America Libre
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are
used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Copyright © 2009 by Raul Ramos y Sanchez
All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced,
distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written
permission of the publisher.
Grand Central Publishing
Hachette Book Group 237
Park Avenue
New York, NY 10017
Visit our website at
www.HachetteBookGroup.com.
www.twitter.com/grandcentralpub
First eBook Edition: July 2009
Grand Central Publishing is a division of Hachette Book Group, Inc. The Grand Central Publishing name and logo is a trademark
of Hachette Book Group, Inc.
ISBN: 978-0-446-55147-2
Contents
THE RIO GRANDE INCIDENT: DAY 1
THE RIO GRANDE INCIDENT: DAY 12
THE RIO GRANDE INCIDENT: MONTH 2, DAY 4
THE RIO GRANDE INCIDENT: MONTH 2, DAY 5
THE RIO GRANDE INCIDENT: MONTH 2, DAY 7
THE RIO GRANDE INCIDENT: MONTH 2, DAY 10
THE RIO GRANDE INCIDENT: MONTH 2, DAY 22
THE RIO GRANDE INCIDENT: MONTH 2, DAY 25
THE RIO GRANDE INCIDENT: MONTH 2, DAY 29
THE RIO GRANDE INCIDENT: MONTH 4, DAY 3
THE RIO GRANDE INCIDENT: MONTH 4, DAY 11
THE RIO GRANDE INCIDENT: MONTH 5, DAY 12
THE RIO GRANDE INCIDENT: MONTH 6, DAY 3
THE RIO GRANDE INCIDENT: MONTH 6, DAY 5
THE RIO GRANDE INCIDENT: MONTH 6, DAY 9
THE RIO GRANDE INCIDENT: MONTH 9
THE RIO GRANDE INCIDENT: MONTH 11, DAY 4
THE RIO GRANDE INCIDENT: MONTH 11, DAY 8
THE RIO GRANDE INCIDENT: MONTH 12, DAY 17
THE RIO GRANDE INCIDENT: MONTH 12, DAY 29
THE QUARANTINE AND RELOCATION ACT
THE QUARANTINE AND RELOCATION ACT: DAY 1
THE QUARANTINE AND RELOCATION ACT: MONTH 2, DAY 2
THE QUARANTINE AND RELOCATION ACT: MONTH 4, DAY 11
THE QUARANTINE AND RELOCATION ACT: MONTH 4, DAY 12
THE QUARANTINE AND RELOCATION ACT: MONTH 8, DAY 6
THE QUARANTINE AND RELOCATION ACT: MONTH 9, DAY 2
THE QUARANTINE AND RELOCATION ACT: MONTH 13
THE QUARANTINE AND RELOCATION ACT: MONTH 13, DAY 3
THE QUARANTINE AND RELOCATION ACT: MONTH 13, DAY 5
THE QUARANTINE AND RELOCATION ACT: MONTH 15
THE QUARANTINE AND RELOCATION ACT: MONTH 16, DAY 7
THE QUARANTINE AND RELOCATION ACT: MONTH 16, DAY 28
THE QUARANTINE AND RELOCATION ACT: MONTH 17, DAY 4
THE QUARANTINE AND RELOCATION ACT: MONTH 17, DAY 14
THE QUARANTINE AND RELOCATION ACT: MONTH 18, DAY 5
THE QUARANTINE AND RELOCATION ACT: MONTH 19, DAY 5
THE QUARANTINE AND RELOCATION ACT: MONTH 19, DAY 11
THE QUARANTINE AND RELOCATION ACT: MONTH 20, DAY 14
THE QUARANTINE AND RELOCATION ACT: MONTH 21, DAY 2
THE QUARANTINE AND RELOCATION ACT: MONTH 21, DAY 5
THE QUARANTINE AND RELOCATION ACT: MONTH 21, DAY 29
“An engaging, fast-moving story of love, intrigue, and personal and ethnic conflict, wrapped in rich, thought-provoking political
and cultural commentary.”
—Richard W. Slatta, PhD, professor of Latin American
history, North Carolina State University
“Thematically similar to T. C. Boyle’s enormously popular
The Tortilla Curtain
, Ramos’s AMERICA LIBRE is a story of what we all struggle with when we decide where we stand on the issue of immigration.”
—Professor Edward J. Mulens, University of
Missouri-Columbia
“A window into the despair, brought about by racism, faced by many of our Hispanic neighbors.”
—Miguel De La Torre, PhD, director of the Justice
and Peace Institute, Iliff School of Theology
“In such explosive times as ours, it is rare to discover a novel that captures fanaticism in all its extremes and tells a
story as thrilling and vibrant as AMERICA LIBRE. Future and history collide in a cautionary tale of a new Civil War on American
soil. A must-read for all, no matter where you draw your line in the sand.”
—James Rollins,
New York Times
bestselling
author of
The Last Oracle
To Kathy, Ronda, Omaida, and David
Every author’s work is an unpaid debt. We borrow ideas, time, information, even love, in quantities we can never repay. Let
this page serve as an accounting of the debits of appreciation accrued in the making of this book.
I owe my agent, Sally van Haitsma, for her faith, patience, and unflagging determination.
I owe my partners and siblings, Ronda and David, who take care of business at BRC Marketing while I cavort with the muses.
I owe my editor at Grand Central Publishing, Selina McLemore, for the trust she placed in my work and her sage editing of
the GCP edition. GCP’s Latoya Smith has been a pleasure to work with as well.
I owe Dr. Miguel De La Torre and Dr. Edward Mullen for their time and generosity in reviewing this work.
I owe James Adams, Barbara Estes, and Jason Johnson for their help in research. I also owe the scholastic work and counsel
of Dr. Oscar Alvarez Gila, Dr. Miguel De La Torre, Dr. Franklin W. Knight, and Dr. Richard W. Slatta.
I owe Rueben Martinez, founder of Libreria Martinez, for his generous support of a first-time author and for nominating
America Libre
for the 2008 International Latino Book Awards.
I owe my mother, Omaida, for a lifetime of support and an example of courage and will.
Most of all, I owe my wife, Kathleen, who never fails to encourage me while enduring my circadian rhythms, which she’s convinced
are from a planet with a rather eccentric spin rate.
Day 1
The origins of any political revolution parallel the beginnings of life on our planet. The amino acids and proteins lie inert
in a volatile primordial brew until a random lightning strike suddenly brings them to life.
—José Antonio Marcha, 1978
Translated by J. M. Herrera
T
he trouble had started two weeks earlier. Enraged at the fatal police shooting of a young Latina bystander during a drug bust,
a late-night mob descended on a Texas Department of Public Safety complex and torched the empty buildings. By morning, a local
newscast of the barrio’s law-and-order melt-down mushroomed into a major story, drawing the national media to San Antonio.
Since then, the presence of network cameras had incited the south side’s bored and jobless teenagers into nightly rioting.
Seizing the national spotlight, the governor of Texas vowed looters would be shot on sight. Octavio Perez, a radical community
leader, angrily announced that force would be met with force. He called on Mexican-Americans to arm themselves and resist
if necessary.
Disdaining Perez’s warning, Edward Cole, a twenty-six-year-old National Guard lieutenant, chose a provocative location for
his downtown command post: the Alamo.
“This won’t be the first time this place has been surrounded by a shitload of angry Mexicans,” Cole told his platoon of weekend
warriors outside the shut-down tourist site. A high school gym teacher for most of the year, Lieutenant Cole had been called
up to lead a Texas National Guard detachment. Their orders were to keep San Antonio’s south side rioting from spreading downtown.
Now Cole was fielding yet another call over the radio.
“Lieutenant, we got some beaners tearing the hell out of a liquor store two blocks south of my position,” the sentry reported.
“How many?”
“I’d say fifty to a hundred.”
“Sit tight, Corporal. The cavalry is coming to the rescue,” Cole said, trying his best to sound cool and confident. From a
two-day training session on crowd control, he’d learned that a rapid show of strength was essential in dispersing a mob. But
the colonel who had briefed Cole for the mission had been very clear about the governor’s statement.
“It’s not open season on rioters, Lieutenant. Your men are authorized to fire their weapons only in self-defense,” the colonel
had ordered. “And even then, it had damn well better be as a last resort. The governor’s statement was meant to deter violence,
not provoke it.”
Lieutenant Cole had never seen combat. But he was sure he could deal with a small crowd of unruly Mexicans. After all, he
had eight men armed with M16A2 semiautomatics under his command. Cole put on his helmet, smoothed out his crisply ironed ascot,
and ordered his men into the three reconditioned Humvees at his disposal.
“Let’s move out,” he said over the lead Humvee’s radio. With the convoy under way, Cole turned to his driver. “Step on it,
Baker. We don’t want to let this thing get out of hand.” As the driver accelerated, the young lieutenant envisioned his dramatic
entrance:
Bullhorn in hand, he’d emerge from the vehicle surrounded by a squad of armed troopers, the awed crowd quickly scattering
as he ordered them to disperse…
Drifting back from his daydream, Cole noticed they were closing fast on the crowd outside the liquor store. Too fast.
“Stop, Baker! Stop!” Cole yelled.
The startled driver slammed on the brakes, triggering a chain collision with the vehicles trailing close behind. Shaken but
unhurt, Cole looked through the window at the laughing faces outside. Instead of arriving like the 7th Cavalry, they’d wound
up looking like the Keystone Kops.
Then a liquor bottle struck Cole’s Humvee. Like the opening drop of a summer downpour, it was soon followed by the deafening
sound of glass bottles shattering against metal.
“Let’s open up on these bastards, Lieutenant! They’re gonna kill us!” the driver shouted.
Cole shook his head, realizing his plan had been a mistake. “Negative, Baker! We’re pulling out.”
But before the lieutenant could grab the radio transmitter to relay his order, the driver’s window shattered.
“I’m hit! I’m hit! Oh my God. I’m hit!” the driver shrieked, clutching his head. A cascade of blood flowed down Baker’s nose
and cheeks. He’d suffered only a gash on the forehead from the broken glass, but all the same, it was as shocking as a mortal
wound. Never one to stomach the sight of blood, Baker passed out, slumping into his seat.
Cole couldn’t allow himself to panic; with no window and no driver he was far too vulnerable. Mind racing, he stared outside
and soon noticed a group of shadowy figures crouching along the roof of the liquor store.
Are they carrying weapons?
“Listen up, people. I think we might have snipers on the roof! I repeat, snipers on the roof!” Cole yelled into the radio.
“Let’s lock and load! Have your weapons ready to return fire!”
On the verge of panic, the part-time soldiers fumbled nervously with their rifles as the drunken mob closed on the convoy,
pounding against the vehicles.
