America Libre (28 page)

Five days later, with the low rumble of tanks rising in the distance, Mano recalled Jo’s words. To give the U.S. Army a bloody
nose, they would have to be very good—and very lucky.

Mano peered cautiously through the second-floor window of the vacant building. He saw the squat hull of an M1 Abrams tank
appear around the corner, about three blocks away. In less than a minute, four M1s were trundling in a straight line down
the two-lane street toward Mano. It was 11:43 a.m. The armored patrol was right on schedule.

“Go, Tony,” Mano said to the slender teenager beside him. Antonio Mendez rose and sprinted eagerly to the next room, carrying
a HEAT-loaded RPG.

Mano made eye contact with the two RPG teams in the burned-out apartments across the street and pumped his fist. Because the
tanks’ crews might pick up their transmissions at this range, their attack would begin in radio silence. Crouching in the
second-floor windows, Nesto’s vatos signaled back, confirming they had detected the tanks. Mano then repeated the procedure
with the third RPG team hiding in the sewer drain at the corner. They were ready.

In a conventional battle, as Mano knew, four M1s would be a single platoon for a heavy battalion. On the streets of Los Angeles,
however, the four tanks were a major force. Mano imagined the Army’s battalion commander felt the mere presence of the tanks
would cause the insurgents to flee in fear.

The commander’s disdain for the insurgents was also evident in the scheduling of the patrols. It had not taken Mano long to
recognize these armored columns, sent to show the flag in the zones, used only three different routes that were repeated in
the same sequence. The Army’s contempt for the insurgents, and its CO’s overconfidence, had made it simple to set up an ambush.

Executing the attack was another matter.

From his Army days, Mano knew the killing power of the M1. The tank’s 120mm main gun would be useless in close quarters, but
each M1 was still armed with two 7.62mm machine guns and a 25mm chain gun. That firepower alone was enough to outgun the six
fighters under Mano’s command. The trick would be to hit hard and run fast.

As he waited warily for the tanks to approach his trap, Mano recalled his days in Afghanistan and recognized the irony of
the situation. Now he was the insurgent waiting to ambush a U.S. column.

When the first tank reached the fire hydrant that marked the beginning of the kill zone, Mano released the safety on his AK-47
and pulled back the bolt. The tank passed through the kill zone and, as he expected, turned right at the corner and disappeared
from sight.

Mano’s plan was to wait for the fourth tank to enter the kill zone before they fired. At that point, the other vehicles would
be around the corner and his teams could attack the last tank without covering fire from the first three. The kill zone Mano
had devised gave his RPG teams overhead a clear line of fire into the vulnerable rear panel of the tank that housed the vehicle’s
engine.

Mano’s breath quickened as the second and third tanks lumbered through the kill zone and around the corner. Things were going
according to plan so far. He was counting on the nerve of men—and boys—he barely knew. The target tank approached the kill
zone.

Wait
…
Wait
… Mano mentally pleaded with his men. Above the roar of engines, he heard a short hiss followed by a booming crash. His heart
sank.
Dammit! Too early.

Looking down, he saw that a rocket from the vatos in the storm sewer had struck the front drive sprocket of the M1, blowing
the treads away and bringing the vehicle to a halt. But the shot had been fired too soon. The tank had ground to a stop about
fifteen meters from the corner. From this position, the RPG gunners overhead couldn’t get a clean angle on the more lightly
armored engine compartment at the rear of the tank.

Mano jumped to his feet and raced into the hall.

Entering the next room, he saw Tony Mendez fire his RPG through the window, filling the space with exhaust from the rocket.
Mano stumbled through the smoke, his hand outstretched, and grabbed the teenager by the shoulder. “Your angle is too steep,”
he said, pulling Tony away from the window. “Move back one more room and fire again.”

Mano looked outside. The tank was struggling to move on its one good tread, spinning in a slow circle but getting nowhere.
The movement was turning the vulnerable rear compartment away from Mano’s side of the street; unless the tank turned back
toward him, it would be up to the RPG teams on the other side of the street to take it out. He bolted for the next room to
check on Tony.

The burping chatter of machine-gun fire grew louder when Mano entered the room. Tony stood near the window, about to bring
the RPG to his shoulder, when he noticed Mano. “Pretty cool, huh?” he yelled with a grin.

Suddenly, the window frame beside Tony splintered as a trail of bullets moved laterally, striking him on the cheek. A small
pink cloud of blood formed near the boy’s head an instant before he fell.

Mano dove for the floor as bullets buzzed over his head like angry bees, shattering the plaster walls above him. The room
had been targeted; staying there would be suicide. He crawled to Tony, gently pried the RPG from his grasp, and slung the
weapon over his shoulder.

Moving on his belly into the hallway, he heard the whoosh and boom of two more rockets firing outside. He was heartened that
the RPG teams across the street were still fighting. Mano’s orders had been to fire two shots and then get out. That meant
each of the two RPG teams across the street would fire once more,
if
they could manage to get a shot off under the rapidly increasing machine-gun fire.

In the relative safety of the hallway, Mano realized there was now only one way left to get a kill shot on the tank: he would
have to go down to the street.

Arriving at the first-floor doorway, he produced a small mirror from the thigh pocket of his fatigues and peeked outside.
The crippled tank was still foundering, struck by several rockets and unable to move. But its turret was still rotating, looking
for targets. On the cross street behind the damaged vehicle, the other tanks were laying down protective fire on the apartments.
The RPG teams in the windows were either gone or dead. He would have to finish off the tank alone.

Mano knew if he emerged from the doorway to aim his RPG toward the crippled tank, the machine guns would cut him down. The
only cover was directly behind the stricken tank itself. From there, he could get a point-blank shot into the tank’s rear,
but to get there, he’d have to cross ten meters of open ground. His only hope was to reach the safe zone before the tank gunners
spotted him.

He took three steps backward to get a running start, then bolted.

Time seemed to slow as he crossed the deadly field of fire, the thudding of his heart drowning out the clatter of the machine
guns. With each stride, he wondered if it would be his last.
Keep moving… Keep moving… Dive.

Mano landed heavily on the pavement, emitting a loud grunt as the breath he’d been holding escaped from his lungs. Time returned
to normal as the barrel of the RPG slung across his back slammed painfully against the back of his head.

The bullets pulverized the blacktop around him as the gunners zeroed in. In a matter of seconds, one of the tanks would move
and gain a field of fire into his position.

Mano rolled onto his side, cradled the RPG, and crab-crawled left for a better angle. Chips of pavement churned up by the
bullets stung his cheek as he brought the rear of the tank into his sights and squeezed the trigger.

For an instant, he thought his shot had failed. Then he was consumed in a bright orange flash. He covered his head as a succession
of explosions hurled debris skyward.

When Mano opened his eyes, a dense black cloud filled the air. Under cover of the smoke, he crawled toward the curb, lifted
the storm sewer’s heavy grate, and lowered himself into the sanctuary below.

Fired at close range, the High Explosive Anti-Tank projectile had ignited the vehicle’s ammo supply, popping its massive turret.

The destruction of the M1 would have a profound effect on U.S. military tactics against the insurgents. It marked the last
time armored vehicles patrolled inside the Quarantine Zones without infantry support. The rebels had embarrassed the U.S.
military—and the nation’s defense establishment was determined not to let it happen again.

The appetite for independence will grow quickly after the people get their first taste of the fruits of victory.

—José Antonio Marcha, 1982
Translated by J. M. Herrera

T
he rebel assault against the tanks in Los Angeles was part of an ominous trend. Fifteen months after the Bates amendment had
become law, the insurgents were stepping up their forays outside the Quarantine Zones across the United States.

Chasing the instant fame of Simon Potts, teams of freelance video reporters now continually combed the areas around the zones,
looking for footage that would lead the evening news. This cash-and-carry journalism was producing a constant stream of shocking
images that magnified the scope of the violence in the national consciousness.

Emboldened by the media coverage given to the raids of their comrades, rebel bands across the nation now continually probed
for weak spots, attacking any military target that appeared vulnerable. The U.S. military, facing shortages of manpower, sophisticated
equipment, and adequate intelligence, always seemed one step behind the insurgents, now being called Panchos by the troops.

The pattern of aggression by the rebels varied within each region of the nation. The vast abandoned areas along the southern
third of California were a haven for small, mobile cadres of insurgents who struck military targets at random while gleaning
food and supplies from the vacated suburban landscape. The only civilians still left in the region were a bastion of hardy
souls clustered around San Diego’s naval base.

Most non-Hispanics in New Mexico had retreated northward to Colorado, leaving the Rio Grande Valley in the hands of the rebels
as far north as Santa Fe. The area’s narrow canyons were ideal sites for ambushes on government patrols. To avoid heavy casualties,
troops moved sparingly through the highlands, leaving the insurgents free to roam.

From El Paso to Houston, the major cities in Texas became a bloody battleground. Using the Quarantine Zones as unassailable
bases, the insurgents launched a string of fierce sorties against the government garrisons surrounding them. Despite being
outgunned, the rebels’ knowledge of the urban terrain gave them a considerable advantage.

In Arizona, the government was losing control south of the Gila River as rebel bands from the QZs of Yuma, Tucson, and Phoenix
took to the hills.

Along the Eastern Seaboard and the Midwest, where the Quarantine Zones were smaller and more isolated, the situation was less
dire. In these areas, government authorities were able to maintain control, but at a great cost in lives to both sides.

The United States faced a major dilemma. The bulk of America’s combat troops were spread across the globe, leaving the military
strapped for qualified personnel to squelch the insurgency now raging at home. In a desperate measure, the Brenner administration
extended the active duty of reservists by two more years. The families of those affected began a national campaign to reverse
the decision. Administration trial balloons on the reinstatement of the military draft met with fierce opposition. The draft
became another controversial issue heightening dissension within the United States.

As the turbulent summer gave way to fall, the U.S. found itself more isolated in the world and more divided at home.

Hank Evans double-clicked the video conference icon and the image of the assistant director of the CIA materialized on his
computer monitor.

Carol Phelps looked haggard, her heavy makeup unable to mask dark folds below her bloodshot eyes. “There’s something I want
you to watch, Hank,” she said without prelude.

After a moment of static, a news clip appeared on Evans’s computer. Shot from a distance, a prone insurgent in black fatigues
fired a rocket-propelled grenade into the rear hull of an M1 tank, filling the screen with a blazing flash. Three other widely
broadcast TV reports of insurgent attacks in the Los Angeles Quarantine Zones followed.

After the last clip faded, the face of Carol Phelps again appeared. “I know you’ve probably seen these clips in the media
over the last few months, Hank,” she said sternly. “I’m showing them to you again because they underscore two unacceptable
failures on the part of your office.” She paused, waiting for her words to sink in.

“First, you have yet to locate the man who shot this footage. This is particularly galling since virtually every person in
the country now knows his name. The circumstances of these ‘Potts Shots,’ as the media is calling them, make it obvious that
Simon Potts has access to the highest echelons of the terrorist leadership in Southern California. It is imperative that you
apprehend this man for questioning.