America Libre

by Raul Ramos y Sanchez

  He pointed the Glock toward the doorway and fired the rest of his clip in quick succession. The ten-round volley sent the figures in the doorway scurrying inside. He hoped that would buy him the seconds he needed.

  His left side paralyzed, Jesús crawled along the hard-packed soil and rose slowly to his knees near the gas tank. As he struck the lighter, he heard shots ringing out behind him. It didn’t matter now. His job was nearly done.

  Gracias, Señor, he said to his maker as a blue flicker raced up the rag, consuming it in flames.

  Captain Michael Fuller picked up the phone and speed-dialed the CO’s quarters.

  “Colonel Prentiss,” the gravelly voice on the line said.

  “Colonel, someone’s blown up a civilian truck near the MP command post and shots have been fired. Our perimeter camera array appears to be down.”

  “I heard the blast, Captain. It sounds like a terrorist attack. Alert the sentries to seal the camp. Who’s on active status?”

  “Charlie Platoon, sir.”

  “Have them converge on the site of the explosion and begin a sweep outward toward the camp perimeter. If we’ve got more Panchos inside the post, I want to clamp down on them before they get away.”

  “Begging the colonel’s pardon, sir. What if this explosion is a diversion? If we commit our only combat-ready troops to an internal sweep, we’re leaving the perimeter lightly defended to an attack from the outside—especially with the cameras down.”

  “I’ve been through terrorist attacks before, Fuller. You’re giving these people credit for using military strategy. They just want to hit us and run.”

  “Yes, sir. I’ll give the orders to Charlie Platoon.”

  Although Fuller was convinced it was a mistake, he could not bring himself to question the colonel’s orders any further. After all, the man had served in both Gulf Wars. Still, Fuller mused, if Colonel Prentiss had been a first-rate officer, he would have been commanding a unit overseas, not a dogshit domestic garrison. In any case, one objection to a superior’s orders was risky enough. Two in a row would be career suicide.

  As he relayed his CO’s orders, Fuller was certain the colonel was making a perennial military blunder—fighting today’s war with yesterday’s tactics.

  Hiding in a dry riverbed outside the perimeter of Outpost Bravo, Mano glanced at his watch. It read 10:08. The signal from Jesús was due in two minutes.

  He gestured for Angel and Tavo to remain prone and peered toward the corner of the camp’s fence, fifty meters away. After scouting the camp for days, Mano knew the sentries would reach the corner in a few seconds and begin walking away from them, leaving the area unguarded for four minutes.

  Mano would have never attempted this operation without the new Domestic Rules of Engagement the Army was being forced to employ. In an overseas garrison, the area surrounding the camp would have been lined with mines and sometimes even motion-triggered weapons. But Congress had forbidden these types of unattended defenses stateside to reduce the risk to civilians.

  It was now 10:09 and Mano waited calmly. Angel and Tavo seemed relaxed as well. The vatos were proving to be cool under fire, most likely a result of their criminal past. At least now they’re helping their people instead of stealing from them, he mused.

  Mano’s watch finally reached 10:10—the time for the signal from Jesús. As the seconds passed, Mano’s expression began to betray his anxiety. The delay was not a good sign. The explosion of the truck would let him know Jesús had knocked out the cameras and would also create a distraction to buy them some time.

  At first, Mano had been concerned about using Jesús to infiltrate the outpost. His thick Spanish accent would be easy to detect during any extended conversation. Ironically, Ramon and Jo had coached Jesús in the speech and slang of African-Americans. Hearing Jesús repeatedly pronounce “y’all” as “ju-oll” had provided a few lighthearted moments. But Mano had never doubted Jesús’s courage and determination. If there was a way to get the job done, he knew Jesús would find it.

  At 10:14, Mano saw a dim orange flash in the sky, followed by the dull boom of a distant explosion. The signal was four minutes late. The sentries would be back any second.

  “We have to change our plans… entienden?” Mano said slowly to Angel and Tavo.

  “Yes,” Angel said. Tavo nodded in agreement.

  “You two cut through there and continue with the original plan,” Mano said, pointing toward the fence directly in front of them. “I’m going after the sentries.”

  Angel and Tavo again nodded their heads, grasping his change in plans.

  Mano drew his pistol and moved in the direction of the sentries, staying outside the glare of the lights along the fence. He knew his only advantage against the guards would be the element of surprise. He was outgunned—and he had no cover.

  After jogging less than a minute, Mano made out the shapes of the guards in the distance. To his surprise, they were not moving toward him but facing the center of the outpost instead.

  Mano stood for a moment, dumbfounded by his luck. The diversion had worked better than he could have hoped. The soldiers seemed to be overreacting to the explosion within their camp, leaving the perimeter of the outpost undefended.

  Returning to the corner of the fence, Mano was shocked to find the chain-link barrier intact and the vatos nowhere in sight. Had they turned tail? Then he looked at the fence more closely. The links had been snipped with almost surgical precision and returned to their original positions. Mano parted the fence, slipped inside, and placed the links in their original alignment as Angel and Tavo had done. After sprinting two hundred meters into the camp, he arrived at their target—the garrison’s motor pool.

  Angel and Tavo were already in position, crouching beside two of the motor pool’s fuel tanks. Mano ran to the third fuel tank, pulled a wrench from his fatigues, and loosened the main drainage valve. Seconds later, six thousand gallons of high-octane gasoline began spilling on the ground.

  Mano then rose, made eye contact with the vatos, and pumped his fist twice—the signal to ignite the fuel. He retreated from the gushing valve and produced a disposable lighter. Striking a spark, he locked the flame and tossed the lighter in a high arc toward the fast-growing puddle. Before the lighter had reached the ground, he began a mad dash away.

  Mano knew the fuel on the ground would burn but not explode—otherwise, none of them would survive. Only after the flow of fuel through the valves was low enough to allow air to enter the tanks would the compressed fuel inside ignite and trigger an explosion. Those fifteen to twenty seconds would give them enough time to escape.

  Mano, Angel, and Tavo had nearly reached the fence when the first tank exploded. The flash of the fireball was so bright Mano saw his shadow appear beneath the glare. The three men dropped to the ground as the heat of the blast wave singed their backs and the earth below them trembled. The other two explosions followed seconds later.

  “Vamos! Vamos!” Mano said, helping Angel and Tavo off the ground as the blasts faded. Their location had just been advertised to every soldier in the outpost.

  While pulling back the fence for the vatos, Mano saw a soldier stunned by the explosions stagger near them, his helmet and weapon missing, blood seeping from his nose and ears.

  Angel had also spotted the soldier, and in a seamless motion he drew his pistol and took aim. Before Angel could fire, Mano slapped away his gun.

  “He is enemy!” Angel screamed angrily. “Estos cabrones mataron a tu hija!”

  Mano understood Angel’s words: These bastards killed your daughter.

  Mano looked calmly into Angel’s livid face. “I’ll avenge my daughter with honor, Angel,” he said, pointing toward the helpless soldier. “There’s no honor in this man’s death.”

  Forty minutes later, the three reached a vacant bungalow where Jo had stocked provisions for them. The inconspicuous home would be their haven for the next few days.

  As Mano settled into his sleeping bag,
he looked south through the window. On the horizon was the glow of three fires blazing in the night sky. These are the candles I’ve lit in your memory, mi hijita, Mano thought. I hope you can see them where you are.

  The fires were still burning at dawn.

  THE QUARANTINE AND

  RELOCATION ACT:

  Month 21, Day 2

  Jo extended the antenna to its full length, trying to clear the static on the portable shortwave radio on her kitchen table. “I don’t get it. We usually pick up the Canadian BBC feed without a problem.” Seated with her at the table, Mano and Ramon leaned closer to the radio, trying to make out a broadcast amid the hissing and crackles.

  Ramon scratched his head. “Any chance the baldies could be jamming that frequency, Mano?”

  “It’s possible, although it may not be intentional. In Afghanistan, the Army issued signal jammers for some of its vehicles—but it was to block the triggers on remote-controlled IEDs. The Army hasn’t brought much of its RF equipment stateside, though.”

  Ramon’s eyebrows rose. “Curious that we’re picking up this static all of a sudden, no?”

  “If the Army’s started using RF jammers, it could work in our favor. We’ll know they’re around a lot sooner.”

  Jo tilted the antenna almost horizontally to the right. “There we go!” she said as a voice with a posh accent broke through the static.

  “Can you turn it up?” Ramon asked, leaning forward. “I can barely hear it.”

  Jo twirled the dial. “That’s as loud as it will go.”

  “I’ve got an idea that might boost the signal,” Mano said. “Jo, have you got any tinfoil?”

  Ramon laughed. “Oh, you’re in big trouble, amigo. Jo thinks tinfoil is an ecological abomination.”

  “It’s a trick we used to use as kids to watch the low-def channels,” Mano explained.

  “Well,” Jo said sheepishly. “If it’s for the cause… it so happens I’ve saved some scraps,” she said, reaching into a drawer. Jo handed Mano the foil and he attached a series of strips to the antenna.

  “Much better, Mano!” Ramon called out. “Even I can hear it now. These old ears of mine—”

  “Hush,” Jo said. “I think the news has almost started.”

  As the announcer finished the station ID and began the promos for the afternoon programs, Jo handed glasses of merlot to Ramon and Mano. This small indulgence had become part of a daily ritual begun nearly a week ago as they listened for the payoff to Ramon’s behind-the-scenes political maneuvers. It was an experience they all clearly relished, although none of them would have admitted it.

  After a story about the most recent divorce in the royal family, the news they’d been waiting to hear finally aired.

  Almost three years after the Rio Grande Incident in San Antonio touched off a wave of riots across the American Southwest, the recognition of a rebel provisional government is being considered within the borders of the United States.

  Today, only four months after the release of the rebels’ Santiago Declaration, Venezuela has filed a motion at the United Nations that has stunned the USA and much of the world.

  The measure calls for two delegates from the Hispanic Republic of North America to be granted observer status in the U.N. General Assembly. The Venezuelan motion claims the Hispanic Republic should be recognized as legitimate representatives of a stateless people similar to the non-voting status granted to U.N. representatives from the Palestinian Liberation Organization in 1974. Word among U.N. insiders is that the resolution is gaining considerable support.

  In a statement released by the White House press office, President Carleton Brenner vowed that if the Venezuelan motion comes to a vote, the U.S. will permanently withdraw from the United Nations.

  This is Nigel Blake, BBC News, New York.

  Ramon tipped his glass toward Jo and Mano in a toast. “Salud, my friends,” he said, his eyes growing misty. “I only wish this was champagne.”

  Jo touched each of their glasses with her own. “Nothing could taste any sweeter,” she said, draining the rest of her wine.

  THE QUARANTINE AND

  RELOCATION ACT:

  Month 21, Day 5

  There are many who will abandon the struggle during moments of difficulty. There will be many more who will join the revolution when it appears it will succeed.

  —José Antonio Marcha, 1987

  Translated by J. M. Herrera

  Nesto crossed the street as he neared the Whittier Boulevard checkpoint. He wanted to put some distance between himself and the dicey situation around the North Gate.

  A platoon of edgy troops was guarding four U.S. Army six-by-six trucks idling along one side of the boulevard just inside the entrance. The soldiers were swiveling their heads nervously, clutching the trigger guards on their M16s. Reservists, Nesto thought with disdain. A few weeks ago, these pendejos were pushing paper. Now they’re inside the big, bad QZ and scared shitless. If one of these trucks backfires, they might open up on anything that moves.

  Behind the soldiers, volunteers from La Defensa del Pueblo wearing sky blue armbands were hurriedly unloading burlap bags of cornmeal from the open-bed Army trucks into a motley collection of pickups, vans, and sedans. Those chumps at the DDP are throwing away a sweet opportunity, Nesto mused. The U.S. government was providing the grain absolutely free and a smart operator could make some serious money distributing it. Nesto planned to get a piece of that action—very soon.

  He continued east for several blocks, finally reaching a small house on Maple with four Verdugos hanging out on the porch.

  A year ago, this encounter would have ended in violence. In fact, a year ago, he wouldn’t have been in this barrio unless he had five of his own vatos with him, all heavily armed. But things had changed. It had started as a truce between the gangs and grown into something approaching mutual respect. Nesto never dreamed something like this could ever happen.

  A smart player knows when to fold, Nesto reminded himself as he walked toward the house. He’d played the DDP card long enough and made a pile of cash. The money he’d collected from Ramon, plus the monthly fee from the CIA, had been very sweet. But Ramon and his bunch had brought the heat down on all of them when they went public with their Santiago Declaration. The idiots. Now the Agency was breathing down his neck. It was too dangerous to play this game anymore—especially since they’d passed the Terrorist Arraignment Act. There was no way he was going to risk a death sentence. The time had come to cash in his chips. Ramon’s call for a meeting had been a real stroke of luck.

  Although they appeared nonchalant, the vatos on the porch had been watching him closely. Los Verdugos, the palace guards for the DDP, were one of the most serious obstacles in what he was about to do.

  “Y que, ese,” Nesto said as he approached them.

  “Y que,” they responded, clearly expecting him.

  Nesto walked onto the porch and one of the vatos gestured for him to lift his hands in the air. Nesto knew the drill. Being frisked for weapons and monitoring devices had become a familiar routine.

  Each time Nesto had met with the leaders of La Defensa del Pueblo since he’d revealed his connection to the CIA, the procedure had been the same. They would send a message telling him where to show up. Once he arrived at the location, he would be met by DDP guards, patted down, and then escorted to Mano and Ramon, who were always somewhere else. A couple of the guards would remain at the original location to watch for anyone tailing Nesto. It was a security procedure Nesto knew would not be easy to defeat.

  Led by two Verdugos, Nesto arrived ten minutes later at a second-floor apartment in a grungy two-story building. Ramon and Mano were already seated on two threadbare chairs in the one-room layout as he ambled into the room with his escorts.

  Nesto glanced disdainfully around the seedy apartment and dropped onto a stained velvet couch. “Hey, you guys are movin’ up in the world, ese,” he said, smirking.

  “I’m so glad you could join us,”
Ramon replied dryly.

  “It’s been a while, man. It’s been a while. You haven’t called me in nearly six months. You dudes seem to be pulling off a lot of jobs without my help these days. I seen the news of the attack on the Army camp last month. Was that you?”

  Mano glared at Nesto. “Who wants to know?”

  “Hey, ese, don’t go accusing me of anything, OK?”

  “I’ve never trusted you, Nesto,” Mano said, his eyes locked on the mero. “I think you’ll sell us out the day you think you’ve got a better deal.”

  Bluffing, Nesto rose to his feet. “That’s bullshit, man. If you don’t trust me, then I’m outta here.”

  “Nesto… Nesto… please forgive Mano,” Ramon said. “He’s only speaking his mind. But you must admit, amigo, your curiosity is a little suspicious.”

  Nesto dropped back onto the couch. “OK, man. Forget it. I was just going to stroke you dudes on pulling off some of these jobs without any real weapons.”

  “Weapons are what we’re here to talk about. So let’s get to it,” Mano said.

  “OK, ese. What do you need?”

  “Two dozen AK-47s, twelve RPGs, and fifty pounds of Semtex.”

  Nesto’s mouth gaped. “Are you shitting me?”

  “We won’t need your services this time, Nesto,” Mano said. “Just the weapons.”

  As the shock subsided, images of money began churning in Nesto’s head. This could be a really big score. If he played his cards right, he could get one final, monster payday before he dropped the dime on the DDP. “That’s a lot of weapons, ese,” he said, trying to mask his excitement. “How soon will you need them?”

  “We need to have everything in our hands by the first week of May.”

  Nesto sucked in his breath. “Four weeks… That’s not much time for all that material, man. I’m going to have to check this out. But I’m guessing it’s going to be steep—at least a hundred thousand, all up front.”