America Libre

by Raul Ramos y Sanchez

  The atmosphere aboard the bus was jovial, almost party-like, as they traveled south on the town’s only road. Mano was certain most of those on the bus had not endured the grind of negotiating with the Reformers and were still giddy with the excitement of the morning’s proceedings. In the dim light, Mano could make out a number of familiar faces. All of them were Marchistas.

  After several miles, Jo pulled the bus onto the shoulder, lit a gas lantern, and rose to face those aboard. “Hermanos, what we did today will go down in history. You have helped conceive a new nation.” Jo’s words were delivered slowly, with power and dignity. “I guess that makes you a great bunch of fuckers, eh?” she added sweetly.

  The men in the bus went wild at her raunchy joke, laughing so hard Mano found it impossible not to join in.

  Jo waved her arms to calm the group down. “I want to salute you for the effort you gave today. Ramon told me the stares you and your people gave the Reformers would have melted ice. This day would not have been possible without you.”

  “Let’s hear it for the lady in the bell tower!” a voice called out, sparking a round of energetic cheers.

  So that’s where Jo went, Mano realized.

  “Thank you,” Jo said, acknowledging the applause. “But we still have some unfinished business,” she said in a more somber tone. “Creating a declaration of independence is only the first part of the challenge we face. We’ve asserted our moral right to reclaim our land. In fact, we’ll petition the United Nations for recognition as a sovereign state. But we have to back up our declaration with action. If we don’t, what we’ve done today will be just words on a piece of paper.”

  Jo began pacing the aisle. “Now, let’s be realistic. The U.S. government has the resources to outlast us and the power to outgun us. It’s not a case of a lightweight in the ring with a heavyweight. This is a fight between a lightweight and Godzilla.”

  She paused as a number of the men laughed. “But if we don’t take action, we’ll be ignored by the media. And media attention is how we’ll get the U.S. public to say, ‘These Hispanics are just too damned crazy. They’re too fanatical. Let them have their territory. It’s the only way we’ll have peace.’ And that, hermanos, is how we’ll win.

  “The U.S. government is overcommitted militarily right now,” Jo continued. “Their best-trained and best-equipped troops are overseas. We’ll never have a better time.

  “That’s why we need to plan a national offensive now. A day when we strike together across the entire United States. It will send a clear and unmistakable message: We are united. We are a nation,” she said, pounding her fist into her palm.

  A wave of applause punctuated her statement.

  Jo sat down, relinquishing the floor to Ramon.

  “This blow we strike together must be seared into the memory of our enemies,” Ramon began. “We must choose a day that will be remembered, a day that will define our cause, a day on whose anniversary future generations will speak of our struggle with pride.” He paused. “And so I propose that we strike on the twentieth of May—the birthday of José Antonio Marcha.”

  Ramon’s inspiration brought another vigorous round of cheers.

  A large, swarthy man rose to speak. It was Octavio Perez, the activist who had spoken at the rally in Salazar Park. “Hermanos, just as we have all gotten behind this declaration of independence, we all must get behind this action now. I can tell you that we, the leaders of the resistance in San Antonio, will lay down our lives if necessary to advance the Marcha Offensive. Is there anyone else with the cojones to join us?”

  The swell of assenting voices filled the bus.

  “My heart is warmed by your courage,” Ramon said humbly. “Now that you’ve decided to come to the party, amigos, it’s time to dance with the devil and work out the details,” he said with a grin. “To do that, I’d like to turn these proceedings over to a man whose wits and courage have shown he is eminently qualified to advise us in military matters. For those of you who don’t already know him, I’d like to introduce our director of security in Los Angeles, Manolo Suarez—El Grande.”

  Judging by the loud applause, the people aboard the bus knew something of Mano’s reputation. Mano rose and awkwardly acknowledged their tribute.

  Ramon then unfolded a large map of North America and addressed the delegates. “We need to coordinate the timing, location, and type of attacks each of our organizations will undertake. I propose that Mano serve as an advisor and have the final decision on any disputes. Do you agree?”

  The group shouted their affirmation.

  Ramon smiled at them serenely. “Good. Then let’s get to work.”

  At dawn, the ramshackle bus lumbered slowly into Santiago, the passengers weary but satisfied. The tactical plans for the Marcha Offensive were complete.

  After nine days of intense deliberations, the assembly in Santiago reached a final agreement. Signed by all the delegates, it was called La Declaración de Santiago—the Santiago Declaration. Authored by Josefina Maria Herrera, the document was divided into four sections.

  The first section listed the grievances of North America’s Hispanics against the U.S. government. Primary among these injustices was the creation of the Relocation Communities and the Quarantine Zones.

  The second section detailed the legitimacy of the Latino territorial claims to the former Hispanic regions currently under United States control. Large portions of Arizona, California, Florida, New Mexico, and Texas were designated in the claim. Following the stratagem drawn up by José Antonio Marcha, the document used the State of Israel as precedent for a displaced people’s historical claim to their former territory. A special note was made that the United States was the first country to recognize the sovereign status of Israel.

  The third section outlined the structure of a provisional government, called La Republica Hispána de Norteamérica—the Hispanic Republic of North America. This provisional government would petition for a seat in the United Nations. The delegates elected a rotating set of U.N. representatives, and plans were drawn up for a constitutional convention, followed by popular elections within one year after U.N. recognition.

  The final section, as a concession to the Reformers, had two clauses. Clause one stated that if the United Nations did not recognize the Hispanic Republic of North America, it would still grant the signers of the document diplomatic immunity under international law. Clause two explained that in the event the Hispanic Republic of North America received U.N. recognition, any Hispanics who chose to remain in the United States would retain all personal property and avoid criminal prosecution.

  A copy of the Santiago Declaration was leaked to a local CBS affiliate in San Francisco two weeks after the document was signed. Its release was delayed to give the delegates time to slip back across the border.

  Less than two hours after the document arrived at the Bay Area station, the story was picked up by CBS for its national feed. Before the day was over, the report would snowball into an avalanche of media coverage.

  THE QUARANTINE AND

  RELOCATION ACT:

  Month 17, Day 14

  Hank Evans’s phone had been ringing since he’d arrived at his office twenty minutes earlier. He’d been tempted to unplug the desk unit or disconnect the ringer, but tampering with a CIA phone was a federal crime.

  The insistent warbling was irritating, but he knew better than to answer the phone this morning. Following yesterday’s release of the Santiago Declaration, a blame storm of epic proportions was brewing at the White House and its fury would be directed squarely at the CIA. With the Brenner team in the middle of a reelection campaign, the media bombshell had been devastating.

  Editorials across the nation were accusing the president of being caught flat-footed at home by a preoccupation with his international agenda. One widely distributed political cartoon depicted President Brenner blithely juggling a series of flaming torches labeled Afghanistan, Iran, Iraq, Korea, Pakistan, and Venezuela while a
mouse wearing a Mexican sombrero gleefully gave him a hot foot. The media circus also had a serious side.

  The Wall Street Journal declared the Santiago Declaration the most significant challenge to U.S. sovereignty since the Civil War. Some blamed the administration for responding too timidly to the insurgents. Others claimed repressive government policies had been the cause of the insurgency. Not surprisingly, an overnight USA Today poll showed President Brenner’s approval ratings plummeting.

  Evans had been through this kind of PR nightmare before. You kept low until tempers cooled and then went to work to fix the problem. So he ignored the phone and continued his review of field agent budget reports.

  While he was finishing his second cherry danish, his administrative assistant entered the office trembling and near tears. “I’m sorry, Hank,” she said, handing him a vu-phone set on hold. “It’s Mrs. Phelps from Washington. She said if I don’t find you right away and put this phone in your hand, I’m gonna be fired.”

  Evans put down the pastry and reached for the phone in disgust. It’s just like Carol Phelps to bully a GS5, he thought as his assistant retreated from the office.

  “Hello, Carol,” Evans said cautiously after reconnecting the line.

  “This is the last straw, Evans,” said the assistant director of the CIA tersely.

  “Now look, Carol,” Evans said quickly. “I’ve thought about it, and there’s an upside to this. Now we have the names of all the ringleaders.”

  “You’ve had the names of many of these people for nearly a year. How many of them are in custody?”

  “We’re trying to keep tails on them.”

  “Keep tails on them? Judging by the smarts you’ve shown so far, Evans, I wouldn’t be surprised if there’s a tail on your copious ass right now.”

  “All right, goddammit! I’m going to give it to you straight, Carol,” Evans shouted angrily. “My people are working as hard as they can under the severe handicap your administration has placed on us. First, you cut our budgets. And then you played politics with our national security by locking up our Hispanic agents—”

  Phelps cut him off. “I’m not buying your excuses, Hank. If you need to get tough with your mole, do it. Tell him it’s your hide or his.”

  “What are you saying, Carol? That we should threaten the life of an American citizen if he doesn’t cooperate with us? Why not, huh? I mean, we’ve taken away their political rights. Why not just chuck the whole Bill of Rights?”

  “Save your little civics lecture, Hank. We’re sending a bill to the Hill tomorrow that’s going to make it a capital crime to take part in any kind of terrorist activity. We’ve had it on the shelf for a while, and after this Santiago business, it’s going to pass through Congress faster than crap through a goose. So I’m warning you now, Hank. You won’t be able to hide behind the Constitution to cover your incompetence anymore.”

  “Carol, I—”

  “I’m not finished,” she snapped. “These embarrassments have got to stop. Do you hear me? We’re not going to let a bunch of pissant Pancho Villas make us look like fools in front of the world. This will not be the first administration in American history to cede U.S. territory. You do whatever is necessary to take these people out. I want these terrorists, Hank—and I don’t care if it’s in a body bag. Do I make myself clear? Or do I need to appoint another director in your region?”

  Evans stared back at Phelps, saying nothing. He had known it would come to this. His integrity was at stake.

  He would have to resign.

  Then a wave of fear flooded his mind, dissolving his will like an acid. Am I ready to throw away my career? How long will it take me to find another job in this economy? Besides, if I resign, who’ll maintain the Agency’s integrity?

  “I understand, Carol,” Evans finally said, lowering his eyes. “I’ll get it done.”

  “The next time I see any of the names from this god-damned Santiago Declaration, I expect it to be on an indictment… or in the obituaries,” Phelps said and hung up.

  Staring at the vu-phone in his plump hand, Evans felt incredibly heavy, like his bones were filled with lead. He reached for his desk phone and slowly pressed the keys.

  “Bill Perkins,” said the voice on the line.

  “Bill, you need to reach our mole at the DDP right away. We’ve got to put the squeeze on him—hard.”

  Nine days later, his computer linked to C-SPAN, Hank Evans watched the Senate vote the Terrorist Arraignment Act into law—exactly as Carol Phelps had predicted. The core of the new legislation called for charges of high treason against anyone convicted of fomenting sedition, making their actions punishable by death.

  The threat of execution now loomed over every rebel—and anyone who aided them.

  “What is it, Mami?” Pedro asked his mother. “What’s the matter?” The boy had never seen Rosa cry before—not even after his sister’s death.

  Seated on the edge of her bunk, Rosa was staring at a much-handled newspaper, her eyes red-rimmed and distant. Only last week, she’d heard a frightening rumor spread through the camp: anyone caught aiding the rebellion—in any way—would be charged with treason and condemned to death. The newspaper had confirmed the rumor. They were calling the new law the Terrorist Arraignment Act. But there was something more shocking in the worn copy of the Bismarck Tribune being furtively circulated around the camp.

  In an adjacent story, the paper had printed the complete text of the Santiago Declaration, including the names of all those who had signed the document. Among the signers was Manolo Suarez.

  Thank you, Blessed Virgin, Rosa said silently to the statue’s mended remnants. At least I know he’s alive. But the authorities now had Mano’s name. How much longer could he evade them? Although teetering between relief and fear, Rosa found something unexpected welling inside her: pride in her husband.

  Pedro touched Rosa’s shoulder, drawing her back from her trance. “Why are you crying, Mami?”

  Rosa wiped her cheeks and slid the newspaper under the covers. “I’m happy. That’s all. Women sometimes cry when they’re happy,” she said, surprised to find her words were actually true. The bleak news had somehow raised her spirits.

  Pedro pulled back the blanket and pointed to the newspaper. “Something you read in there made you happy?”

  A sliver of a smile formed on Rosa’s face; her son was no longer so easy to fool. “Yes, m’hijo.”

  “What does it say?”

  It was useless to hide the news, Rosa realized. The boy would find out anyway. “You can read it if you want,” she said, handing him the newspaper.

  Watching her son scan the page, Rosa felt a sense of revelation. No matter how Mano felt about Josefina, she had no doubts he loved his children. If her husband had willingly parted with Elena and Pedro, it was for something he believed deeply. Mano had never started a fight in his life, but he would never back down from one to protect his loved ones. Now, with her husband’s life at stake, she finally understood why he had joined the rebels.

  The country had divided and they no longer had a choice.

  Like it or not, all Hispanics were her people now. Their fate was her fate. There was no room left in the middle. It’s for our children that I’m doing this, Mano had told her. She now grasped why. Their future would depend on how all Hispanics were treated. In many ways, she’d sensed it all along. Little by little, since the day she’d boarded the bus for this camp, Rosa had felt herself grow more distant from the country she once called home. She could see now that Elena’s death had marked her final break with the Anglo world.

  “There’s Papi’s name!” Pedro said proudly, holding out the paper.

  Rosa’s face warmed. She could not remember the last time Pedro had shown pride in his father. “Yes, m’hijo.”

  “I don’t get a lot of this stuff written here, Mami. Why is Papi in the newspaper?”

  Rosa gently cradled Pedro’s face in her hands. “Your father’s name is there because he�
�s done something very brave.”

  THE QUARANTINE AND

  RELOCATION ACT:

  Month 18, Day 5

  Mano knocked on the meat locker door and entered Ramon’s library after hearing his friend’s voice invite him inside.

  “I’m guessing you’ve come to spar about some topic again,” Ramon said, seated in one of the room’s two plush leather chairs.

  Carrying a cardboard portfolio, Mano dropped into the chair opposite Ramon. “Yes, but I think my chances would be better if we arm-wrestled.”

  Ramon laughed. “So what’s the subject this time?”

  “I’ve been reading Marcha,” Mano said, pulling out a stack of loose sheets from the folder. “The guy was a loser, Ramon. He was a hotel clerk.”

  Since parting from his family, reading had become Mano’s refuge from the stress of battle and the emptiness of his solitary life. He’d embraced the endeavor with the same methodical discipline he still devoted to his physical training. His frequent debates with Ramon on what he’d read were a natural extension of his competitive nature.

  Ramon tapped his chin, gathering his thoughts, and then said, “Mano, are you familiar with Thomas Paine?”

  “I remember his name from school. Something to do with the American Revolution, right?”

  “That’s right. Paine wrote Common Sense, one of the most compelling arguments for American independence. He persuaded a lot of colonists to oppose British rule. But what they probably didn’t tell you in school was that Paine was penniless most of his life. He died a drunken pauper. But that doesn’t mean what he wrote was worthless. Sometimes a man’s ideas are far greater than the man himself.” Ramon paused. “Jo understood this when she began translating Marcha’s writings into English. You should ask her opinion sometime.”

  “OK, I see your point. But there’s a lot more that bothers me about Marcha. For example, he wrote, ‘Words that inspire us to valiant deeds can be hindered by petty details.’ Wasn’t he justifying the use of lies?”