America Libre (36 page)

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.

C
resting 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 vehicle 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.

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.