by Harold Coyle
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 Alamn waiting."
Motioning to Guajardo to resume his seat, Molina surprised him by announcing that Alamn 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."
4.
Truth can never be told so as to be understood, and not be believed.
--William Blake
Mexico City, Mexico
0700 hours, 29 June
Throughout her years as a correspondent, Jan Fields had been asked many times, "What is the secret of your success? How did you make it in such a demanding business?"
Jan enjoyed playing down her considerable success, answering that question using the same charming and graceful style that she used to disarm people she interviewed. With a slight, almost imperceptible flick of her head, she would toss her long brown hair to one side. For a moment she would pause while she looked from the corner of her eye at the person talking to her. Turning her head slowly back toward the other person, a simple, almost mischievous smile would cross her face. For a moment, she would avert her eyes, looking down at her hands as if to ponder the question before answering. When she did respond, her tone was soft, almost shy. "Well, I've just been lucky, I guess, very lucky."
Then, quickly glancing up, she would look at the questioner, her big brown eyes wide open now, a broad smile lighting up her face. Throwing her hands out to the side, palms up, she would repeat her response:
"Luck, nothing but dumb luck."
Those who worked with her, however, knew better. If there was any luck involved in Jan Fields's success, it was because she made it. Her current assignment was a good case in point. Sent to Mexico City to do a story on the impact of American investments and American-controlled business in Mexico, Jan had worked sixteen hours a day for three days scheduling interviews. By wrangling invitations to several cocktail parties and affairs, including a formal state dinner, Jan was able to meet people who consented to being interviewed by the charming senorita with the dancing brown eyes.
In arranging for interviews, and while doing them, Jan worked like an artist selecting the proper brush and color, employing a variety of skills and talents to get what she wanted. When talking to one official, she would be all business. With another, all smiles and charm. And with yet another, shy, almost timid. Jan was not to be taken light
ly, however.
When hacking through the layers of bureaucracy, she could be as determined and tough as she needed to be when someone stood between her and a story.
As to the technical side of her profession, not only was Jan dedicated and a perfectionist, she demanded no less from those who worked with her. Yet she could be professional without being impersonal, in control without being overbearing, by using the same charm and graceful manner on her camera crew that she used to put her subjects at ease. She understood that the process of putting a story together was a cooperative effort and acted accordingly. By making everyone a member of one team, Jan was able to extract the best from those who worked with her and for her.
When she was preparing for an interview, no detail was too small and no angle was left unconsidered. As part of her advance study of the interviewee, Jan made it a point to study how the person dressed. If the person was a man, she would examine photos of his wife, noting the style and even the color of her clothing in an attempt to find out preferences.
Anything and everything was used to put the subject at ease.
There was an aspect of Jan Fields's work, however, that most people in her profession would frown upon. Jan, for all her technical skills, yas, first
and foremost, an artist. She did not simply cover a story, she created.
Everything--the lighting, angle of the shot, her attire, the background--was considered against an overall concept, an image, an idea that she wanted to communicate. Of all her skills, her ability to take abstract thoughts and images and translate them into images that could be captured by the camera was the most difficult to define, yet the most important.
