America Libre

by Raul Ramos y Sanchez

  Ramon looked at Mano in amazement. “Your instincts are uncanny, Mano. There’s something about Nesto we haven’t shared with you yet: he was approached by the CIA. He told us about it two days ago.”

  Mano laughed grimly. “I’m not surprised he told you about it. This way, he gets paid by two sources at once.”

  “Frankly, that hadn’t occurred to me,” Ramon admitted.

  Jo leaned forward eagerly. “But think of the tactical opportunities, Mano. We can misdirect the CIA through Nesto. It gives us an incredible advantage.”

  “That advantage won’t last long, Jo,” Mano said. “After they come up empty, the CIA will figure out Nesto has been lying to them.”

  “Yes, that’s true,” Jo agreed. “We’ll have to throw them some crumbs from time to time, let the government find some obsolete weapons or equipment… anything that will give them the idea Nesto’s tips are leading somewhere.”

  “Nevertheless, Mano’s right, Jo,” Ramon said. “Dealing with Nesto will be like surfing on a shark’s back. We can’t afford to slip. He’ll turn on us when things get difficult.”

  “Or we run out of money,” Mano added.

  “But the risk is worth it,” Jo said, her voice rising. “Nesto can provide us with weapons and keep the government looking the wrong way. It’s just too good to pass up. Look, when the time comes, we’ll deal with Nesto. In the meantime, let’s get this operation against the tanks going. I think it’s time we gave the baldies a bloody nose.”

  Five days later, with the low rumble of tanks rising in the distance, Mano recalled Jo’s words. To give the U.S. Army a bloody nose, they would have to be very good—and very lucky.

  Mano peered cautiously through the second-floor window of the vacant building. He saw the squat hull of an M1 Abrams tank appear around the corner, about three blocks away. In less than a minute, four M1s were trundling in a straight line down the two-lane street toward Mano. It was 11:43 a.m. The armored patrol was right on schedule.

  “Go, Tony,” Mano said to the slender teenager beside him. Antonio Mendez rose and sprinted eagerly to the next room, carrying a HEAT-loaded RPG.

  Mano made eye contact with the two RPG teams in the burned-out apartments across the street and pumped his fist. Because the tanks’ crews might pick up their transmissions at this range, their attack would begin in radio silence. Crouching in the second-floor windows, Nesto’s vatos signaled back, confirming they had detected the tanks. Mano then repeated the procedure with the third RPG team hiding in the sewer drain at the corner. They were ready.

  In a conventional battle, as Mano knew, four M1s would be a single platoon for a heavy battalion. On the streets of Los Angeles, however, the four tanks were a major force. Mano imagined the Army’s battalion commander felt the mere presence of the tanks would cause the insurgents to flee in fear.

  The commander’s disdain for the insurgents was also evident in the scheduling of the patrols. It had not taken Mano long to recognize these armored columns, sent to show the flag in the zones, used only three different routes that were repeated in the same sequence. The Army’s contempt for the insurgents, and its CO’s overconfidence, had made it simple to set up an ambush.

  Executing the attack was another matter.

  From his Army days, Mano knew the killing power of the M1. The tank’s 120mm main gun would be useless in close quarters, but each M1 was still armed with two 7.62mm machine guns and a 25mm chain gun. That firepower alone was enough to outgun the six fighters under Mano’s command. The trick would be to hit hard and run fast.

  As he waited warily for the tanks to approach his trap, Mano recalled his days in Afghanistan and recognized the irony of the situation. Now he was the insurgent waiting to ambush a U.S. column.

  When the first tank reached the fire hydrant that marked the beginning of the kill zone, Mano released the safety on his AK-47 and pulled back the bolt. The tank passed through the kill zone and, as he expected, turned right at the corner and disappeared from sight.

  Mano’s plan was to wait for the fourth tank to enter the kill zone before they fired. At that point, the other vehicles would be around the corner and his teams could attack the last tank without covering fire from the first three. The kill zone Mano had devised gave his RPG teams overhead a clear line of fire into the vulnerable rear panel of the tank that housed the vehicle’s engine.

  Mano’s breath quickened as the second and third tanks lumbered through the kill zone and around the corner. Things were going according to plan so far. He was counting on the nerve of men—and boys—he barely knew. The target tank approached the kill zone.

  Wait… Wait… Mano mentally pleaded with his men. Above the roar of engines, he heard a short hiss followed by a booming crash. His heart sank. Dammit! Too early.

  Looking down, he saw that a rocket from the vatos in the storm sewer had struck the front drive sprocket of the M1, blowing the treads away and bringing the vehicle to a halt. But the shot had been fired too soon. The tank had ground to a stop about fifteen meters from the corner. From this position, the RPG gunners overhead couldn’t get a clean angle on the more lightly armored engine compartment at the rear of the tank.

  Mano jumped to his feet and raced into the hall.

  Entering the next room, he saw Tony Mendez fire his RPG through the window, filling the space with exhaust from the rocket. Mano stumbled through the smoke, his hand outstretched, and grabbed the teenager by the shoulder. “Your angle is too steep,” he said, pulling Tony away from the window. “Move back one more room and fire again.”

  Mano looked outside. The tank was struggling to move on its one good tread, spinning in a slow circle but getting nowhere. The movement was turning the vulnerable rear compartment away from Mano’s side of the street; unless the tank turned back toward him, it would be up to the RPG teams on the other side of the street to take it out. He bolted for the next room to check on Tony.

  The burping chatter of machine-gun fire grew louder when Mano entered the room. Tony stood near the window, about to bring the RPG to his shoulder, when he noticed Mano. “Pretty cool, huh?” he yelled with a grin.

  Suddenly, the window frame beside Tony splintered as a trail of bullets moved laterally, striking him on the cheek. A small pink cloud of blood formed near the boy’s head an instant before he fell.

  Mano dove for the floor as bullets buzzed over his head like angry bees, shattering the plaster walls above him. The room had been targeted; staying there would be suicide. He crawled to Tony, gently pried the RPG from his grasp, and slung the weapon over his shoulder.

  Moving on his belly into the hallway, he heard the whoosh and boom of two more rockets firing outside. He was heartened that the RPG teams across the street were still fighting. Mano’s orders had been to fire two shots and then get out. That meant each of the two RPG teams across the street would fire once more, if they could manage to get a shot off under the rapidly increasing machine-gun fire.

  In the relative safety of the hallway, Mano realized there was now only one way left to get a kill shot on the tank: he would have to go down to the street.

  Arriving at the first-floor doorway, he produced a small mirror from the thigh pocket of his fatigues and peeked outside. The crippled tank was still foundering, struck by several rockets and unable to move. But its turret was still rotating, looking for targets. On the cross street behind the damaged vehicle, the other tanks were laying down protective fire on the apartments. The RPG teams in the windows were either gone or dead. He would have to finish off the tank alone.

  Mano knew if he emerged from the doorway to aim his RPG toward the crippled tank, the machine guns would cut him down. The only cover was directly behind the stricken tank itself. From there, he could get a point-blank shot into the tank’s rear, but to get there, he’d have to cross ten meters of open ground. His only hope was to reach the safe zone before the tank gunners spotted him.

  He took three steps backward to get a running start, then bol
ted.

  Time seemed to slow as he crossed the deadly field of fire, the thudding of his heart drowning out the clatter of the machine guns. With each stride, he wondered if it would be his last. Keep moving… Keep moving… Dive.

  Mano landed heavily on the pavement, emitting a loud grunt as the breath he’d been holding escaped from his lungs. Time returned to normal as the barrel of the RPG slung across his back slammed painfully against the back of his head.

  The bullets pulverized the blacktop around him as the gunners zeroed in. In a matter of seconds, one of the tanks would move and gain a field of fire into his position.

  Mano rolled onto his side, cradled the RPG, and crab-crawled left for a better angle. Chips of pavement churned up by the bullets stung his cheek as he brought the rear of the tank into his sights and squeezed the trigger.

  For an instant, he thought his shot had failed. Then he was consumed in a bright orange flash. He covered his head as a succession of explosions hurled debris skyward.

  When Mano opened his eyes, a dense black cloud filled the air. Under cover of the smoke, he crawled toward the curb, lifted the storm sewer’s heavy grate, and lowered himself into the sanctuary below.

  Fired at close range, the High Explosive Anti-Tank projectile had ignited the vehicle’s ammo supply, popping its massive turret.

  The destruction of the M1 would have a profound effect on U.S. military tactics against the insurgents. It marked the last time armored vehicles patrolled inside the Quarantine Zones without infantry support. The rebels had embarrassed the U.S. military—and the nation’s defense establishment was determined not to let it happen again.

  THE QUARANTINE AND

  RELOCATION ACT:

  Month 15

  The appetite for independence will grow quickly after the people get their first taste of the fruits of victory.

  —José Antonio Marcha, 1982

  Translated by J. M. Herrera

  The rebel assault against the tanks in Los Angeles was part of an ominous trend. Fifteen months after the Bates amendment had become law, the insurgents were stepping up their forays outside the Quarantine Zones across the United States.

  Chasing the instant fame of Simon Potts, teams of freelance video reporters now continually combed the areas around the zones, looking for footage that would lead the evening news. This cash-and-carry journalism was producing a constant stream of shocking images that magnified the scope of the violence in the national consciousness.

  Emboldened by the media coverage given to the raids of their comrades, rebel bands across the nation now continually probed for weak spots, attacking any military target that appeared vulnerable. The U.S. military, facing shortages of manpower, sophisticated equipment, and adequate intelligence, always seemed one step behind the insurgents, now being called Panchos by the troops.

  The pattern of aggression by the rebels varied within each region of the nation. The vast abandoned areas along the southern third of California were a haven for small, mobile cadres of insurgents who struck military targets at random while gleaning food and supplies from the vacated suburban landscape. The only civilians still left in the region were a bastion of hardy souls clustered around San Diego’s naval base.

  Most non-Hispanics in New Mexico had retreated northward to Colorado, leaving the Rio Grande Valley in the hands of the rebels as far north as Santa Fe. The area’s narrow canyons were ideal sites for ambushes on government patrols. To avoid heavy casualties, troops moved sparingly through the highlands, leaving the insurgents free to roam.

  From El Paso to Houston, the major cities in Texas became a bloody battleground. Using the Quarantine Zones as unassailable bases, the insurgents launched a string of fierce sorties against the government garrisons surrounding them. Despite being outgunned, the rebels’ knowledge of the urban terrain gave them a considerable advantage.

  In Arizona, the government was losing control south of the Gila River as rebel bands from the QZs of Yuma, Tucson, and Phoenix took to the hills.

  Along the Eastern Seaboard and the Midwest, where the Quarantine Zones were smaller and more isolated, the situation was less dire. In these areas, government authorities were able to maintain control, but at a great cost in lives to both sides.

  The United States faced a major dilemma. The bulk of America’s combat troops were spread across the globe, leaving the military strapped for qualified personnel to squelch the insurgency now raging at home. In a desperate measure, the Brenner administration extended the active duty of reservists by two more years. The families of those affected began a national campaign to reverse the decision. Administration trial balloons on the reinstatement of the military draft met with fierce opposition. The draft became another controversial issue heightening dissension within the United States.

  As the turbulent summer gave way to fall, the U.S. found itself more isolated in the world and more divided at home.

  Hank Evans double-clicked the video conference icon and the image of the assistant director of the CIA materialized on his computer monitor.

  Carol Phelps looked haggard, her heavy makeup unable to mask dark folds below her bloodshot eyes. “There’s something I want you to watch, Hank,” she said without prelude.

  After a moment of static, a news clip appeared on Evans’s computer. Shot from a distance, a prone insurgent in black fatigues fired a rocket-propelled grenade into the rear hull of an M1 tank, filling the screen with a blazing flash. Three other widely broadcast TV reports of insurgent attacks in the Los Angeles Quarantine Zones followed.

  After the last clip faded, the face of Carol Phelps again appeared. “I know you’ve probably seen these clips in the media over the last few months, Hank,” she said sternly. “I’m showing them to you again because they underscore two unacceptable failures on the part of your office.” She paused, waiting for her words to sink in.

  “First, you have yet to locate the man who shot this footage. This is particularly galling since virtually every person in the country now knows his name. The circumstances of these ‘Potts Shots,’ as the media is calling them, make it obvious that Simon Potts has access to the highest echelons of the terrorist leadership in Southern California. It is imperative that you apprehend this man for questioning.

  “Second, and even more important, it is evident that the terrorists have compromised your security sphere. They have repeatedly anticipated the movement of our forces in your area and have not only attacked us but have shown the audacity to videotape their attacks and distribute the footage.”

  After a pause, Phelps took a more conciliatory tone. “I know that terrorist attacks like these have been taking place in all the Quarantine Zones, Hank. The big difference is that in your area, they’re being documented and released to the public.” Phelps massaged her temples. “Look, in the big scheme of things, this is really penny-ante stuff. We both know we’ve got truly serious military challenges overseas right now. But the administration’s ass is being roasted royally by Congress and the media on this domestic bullshit. I have no choice but to pass on the heat to you.”

  Evans gripped the edge of his desk, trying to contain his anger. Phelps was a Brenner appointee with no real intel experience. “These are the kind of repercussions we have to expect when we squander intelligence assets for political purposes, ma’am,” he said.

  “You’ve made no secret of your opposition to the relocation of Hispanics in the intelligence community, Hank. We can’t turn back the clock. We have to move on. I understand you have a mole within one suspicious local group… they’re called La Defensa del Pueblo, I believe.”

  Evans was startled. The assistant director was renowned for her network of informers. He was learning firsthand that her reputation was well deserved.

  “Yes… but, frankly, Carol, our mole has been no help so far.”

  “Have you considered that perhaps your mole has been helping the terrorists?”

  “We’re not sure the DDP is behind any type of violent
activity,” Evans said, nervously rubbing his jowls. “In fact, they’re helping the Army distribute food and medical supplies inside the zones. Their leaders are a couple of dilettantes. Neither one is really the violent type.”

  “Well, somebody there is sure knocking the hell out of our people… and it’s up to you to find out who it is,” Phelps said with a cold glare. “I’m giving you fair warning, Hank. If you don’t come up with the ringleaders of these terrorists—and I mean soon—you can start considering what you’d like your next career to be.”

  The assistant director of the CIA then abruptly logged off, leaving Hank Evans staring in frustration at the CIA logo on his computer screen.

  “ ‘All warfare is based on deception,’ ” Mano read aloud from the worn clothbound book. “ ‘When we are near, we must make the enemy believe we are far away. When far away, we must make him believe we are near.’ ” Mano’s eyes rose from the book. “Ramon, this man really understood our kind of fight.”

  “What’s remarkable about Sun Tzu is that he wrote those words more than two thousand years ago, Mano. The Art of War has inspired leaders all over the world ever since.”

  The two men were seated in Ramon’s library, a small climate-controlled haven for two thousand or so of Ramon’s favorite books hidden away in the meat locker of an abandoned restaurant. This indulgence to Ramon’s passion for literature had been a birthday gift from Jo, who’d appointed the room with two cozy leather chairs, a mahogany side table, and a brass reading lamp.

  Mano gently stroked the yellowed pages. “I never knew books like this existed.”

  “That’s not too surprising.” Ramon laughed. “This is probably the first time in your life you’ve had time to read.”

  It was true. Without the company of his family, Mano found himself with time to kill during the lulls between their forays—and reading was a way to dull the loneliness.