America Libre (39 page)

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 their 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.

“Listen to me carefully,” Mano said calmly to the three young men, who were shaken but still composed. “We need to spread
out. Me entienden?” He tapped each of them on the chest and pointed in a different direction to reinforce his order.

“Sí… Yes, I understand,” Tavo said. The others nodded in agreement.

Mano took the loaded RPG from Tavo’s hands. “OK, now GO!” the big man said and gently shoved Tavo away. As the young men scattered,
Mano looked back toward the helicopters. They were closing fast. He knew his unit’s survival was a matter of luck now—and
the odds did not look good.