America Libre (29 page)

“Second, and even more important, it is evident that the terrorists have compromised your security sphere. They have repeatedly
anticipated the movement of our forces in your area and have not only attacked us but have shown the audacity to videotape
their attacks and distribute the footage.”

After a pause, Phelps took a more conciliatory tone. “I know that terrorist attacks like these have been taking place in all
the Quarantine Zones, Hank. The big difference is that in your area, they’re being documented and released to the public.”
Phelps massaged her temples. “Look, in the big scheme of things, this is really penny-ante stuff. We both know we’ve got truly
serious military challenges overseas right now. But the administration’s ass is being roasted royally by Congress and the
media on this domestic bullshit. I have no choice but to pass on the heat to you.”

Evans gripped the edge of his desk, trying to contain his anger. Phelps was a Brenner appointee with no real intel experience.
“These are the kind of repercussions we have to expect when we squander intelligence assets for political purposes, ma’am,”
he said.

“You’ve made no secret of your opposition to the relocation of Hispanics in the intelligence community, Hank. We can’t turn
back the clock. We have to move on. I understand you have a mole within one suspicious local group… they’re called La Defensa
del Pueblo, I believe.”

Evans was startled. The assistant director was renowned for her network of informers. He was learning firsthand that her reputation
was well deserved.

“Yes… but, frankly, Carol, our mole has been no help so far.”

“Have you considered that perhaps your mole has been helping the terrorists?”

“We’re not sure the DDP is behind any type of violent activity,” Evans said, nervously rubbing his jowls. “In fact, they’re
helping the Army distribute food and medical supplies inside the zones. Their leaders are a couple of dilettantes. Neither
one is really the violent type.”

“Well, somebody there is sure knocking the hell out of our people… and it’s up to you to find out who it is,” Phelps said
with a cold glare. “I’m giving you fair warning, Hank. If you don’t come up with the ringleaders of these terrorists—and I
mean soon—you can start considering what you’d like your next career to be.”

The assistant director of the CIA then abruptly logged off, leaving Hank Evans staring in frustration at the CIA logo on his
computer screen.

“ ‘All warfare is based on deception,’ ” Mano read aloud from the worn clothbound book. “ ‘When we are near, we must make
the enemy believe we are far away. When far away, we must make him believe we are near.’ ” Mano’s eyes rose from the book.
“Ramon, this man really understood our kind of fight.”

“What’s remarkable about Sun Tzu is that he wrote those words more than two thousand years ago, Mano.
The Art of War
has inspired leaders all over the world ever since.”

The two men were seated in Ramon’s library, a small climate-controlled haven for two thousand or so of Ramon’s favorite books
hidden away in the meat locker of an abandoned restaurant. This indulgence to Ramon’s passion for literature had been a birthday
gift from Jo, who’d appointed the room with two cozy leather chairs, a mahogany side table, and a brass reading lamp.

Mano gently stroked the yellowed pages. “I never knew books like this existed.”

“That’s not too surprising.” Ramon laughed. “This is probably the first time in your life you’ve had time to read.”

It was true. Without the company of his family, Mano found himself with time to kill during the lulls between their forays—and
reading was a way to dull the loneliness.

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.’ ”

A
nother 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 many 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.”