America Libre (37 page)

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.

J
o 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.

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

N
esto 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.