America Libre

by Raul Ramos y Sanchez

  Rosa clasped Jo’s shoulders tenderly. “I’ve known for a long time that you wanted us sent here, Josefina,” Rosa said, then gently turned the blonde toward her until their eyes met. “What I’ve realized today is that you truly believed it was for our own good.”

  “There’s more, Rosa,” Jo said, still weeping softly. “When the riots were just starting in the barrios, I paid a gang leader to provoke more trouble. I thought more rioting would help our cause. Later I found out the mero I paid killed two policemen in cold blood. God help me, Rosa. I never intended for those men to die.”

  Rosa said nothing. Like most women, she understood Jo did not need someone who would judge her—just someone who would listen.

  “Don’t you see, Rosa? Those deaths were more than cold-blooded murder. They provoked the vigilante attacks, and that’s led to so much killing… even the deaths of your children.”

  Rosa slipped her arm under Jo’s and began pulling the blonde on the trail alongside her. “Josefina, the deaths of my children were God’s will. We’re all his instruments. You don’t need to torture yourself about it… or flatter yourself, chica. You’re not as powerful as you think,” she added with a small smile.

  For several minutes, the two women walked quietly, their arms interlocked. After the trail dipped into a low spot, Jo reached under her coat and produced a money belt. “There’s thirty thousand dollars in here, Rosa,” she said, opening one of the bulging pouches.

  This time, Rosa did not spurn Jo’s generosity. “Thank you, Josefina. Things have been hard here—this will help,” She said, slipping the belt under her coat.

  “I have to leave tomorrow, Rosa. The longer I stay, the more dangerous it gets.”

  “Keep your eyes open for a woman named Maria Prado. I think she may be a snitch,” Rosa said as they walked back toward the compound.

  “Gracias, mi hermana,” Jo replied, squeezing Rosa’s arm affectionately.

  “Tell Mano I miss him and I pray every day we can be together again soon. But tell him I know that won’t happen until the struggle for justicia is over.”

  “Rosa, there’s something I want you to know,” Jo said and then paused, searching for the right words. “Mano is still your husband. And he always will be.”

  Spying on the guest cabin from a crowded place near the mess hall, Maria spotted the “missionary” returning to the shabby hut alongside another woman. As the pair drew closer, Maria recognized the blonde woman’s companion. It was Rosa Suarez.

  That proves it. This has to be Josefina Herrera, thought Maria, recalling the photo of Herrera and Manolo Suarez on the podium at the East L.A. rally. Now she needed to trick the blonde into revealing her identity.

  Maria watched as Rosa and Herrera parted. The blonde then returned to her cabin. A few moments later, Maria knocked on the door.

  “Good morning. I’m Maria Prado. We met last night,” Maria said politely as Jo answered the door.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Prado. What can I do for you?” Jo said, standing in the doorway.

  “There’s something urgent I need to discuss. May I come in?”

  “Yes, of course,” Jo said, stepping back from the door.

  Maria closed the door behind her and looked out the window before addressing the blonde. “Look, I can’t tell you how I found out, but I know you’re Josefina Herrera.”

  “I’m sorry,” Jo said slowly. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “It’s OK. You can cut the act with me. I’m here because I want to help our cause.”

  “I’m sorry, Mrs. Prado. Apparently you have me confused with someone else.”

  “You don’t trust me. I understand. Listen, I was with the CIA for fourteen years. But I don’t support the government anymore. I’m on your side now.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about, ma’am. But I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

  “Don’t be a fool, Herrera. I’m ready to give your side secrets about the government’s intelligence community.”

  Jo picked up the phone on the small table by the bed. “If you don’t leave this minute, Mrs. Prado, I’m going to call security.”

  “Go ahead, Herrera. Call security. You’re the one they’re going to take away. I know all about you and—”

  Before Maria could finish, the front door flew open and two burly guards burst into the room. In a blur of motion, one of the men wrestled Prado to the floor and handcuffed her.

  “Let me go, you idiot! I’m with the CIA!” Maria screamed as the men dragged her outside.

  “Sorry about this, ma’am,” the other guard said to Jo. “These people have some nerve, don’t they? Imagine her thinking you was a beaner like her. It’s no wonder we had to lock them all up. You can’t trust any of ’em.”

  THE QUARANTINE AND

  RELOCATION ACT:

  Month 19, Day 11

  Refried beans are just not the same without manteca,” Juana muttered to herself while blending a brown paste of cooked pintos in a bowl. A staple of most Mexican dishes, manteca—lard—was nearly impossible to find these days. “Thank you, Señor, for the beans at least,” she said, turning her eyes to the kitchen ceiling, “although my ungrateful husband will complain anyway.” Juana’s pintos had come from her new backyard garden, a practice spreading quickly in the zones thanks to Jo.

  While frying the mashed beans in a black iron skillet, Juana heard footsteps approaching the kitchen.

  “Don’t make anything for me tonight, Juana,” Mano said wearily from the doorway. “I’m too tired to eat.”

  “It’s been two days since you’ve had a bite, Mano. Eat something.”

  “Thank you, Juana. I’m not hungry.”

  “If you promise to eat something, I’ll give you some news.”

  “News?” Mano asked anxiously. Jo was due back any day.

  “Sit down and eat, niño,” Juana said, bringing the skillet to the table. “Look, I just made some refried beans.”

  “Juana, please. I’ll eat later. What’s the news?”

  Juana shook her head in frustration. “You’re a good man, Mano. But sometimes you can be as hardheaded as my worthless husband.” She then sighed and said, “Josefina is back. She was here looking for you.”

  Mano’s face froze. “What did she say?”

  “She said she’d wait for you at Ramon’s library. I’ll have more beans ready anytime you—”

  Before Juana could finish, he was out the door.

  Once on the street, Mano broke into a run. The library was over two kilometers away and he was exhausted, but his pent-up anxiety drove him ahead. Over the last eleven days, he had found that waiting helplessly to learn the fate of his family was harder than risking his life to save them.

  As he arrived at the gutted restaurant where Ramon’s collection of books was hidden, Mano stopped running. Like a man facing an execution, he tried to calm his mind, preparing himself to accept whatever fate awaited him.

  He walked deliberately to the back of the building. The meat locker door was unlocked. Opening it, he saw Jo’s back as she paced nervously.

  When she turned to face him, her expression confirmed his worst fears.

  Guillermo was sweeping the living room floor when Mano emerged from his bedroom carrying a heavy backpack, his head swathed in a turban.

  “It looks like you’re going outside the zone, eh?”

  Mano nodded. “I am.”

  “That’s good, Mano. You need to get back into the struggle again. Taking on the baldies will do you good. Look, I know learning about your daughter was hard. But life goes on, mi amigo,” the old man said gently. “I know. I lost one of my own kids. It’s been thirty-two years and it still hurts.”

  “A father doesn’t expect to outlive his children, does he?”

  “No. But only God knows why he takes them from us. It’s our job to take care of those that are left… and ourselves.”

  Both men stood quietly for a time, re
calling memories of children they would never see again. For the last twenty-four hours, Mano had done little more than grieve. Worse than the pain was the emptiness he felt at the loss of Elena.

  Mano finally broke the silence. “Guillermo, I’m leaving now and I may not come back.”

  “No, Mano. You’re made of iron,” Guillermo said, smiling. “You always come back from a mission.”

  “It’s not a mission. I’m going to the Relocation Community. Rosa and Pedro need me.”

  The old man scratched his head in disbelief. “Mira, Mano. I’m just a dumb old man who never got past the fifth grade. But even I’m smart enough to know this isn’t a wise thing to do.”

  “You said it yourself, Guillermo. It’s our job to take care of those who are left.”

  “Yes, if there’s something you can do for them. But right now, your wife and son are still better off where they are. You’ll be lucky if you make it to the camp alive. And even if you get there, what are you going to do for your family? Most likely, you’ll bring more trouble on them than if you stayed away. If they’re caught with you, they can be put to death, too.”

  “I know. But they’re in danger in the camp, Guillermo. Trying to get them out is the best I can do.”

  “The best thing you can do for them is simple, amigo—keep fighting. If we keep fighting, one day the gabachos will have to make a deal with us. That’s how you’ll get your family back. Don’t throw your life away on a foolish gesture. Getting yourself killed is not going to keep your family safe.” Guillermo grabbed Mano’s hand. “Make a promise to an old man. Promise me you’ll think about this one more day before you leave.”

  “All right, viejo. I’ll think about it.”

  For the rest of the day, Mano wandered through the zone’s battle-ravaged streets, mulling over the old man’s words. He was aching with the need to act now. He wanted desperately to rescue his family. But in his heart, he knew Guillermo was right.

  Near dusk, he reached a decision. It was a long shot, but it was the only hope he had left.

  He would stay and fight—and he would make them pay.

  THE QUARANTINE AND

  RELOCATION ACT:

  Month 20, Day 14

  Cresting a small rise in the road, Jesús Lopez caught his first glimpse of the brightly lit gate of Outpost Bravo. The beam of his headlights and the harsh floodlights of the outpost were the only breaks in the darkness of the surrounding landscape. Only last year, this had been a bustling suburb of Los Angeles. Now it was a desolate area full of dark and empty houses.

  Approaching the garrison, Jesús eased the F-250 pickup close to the heavily fortified gate and rolled down the window. A corporal approached the vehicle, his M16 slung casually over his shoulder.

  From the pocket of his weathered chocolate-chip fatigues, Jesús produced an identification card and printed orders, wordlessly handing them to the guard. The photograph on the ID card identified Jesús’s ebony face as Private First Class Terrell Mayfield, a National Guard reservist. The orders directed Private Mayfield to report to Outpost Bravo for two weeks of active duty. To enhance the illusion, the truck’s doors were equipped with magnetic signs that read “Mayfield & Sons Construction Company.” The work-worn pickup looked authentic, with a tool compartment in the bed and a hydraulic winch on the front bumper.

  While the corporal examined the documents, a second guard approached the truck with a dog that sniffed the vehicle for explosives. As the soldier conducted his search, Jesús tried not to glance at the Glock-32 tucked inside the door—a last resort if his cover failed.

  The guard handed the papers back to Jesús with a sneer. An Army regular, the corporal disdained weekend warriors who came straggling in the night before their active-duty hitch was to begin.

  “Do you know where to park personal vehicles, Private?”

  Jesús nodded his head.

  “Proceed,” the guard said, opening the mechanized gate.

  Jesús drove inside slowly, passing the defensive emplacements that lined the entry to the outpost, and made his way toward the center of the garrison. On one side of the road stood a line of hastily built barracks. On the other side was a collection of buildings that had once been a school.

  After driving past the structures, Jesús spotted the landmark he had been looking for: the transmission tower. As Jo had promised, it was easy to spot; the entire height of the twenty-meter tower was illuminated by blinking lights. Jesús still found it amazing that the U.S. Army would make one of its vulnerable points so obvious. But Jo had explained that after a widely publicized helicopter crash several years earlier, Congress had mandated that all military transmission towers be lighted for safety.

  Jesús turned left toward the tower, winding through the camp’s central utility areas. In less than half a kilometer, he reached his destination: the camp’s military police command post. The garrison’s commander had laid out the camp by the book. Fortunately for the insurgents, “the book” was available online, a resource Jo continually used to their advantage.

  The MP command post was a windowless prefab structure housing the monitoring center for cameras that kept a constant vigil on the camp’s perimeter. Adjacent to the building stood the tower used to receive the signals from the surveillance cameras.

  In an overseas unit, the camp and its sentries would have been issued night-vision equipment. But the current commitment of forces on foreign missions—and the continuing fiscal crisis—left domestic units with less costly optical cameras. Although not at the cutting edge of military technology, the cameras, when supported by constant foot patrols, still provided formidable security for the camp.

  Jesús parked the truck across the road from the relay tower and looked at his watch. It was 10:07.

  He had two minutes to wait.

  Sitting in the truck, uncertain of his fate, he reflected on the strange twists in his life that had brought him to this place and time. His father, a man he did not remember, had been his driving force.

  As a child, Jesús had been reminded by his mother every day that his father, a colonel in the Panamanian Army, had given his life defending his country from foreign invaders in 1989. The invaders were from the United States.

  Like many of Manuel Noriega’s supporters, his mother fled the country following the invasion, taking refuge in Honduras with her three children. Raised in a squalid tenement in Trujillo, Jesús had grown up listening to his mother’s continual lament—their poverty was the result of the Yanquis’ arrogance. Jesús had learned to tune out his mother’s litany at an early age. His father’s glory was a relic of the past, of things long dead.

  When the opportunity arose for Jesús to come to the United States, he’d jumped at the chance. Yet when Jo Herrera recruited him to fight against the U.S. government, he had not hesitated. Some part of his mother’s hatred still lived on inside him—and it was now leading him to risk his life.

  At precisely 10:09, Jesús emerged from the truck. Unhurriedly, he unlocked the winch on the front of the truck and started across the road, extending the winch’s steel cable as he walked. Reaching the base of the receiving tower thirty meters away, he locked the cable hook as high as he could reach on the tower’s tubular steel structure and started back toward the truck.

  Near the road, the sound of an approaching vehicle made him startle in alarm. In a matter of seconds, the half-inch steel line lying across the pavement would be visible in the vehicle’s headlights. For an instant, he thought of running. Then, like a night breeze, a calm came over him.

  He began walking nonchalantly up the road toward the approaching vehicle. As the headlights of the Humvee washed over Jesús, he waved casually. The Humvee moved on without slowing. The distraction had worked. The soldiers in the vehicle had noticed nothing out of the ordinary.

  Jesús needed to move swiftly now. The encounter with the Humvee had consumed precious seconds. He walked quickly to his pickup, locked the winch, and entered the truck. Easing the vehic
le forward about ten meters, he put the truck in reverse and floored the gas pedal, bracing himself for a jolt.

  The force of the resistance took him by surprise, whipping the back of his head hard against the pickup’s rear window. Jesús felt something wet moving down his neck—blood. Fighting to remain conscious, he looked through the wind-shield at the tower. It was angled but still standing.

  Jesús drove the truck forward again, certain the MPs would emerge from the building at any second. Again he floored the truck in reverse. After a jolt of resistance, the tower collapsed in front of the truck, narrowly missing the hood. Jesús was relieved—but the danger was far from over.

  The door of the MP command post opened and a soldier stepped outside. Jesús could see the surprise in the soldier’s posture as he noticed the tower lying on the ground. The man instinctively reached for his sidepiece as his eyes followed the length of the tower leading toward the truck. Before the soldier could draw his weapon, Jesús leveled the Glock and fired three shots. The soldier clutched his chest and crumpled to the ground.

  Jesús glanced at his watch. It was 10:14. He was four minutes behind schedule with the signal.

  Moving to the rear of the truck, he opened the gas cap. Inside was a gasoline-soaked rag leading down into the fuel tank. He flipped back the top of his lighter, knowing that once the rag was lit, he would have less than five seconds to clear out. Before he could strike a spark, a pair of violent blows struck his left arm and hip, accompanied by the fire-cracker popping of a handgun.

  Knocked to the ground, Jesús rolled painfully under the truck and drew his pistol. Peering around the tire, he saw a series of bright muzzle flashes from the doorway of the command post and felt a searing pain in his left shoulder.

  Jesús knew there wasn’t much time left now. He was badly wounded and would be overrun at any second. For a moment, he was surprised by his emotions. He was not afraid. Instead, he felt a deep sadness that the plan had not worked out better. There was only one more thing he could do to salvage his mission.