Chapter 22 in the R.M. Dolin novel, "What Is to Be Done"
Read companion poem
May in Northern New Mexico shares a similar shyness with gawky boys at a high school mixer trying to muster the machismo to ask a pretty girl to dance. While days burst forth with rambunctious confidence, nights bashfully retreat to early shadows. By now acequias are mostly cleaned and Mayordomos have determined, in a century’s old tradition, who gets life-giving water. Even in modern America, the power of the Mayordomo is absolute, they alone control who in their network of irrigation ditches has a good chili crop and whose fields fall fallow. Tourists, as much a life blood as water flowing through acequias, are still weeks out. Once they flood the Santa Fe plaza, South American silver and Mexican turquoise used to make authentic New Mexico jewelry float around in ways that are as gaudy as they are absurd.
Rich Texans won’t start their annual migration to the high mountains of Taos and Red River until after Memorial Day. Even though ridiculing Texans is satisfying sport, their annual infusion of cash is vital. It’s said that when a Texas oil well runs dry Northern New Mexicans get dehydrated, but that subverts what is at best, a complicated relationship. Northern New Mexicans depend on Texas cash, but the wanton lust Texans have for New Mexico rivals that of gold-crazed miners in a rush to seize everything they touch. It’s not by accident Texas twice invaded New Mexico, but each time the mighty Texas army attempted to take by force what was not theirs, they were soundly defeated by local militia; something neither side has forgotten. Armando, Dario, and the Quintana brothers easily trace their ancestry to the brave men who fought for Nuevo de Mexico against the mighty marauders. With great pride they walk listeners through battles and strategies that led their forefathers to vanquish the Protestant barbarians of the East.
May is a slow month at the Wind River and things aren’t any better at the Al Azar. The two Mexicans who last Saturday talked about making this their daily stop have not returned and the old man renting the Valdez house is still hours away. If not for the boys of the ANA hunkered around the poker table, the Al Azar would be empty.
Theo pensively takes the last seat at the table. “Good to see no one gives a shit about the latest mandates.”
“If they were anything other than lame and stupid we would,” Dominic asserts.
“True dat,” Armando adds.
It’s probably odd to the unsuspecting that a cohort of old men around a poker table have electronics rather than cards and chips. Except for Dario, who doesn’t see their value. The ANA’s learned Dario can’t be reached by email, texts, or other social media and since he isn’t permitted a cell phone in the plutonium facility, he’s virtually unreachable during the day, which by his reckoning is ideal.
Last fall Dominic developed a poker program containing all the many macerations of Hold’em and Omaha they play; even banned versions. The advantage of his software is it eliminates having to shuffle, deal, and manage chips. The down side is betting’s not as dramatic and they can’t invent games on the fly. His software is far more sophisticated than commercial counterparts, for one thing, he’s developed an AI knowledge base that learns how players previously bet in similar situations and what beat them. Over time the knowledge base guides players on how they should react to the hand they’re dealt. Jon added an odds-analyzer that lets players set the level of risk they’re willing to accept and then proposes betting strategies around that. What most poker software fails to grasp is that cards are a minor part of gambling, the real game-within-the-game lies in betting psychology, something Dario takes full advantage of to push his fiscally conservative friends around. The group’s split over whether or not to adopt electronic poker with Jake, Armando, and Dario firmly in the traditionalist camp.
“Ya can’t freaking play poker on machines,” Dario restarts their ongoing debate. “As impressive as Preston’s new sound effects are.”
“Isn’t poker without the incessant clanking of you stacking and re-stacking chips, Cabron.”
“If you played better,” Dario shoots back, “I wouldn’t have chips.”
“I voted against your joining, Cabron, now I worry you’ll someday own my bar.”
“What the hell would I need with this dive?”
“For one thing,” Dwayne scoffs, “you’d have somewhere to go during time out.”
Dario forces a smile that quickly scowls, he respects the PhDs too much, and is too ashamed of his repeated bad behavior, to respond. As the boys examine their cards, the sound of Dario stacking then re-stacking chips echoes in amplifying contrast to the ambient quiet.
“You’re like a freaking a cricket,” Dwayne grumbles.
“How else do I get inside your genius head?”
“What the hell would you do when you got there?” Jon quips.
“The proverbial mystery wrapped in an enigma,” Theo adds.
Dwayne, obviously annoyed, chooses not to counter since he knows no one’s coming to his defense.
“I hear the Lab’s laying off a thousand people,” Theo offers while calling the big blind.
“Things are so screwed up, cuts gotta be coming.” As the only member of the ANA still employed, the boys defer to Dario for insider gossip, which is a lot of pressure on this Navy vet because the PhDs are passionate about gossip.
“Since UC got the boot,” Jon states, “things have gone straight to shit.”
“Ya make nuclear weapons a for-profit enterprise,” Theo adds, “shit happens.”
“Since the test ban treaty, it’s been nothing but meaningless busy work.” A chorus of grunts and groans affirms Preston’s assessment.
“Floundering without a mission,” Dario adds. “They pay me ridiculous money to do absolutely nothing.”
“Someone’s got to babysit the nucs,” Jon quips.
“And play with plutonium,” Preston adds. “Never know when we might need it.”
“Nobody want guys like us hustling for work.” Theo concludes. “The Chinese and Russians are always hiring.”
“Since LANL went for-profit,” Dwayne scoffs, “along with the entire nuclear weapons complex and a boat load of DOD sites, corporation are now the world’s second largest nuclear power.”
“We’re still first though?” Dario asks with tentative bravado.
“If you include the private stockpile, followed by China then Russia. But if the corporations go rouge, they’re second behind China and we fall to fourth.”
“What’s scary,” Preston jumps in, “is they control the entire STS (stockpile to target sequence).
Dwayne clears his throat with practiced agitation. “What scares me is the people in charge, they’re all retired Admirals. Coincidence? I say not.”
Armando’s busy at the bar opening beers. “That is muy scary, Cabron.”
“Good the Navy’s in charge.” Dario counters.
Dwayne leans back in his chair slowly sliding his thumbs along colorful suspenders. “Not the Navy son, retired Admirals for hire. Let’s not forget the Admirals Revolt of 1949, they’re coup almost worked.”
“Ask me, they’re owned by the Oligarchs,” Jon demurs.
“Or planning to overthrow them,” Dwayne offers a counter alternative.
“Which is why,” Jake concludes, “what we’re doing is so prescient.”
Dwayne twists the end of his red handlebar mustache. “Damn straight.”
“Ya know,” Dario states, “you’re the biggest-ass pessimist I’ve ever met.”
“No,” Dwayne teases, “I’m an optimist with an eye on reality.”
“Don’t start with your damn Columbia crap,” Dominic immediately interjects. “Nobody blames you.”
The table retreats to silence, what happened with the Space Shuttle has never been fully adjudicated, at least not to Dwayne’s satisfaction. While experts agree the incident was the result of faulty heat-shield fabrication, Dwayne has a far more personal condemnation. More than one poker night’s been devoted to dissecting and debating what happened with the conclusion always the same; the failure’s not Dwayne’s, even though he invented carbon filament technology used in heat shield fabrication. If not for Armando’s flawless timing, this could easily become another one of those rabbit holes.
“Okay,” Armando sings, “Coors for my homes.” He hands Dario his beer before moving on to the PhDs. “Yuppie beer for you, white guy beer here, and here’s your gringo garbage. Honest to God guys, if you can’t drink Coors like a good New Mexican, can you at least drink cerveza?”
“If we did,” Dominic jabs, “you’d bitch about having to slice limes.”
“Maybe, Cabron, but at least I’d have my cerveza bar back. You have any idea the risk I run letting you keep your yuppie shit in my cooler? I’ll tell you, one day a tourist randomly finds my bar and spots your beer. He writes a review on some dump-ass website and pretty soon tourists are lining up like fire ants to roadkill. What the hell do I do then?”
“Oh, the horror,” Preston taunts.
“You push cerveza because Mexicans piss in their beers,” Theo teases.
Jon scowls at Armando. “You sick demented bastard.”
“That’s why I drink Coors,” Dario proudly states. “Brewed from ice cold Rocky Mountain water.”
“Yeah,” Dwayne laughs. “Only elk, bears, mountain goats, and cows piss in your beer.”
“It does kinda have that color,” Jon jokes.
“And for you Cabron,” Armando continues, “one bourbon cocktail.”
Jake swirls the glass before nosing. “This isn’t the right ratio for green bottle bourbon.”
“Perhaps in your rush to condemn, Cabron, you failed to notice I used crescent shaped cubes. I may not have a PhD, but I’m confident I properly ratio’d surface area to volume.”
Jake quickly computes the surface area of the two-centimeter cubes Armando usually uses. He then computes the surface area for a crescent shape by assuming a two-centimeter half-circle less a one-centimeter half-circle one centimeter thick. He then calculates the ratio of the two shapes relative to the number of square ice cubes he would expect for the given volume of green bottle bourbon compared to the number of crescent shaped ice cubes used and concludes, ‘it’s possible.’
“We’ll see,” Jake states, setting his glass down and opening his laptop.
“Poker may be the pretense,” Theo quips as he and the rest of the ANA ready their electronics, “But business before pleasure.”
“Gentlemen,” Jake begins. “As members of the Americans for a New America, we are engaged in peaceful, nondestructive activities to correct the course of our country, to improve our republic, and to ensure the sovereign nation we so cherish and have devoted our lives protecting, is preserved. We in no way intended to weaken our nation or provide opportunities to its enemies. We are independent of any and all organizations and have no goals or objectives other than those thus stated.”
“So let it be written,” Jon trumpets, “so let it be said.”
“Nailed it,” Theo smirks while high-fiving Jon. Theo grew up in a small town north of Minneapolis but went to Cornell because they’re good at math and hockey. While usually hard to discern, he has a slight Minnesota accent that seamlessly manifests into cliché “u betcha” speak when he wants to emphasize something ridiculous.
“Okay gentlemen,” Jake directs, “first up, our moment of Zen. Theo, you have the floor.”
“Tonight’s voice of wisdom comes from Sun Tzu,” Theo proclaims. “The supreme art of war is to subdue the enemy without fighting. He also said, the art of war teaches us to rely not on the likelihood of the enemy’s not coming, but on our own readiness to receive him; not on the chance of his not attacking, but rather on the fact that we have made our position unassailable.”
“Excellent choice,” Preston critiques, “very salient points.”
“While you have the floor,” Jake resets, “What say you regarding Finance and Monetary Policy?”
“Well since we agreed not to hold money, we’re broke.”
“Should I get more?” Jon asks revealing why no one cares about being broke.
“Guys,” Dominic worries. “We can’t keep doing this.”
Dwayne clears his throat “It’s only wrong if we take from honest entities.” The boys nod in agreement.
“Could always hit up the Russian Oligarchs,” Dario offers.
“Not interesting,” Jake abruptly answers.
“You take from American Oligarchs.”
“Because the way they wrap themselves in, ‘service to their country’, is so damn offensive.” Dewayne scoffs.
“Could play Robin Hood again and skim from campaign accounts,” Jon suggests.
“I’m compelled to point out,” Theo counters, “we have no planned expenditures other than pre-launch.”
“Which we delayed,” Dwayne complains.
“There is the matter of my bar tab,” Jake teases.
“Even Treasury doesn’t possess such resources, Cabron.”
“Don’t forget our family of the month,” Jon adds. “We’re featuring a woman from Wisconsin who lost her husband to a drunk driver.”
“God damn drunks,” Dominic angrily grunts.
Jon pauses the requisite moment out of respect. “She has two boys, a girl, and your basic American boatload of debt. We worked the standard package; adjusted her mortgage to something more manageable, upped her husband’s insurance policy’s enough to deal with debt, and since she works at Walmart, she obviously needs a raise.” Jon sifts through data on his laptop. “And let’s see-. Oh, turns out with my help her husband set up a trust fund.”
“Not too much,” Theo cautions. “You lit up that New York AG pretty good last time.”
“We’ve covered this; corruptions so deep in Albany no one’s interested in our cyber crumbs.”
While Jon makes light of things now, it was a pretty intense week when the New York head of cyber security got suspicious. For days he and Jon muddled through an assassin’s game of cat-and-mouse. If not for Preston’s bold gambit to keep Albany distracted with one rabbit hole after another, Dominic wouldn’t have had time to cover their tracks. All in all, that misadventure went a long way to improving their stealth.
“Freaking drunk drivers,” Dominic again interjects. “Nail the bastard to the wall I say.”
“As expected,” Jon continues, “the leftist judge released her, but there’s no need to fear, your friendly neighborhood justice warrior is here.”
Preston pats Dominic’s arm. “I helped local law enforcement find an outstanding warrant for something she probably did; she’s back in County.”
“Did we not learn anything from the drug dealer escapade?” Dwayne stammers. “Unintended consequences gentlemen, if I said it once, right? So, what if justice prevails, right? Only it didn’t. His lawyer got the case tossed.”
“We fixed things in the end,” Jake interjects.
“Really,” Theo strains. “You pit one rival drug dealer against another and call that justice?”
“I call it a job well done, Cabron. Two less pendejos selling shit to kids.”
“Certainly, seemed fine and good,” Jon re-fires, “until the Watchers start poking around.”
“They didn’t find a thing,” Preston reassures.
“Back in County,” Dario pivots to the drunk, “big whoop.”
“This is a bad-ass place,” Preston promises. “Couple of weeks there and she’ll never take another drink.”
Jake’s eager to rescue the night. “Nice job everyone.”
With that, the group resets, that is until Jon, retreads. “One more thing, I set up college accounts for his kids. It’s not much now, but my wise investments will grow enough to cover all three. I figured this would be a good segue for us to test Dominic’s stock market manipulation software.
“Good thinking,” Jake concludes, “do we have next month’s family?”
“Time for another vet,” Dario insists. “God-damn government isn’t doing shit.”
“Jon and I have candidates.” Theo smiles validating it’ll be a veteran.
“Okay,” Jake concludes again. “We’re on schedule with monetary sectors, let’s hear Jon’s Cyber Ops report.”
“Well other than working with, Theo, on finances, it’s been slow. I’ll defer to, Dwayne, to report on what we’re doing politically. Armando and I continued our food supply model adding a module to simulate what happens during a real pandemic. I didn’t do anything with Forensics or Covert Ops. So that’s pretty much it.”
“Okay,” Jake concludes, “next up-”
“Wait, I almost forgot.” Jon hurriedly searches his computer. “Marcos sent me something about the DOJ.”
He keeps searching. “Seems they’re setting up a southwest regional Cyber Terrorism Unit. The guy heading it is someone called Alvarez.” Jon looks up from his computer. “Odd they’d create an office in Albuquerque, Marcos says he’s a Watcher.”
“Stay on it.” Jake continues sensing no serious threat. “Next up, Armando, what’s doing in Logistics?”
Armando sits up projecting a solemness he seldom displays. “As Jon eluded, we’ve been working on food supply simulations, particularly what happens if a real pandemic hits, I mean one where the entire means of production shuts down. It turns out New Mexico’s food supply is only three days. Albuquerque’s dragging us down; a million deadbeats with just over a one-day food supply. We Northern hommies, stock up; the crazy-ass Mormons alone keep a year’s worth of food.”
Dario nods. “I’m good for a year.”
“We’re not all dooms-dayers like you, Cabron. When you discount the Mormons, New Mexico’s average drops to like thirty-eight hours, and we’re one of the better states. New York has an eight-hour food supply. In Manhattan it’s only three! Compounding that, New Yorkers eat at restaurants; they don’t even cook breakfast.” Armando shrugs at Dario. “Who doesn’t make huevos?” Armando knows how provocative his report is, so he pauses to convey extra believability. “Since Manhattan real estate’s so expensive, nothing gets warehoused, one hundred percent of the food two million people consume is continually trucked in from Jersey, and from what I’m learning, Jersey truckers don’t much care for New Yorkers, so they’re screwed in a crisis.”
“But we’re okay as a nation,” Dwayne states with authority. As a farm boy from Nebraska, he knows firsthand how plentiful the food supply is.
“Not so fast, Cabron. The country has a one-month food supply. That’s including what the government stores, what’s in the fields, and what’s being processed. If spring planting or fall harvest is interrupted for any reason, say farmers are sick, or there’s no fuel, or spare parts aren’t available, we’re flat ass screwed.”
“No way federal planners are stupid enough to allow such a vulnerability,” Dwayne scoffs.
“During Roosevelt the government established a seven-year food bank. Some bible thumper in the War Department was behind it.”
“Where the hell you store seven years-worth of food?” Dario challenges.
“That’s the logistical beauty of this whack-a-doodle’s plan, they incentivized farmers to store it.”
“The invisible hand,” Jake interjects. Everyone but Dwayne looks at him oddly. “My high school required Ag classes.”
“Holding food in small lots over large areas reduces vulnerabilities to things like pestilence or terrorism,” Armando continues. “You also optimize food delivery logistics.”
“All because of a religious freak in the forties,” Dario laughs. “Right on.”
“Carter did away with the program, felt Ag efficiency, coupled with our advanced transportation network, allowed deployment of a just-in-time system.”
“How’s that worked out?” Dominic sarcastically asks.
“For the most part okay,” Armando answers. “Keep in mind genetically altered crops were just starting. But here’s where things get scary. In 2004, America became a net importer of food. For the first time in our nation’s history, we consumed more than we produced.”
“No nation’s survived once they’re unable to feed themselves,” Jake mutters, “look what happened to the Soviets.”
“I was reviewing the French food riots of the late 60’s,” Preston jumps in. “That led me to a University of New Hampshire study; according to them, Americans stay passive three days after food runs out, then we ratchet right into anarchy.”
“We can’t allow that,” Theo insists.
Sensing a need for context, Jake summarizes. “Whatever we do, we don’t screw with the food supply.”
“We gotta validate the New Hampshire study,” Preston caveats.
“You ever hold a child dying from starvation?” Dario aggressively interjects. “I have! We don’t screw with the food supply to satisfy your demented curiosity.”
“Not curiosity,” Jon calmly counters. “Hypothesis testing.”
“I don’t give a shit what kind of pretty science you wrap around it; this is how wars start.”
“We’d never let it come to that,” Dominic weighs in.
“I’m with Dario, on this one guys,” Theo votes.
“How about we just tweak things?” Dwayne proposes. “You know, get the deep state to recalibrate priorities.
Feeling the gravitational pull of another rabbit hole, Jake jumps in. “Guys! Let’s agree to defer until Preston has a chance to better define his New Hampshire parameters. Both sides can present next week.”
Incrementally the boys acquiesce. The deal with PhDs, as every Los Alamos manager can attest, is they’re flat out unmanageable. At best you offer up a goal or suggestion, and hope for buy-in. When in, they overwhelm you with effort, detail, and accomplishment. When out, they’re disruptive and at times, destructive. Jake was careful setting up the ANA so that each member owned autonomous campaigns. His role is more facilitator than leader, he shapes strategic vision, but tactical planning and execution is left to individual campaigns who are continually challenged by other members. That’s the only way this group maintains cohesion. For their part, the crew is okay letting Jake facilitate; it frees them to pursue other passions – like the newly proposed New Hampshire experiment.
With an exciting near-term challenge, the poker table erupts into a concerto of keyboard activity with members hurriedly entering thoughts and expected outcomes, while hectically searching the Internet for collaborating information. Jake’s something of an anomaly as the group’s big picture person, while his cohorts can spend hours passionately arguing trivial details on any subject, he finds such debates uninteresting, equating them to being full of “sound and fury signifying nothing,” from a William Faulkner novel he read in middle school.
“Let’s combine Forensics and Threat Assessment,” Jake says hoping to avoid protracted discussions.
“Our top story,” Preston starts, “is Homeland Security.” He taps his laptop and graphics appear on everyone’s screen. “I was perusing DHS computers during Jeopardy the other day, and learned they just purchased three-thousand armor assault vehicles and over a billion rounds of ammunition. Now if this were the Pentagon big whoop, right? But why buy on this scale when their only authorized application is against Americans; here-to-for referred to as, ‘the homeland’?”
“No shit?” Dario challenges with worry.
“Would I shit you? I’ve been poking around for a motive.”
“And?” Jon probes.
Preston stares at Jon on the edge of something profound, but “I got nothing.”
“What the hell.”
“Look at Syria, Russia, China, you name it!” Dario shouts. “Oligarchs, the Deep State, dictators, they’re all the same, killing whoever they need to keep control; even their own.”
“Never happened here.” Dwayne rebukes.
“Please!” Theo contradicts. “The Deep State’s among the worst. Look what they did after nine-eleven, randomly threw a dart at the world map so thousands of our boys could senselessly die. Yes, Hussein was a tyrant, but a tyrant minding his own business. And don’t forget the treatment of New Mexico Hispanics, the Japanese, Irish immigrants, the Catholics in Texas, Chinese laborers, Selma, the list goes on.”
“Some over-reach, yes” Dwayne defends. “But that was then.”
“Iraq was yesterday,” Dario counters.
“Don’t forget Kent State and the 68 convention,” Jon adds. “Very major reactions to minor provocations.”
“You know I can’t defend that,” Dwayne grouses.
“Like any organism,” Theo asserts. “Oligarchs protect self-interests at all costs.”
“Exactly,” Jon states. “To suggest our’s is somehow benevolent is bullshit, what do you think cancel culture’s all about?”
“Agreed,” Dwayne adds, “but student unrest has to be quelled, Kent State was unfortunately the tip of a spear that had to be blunted. Students are always the catalyst for societal change.”
“Name one transgression that could possibly require a billion bullets!” Preston asserts.
“I’m saying even when our Oligarchs act viscously, when viewed from a proper context it could in fact be benevolent.”
“Don’t conflate ethics with morality,” Theo counters. “Morality’s not situational.”
“If government was of the people as you Anglos profess, Cabron, you maybe could argue righteousness. But it never really was, was it?”
“Mandy’s right,” Preston adds. “Look at how that puppet Powell, lied to the UN.”
Dwayne preempts Dario’s automatic defense of the military, “there’s no defending that bullshit!”
“People!” Jake shouts. “Perspective please!” Like a lion tamer, his piercing stare quells the aggression laying below the edge of a boil. “Preston, we need to understand what Armageddon DHS is preparing for.”
Preston avoids eye contact feeling bad that his emotions permeated the argument. He makes a mental note to be better while glancing at Dwayne prepared to apologize only to see the pompous bastard wouldn’t reciprocate. Instead, Preston resolves to stop being the only one in this group who feels bad. “I’ll work with Marcos.”
“Is this public knowledge?” Dominic asks.
“No.”
Jake glares at Dario. “That means no telling the bros at the V!”
“One slip, Doc, and you bird dog me?”
On the surface this news might seem benign, cynics might argue it’s just the vast military complex feeding itself. However, to the learned men of the ANA who possess innate abilities to connect seemingly disparate information into complex networks of knowledge, it’s greatly disturbing. They may not yet know the details, but they’re nonetheless convinced it’s tied to something big. That more than anything is what allowed their emotions to reach toxic stratification. Uncertainty grips people differently, and for this cohort, uncertainty manifested into retrying the Oligarch’s past misdeeds as evidence of future expectations.
“I want Preston digging into this business with the Admirals,” Dominic demands. “Especially in light of this homeland security bullshit.”
“On it.”
“Before we move on, I have a favor.” Jake pulls a balled-up towel from his satchel revealing a bourbon glass encased inside a plastic bag. “Can you run these prints?”
“Who is it?” Preston asks taking the bag.
“This guy I hired, he seems okay, but something’s not completely copasetic.”
Preston puts the glass in his satchel and digs out a shot glass. “I have the results of Miguel’s fingerprint analysis. Turns out his real name’s, Miguel.”
“I could have told you that,” Dario scoffs.
“Well did you know his father is Gabriel Martinez?”
“The whole damn valley knows Gabby. He works at the Lab but has a place in Velarde. Gabby’s got four boys; two as worthless as Miguel, and one who actually went to State. The good son married Tori Hernandez from Penasco. Mr. Hernandez was opposed, as was most the valley; Tori’s way too pretty for one of Gabby’s boys. Somehow though, they’re making it work.”
“Well Mr. Know-it-all, do you know who Miguel works for?”
“Always assumed he was independent.”
“You know what they say about people who assume?” Jon teases.
“They make an ‘ass’ of ‘u’ and ‘me’.” Theo finishes with a fist bump.
“Really,” Preston mocks. “It’s clear Miguel works for someone, I just don’t know who. It could be this guy, Ramon Rameriz, he’s a big-time bad ass; tied to the cartels.”
“Keep digging.” Jake instructs. “Dario, see what you can find out from the valley vine.” Preston compliantly logs Jake’s assignment into his computer while Dario is not so burdened. “Moving on, we have Dwayne’s Political Action and Procurement report.”
Dwayne clears his throat but before launching, the front door’s thrown open and the two Mexicans from Saturday step inside looking dusty, beat, and acequia thirsty. They respectfully assume their previous spot at the bar. Per established protocol, the meeting abruptly adjourns. No closing comments, no sidebars, just done and done. Dominic equipped ANA devices with two operating systems, one for ANA business and the other for everything else. The beauty of his security measures is that should one of their electronics ever be compromised the benign operating system is the only one to function. The ANA system can only be accessed via a labyrinth of steps involving way more than passwords and biometrics. In addition, ANA data is encrypted with acid technology developed by Marcos and his crew of Sandia engineers. Even the Watcher’s best data decryption and recovery technology can’t get at ANA files. The Sandia crew knows this because they’re also the ones who developed the Watcher’s technology.
“Howdy boys,” Armando greets his patrons with today’s English only lesson.
With the ANA meeting over, the boys put their laptops away and resume poker. “Barkeep,” Jake shouts to Armando holding up his glass. “Whiskey for me, beer for the masses, and put it on my tab.”
“You don’t have a tab, Cabron.”
“That’s what I love about this gin joint. I buy drinks for mi amigos, then put them on a tab I don’t have.”
Armando reaches into the refrigerator and pulls out two Coronas. He leans toward the Mexicans grinning. “Seems El Jefe just bought you boys a round.”
The older Mexican holds up his beer. “Gracious Senor.” Jake raising his bourbon glass. “Viva la revolution.”
The Mexican stares oddly at Jake before turning to give Armando an equally perplexed look. Armando smiles back, then scowls at Jake. “What my misguided friend meant with his poor Spanish is viva la lucha. He hires many migrants at his distillery and respects your struggles. You must forgive him, most of what he says is nonsense.” Armando swirls his finger around his ear. “Sadly, El Jefe is poco loco.”
The younger Mexican is nonetheless impressed that an Anglo acknowledges the hardship and struggles Mexican migrants overcome. “Muchos gracious Senor,” he proudly toasts. “Viva la Lucha.”
