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.