obviously, they thought wrong.  The conservatives, they were a lot smarter.  They voted with their feet, they just took off.  And every Anglo that left was replaced by three or four more illegals…”

“And their anchor babies,” added Holcomb.

“Yeah, and their anchor babies—millions and millions of
reconquista
anchor babies.  Instant citizens, instant welfare cases.  And then came the big amnesty…and that was all she wrote.”  Bullard pushed away from his desk, leaned back in his black leather executive chair, and sighed.  “You know, I wonder if this’ll be the last big 4th of July in San Diego?”

“Why would it be?” asked Holcomb.

“Oh, I’m hearing rumors, that’s all.  After the Constitutional Convention, who knows what’s going to happen? Everything might be changing around here, everything.  The California delegation to the Con-Con are all Aztlaners, and they won’t sign off on any amendments unless they get autonomy for the Southwest.  Nothing is going to pass out of the Philly Con-Con unless the Aztlaners get what they want, right off the top.”

***

Chino finally arrived,
riding the green Kawasaki KLR-650 on-and-off road bike from Ramos’s villa in Sandia Heights. He was wearing jeans, a dark windbreaker, and a black full-face shield helmet.  The Comandante of the Falcons and his specially picked team of Zetas were waiting at Coronado Airport, a small general aviation airfield in northeast Albuquerque, not far from his villa and the Falcon Academy base.

The bottom of the Twin Otter’s open side cargo door was four feet above the tarmac, and the Zetas wasted ten minutes searching around the hangars until they found a twelve-foot scaffolding plank sturdy enough to use as a ramp.  Corky Gutierrez, the plane’s pilot, arrived in his little white pickup while they were pushing the bike up the wooden board.  He was the former owner and operator of Coronado Air Sports, a parachuting and sightseeing company. 

He braked hard, got out, and marched up to the Comandante.  “I was just at flight ops—what’s this about you selling my airplane, Ramos?” he demanded.

“Can you wait until we get this damn bike in the door?”  Ramos turned his back on the pilot. The Kawasaki weighed several hundred pounds, and it was no easy task to roll it up the steep ramp.  Two men were on each side of the bike, steadying it and pushing it.  Once its front wheel was inside of the fuselage, Chino climbed aboard, and walked it across to the right side of the plane, to lash it to the cargo tie-down bars.

“Ramos, you’re not selling my Otter!  No fucking way, Jose!”

Corky Gutierrez was a sorry excuse for a Latino man.  He was half gringo anyway, on his mother’s side, and with his wild brown hair, bristly walrus-like mustache and green eyes, he looked more like a hippie than a warrior for Aztlan—which he was not, and never could be.  Today he was wearing typical dress: a faded ball cap, a red Hussong’s Cantina t-shirt, khaki cargo-pocket shorts, and ratty sneakers.  Beyond his Albuquerque house, his girlfriend, his hangar and his airplanes, his loyalty was an open question.  Today his questionable loyalty was a minor consideration. With Ramos and five armed Falcons on board, Corky’s allegiance would be 100% guaranteed.

Corky Gutierrez was the Otter’s pilot and former owner, before the plane had been confiscated by the state for the use of the Falcon Battalion. He continued to fly for the Falcons on a contract basis, paid mainly with promissory notes and some occasional blue bucks.  Ramos understood that Gutierrez hoped to regain outright ownership of his planes, and he played up to that hope.

This was a standard tactic during liberation struggles, to enlist property owners in effect to work for the state, while vainly attempting to retain control over their former property.  Sometimes this was done with ranch owners, who gave up legal title to their land while staying on as a “consultant” or a “manager,” in the futile hope of regaining ownership after a future regime change.  In this way, ranch operations could continue without disruption, or in this case, the Twin Otter airplane could be kept flight worthy, and available for the use of the Falcons as needed.  

“Corky, we’re not selling the airplane.  We just had to put something down on the flight plan. We couldn’t say, ‘reason for flight: kidnapping two
gabacho
traitors in California,’ now could we?  Look, we’ll just fly to San Diego, stay a few days, and fly back.  We’ll say the buyer didn’t like the plane, whatever.  It doesn’t matter—it’s just a cover story.”

“You’re not lying to me, are you?”  Corky was calming down.

Ramos held up his right hand.  “I swear to God.”

“And you’re paying for the gas?” the pilot asked.

“I wouldn’t say ‘paying’ exactly,” explained Ramos.  “But that goddamned
maldito
fuel truck better be here in five minutes, or somebody over at flight services is going to die!  They’ll take my paperwork if they know what’s good for them—they can send an invoice to the state.  Hey Corky, you know those
rulacho
assholes, why don’t you run over there and get that fuel truck moving?  Tell them what I said: five minutes, or somebody’s going to die!”

The Comandante knew that even out of uniform, his Zetas were a terrifying group. Maybe even more terrifying, without the discipline implied by their uniforms.  Corky Gutierrez jumped into his Japanese mini-pickup and tore across the tarmac back toward flight services.  

With the motorcycle aboard and secure, the wooden plank was shoved inside.  It was replaced by the Otter’s own hinged aluminum ladder, which hooked to the sill of the cargo door.  The airplane’s actual cargo door rolled up inside and out of the way, for opening in flight to conduct parachute operations.  Gear bags and equipment boxes were carried from Falcon Battalion pickup trucks, and loaded aboard.

Depending on the mission, the plane could be left entirely open for cargo, or it could carry twenty persons in seats, or up to thirty parachutists sitting on the bare cargo deck.  For this trip, they had installed one row of six seats down the left side of the plane, between the cargo door and the cockpit bulkhead.  This kept the right side and rear of the cargo area open for their baggage, weapons, equipment and the motorcycle.  

Ramos carried a bundle from his own jeep, a black nylon zipper case. The dead South African’s Dragunov rifle was going with him to California. Perhaps he would be able to use it on this mission, if a long shot was his best option. But no matter what, the incriminating rifle was not coming back to Nuevo Mexico, even if he had to throw it out of the airplane in flight.  He stood at the open hatch; the cargo deck of the Otter was at the level of his ribs.  He leaned inside of the plane, and slid the rifle case forward just along the inside of the fuselage.  It fit beneath the aluminum legs of the removable seats, stowed all the way on the left.

One more rifle case attracted no particular attention.  His Zetas were also bringing scoped M-16s, M-4 carbines, and several bolt-action scoped hunting rifles.  In fact, these were the very rifles that Ranya Bardiwell had sighted-in.  It would be pleasantly ironic to use one of these rifles to nail the bitch, if she couldn’t be captured alive.  

Although they had the long guns in order to cover every contingency, it was more probable that they would need to use firearms that were more concealable in the city.  For close range work, they brought a selection of .45 caliber Ingram MAC-10 machine pistols, extra magazines, ammo and suppressors, as well as their own personal sidearms.  No matter what situation they confronted in San Diego, Comandante Ramos was confident that his team would be able to adapt, overcome any problems, and accomplish their mission.

Even though rumors of his being relieved of command of the Falcon Battalion were beginning to circulate, the Zetas did not question his orders to prepare for a one-week special covert operation in San Diego California. Even Lieutenant Almeria responded without question, bringing his portable communications and surveillance equipment, which were packed in a variety of metal and fiberglass cases.  The pudgy glasses-wearing Almeria seemed excited by the prospect of an undercover mission in California, eager to join the elite Zetas on a special operation wearing civilian clothes.  Ramos knew that tech support troops usually were thrilled to come along on these ops with the shooters.  It made them feel like James Bond, for once in their lives.

The four Zetas he had specially selected for the mission were more blasé.  In or out of uniform, it was all the same to them.  Chino and Salazar had both spent years in San Diego and Southern California, and were looking forward to visiting old friends. Carlos Mendoza he picked because he was easy-going and made few demands, while being extremely loyal and dedicated to his Comandante.  Genizaro he picked, well, because he was Genizaro.  He could be depended on to follow orders without question, and pull the trigger, no matter what.

While it was true that Comrade Inez had given him this mission, Ramos had no way of knowing at what level of the state government it had been cleared and approved, or if it had been at all.  If he could bring back Ranya Bardiwell and Alexandro Garabanda, and the recording equipment that had filmed the Vedado meeting from the drone, he might yet salvage his command.  If not…well, he’d lose his villa at the very least.  Of course, considering what Ranya Bardiwell was likely to reveal under interrogation about the circumstances of her last night at his villa, Basilio Ramos considered it highly unlikely that she would make it back to Nuevo Mexico alive…

It briefly crossed his mind that he was in a similar position to Corky Gutierrez. Corky worked for the state because he wanted to keep control of the Otter, his other smaller airplanes, and his house.  Now Ramos was doing the same, because he wanted to keep his command of the Falcons, and “ownership” of his villa in Sandia Heights.

While his men finished loading the plane, Corky returned in his battered Nissan
camioneta
, followed by the fuel truck.  The fuel truck driver avoided even eye contact with Ramos.  The driver swiftly pulled out the black hose, climbed his ladder and gassed the plane. He departed in his truck just as quickly, without as much as a hint of the usual invoice-bearing clipboard, providing Comandante Ramos with his first smile of the day.

For the flight, Corky took the left side pilot’s seat, and Ramos sat in the copilot’s position.  As the mission commander, he wanted to get a good look at San Diego from the air, before they landed.  The Otter was a proper airplane, with a real cockpit that was separated from the cargo area by a bulkhead with a narrow doorway, but no door.

Corky obtained ground clearance, and taxied to the takeoff point at the end of the runway.  The pilot reached up pushed the unusual overhead throttles forward, and the Otter began to roll down the runway with a roar, vibrating madly.  At sixty knots of airspeed, Corky pulled back on his yoke, and the plane lifted its nose skyward and some of the vibration disappeared.  The Twin Otter wasn’t a fast airplane by any means, but at short takeoffs and rapid climbing, it was a champion, and Basilio enjoyed the sensation of being pressed back into the seat.  He was breaking free from Nuevo Mexico.  His problems always seemed to diminish when he was strapped into a metal beast that was lifting away from the earth.  Flight always meant freedom to Basilio Ramos, at least temporarily.

***

While Basilio Ramos and his handpicked team
were taking off from Albuquerque, the executive helicopter flying from the Golden Arrow Casino was preparing to land in La Jolla, by the Pacific Ocean ten miles north of downtown San Diego. They could have taken another flight directly to the downtown San Diego International Airport, but Alex was concerned that the security check might be more thorough there.  They were carrying concealed firearms, not to mention Ranya’s gold, which was far more than the legal maximum of five ounces.  The manager at the casino had told them that they would not be wanded or checked when landing in La Jolla, but the unexpected was always a risk.  The jet helicopter flight across San Diego County took half an hour.  

They crossed the north-south running I-5 freeway, and the helicopter descended toward a prominent hilltop, which rose steeply above the highway that ran along its eastern base.  Most of the crowded residential neighborhoods of San Diego they had flown above seemed to be concentrated atop sprawling mesas, divided by steep canyon green spaces. Many of the highways used the bottoms of these canyons as their pathway through the hills, and Interstate 5 was the last highway before the coastal foothills and the blue Pacific.

Several acres on the top of the hill they were descending toward were scraped flat and paved over.  Only wind-bent scrub brush and tall grass surrounded the asphalt square, which was larger than a soccer field.  There were five yellow landing circles, one in each corner and one in the center, marked H-1 through H-5.  Two spots were already occupied by choppers dropping off and picking up passengers. Their pilot set down on H-3, asking them to wait for the blades to stop turning before disembarking.  He climbed out first and assisted the ladies in stepping down onto the tarmac, and then he helped them to unload their luggage.