by Harold Coyle
As frightening as a conflict between her country and Mexico was in itself, the question of where her loyalty went was even more frightening.
After all, how could she, an American, continue to produce objective stories about the Council of 13 when she knew that they were, at that moment, planning how best to kill her own countrymen? Especially Colonel Guajardo. To Jan, he had come to personify the new revolution. He was a man, she was convinced, who was capable of using anyone for whatever he wanted and, if it suited his purposes, of having them disposed of quickly, completely. Though she knew him to be educated, articulate, a family man, and in his own way quite charming, Jan also knew there was a dark side to him, a dark side that was as black and as bottomless as a tar pit.
Adding to her difficulties in reporting the story was the fact that the man she loved, Scott Dixon, was now an active player. As Guajardo represented the Council of 13 in her mind's eye, Scott was coming to represent the American soldier on the front line. Since the introduction of the National Guard, but even more so in the last two days, Jan found herself surrounded by sights and sounds that only served to heighten her feelings of concern and uneasiness. The American soldiers manning the border crossing in Brownsville were no longer simple props and objects to be used for a news story. They were real people, soldiers, soldiers just like Scott. When she interviewed commanders and senior staff officers, she found herself thinking about Scott, for they looked, spoke, acted, and even smelled like him. The dry, subtle humor and the cocky, "can do"
attitude the officers displayed when interviewed could just as easily have come from Scott's mouth, for she had heard it from him many times before. Slowly, unavoidably, this story was taking on a personal twist that was becoming unsettling to Jan. Though it was only a feeling, an uneasiness, she couldn't avoid it. Soon, she knew, she would have to confront it and deal with it.
So on this Labor Day weekend, as Texas prepared itself for a journey into the unknown, Jan wondered how much longer she would be able to deliver the same cool, objective view of the crisis that everyone had grown to expect from her. She wondered how she could go back to Mexico City and treat the members of the Council of 13 in a professional, civil manner. For it was more than the memories of the criticism that Americans who had stayed in Baghdad during the Persian Gulf War had taken from their fellow Americans that concerned her. Jan had taken heat before and, in her own way, enjoyed a little controversy. It wasn't that.
It was the idea of sitting down with a man who, regardless of how justified his cause, no matter how righteous his principles, could be the instrument of death to a man Jan so loved. That, above all else, upset her, leaving her to wonder if she could do it.
That such a decision was not hers to make hadn't dawned upon her yet.
But that was not unusual in these days, for people far wiser than she still imagined that they were in control of the situation. Men in both Mexico City and Washington, D.C., continued to act as if they directed the situation. The only difference, between them and Jan was that they were not yet ready to acknowledge their own dark foreboding. Instead, they pushed aside such feelings as frivolous and continued to seek a "correct"
and "logical" solution that was at the same time politically acceptable--where no such solution existed.
Mexico City, Mexico
1315 hours, 3 September
With a flurry, Colonel Guajardo stood up from the small desk he had set up in the operations center and walked across the room to look at the situation map posted on the opposite wall. He remained there for several minutes, his hands behind his back, studying intently the designation and location of symbols that represented new U.S. units deployed along the border. When he got bored with this, he walked over to where the assistant intelligence officer on duty sat, reviewing incoming reports and scribbling notes for himself and his subordinates. The assistant intelligence officer, used to the colonel by now, ignored Guajardo and continued to jot down notes as he pored over the messages coming in faster than he could review them.
When Guajardo tired of being ignored, he walked over to where the assistant operations officer sat. He, like the assistant intelligence officer, was reviewing incoming reports as he prepared to write his sumrrtary of the Mexican armed forces activities for the past twelve hours. Like the assistant intelligence officer, he also ignored Guajardo. It was not that either of the officers, both majors, was disrespectful. It was just that they knew that if they stopped and talked to Colonel Guajardo every time he came by and looked over their shoulders, they would never be able to get anything done. Both understood that Guajardo, with nothing of value to do, was nervous, and anxious to do something, anything, to work that nervousness off. Wandering around the operations center, looking here and there, was just his way of doing that. For those who had to work there, it was at times unnerving, but since the colonel was the minister of defense, and this was his operations center, anything he did was right and, as a result, had to be tolerated.
When he finished his aimless rounds of the operations center, Guajardo walked over to the door leading into the main corridor and stopped. He turned and looked back into the room before leaving. Everyone, he thought, was busy, doing something. Everyone but him. There had to be something worthwhile that needed tending to that only he could do. But what? At that moment, he could think of nothing. Until the Americans finished their latest deployments and made their intentions clear, there was no need to act. All units of the Mexican Army were deployed or completing deployment according to their war plans. Every one of his subordinate commanders knew what to do and was doing it. In effect, Guajardo thought, he had planned so well that he had, for the moment, put himself out of a job. If that was so, then why did he feel so uneasy about what was happening?
Turning away, he headed down the corridor to the latrine. Although there was a private facility that he could have used next to a private office reserved for him just off of the operations center, Guajardo preferred to use the common latrine. An American friend of his, an infantry officer, had once told him that as a method of checking on what the troops were thinking, he would go into the latrines used by his troops and read the graffiti they left behind. In a few minutes, he told Guajardo, he knew what officers in his unit were unpopular, and what the soldiers were unhappy about. As an aside, he also noted that he sometimes got some real hot telephone numbers. Guajardo, always one to try new things, had adopted the practice after returning to Mexico and found that it was, indeed, quite useful, as well as entertaining.
As he relieved himself, Guajardo thought it was good for his soldiers to see that he, their leader, was no different than them. There was a certain leveling that took place when men understood that their leaders were men, men who put their pants on one leg at a time just as they did, and who had human needs just as they did. Besides, Guajardo thought as he finished stuffing himself back into his trousers, he had nothing at all to be ashamed of. If anything, he could be quite proud of his manhood.
From behind, Guajardo heard the door of the latrine open slightly. The voice of the assistant operations officer hesitantly called through the partial opening, "Colonel Guajardo. Sorry to disturb you but Colonel Molina is on the phone. He would like to speak to you."
"Did you tell el presidente that I had my hands full, Major?"
There was a pause. "Ah, well, no, sir. I told him you had a pressing matter that needed your personal attention."
Turning around and heading for the sinks, Guajardo groaned. "Good lord, man! Now Colonel Molina will think I've been screwing a secretary on that beautiful mahogany desk in my private office. Go back and tell him I am on my way."
With a crisp "Yes, sir," the major disappeared and left Guajardo laughing to himself.
Deciding to take Molina's call in his private office so that he could speak freely, Guajardo seated himself at the large mahogany desk, its shiny surface clear of everything but one black telephone. Picking up the receiver, Guajardo informed Molina's adjutant that he was
ready to speak to the president. When Molina came on and began to speak, Guajardo cut him off. "My friend, before you say anything, I was taking a piss."
Guajardo could hear Molina laughing on the other end of the line.
When he finally spoke, Molina asked Guajardo if he had a guilty conscience, to which Guajardo responded, no, just a full bladder. Again, there was laughter that lasted several seconds before Molina was finally able to regain his composure.
"Well, I am glad that you have things down there well in hand, Colonel Guajardo." Now it was Guajardo's turn to laugh.
When he was ready, Guajardo continued. "I am sure, Hernando, that you did not call me because you needed a break in the dull routine of running this country. How can I serve my president?"
"Actually, you've already done wonders for me, Alfredo. I haven't had anything to laugh at all day."
Guajardo, knowing that the conversation would soon turn serious, could not resist playing with his friend a little longer. "Oh? And when you need a little levity in your life, you call the Army?"
When Molina spoke again, Guajardo noted that his voice had grown serious. "Well, if I was looking for humor, I definitely would not call Barreda at Foreign Affairs."
In an instant, Guajardo understood. "Is Salvado climbing the'walls again?"
"No, Alfredo, he is well past that. Our foreign minister has gone through the ceiling. It seems that the American ambassador had no sooner left his office after explaining that the deployment of the American Army was only defensive when a special report on American television announced that a group of American congressmen had drafted a resolution that would authorize the president of the United States to invade Mexico."
Guajardo
shot upright in his seat. "Are you serious? The American Congress throwing away their ability to control their president's use of the military? Did he say which congressmen made the statement?"
When Molina read the list of senators and congressmen who had al ready stated that they would support such a resolution, Guajardo could not speak. He had hoped, as had Barreda, that the American Congress would act as a brake on what they considered precipitous action on the part of the American president. Instead, if what Molina had told him was true--and Guajardo had no reason to doubt it--then the American Congress was in fact expediting, not hindering, the possible use of force.
For a moment, there was silence as both men, alone in their own offices, pondered the real purpose of this latest American action. Was it meant to intimidate them? Or was it a warning? Guajardo, as well as Molina, knew that a similar resolution had been passed by the American Congress just before the Americans commenced military operations against Iraq in 1991. Perhaps, in their own way, the American Congress was telling them that it was the eleventh hour. But for what? Finally, Guajardo spoke. "What, el presidents do you need from me?"
Understanding that Guajardo had intentionally addressed him with his formal title to signal him that it was Colonel Guajardo, the minister of defense, asking the question, Molina responded as the president. "As much as you dislike the idea, it is time for you to personally contact the military chiefs in Guatemala, Honduras, El Salvador, Nicaragua, Costa Rica, Panama, Colombia, Venezuela, and Cuba in order to establish command and control procedures for the incorporation of their forces into our defensive plans. Colonel Barreda is in the process of sending an official request to those governments for the assistance they promised."
"What about the UN and the Organization of American States? Has he called for an emergency session of those organizations?''
"Yes, Alfredo, he has done so. What happens with them is not your concern. Defense of the republic is your only concern now, my friend."
Molina's last comment was an order. For the time being, Guajardo was to remain out of international politics. Still, he could not resist the urge to add a warning. "You realize, my friend, that such assistance will not come cheaply. Each of our new allies will have a price that they will expect us to honor. Especially the Cubans, and you know I cannot trust the Cubans."
"Nor I, Alfredo, nor I. But what else can we do? Pray for a miracle?
Hope that the Americans will see the error of their ways and reason with us an equal? No, it is not their way. So long as they view us as something less than equal, as naughty children who must be taught a lesson every now and then, they will not listen to reason, from us or anyone else. As much as I hate it, I see no other course than to offer armed resistance against any and all violations of our borders."
There was another pause before Guajardo asked the question that had to be asked. He spoke slowly, clearly, and concisely. "I assume then, el presidente, you are ordering the Army to repel any and all incursions by the Americans, with the use of force if necessary."
"Yes, Alfredo, those are my orders. Do you have any further questions?"
Guajardo
didn't. There was nothing more to say. It had all been discussed, it had all been debated. In order to stay in power and succeed in rebuilding their beloved country, the Council of 13 had to prove it could defend the Republic of Mexico and its people. To back down and freely allow the Americans to occupy even a single square meter of Mexico would be viewed as weakness, and the council would lose face with its people. After telling Molina that he had no further questions, Guajardo hung up the phone, leaned back in his seat, and stared at the blank walls for a moment.
Then he surprised himself by doing something he had not done since he was a little boy. In the silence of his cold, barren office, he found himself praying to the Virgin for guidance and solace.
Washington, D.C.
1715 hours, 3 September
The sudden impact of Senator Jimmy Herbert's fist on the picnic table sent a spoon flying, knocked down two paper cups full of iced tea, and brought a stunned silence to people seated at the picnic tables flanking Herbert's. Herbert, however, didn't notice any of this, for his entire attention was riveted on the only other person seated at his table, Representative Ed Lewis of Tennessee.
Lewis, used to evoking such a response from his colleagues, calmly sat across from Herbert, righting one of the spilt cups with one hand and carefully sopping up the tea with a napkin in the other. "Why, Senator Herbert, all I said was that your resolution was the dumbest piece of legislation since the Gulf of Tonkin Resolution. The only difference is that the men who drafted the Tonkin Resolution, in comparison, knew what they were getting into."
Thrusting his head closer to Lewis, his face still red and contorted with the effort to control himself, Herbert growled at Lewis, "Damn you to hell, Mr. Congressman Ed Lewis. I heard what you said the first time.
And damn you for even suggesting that what happened in Southeast Asia had any similarities with what is happening down in Mexico. The Vietnam War is over. It's history. Or haven't you heard?"
Lewis was still calmly cleaning up the mess created by Herbert. "Ah, yes, I remember the former president mentioning that." Then, pausing in his cleanup, Lewis looked up at Herbert. "But I don't think he meant that we were supposed to forget about it, and the lessons it taught us about the limitations of military intervention."
Herbert leaned back, throwing his hands up in the air. "What military intervention? We have no intention of intervening in the internal affairs of the Mexican government and my resolution does not authorize such actions."
It
was now Lewis's turn to become angry. Lewis threw the sopping napkin he had been using to clean up the iced tea on the ground. "Oh, come off it, Mr. Senator! Who are you trying to bullshit? The problem with all you goddamned lawyers in Congress is that you start believing that the fancy words you use to hide the meaning of your actions fools people. Listen, do you and all your supporters really believe that your resolution authorizing the president to, and I quote, 'use whatever means necessary along, and beyond, the borders of the United States in order to protect the people of the United States and guarantee the territorial integrity of the United States,' will frig
hten the Mexicans into backing down and do what we want them to?" Lewis pointed his finger at Herbert to make his point. "Now, you can call the action you have authorized anything you want. But I'll tell you what the Mexicans will call it.
They'll call it an invasion."
Seeing that he had Lewis riled up, Herbert regrouped, relaxed, and, with the ease of a professional politician, let a smile light his face.
"Okay, so it's an invasion. So what? What are the Mexicans going to do?
Bombard us with taco shells?"
While Lewis's last outburst had been staged, the one he unleashed now was from the heart. "I don't believe you! You don't understand what you're doing, do you? I hope you realize that the gulf we're talking about is the Gulf of Mexico, not the Persian Gulf. Those aren't Arabs down there. They're Mexicans. Fellow North Americans. People related to almost five percent of our own population. They're not going to simply sit on their hands and watch American combat troops tromp about their country. They'll do what they always have done whenever we've gone south, they'll fight." Lewis paused, turning away from Herbert. Then, as an afterthought, he added, "Besides, we don't even know if the current regime in Mexico is responsible for the border raids. For all we know, someone could be staging those raids, trying to embarrass the Council of 13 in order to get us to invade, just like Pancho Villa did in 1916."
"What difference, Ed, does it make who is responsible for the raids?
None. None at all. What matters, my dear distinguished colleague from the state of Tennessee, is that Americans are dying, right here, in their own country, defending their own borders. When it comes to defending your home and family, it doesn't matter who, in reality, is responsible for the danger." Standing up, Herbert prepared to leave, but paused long enough to finish his speech to Lewis. "Even your high-minded ideals don't matter. What matters, dear boy, is the fact that someone is threatening the United States and we, the leaders of the nation, must do something to end that danger."