Mano’s newfound interest in reading also had another motive: he needed to deepen his knowledge of military strategy. He was now routinely matching wits with professional officers. Although he’d succeeded far beyond his expectations, he knew the challenges ahead would be more difficult. Since Ramon had introduced him to The Art of War two weeks earlier, he’d already committed large sections to memory.
“ ‘The supreme art of war is to subdue the enemy without fighting,’ ” Mano read aloud again.
Ramon was gratified that Mano had taken to Sun Tzu. He’d figured that the profound yet simple words of the Chinese sage would be a good launching point to advance Mano’s military intellect. Ramon himself was essentially self-taught. There was no reason why Mano could not do the same.
“Well, after you’ve cut your teeth on Sun Tzu, I’ll introduce you to a couple of gentlemen named Thucydides and Clausewitz. They’ll give you a Western perspective on military theory.”
Mano marked his place in the book and put it down reverently. “Will any of those guys teach us how to fight without weapons?”
“Why do you ask?”
“I think we’re better off without Nesto. It’s only a matter of time before he turns on us.”
“I know that, Mano. But we can’t replace Nesto’s manpower yet. The meeting we’ve set up tonight will go a long way toward that. But I don’t know where else to get access to his weapons.” Ramon glanced at his watch. It was nearly midnight. “Right now, though, it’s time we left on our recruiting tour.”
Forty minutes later, Mano and Ramon were outside Tavo’s, a grimy bar in the heart of Quarantine Zone A. The bar was ground zero in the turf of Los Verdugos, a gang with a lethal reputation.
Ramon had already briefed Mano on Los Verdugos. The gang’s members were all recent Mexican arrivals in el norte. Most spoke little English and many were undocumented. At the bottom of the economic food chain and with little to lose, these young men were known to be fearless and volatile. Unlike their more savvy rivals, who usually battled for a piece of the action, Los Verdugos fought for honor and pride. Though few in number, they were given a wide berth by the other gangs.
Ramon hoped these recent arrivals retained some of the traditional respect accorded elders in Mexico. It was their best hope of surviving the encounter.
As the two entered the cantina, several forlorn drinkers slouched against the bar while a paunchy bartender leafed lethargically through an ancient issue of Vogue. They all stared in awe at Mano’s size as he and Ramon strode through the tavern toward the open doorway at the back of the room.
Finding their meeting site in the bar’s back room empty, Mano positioned himself behind a faded pool table with a view of the front door.
After several minutes, the front door of the bar opened and a procession of young men with closely cropped hair slowly entered. Most were bare-chested and powerfully built, though none appeared to be very tall. Mano could see numerous tattoos adorning the bronze skin of their torsos and arms. He counted eight vatos in all.
The young men glared wordlessly as they filed into the back room and surrounded the pool table, cutting off Mano and Ramon from the door. The last vato to enter the room had a large tattoo of an angel on his chest. He glanced at Mano with the cold gaze of a predator, then nodded to Ramon.
“Y que, ese,” the young man said.
“Y que, Angel,” Ramon replied.
“Bueno, viejo, que quieres?” Angel Sanchez asked, thrusting his chin upward.
“He wants to know what we want,” Ramon translated for Mano. Angel and Mano seem a lot alike, Ramon observed. Both of them get right to the point.
“Tell him we want him and his vatos to join us in fighting for justicia,” Mano replied.
“I know English… some,” Angel said in a thick accent. He then shrugged derisively toward Mano. “Why we help you?”
Ramon launched into a passionate lecture in Spanish. “Porque tu pueblo te necesita. Esto es una oportunidad para ayudar a otros…” As he spoke, Mano could see the eyes of the young men glazing over. Ramon was not reaching them. When Ramon stopped for a breath, Mano addressed Angel.
“Do you hate the other gangs in this barrio?”
Angel nodded his head.
“Do you hate baldies?”
Angel nodded again.
“Which one is it better to fight?”
Angel measured Mano’s words. The big man’s logic cut to the heart of the matter.
Angel was a realist. He understood that Los Verdugos battled the rival gangs of his barrio for the meager measure of pride that came with defending their turf. Why should he spill the blood of his people over turf when a bigger enemy threatened them both? Perhaps fighting the baldies could be a greater source of honor.
“I talk with Los Verdugos,” Angel said, gesturing toward his cohorts. “Tomorrow we talk again… here.” He then looked at his vatos and flicked his head toward the door. The young men filed slowly out of the room with slightly less malice than when they entered it.
After Los Verdugos were gone, Ramon playfully slapped Mano’s massive shoulder. “That was remarkable, my friend. I think we made some real progress here tonight.”
Mano allowed himself a small smile. “As Sun Tzu wrote, ‘He will win whose army is animated by the same spirit throughout all its ranks.’ ”
THE QUARANTINE AND
RELOCATION ACT:
Month 16, Day 7
Another drop of sweat trailed down Jo’s forehead, making its way into her eye. Jo ignored the sting, keeping the binoculars trained on Lakeview Avenue. The convoy was overdue.
Perched in the steeple of an abandoned church, Jo could see for nearly a kilometer along the road. But in the unseasonable November heatwave, the vantage point was exacting a stiff penalty. The four-by-four-foot attic was broiling—a condition magnified by the presence of Mano’s large bulk.
The Army convoy they were waiting to intercept was ferrying building supplies from the recently reactivated Long Beach Naval Base to a new Army garrison under construction near Yorba Linda. One of Angel’s vatos had spotted the route two weeks ago while scouting this vacated area southeast of Zone B. Now the rebels were ready to strike.
“Maybe you should take a break,” Mano suggested. Jo had been on her feet for the last forty-five minutes in the oppressive heat, peering between the steeple’s ventilation slats, her braided hair a sopping mess and her T-shirt soaked with sweat.
“I can last a little longer,” she said.
“You might miss it if you’re drowsy, Jo.”
“All right. Take over,” she said, keeping her eyes on the road while Mano rose to his feet.
As Jo turned to hand Mano the binoculars, her breasts brushed against his torso. Against her will, the sensuous contact sparked a rush of passion that made Jo quiver. Her breath suddenly heavy, she looked into Mano’s eyes and saw that he, too, was aroused.
Jo could no longer deny it—she loved Mano and ached for his touch. But she also recognized the cruel irony of her love. To give in to her desires would be to destroy what she loved about him most.
She could not allow Mano to betray his wife.
Jo handed Mano the Bushnells and sat down, carefully avoiding any further contact.
Trying to defuse the tension, Mano changed the subject. “Why do you suppose these people left their homes?” he asked, scanning the abandoned landscape.
Jo collected her thoughts before answering. “It seems to me that, above all else, Norteamericanos are individualistic. Their first instinct is to look out for themselves. When the crisis came, they reacted as individuals. Instead of worrying about the consequences, they sold out as quickly as they could and got their families out of danger.”
“You’d think some of these people would have had the courage to stay and fight for their homes,” Mano said, keeping his eyes glued to the road.
“I don’t think it’s a matter of courage, Mano. Norteamericanos are brave—and quite tough in m
any ways. They may be the most competitive people on earth. But they’re accustomed to an easy life, and they have few qualms about moving. Most families in the U.S. move every five years. Very few are tied to an ancestral home—especially Californians. Pulling up stakes and moving on is part of the culture. I believe most of them thought they were simply moving out of a rapidly deteriorating neighborhood, not giving up their native soil.” Jo paused. “I think a lot of them are having second thoughts about their actions now.”
“You don’t think Americans are willing to make sacrifices?”
“Any U.S. politician who advocated sacrifice would never get elected. Their political opponent would simply promise a painless solution, and most people would choose to believe it. You have to go back to World War II—more than four generations ago—to find a time when Norteamericanos had to make any real sacrifices. The U.S. Civil War was the last armed conflict on American soil. Compare that to Europe or Asia—”
“I see them coming,” said Mano, calmly interrupting her.
Jo jumped to her feet. “Can you tell how many?” she asked, straining to make out the vehicles without the binoculars.
Mano studied the neat line of vehicles. “There are two Humvees in the lead. It looks like… let’s see… eight trucks following and one Humvee as the trail escort vehicle.”
“Let’s hope the last of our am-nite doesn’t go to waste.”
From the passenger’s seat of the lead Humvee, Lieutenant Jason Kroy stared blankly at the vacant stores and factories along Lakeview Avenue, his mind far away. A third-generation soldier, Kroy envied his younger brother, assigned to a Ranger unit in Iran. That’s where the real soldiers are, he said to himself dejectedly.
While pondering the bleak prospects of his own career, Kroy heard a thundering boom from the road behind him.
“What the hell was that?” he yelled to his driver.
“I dunno,” the driver said nervously. “It sounded like a bomb or something.”
Kroy grabbed the radio’s handset. “Convoy leader to all units… Pull over! Pull over!” he yelled into the mike.
Emerging from his Humvee, Kroy saw a large cloud of smoke and dust billowing from the causeway across the lake nearly half a kilometer back. His stomach churning, the lieutenant counted his convoy. There were only seven trucks along the road behind him. The last truck and the T.E.V. were missing.
Kroy ran to the second vehicle. “Contact HQ, Sergeant! Tell them we’ve been ambushed and the convoy is going to need protection! Have them send air cover if possible. Then escort the rest of the convoy to the garrison. I’m going back to check this out. Have them send me any reinforcements they can!”
While the remainder of the convoy got under way, the lieutenant jumped back into his own vehicle. “Get us turned around, Willard!” he said to his driver. “We’re going back to the causeway.”
The driver’s eyes widened with alarm. “You sure you wanna do that, LT?”
“Willard, shut up and drive,” Kroy said and then turned to the soldier in the backseat. “Meyers, man the 50!”
The young soldier climbed onto the Humvee’s center platform, peeking cautiously from the machine-gun turret as they sped down the road.
“We’ve got a Humvee coming back,” Mano said, looking through the binoculars.
Jo picked up the vu-phone she’d rigged to emit a detonating signal. “I’m ready with charge number two,” she said, her finger poised over the final digit that would ignite the explosives.
Anticipating the return of a security detachment from the convoy, Mano had placed a second set of charges in an abandoned car near the causeway to give them another chance at a precisely timed blow. Angel and two vatos were hiding near the kill zone. Their task would be to recover any weapons following the attack.
“They’re getting closer,” Mano said calmly as the Humvee closed on the abandoned car. “Get ready.”
Then, in the corner of his binoculars, Mano detected movement—three ragged figures walking nearby. The Humvee slowed as it approached the men.
Jo could sense the time for detonating the charges was lapsing. “What’s the matter, Mano?”
“I think we’ve got some onlookers. Disable the charges, Jo.”
“Onlookers?”
“Yeah, they’re dregs,” Mano said as he studied the three scruffy men through the binoculars. “The explosion at the causeway must have drawn them.”
“Mierda!” Jo cursed, tapping in the abort code.
As Mano watched, the soldiers began frisking the men against the abandoned car. “It looks like the soldiers think the dregs may have been involved.”
“Is there anything we can do?”
“Call Angel and tell him and his vatos they need to withdraw. This looks like one fish that’s going to get away.”
Hours later, as Jo and Mano sat at the DDP conference table planning their next operation, Angel entered the room, followed by three Verdugos.
Walking with ominous slowness, the mero moved very close to Mano and stood before him, chest extended, a cold glare in his eyes. “You… are woman… today,” he said bitterly.
Mano rose to his feet and smiled. “If you’re trying to insult me, Angel, you’ll have to do better than that. There are many women as brave as any man. This is one of them,” he said, gesturing toward Jo.
Angel looked at Jo for a moment, then softened his tone. “Why you no attack?”
“Because those three men in the street were innocent. They were not our enemies. We are warriors, Angel. The death of those three men would have made us murderers. Asesinos. Their blood would never wash from our hands. Me entiendes?”
“I join you to fight baldies,” Angel said, his anger dissipating. “Not to run.”
“You have the heart of a lion, Angel. This war is far from over. You’ll get a lot more chances to fight,” Mano assured him. “Get some sleep. We’ve got more to do tomorrow.”
Appeased, Angel nodded to his vatos and they exited the room.
“That was scary,” Jo said softly. “Can we trust him, Mano?”
“You always know where you stand with Angel.”
“That’s not a very persuasive argument.”
“Some people don’t fight for ideas, Jo. They fight because they hate. As long as we have an enemy, Angel won’t betray us.”
As Mano spoke, he realized how much the words applied to himself as well.
THE QUARANTINE AND
RELOCATION ACT:
Month 16, Day 28
Mami, wake up. Come see!” Pedro said, gently shaking his mother’s arm.
Struggling to stay warm under a scratchy wool blanket, Rosa rolled toward her son on the hard bunk bed and opened one eye. Across the crowded Quonset hut, she saw the weak light of dawn through a small window.
“Keep your voice down, m’hijo. You’ll wake someone,” she whispered to her son.
“OK, Mami,” the boy whispered back. “But you’ve got to come see this… Elena, too.”
Hearing her brother’s voice, Elena stirred in the bed next to Rosa’s.
“Just a minute, m’hijo. I need to dress your sister,” Rosa said as she rose from the bed. After slipping into a robe, she bundled Elena into several layers of mismatched clothing recently donated to the Community. The early November weather was colder than anything Rosa had ever known. A lifelong resident of Los Angeles, she shuddered at the thought that the year’s coldest weather was still ahead.
Once they were dressed, Pedro eagerly took Rosa and Elena by the hand and dragged the sleepy pair toward the doorway. Rosa gasped as they stepped outside. The camp had been transformed.
Rosa had seen pictures of snow. But firsthand, she found it breathtaking. There was a purity and stillness to the stark landscape that cameras failed to capture. As Rosa turned her head, the glow of the pale morning sun followed her gaze across the white contours of the land, igniting a moving wave of glittering reflections. For a moment, she and the children stood in silent awe.
Then Pedro broke the spell. “Come on, Elena!” the boy yelled, dashing into the knee-deep snow. Elena ran stiffly behind her brother, waddling in her bulky clothes. The children romped in the snow, giddy with joy, their laughter warming Rosa. It was a sound she’d heard rarely since their arrival in the Community.
Rosa’s thoughts turned to Mano. She knew her husband would relish this moment of joy with the children. Then the questions that tormented her every day returned. Is he still alive? Is he with that woman? Will I ever see him again?
Part of her wanted to put Mano behind her and move on, but she could not. She clung desperately to the belief that their family would be reunited. It was the focus of the prayers she recited daily before her small statue of the Blessed Virgin.
The small offerings of food Rosa laid before her shrine had become true sacrifices. The meals at the Community’s mess hall had been adequate at first. But lately, the portions had shrunk severely. Unknown to Rosa, politics and bureaucracy were behind the reduction in their rations.
To mollify the financial obligations of the Bates resolution, the Relocation Communities had been presented to Congress as self-sustaining entities. The architects of the Quarantine and Relocation Act had assumed most Hispanics were farm laborers who would quickly become adept at subsistence farming. Adequate food supplies, along with seeds and fertilizer, had been allocated to the Communities during the planting seasons of spring and early summer. By fall, government officials expected the Relocation Communities to begin their harvests and become essentially self-sufficient. As a result, food rations were radically curtailed.
In reality, over ninety percent of the Hispanics in the U.S. were urban dwellers with little farming experience of any kind. Nevertheless, many industrious souls within the Relocation Communities had attempted gardens, but their efforts were hampered by a lack of implements. Fearing hoes and rakes would be turned into weapons, the local security forces had withheld the garden tools provided by the planners.
America Libre Page 20