Trial by Fire

3

Despite the hour of the day, there was little traffic along the Avenue Republica de Brasil, which pleased Corporal Jose" Fares, Guajardo's driver. The events of the morning, the wild rumors, and the somber, almost dark mood of the colonel made Fares uncomfortable. Guajardo, slouched in the backseat of the sedan, had said nothing since getting into the sedan. In his rearview mirror Fares watched the colonel sit motionless, as if in a trance, staring vacantly out the window at the near-deserted streets. Though no one told him as much, Fares understood that the tall colonel in the backseat was one of the members of the coup that had swept Carlos Montalvo and the PRI away in a matter of hours and was now, no doubt, seizing control of Mexico. The very thought of being so close to a person with such power was somewhat frightening. Without realizing it, Fares drove the car with great care, acting as if he were carrying a bomb, rather than a colonel.

Guajardo did not notice the empty streets or the manner in which the corporal drove the sedan. Even when they reached the zocalo, or main square of the city, he paid scant attention to the gray stone and marble facade of the Catedral Metropolitana or any of the massive buildings that ringed the zocalo. Even in the best of times, Mexico City had little that excited Guajardo. The events of the last twenty-four hours, weighing heavy on his tired mind, did nothing to change how Colonel Guajardo felt about the capital. A native of Chihuahua, Guajardo viewed Mexico City and the government that ruled the country from it with suspicion. Like his forefathers, he had been raised to be self-reliant and an individual, traits that were as necessary for survival in the political world of modern Mexico as they were in the harsh and remote northern state.

Mechanically, when the car stopped, Guajardo opened the door and was out of the sedan before Corporal Fares had a chance to get out and open it for him. Without a word, Guajardo walked away from Fares, passed two guards at the South Gate of the Palacio Nacional, and headed for the offices of the president. Like Corporal Fares, the guards knew instinctively who, and what, Guajardo was. Stepping back, they saluted with a crispness seldom seen in Mexico, and allowed him to pass.

As with Corporal Fares, Guajardo did not acknowledge their presence.

He walked out of the sun into the dark shadows of the Palacio Nacional, lost in his own thoughts, fears, and concerns. For now he was moving into the unfamiliar halls from which political power emanated, a world that he was not trained to deal with. Behind his every thought, self-doubt hovered like a buzzard, leaving him to wonder if the skills his grandfather and father had passed on to him would see him through the revolution he and his co-conspirators had embarked upon.

Through the corridors, courtyards, and halls of the palace, Guajardo trudged, past colorful murals and paintings that recorded Mexico's history.

Only briefly, as he passed a mural depicting the heroes of the last Mexican Revolution, did Guajardo pause. For a second, his eyes glanced from the face of one hero of the Revolution to another, looking into their eyes in the hope that they could give him the answers and inspiration that he himself could not find.

But they could not. The colorful images, larger than life but lifeless, betrayed no secrets or answers. They only looked down on Guajardo, a there mortal, returning his stare. There was no strength or knowledge to be drawn from the images on the wall. Disappointed, Guajardo let out a slight sigh as he wondered if the real men who had inspired the images on the mural had felt the self-doubt, exhaustion, and fear that he was feeling then. They all had been, he told himself, humans themselves. It was their actions that mattered. Standing there, Guajardo wondered if that was their message. Perhaps what the mural really said was, "Look at us! We were there mortals. We are here because we overcame the limits of our bodies and the fears in our minds to do what was necessary.'' Drawing in a deep breath, Guajardo scanned the mural once more, nodding his head as he did so. Yes, they were only men, he thought, no better than he. With the dark cloud of self-doubt tempered by that thought, Guajardo turned and proceeded down the corridor with a determined stride.

Entering the outer office of the president's suite, Guajardo casually glanced about as he continued on, without breaking stride, to the closed doors of the president's office. The outer office was crammed with military officers, senior police officials, and government civilians. Some were engaged in heated discussions, others in hushed conversations. A few sat alone, lost in thought. It was easy to tell, by the expressions they wore, who believed they were on the "inside" and who didn't know and were waiting to find out. On this day, the first day of the New Revolution, the faces of the outsiders betrayed their feelings. By far, concern, fear, panic, and gloom were dominant.

Guajardo, along with twelve other Army and Air Force colonels, were the only true insiders. Those filling the outer office who did not know this by prior knowledge soon understood by the manner in which Guajardo crossed the room. Guajardo wore a cold expression on his face as he moved through the crowd. His gait, his posture, his carriage were not those of an arrogant or pompous man. Instead, Guajardo emitted an air of confidence and power that could only be described as a commanding presence, a presence that was as much psychic as it was physical. Everyone responded to his presence without a word being spoken or a cue given. Like a bow wave, the crowd parted to allow him to pass.

Though Guajardo knew who each person was, he didn't acknowledge their presence, for none of them were part of the Council of 13. On the other hand, the officers and civilian officials filling the room paused in midsentence or momentarily emerged from their lonely dark thoughts when Guajardo passed by them. Most acknowledged him with a slight bow of the head. Two officers made motions, which he ignored, in an effort to catch Guajardo's attention. One civilian, alone in the corner, shaken from his thoughts by Guajardo's passing shadow, looked up at Guajardo and grimaced as if he had just seen his own hangman. Regardless, all kept their eyes on him as they stepped aside, allowing Guajardo to glide by.

It was only when he reached the door of the president's office and began to turn the brass knob that a voice from the center of the room called out. "Colonel Guajardo, Colonel Molina is in conference with Colonel Zavala. I do not believe they want to be disturbed."

Guajardo paused but did not remove his hand from the doorknob. He merely turned to where the voice had come from, knowing all too well that it belonged to Major Ricardo Puerto, Molina's adjutant. Sensing a confrontation, the crowd in the room parted, clearing the line of vision from where Guajardo stood and Puerto sat. In an instant, only a large desk, strewn with haphazard stacks of papers and files, separated the two men. Puerto made no attempt to stand. If anything, he eased back in his chair as he eyed Guajardo.

As Molina's adjutant, Puerto had served as the recording secretary whenever members of the Council of 13 had met to plan the Revolution or as a special courier when Molina needed to pass information discreetly to other members of the council. It was therefore quite natural that Puerto began to regard himself as a part of the Revolution's inner circle and assume an air of importance that was as unbecoming as it was inappropriate.

Guajardo, and most of the other colonels who belonged to the council, never missed a chance to put the pretentious junior officer in his place. Guajardo's eyes met Puerto's for a moment as the room again fell silent and everyone waited to see who really held the upper hand.

Why, Guajardo thought, did young officers always feel the need to exaggerate their own importance at the expense of someone else? There was no reason, other than self-gratification, for Puerto to challenge Guajardo.

Puerto was a young fool playing a fool's game. This, Guajardo thought, was no time to play such silly games. Besides, to respond to, or even acknowledge, Puerto's challenge in any manner would only diminish Guajardo's character in the eyes of the people filling the outer office.

Such ignorant behavior, Guajardo thought, deserved to be ignored. Still looking at Puerto, Guajardo turned the doorknob and flung the door open in an exaggerated manner. Without further ado, Guajardo snapped his head forward and stepped smartly into the president's office, leaving Puerto to hold down the anger he felt at the rebuff as best he could.

From behind the desk, Colonel Hernando Molina looked up as Guajardo entered the room. Behind Molina stood Colonel Salvado Zavala, the member of the council responsible for domestic affairs. With one hand on Molina's chair and the other on the desk, Zavala was leaning forward over Molina's right shoulder, reading a document Molina was reviewing.

Looking across the room at his fellow conspirators, Guajardo suddenly felt self-conscious about the state of his uniform. Having stopped only to wash his hands and shave, he wore the same uniform that he had worn for the last twenty-four hours. Besides being dusty with a sprinkling of dirt, mud, and grass stains, it had a peculiar smell that was a mixture of aviation hydraulic fluid, sweat, and the pungent odor of burnt flesh.

Any reservations Guajardo had about his appearance were soon brushed aside by the greeting given him by Colonel Hernando Molina, chairman of the Council of 13, president of the provisional government, and godfather to Guajardo's oldest son. As soon as Molina saw Guajardo, a smile lit his face as he practically jumped up out of his seat. "Alfredo! My friend! How glad I am to see you."

Guajardo's unexpected appearance and Molina's sudden and exuberant reaction to him caught Zavala off-guard. He was practically knocked down as Molina moved around the desk in a rush and grasped Guajardo's right hand with both of his and began to pump it vigorously. "We have done it, my friend. We have stepped forward and done that which should have been done years ago."

"It has only started."

Without acknowledging Guajardo's laconic response or expressionless face, Molina led Guajardo to a large, overstuffed leather chair. "Yes, yes, we have much to do, but at least we are finally doing something. Come, sit and give me your report."

Before he turned to sit, Guajardo's eyes fell upon the red, white, and green sash that had been the president's badge of office. The sash was haphazardly draped across the back of the chair where Molina had taken him. For a moment, Guajardo wondered if Molina's choice of seating was an intentional insult to the office that the sash represented, or if he was simply overwhelmed by the enthusiasm of the moment and the overpowering feeling of relief one experiences when action allows the release of nervous tension and stress. If there was a hidden meaning in this action, it was far too subtle for Guajardo's practical, and tired, mind.

Turning his back to the sash, he sat down and eased himself into a comfortable position.

Moving to a chair similar to the one Guajardo was seated in, Molina sat. His actions, his expressions, and his manner were those of an excited man, a man with much to do and little time. Molina's excitement was not based on panic, fear, or confusion. Guajardo and those members of the council who considered him a friend knew better. Molina, a colonel of infantry, had the reputation throughout the Army as a man who feared no one and nothing. Even in the greatest of adversity, he kept his head and functioned with a cold machinelike precision, efficiency, and ruthlessness, earning him the nickname "the Shark." Guajardo surmised that it was the sudden rush of events of the past twelve hours that animated Molina, for he had felt the same. No doubt, all the members of the council, after secretly planning and plotting for months while suppressing the fear of betrayal or failure, felt great exhilaration at finally being able to release their stress through action.

"So, tell me, my friend, is everything in order?"

Guajardo closed his eyes and nodded slowly. He then opened his eyes and recounted his actions since leaving Victoria in a low, steady voice.

"The president with his party, including the secretaries of finance, national defense, programming and budget, and the comptroller general boarded the presidential plane. The two F-5 interceptors that were to track the presidential jet were airborne and in a holding pattern north of Victoria when the presidential jet departed. According to the Air Force, based on transmissions from the president's plane and the manner in which it flew, no one on it detected the interceptors during the flight.

"As soon as possible, I left Victoria and followed the president's plane in my helicopter. En route, the interceptors reported when the president's plane went in and its location. They remained on station over the wreckage until I arrived. Before departing, the flight leader reported that, as best they could tell, no one arrived at the site before I did. The team with me confirmed this once we were on the ground." Finished, Guajardo leaned back further into the chair.

There was a momentary silence as Molina waited for Guajardo to continue. When he didn't, Molina, in a quiet and almost faltering voice, asked the question that bothered him the most. "Did you, could you confirm that the president was dead?"

Under ordinary circumstances, Guajardo would have lost his patience and not have answered such a stupid question. But these were not normal times. Molina, like Guajardo, was operating under a great deal of stress and pressure as they carried out an intricate and fast-paced plan to decapitate the government of Mexico and replace it with the Council of 13.

In such an operation, it was wrong to assume and sometimes the obvious must be confirmed.

Before answering, Guajardo looked up at the ceiling. He continued to stare at the ceiling as he spoke. "When the aircraft impacted, it was almost completely vertical and nose-down, causing it to collapse upon itself. Imagine, if you can, a full-size 727 compacted into a heap less than a fifth its original length." Guajardo paused to let this image sink in.

"Fire broke out almost immediately and covered not only the wreckage but the area immediately around it. When I arrived, it was still burning.

The molten aluminum and twisted wreckage fused into a single great smoldering lump. Even if I had been able to get close, there was no way to sort out what charred remains belonged to the president." Turning his hard gaze toward Molina, he added, "I doubt even our best pathologist could."

With that, both men lapsed again into silence, averting their eyes to the floor. Without looking up, Molina spoke first. "I am sorry for being so boorish, my friend. I simply had to hear you say it. You understand. The vision of the failed Soviet coup several years ago still haunts me."

Without looking at him, Guajardo shook his head before he responded.

"The Russians were fools. They didn't have the stomach to do what was necessary." Then, Guajardo chuckled and looked up at Molina. "You know, it's almost ironic. The very people who made the saying 'You can't make an omelet without cracking a few eggs' a cliche didn't have the nerve to eliminate Yeltsin and Gorbachev. Who would have thought that we would live to see the day when the head of the KGB would hesitate to pull the trigger?"

Molina sighed, smiling as he spoke. "Yes, who would have thought?

At least, my friend, we were able to learn from their errors. It seems none of our brothers suffer from a weak stomach."

Then Guajardo, his face reverting to an expressionless mask, asked point-blank how much longer he and the other members of the Council of 13 were going to have pretend that the president's death was an accident and not the first stroke of the New Revolution.

Molina, glad that Guajardo had changed the subject, smiled. "Soon, my friend, soon. In fact, at noon, I will make a public announcement. In the meantime, we say nothing. Our deception has worked. All the key officials, as well as the leadership of the opposition parties, rushed to their offices when they were informed that Montalvo's plane was missing. It seems that everyone was anxious to see how they could further their own position as a result of the president's death. Without exception, none of them were prepared for the reception they found."

Yes, Guajardo thought. What they found must have come as a shock to many of them. He could almost envision the scene, repeated a hundred times in the last few hours across Mexico. Informed that the president was missing, Montalvo's advisors and assistants, as well as the leaders of the PSUM and PAN parties, would immediately rush to their offices.

Instead of finding their own trusted staffs ready to take advantage of such a crisis, each of the president's men and opposition leaders found a young Army or Air Force officer, hand-picked by members of the Council of 13.

Accompanied by two or three armed soldiers, the officer executed his instruction to the letter, either placing the surprised official under arrest or, as the American CIA liked to put it, "terminating the target with extreme prejudice" on the spot. Few would live long enough to realize that the officer and the soldiers with him were the same people who had been responsible for agitating the workers across Mexico to strike, precipitating the crisis that had set the stage for the New Revolution. In retrospect, Guajardo had to agree that it had been better to do things this way, rather than send bands of armed soldiers careening about the country like a bunch of American cowboys hunting their targets.

From where he had been left standing, Colonel Zavala broke the trance that both Molina and Guajardo had lapsed into. "Colonel Molina, should I come back later to confirm the names on this list?"

Suddenly remembering that Zavala was in the room, Molina pivoted in his seat toward him. "No, there is no need for me to confirm the list so long as it has not changed from last week. Simply take it over to Colonel Obregon at the Supreme Court. With everyone on the first list accounted for, it is time to begin collecting the next level." Zavala, realizing that he was being dismissed, picked the list of names off of Molina's desk and briskly left the room. The list Zavala carried contained the names of those members of the old government, officials, and private citizens that the council referred to as level-two threats. These were people who had to be dealt with as soon as all level-one threats, such as the president and the governor of Tamaulipas, had been "removed." Some of the people waiting outside Molina's door were on the second list.

With Zavala gone, Molina turned back to Guajardo. To Molina's surprise, Guajardo was standing, his peaked cap tucked under his left arm.

"Since it is time to move on to level two, I must be on my way. We must not keep Senior Alaman waiting."

Motioning to Guajardo to resume his seat, Molina surprised him by announcing that Alaman could wait. Other matters, according to Molina, required Guajardo's immediate attention.

Thrown off guard, Guajardo, with his cap still under his arm, sat down on the edge of the chair. What, he thought, could be more important than crushing Alaman and his private empire built on drugs and corruption? As it was, Guajardo thought it had been a mistake to not to classify Alaman as a level-one threat. At every opportunity, Guajardo had pointed that out. Any delays would most certainly play into Alaman's hands, especially since his private army was superior to the Mexican Army in every way when it came to weapons and secrecy. "What could possibly be more important than eliminating Alaman?"

Leaning back in his chair, Molina let Guajardo hang for a moment before he answered. "The Americans, my friend. The Americans, and what they think, are very important to us right now."

Impatient, Guajardo blurted, "Yes, yes, we knew that going into this.

But dealing with the Americans is Barreda's task. As the acting minister of foreign affairs, he is better prepared to deal with that. I feel it would be a mistake to have me, charged with defense and national security, becoming involved in diplomacy and foreign affairs."

Molina patiently waited while Guajardo stated his objections. When he was sure that Guajardo was finished, Molina responded with smooth, controlled tones. "Yes, that is the way it should be and will be, except for one interview. This morning, we found out that our former president had an interview scheduled with an American film crew from Austin, Texas. The correspondent conducting the interview is a very famous, well-connected international correspondent, a female by the name of Jan Fields. At first, we were going to cancel the interview. But Barreda thought that we could use her, and the scheduled interview, as a means of presenting to the American public the goals and objectives of our actions. Therefore, on his own initiative, he contacted Miss Fields this morning and offered her an opportunity to interview one of the leading members of the Council of 13. She, of course, accepted."

Listening to Molina, Guajardo nodded in agreement. Yes, he thought, this made perfect sense. But what did that have to do with him?

Seeing the quizzical look on Guajardo's face, Molina continued. "After the decision to keep the interview had been made, the next question was who would be the best person for the task. As you have pointed out, Barreda, who is responsible for foreign affairs, should do it. Unfortunately, Barreda does not speak English and physically, he does not present the kind of image we want the Americans to have of us."

The last part of Molina's statement was surprisingly blunt, but true.

Barreda's ancestry was heavily Indian, giving him dark skin and features that could best be described as chiseled. To say that Barreda was not photogenic would have been an understatement.

"Besides, Barreda is unknown to the Americans. You, on the other hand, my friend, speak English like a yanqui, attended their staff and war colleges, and you are almost pure Spanish."

Guajardo did not like how or where the conversation was going. ' 'None of those things should make a difference. We had a plan of action and methods of dealing with such things. I see nothing that indicates that we need to…"

Putting up his right hand, Molina cut Guajardo off. "You, of all people, know that in any operation, plans seldom survive initial contact with the enemy. We must continuously assess the situation and alter the plan to take advantage of opportunities that were unseen when the plan was created. This revolution, our revolution, is no different."

Resting his elbows on the arms of the overstuffed chair, Molina settled back a little deeper into its cushions and put his hands together, with his fingers interlocked and held just below his chin. "This interview, and your presence in Mexico City, is one such opportunity. By having you do the interview, the American public will see a member of the council who looks like them, talks like them, and uses terms that they are used to.

Your experience with the Americans and knowledge of their culture will be invaluable in a free-flowing interview. In addition, the American intelligence community will be able to access your files with their military and quickly see that you are both intelligent and reasonable. As you were trained in their staff and war Colleges, they may believe that there is the possibility of influencing the council and its decisions through your training and association with Americans. While all this is merely a hope, we must do everything that we can to keep the American government and public neutral while we consolidate power and institute our reforms."

As Molina spoke, Guajardo watched his friend's face and expression.

By the time Molina had finished, Guajardo knew there was no point in arguing or protesting his new assignment. It was not so much the words and logic Molina had used, although both were convincing in their own right. Rather, it was Molina's expression and the manner in which he presented himself. In his mind, there was no other solution. He had seen a problem, considered it from all angles, and evolved a remedy. Besides, Guajardo thought, when you're in his home waters, it's pointless to argue with a shark. Shrugging, Guajardo indicated his acceptance of the task.

"So, my leader, when and where do I meet my fate?"

Relieved that Guajardo was agreeing without further protest, Molina smiled and leaned forward, patting his friend's right arm. "It's not so bad. It will definitely be more enjoyable than sticking a pointed stick in your eye."

Caught up in Molina's lighthearted mood, Guajardo chuckled. "Obviously, my friend, you have never worked with American women. I have a chance of controlling a sharp stick."

"Don't worry, Alfredo. Jan Fields is a beautiful and spirited woman.

Treat her like a thoroughbred." Molina, holding his hands as if he held the reins of a horse's bridle, moved his body ever so smoothly as if he were riding. "You must make sure you are in control, using a gentle hand and soothing voice to control your mount."

Shaking his head and smiling, Guajardo stood. "You could sell the devil ice in July. But unfortunately, my fearless leader, you know nothing about American women. If I try to handle her like a horse, she will bite my arm off up to here, or worse."

Molina laughed. "In that case, keep your hands in your pocket and your legs crossed."