America Libre

by Raul Ramos y Sanchez

  “Seventy-five thousand,” Ramon said. “and you’ll get half in advance as we’ve always arranged it.”

  “It’s not going to happen, ese. You’re not going to get that much material into the zone without some serious cash up front. I’ve got to grease a lot of palms, man.”

  Ramon shrugged his shoulders. “As you observed, Nesto, we haven’t needed your services for nearly a year. So it’s up to you. That’s our offer.”

  Nesto rubbed his chin, trying to appear reluctant. “OK, man. I’ll set it up. But I’m going to need the cash right away.”

  Ramon picked up a backpack next to his chair and tossed it into Nesto’s lap. “Count it.”

  Nesto unzipped the bag and saw the bundles of small bills inside. “No need, man. You’ve never shorted me before. I doubt you’re going to start now.”

  Leaving the dingy apartment with his escorts, Nesto was secretly exultant. He was about to save his skin with the CIA—and still score his biggest payday yet. All he had to do was play this right.

  After returning to his barrio, he dialed the number for Bill Perkins at the CIA.

  “Something big is going down in May, man,” the mero of El Farol said into his baby blue vu-phone.

  “Yes, Carol. I think we can trust our mole on this one,” Evans said into his PC.

  Looking at the glaring face of Carol Phelps on his computer monitor, Evans could tell his boss was unconvinced. “A report about a Pancho national offensive will have to go all the way to the White House, Hank. I don’t have to tell you the consequences of getting this wrong.”

  Evans swallowed hard. “Yes, I know,” he said cautiously. “But this can’t be a trap. All our mole told us was about a big weapons buy, not a specific location. The rebels have nothing to gain by having us ready.”

  “The Panchos are not the only military threat we’re facing. If we load up at home, we’re going to be weaker somewhere else.”

  “I don’t get it, Carol. You told me to put the squeeze on our mole and now you’re balking because we came up with something big?”

  Phelps stared at Evans coldly from the screen. “All right, Hank. I’m going to send this upstairs,” she said icily. “But let me assure you… if this goes wrong, I will have your balls parboiled.”

  Two days later, preparations for a nationwide insurgent assault began. Military units throughout the Southwest were placed on DefCon 2, the highest state of alert short of war. The equipment of many homeland units was upgraded and reservists due for discharge were retained for another two-month stint. In addition, orders were issued for several elite units to be quietly shipped stateside, including the fearsome Delta Force, cleared for domestic operations for the first time since the 1987 riots at Atlanta’s federal prison. As a final precaution, military reconnaissance satellites were temporarily diverted to domestic surveillance.

  After months of being caught off guard, the U.S. intelligence community had finally produced a break. If a widespread attack was coming, the U.S. military would be ready.

  THE QUARANTINE AND

  RELOCATION ACT:

  Month 21, Day 29

  All right. This is far enough. It’s time for you two to go home,” Ramon said to Jo and Mano as the three of them approached the hidden entrance to the tunnel. “You can’t go all the way to Switzerland with me.”

  Groping in the moonlight, Mano found the entryway’s concealed handle and lifted the camouflaged trap door. A handmade ladder led into the pitch-black below.

  Jo leaned forward and kissed Ramon’s forehead. “Adios, Ramon,” she said, wiping her eyes. “Travel safe, hermano.”

  “Thanks, Josefina. I’ll be fine,” Ramon answered, patting her cheek. “Give ’em hell on Marcha’s birthday.”

  Mano extended his palm toward Ramon. “Try not to freeze, old man,” he said, trying to keep his emotions in check.

  Instead of shaking his hand, Ramon spread his arms. “Don’t be such a gabacho,” he said, stepping forward and hugging his friend.

  Mano felt his throat tighten as he gently clapped Ramon’s bony back. “Vaya con Dios,” he said softly.

  Ramon stepped back and laughed. “Speaking Spanish? My God, Mano. You are taking this seriously. This is a farewell, hombre, not a funeral.”

  “Watch yourself near the border,” Jo cautioned. “The patrols have increased lately.”

  Ramon winked as he adjusted the straps on his backpack. “The baldie hasn’t been born that can catch this old gray fox,” he said before climbing down the ladder.

  Mano watched Ramon turn on his flashlight and disappear into the tunnel’s darkness. If all went well, Ramon would reach Geneva in a few days. There, he would join Octavio Perez on a historic mission.

  Three days earlier, the United Nations had passed Venezuela’s resolution. Two representatives from the Hispanic Republic of North America would be granted non-voting seats in the U.N. General Assembly. Only the United States had voted against the move. Great Britain and Israel had abstained.

  True to his word, President Brenner recalled the U.S. representatives to the United Nations the same day. In Washington, the White House began lobbying Congress for passage of the latest resolution by Congressman Melvin Bates calling for a full U.S. withdrawal from the United Nations and the expulsion of the U.N. from American soil. Anticipating the move, the U.N. announced it would be moving its international headquarters to Geneva.

  Following the United States’ withdrawal, U.N. secretary-general Balraj Mehra addressed the General Assembly from its complex on the banks of the East River in New York for the last time. In the speech, Mehra denounced the United States as a rogue nation behaving outside established international law—law, Mehra pointed out, the U.S. itself had helped create as a founding member of the United Nations.

  At that moment, the globe’s power structure began dividing into two hostile blocs. In one camp was the U.S., the planet’s last remaining superpower—and in the other, virtually the rest of the world.

  Between the two lay the powder keg of the Marcha Offensive.

  THE MARCHA

  OFFENSIVE

  THE MARCHA OFFENSIVE:

  Day 1

  Nesto followed the two burly Verdugos through the doorway of the abandoned Holiday Inn and found Jo in the litter-strewn lobby. “What the hell is going on, chica?” he said to her. “Your boys here got me out of bed at seven on a Sunday morning. This better be important, goddammit.”

  Before Jo could answer, the two young vatos closed to within inches of Nesto’s face, glaring at him menacingly. Although Rafael and Enrique spoke little English, Nesto’s tone of disrespect toward one of their leaders did not sit well with them.

  “What’s the matter, Nesto?” Jo said. “Are you worried you’ll miss Sunday Mass?”

  Nesto’s indignation quickly cooled under the stares of the beefy guards. “OK, OK… What are we doing in this low-rent joint anyway?”

  “Follow me,” Jo said, leading Nesto and his escorts through a series of doors into the kitchen of the empty hotel.

  The long steel counters, once used for food preparation, were now covered with a hodgepodge of electronic devices. On the left counter were four laptops, three fax machines, and a switchboard-style desk phone. Along the right counter, a bank of high-def plasma sets was tuned to the major networks and CNN. Behind the devices, a tangle of wires led to a gas-powered electrical generator, which operated near the empty pool in the facility’s central courtyard.

  “You trying to start some kinda pawn shop or something?” Nesto said, glancing at the mostly outdated equipment.

  “We may need you for some information today, Nesto. We’ve got a nice comfy seat for you over there,” she said, gesturing toward a collection of metal folding chairs in a corner of the kitchen.

  Nesto scanned the room again. “I get it,” he said. “Today is the big day.”

  Jo was not surprised by the mero’s deduction. Nesto had become a leader by using his wits and cunning to best much bigg
er men.

  As Nesto sauntered toward the chairs, Rafael and Enrique in tow, Jo was grateful once again to Mano for the foresight to bring Nesto here. The mero’s exposure to the workings of the CIA might prove useful today. But more important, they had Nesto where they could keep an eye on him. On the loose, his knowledge might prove disastrous during the offensive.

  Mano’s principles had shaped the choice of targets for today’s offensive: they would attack only unmanned facilities and military garrisons. Mano had insisted they minimize the risk to civilians. His ideals were not abstract political concepts. They were based on common decency and compassion. His unerring moral compass had made Jo face up to the ruthlessness of her own zeal.

  She hoped the surprise she’d arranged for Mano today would help atone for her past failings. It had eaten up a great deal of her remaining wealth. But Mano’s homecoming tonight would be one he would remember for the rest of his life. A pang of sorrow pierced Jo as she realized she could never be a part of that life.

  You haven’t got the time for sorrow—or guilt—right now, she told herself. There was work to be done. By force of will, she turned her attention to the array of machines along the counter in front of her. A flurry of readiness reports was coming in from their teams across the country.

  Nesto was trying hard to mask his glee. In an incredible piece of luck for him, Jo had brought him to the control center of their operations on the day of their big offensive. Taking them out was going to be easier than he imagined. The first thing he needed to do was to send out the signal. To do that, he would need to distract the two vatos guarding him.

  “Oye, ese, you guys got some cards we can play or something?” Nesto said to the young guard on his left.

  When the vatos ignored his question, Nesto shrugged and rolled his eyes. Sighing heavily, he tilted his head back and let it roll lazily from side to side. As the minutes passed, he restlessly folded and unfolded his arms, crossed and uncrossed his legs. The two young vatos assigned to guard him assumed Nesto was bored and distracted—precisely the impression the mero sought.

  Nesto wanted to accustom the guards to his fidgeting. It would make it easier for him to send the signal. As he continued his impatient squirming, the guards began to take less notice of his gestures, eventually turning away from him to convey their disdain. Certain that his random gestures would not draw undue attention, Nesto casually clicked his heels together three times.

  The beacon signal had been sent. He had activated the transponders embedded in the heels of his Nike hightops. Some pretty devious fuckers down there at the CIA. Just like in The Wizard of Oz. Nesto chuckled to himself.

  In the outskirts of Geneva, two aging radicals huddled around a high-end laptop, anxiously awaiting the reports from Jo on the progress of the offensive.

  Ramon Garcia and Octavio Perez had rushed back to their modest chalet after an early dinner with two delegates from Argentina. The U.N. representatives of the Hispanic Republic of North America had spent another long day lobbying members of the General Assembly. Soon after their arrival in Switzerland, the two newly minted statesmen had discovered many nations eager to settle old scores with the United States—and the existence of the HRNA gave them an exceptional opportunity. Ramon and Octavio were exploiting this advantage to reach their immediate goal: full recognition by the U.N.

  If they could negotiate a voting seat in the General Assembly and be recognized as a sovereign nation, many new doors would open to the Hispanic Republic. Legitimacy, economic support, even military aid might all be possible. They were poised to take a giant leap forward. But much of it hinged on the outcome of the Marcha Offensive.

  From the backyard of a vacant mansion near the crest of a steep hill, Mano trained his binoculars on Outpost Bravo four hundred meters away in the flat valley below. It was Sunday morning and the camp looked peaceful. Except for the guards leaning casually against the sandbags at the main gate, there was no movement at the outpost. Mano glanced at his watch. It was 8:59. In one minute, the calm would come to a sudden end.

  Beside Mano was Tavo Galvan, looking over the sights of his RPG at the outpost below, waiting eagerly for Mano’s order to fire.

  All four RPG teams under Mano’s command had their rockets trained on the collection of camo-painted military vehicles parked near the perimeter of the camp. Mano had targeted the camp’s Humvees and six-by-sixes for two reasons. First, the vehicles would be relatively easy to destroy. And second, taking them out would hamper the soldiers’ ability to pursue them. By the time the active-duty platoon mounted up and rolled out after them, Mano hoped he and his men would be well on their way to their safehouse less than three kilometers away.

  To prevent the camp’s defenders from locating them by their rockets’ smoke trails, Mano’s teams would fire once and then move a hundred meters laterally along the slope for their final volley.

  Mano looked left and waved. About two hundred meters away, Simon Potts waved back, indicating he was ready to begin videotaping.

  Looking right, Mano made eye contact with the other RPG teams and lifted his hand in the air like a kicker about to start a football game. The other team leaders responded with the same gesture. They were ready.

  Mano checked the time again. It was exactly 9:00. The big man tapped the “send” key on his RF radio twice, transmitting a coded message to Jo’s command center: “The attack is on.”

  He then slashed downward with his hand.

  The deep, raspy hiss of four rockets pierced the morning stillness, their bluish-white trails curving like four claws reaching toward the outpost in the valley below.

  Hank Evans raised his head abruptly when he heard the explosions and looked around the room trying to get his bearings. He’d been asleep at his desk, his head resting on his arms.

  Saturday had turned into another all-night work session at the office. Since they’d received the warning of the coming insurgent attack, his team had been engaged in feverish, round-the-clock preparations.

  Evans glanced at his watch. It was 9:01. Is the attack finally here? he asked himself as the fogginess in his head cleared. He stood unsteadily and was staggering toward the windows when Bill Perkins rushed into his office.

  “I just heard from Captain Fuller! Pancho’s attacking the outpost! I think this is it, Hank.”

  Evans’s eyes widened. “They’re hitting a military target—in broad daylight?” he said. “They’ve been a lot smarter in the past.”

  “We haven’t got time to figure this out now. C’mon, let’s get out of here!” Perkins shouted, running for the door.

  Evans followed Perkins down the dank hallway toward the bunker they’d prepared in the maintenance room at the center of the former school. Nearing the bunker, Hank heard another round of explosions. These sounded different, a series of low crumps that came in waves a few seconds apart and seemed much farther away than the first blasts. Evans realized it was return fire from the outpost. Inside the bunker, he heard the thumping of helicopters passing overhead.

  Hank felt a thrill of satisfaction. His office had alerted the military. As a result, they were ready, and Pancho was finally going to pay the price.

  Mano and Tavo were running toward their next firing position when the big man heard three low thuds coming from the outpost, followed by a chorus of shrill whines. Mano instantly recognized the sounds he’d last heard in Afghanistan—incoming mortars.

  He grabbed Tavo by the shirt, pulling him to the ground as the big man threw himself on his belly. “Get down!” he yelled to the six men behind him. “Abajo!” he screamed in Spanish, not sure if he was using the right word.

  The two Verdugos closest to Mano instantly dropped to the ground. The four farther behind them were not as fortunate. They stopped running and stood in confusion. Their hesitation proved lethal.

  The first mortar shell struck fifteen meters behind Mano and Tavo, hurling a mix of dirt and searing metal in a deadly fountain that sprayed into the air above th
eir prone bodies, leaving them unhurt. The next shell arrived a second later and landed directly in front of the men of the third team, who were still on their feet. The two men were hurled backward by the blast, their bodies shredded by shrapnel. The third shell hit the last team directly, killing them instantly.

  Mano knew they had only seconds before the next volley.

  He jumped to his feet, pulling Tavo with him and gesturing to the others. “Run!” he yelled, pointing toward the crest of the hill some fifty meters away. “Vamos! Rapido!” As he followed behind the three survivors of his command, he kept his ears peeled for the sound of more incoming rounds. They’d run about twenty strides when Mano again heard the dreaded thuds and whines.

  Mano hurled his huge body at the three smaller men running up the steep slope in front of him and managed to tackle them all in a single lunge. “Get down!” he yelled needlessly. Seconds later, the next volley of mortar shells began exploding on the slope behind them. The four men pressed themselves into the ground, feeling it tremble under their bellies. The shrapnel from one of the rounds tore through the tops of the trees above, raining small branches and leaves on them.

  When the second volley ended, Mano was relieved to see no one was injured. The mortar gunners had zeroed in on the same position again. But there was a good chance he and his men would get out alive if they could get over the crest of the hill.

  Then he heard a new sound rising from the valley below them, a distant, rhythmic thumping. He looked back and saw the angry-hornet profiles of two Comanche attack helicopters streaking toward them.

  The big man now knew there was only one way any of them would survive. They needed to disperse. Huddled together, all four could be wiped out with a single missile from the Comanche.