Working as a police officer in Mexico.

Chapter 684 Attack! Attack!
In the following days, Mexico City's national television station broadcast news about "Texas Natives" with unprecedented frequency.

Today, Elder Comanche received assistance from a Mexican medical team on the reservation, protesting the "long-term neglect of his basic rights by the Texas authorities."

Tomorrow, historians will be on the show, using maps and ancient texts to demonstrate that certain border areas "traditionally have an inseparable cultural connection with indigenous tribes."

The day after tomorrow, Elder Comanche will visit the Anti-Drug Museum with a group of people and solemnly lay a wreath in front of the Anti-Drug Monument.

When facing the media, he said very seriously, "The Mexican armed forces are an important force in maintaining regional stability, and their anti-drug policies are admirable."

Does this sound familiar?
A familiar, unsettling smell filled the air.

In military terms, this is known as "creating a pretext" or "strategic deception."

The purpose is not merely propaganda, but to build a legal basis for the upcoming military action, confuse international opinion, and most importantly, to undermine the opponent's will to resist.

There are countless lessons to be learned from history:

In 1939, the Glewitz radio incident occurred: Nazi Germany had prisoners dressed in Polish military uniforms attack its own radio station, then used this as a pretext to invade Poland.

This is remarkably similar to "creating" a group in need of protection out of thin air.

An even older wisdom: throughout history, countless campaigns under the banner of "purging the emperor's inner circle" and "pacifying the rebellion" were essentially searches for a "legitimate reason."

That's exactly what Mexico is doing now.

This series of attacks left the Texas side completely bewildered. Paul smashed a third cup in his Austin office in a fit of rage, but was unable to mount an effective counterattack. The other side stood on the moral high ground of "humanitarianism" and "cultural preservation," and the more fiercely you refuted them, the more you appeared to be a villain who oppressed the indigenous people.

Even though they've all become leather shoes, can you be sure that leather shoes can't talk?

……

A few days later, during the evening news, the cameras on Mexican national television suddenly switched.

The gentle discussions in the studio were replaced by the grim atmosphere of a field army.

In the footage, a large military convoy is seen traveling on a dusty border highway.

General Guderian, commander of the Eastern Theater, wearing an old field jacket without any insignia and sunglasses, stood beside a command vehicle, holding a map in one hand and pointing forcefully into the distance towards Texas with the other.

He was surrounded by a group of serious-looking officers who kept nodding and taking notes.

In the background, M1A2 Salamander infantry fighting vehicles, camouflaged with netting, are on display, their faces resolute as they inspect their weapons and equipment. Although there is no commotion, the tension of impending war almost bursts through the television screen.

The reporter's unspoken message was particularly somber: "During his inspection of the forward troops in the Eastern Theater, General Guderian emphasized that all officers and soldiers in the theater are fully prepared, and the Mexican military will respond swiftly and decisively to any attempt to disrupt the current situation or threaten the safety of the people of our friendly nations!"

This is no longer a hint; it's practically an open secret.

This means one thing: a massive armored assault is about to begin. Inspecting the troops? That's the final mobilization and check before the war! Stabilizing the situation? Only by crushing the enemy with the most ferocious offensive can Mexico achieve the "stability" it desires!
Panic spread like a virus along the Texas border.

The crowds of refugees surged even more.

……

Just as this suffocating pressure reached its peak, the Texas delegation's convoy, after a bumpy journey, finally crossed the chaotic border and arrived in Mexico City.

The leader of the team was Lawrence Constantine Stuart, who was appointed to the position in a time of crisis.

The convoy stopped in front of a hotel arranged by the Mexican government.

Lawrence straightened his suit, trying to appear calm. He hoped to meet with Mexican foreign ministry officials, even if they were at the vice-ministerial level, as it would be a reciprocal reception and show that the other party was still willing to negotiate.

However, as he stepped out of the car, his heart sank to the bottom.

Two people were waiting for him at the hotel entrance.

On the left is Friedrich Carl Eberstein, Mexico's Deputy Police Chief and Chief of Police of the Mexican capital.

A man known for his ruthlessness, efficiency, and control over a vast domestic surveillance and security system, he wears a formulaic smile, but his eyes are as sharp as an eagle's, as if he can see through all your pretenses.

A deputy police chief!
Where are the people from the Ministry of Foreign Affairs?

Where is the liaison officer from the Ministry of National Defense?

Not a single one showed up!

“Welcome to Mexico City, Mr. Stuart.” Director Eberstein stepped forward, speaking with a London accent, and extended his hand. “You must be tired from your journey; we have prepared rooms for you.”

Lawrence's heart sank; a tremendous sense of humiliation and foreboding gripped him.

Fuck!
No matter how chaotic Texas is, he is still a formal delegation representing a "president" and a "country"! How could the other side only send a police chief to receive him?

What does it mean? !

The military and political signals conveyed could not be clearer.

Lawrence suppressed the urge to swear, his face turning ashen.

He knew that the negotiations were already over before they even began. His older brother Paulo's hope of securing Mexico's neutrality through concessions was utterly naive.

Lawrence was restless in his hotel room.

Director Eberstein's formulaic attitude shattered the last vestige of hope in his heart; the other party hadn't even arranged any further talks.

They were simply "protected" in this luxurious hotel prison.

He took a deep breath, picked up the satellite phone, and dialed Austin's dedicated line.

The call was answered almost immediately, Paul's voice filled with urgency and anticipation:
"Lawrence? How did it go? Did you see Victor or Casare? What did they say?"

"No, brother."

Lawrence's voice was filled with weariness and bitterness. "I didn't see a single one. The only person who came to pick me up was Eberstein, the police chief. There wasn't even a trace of anyone from the Ministry of Foreign Affairs."

There was silence on the other end of the phone; only Paul's heavy breathing could be heard. After a long pause.

"The meaning is already very clear, brother."

Lawrence's voice was hoarse. "They don't want to talk at all. The Mexicans aren't bluffing; their troops are indeed gathering at the border. Those news reports about the Indians are just an excuse to take action. We...we're out of the game. They may have already decided to get involved."

"Damn it! That son of a bitch Victor! He's forgotten what happened..."

Paul's voice trembled with anger, but halfway through his tirade, the rage seemed to vanish, leaving only a limp, draining feeling. "Then... what do we do now?"

Lawrence walked to the window, looked at the dazzling yet unfamiliar night view of Mexico City, and took a deep breath:

“Brother, we must make a choice immediately. Between Louisiana in the north and Mexico in the south, we must abandon one side. The war with Louisiana cannot continue. We must cease fire immediately, and even... even ask them for help. At least our conflict with Louisiana is an internal affair, while Mexico... they are hungry wolves that have come to tear our territory apart!”

There was a long silence on the other end of the phone.

Paul Constantine Stuart, the ambitious man who wanted to become Roosevelt, was now swallowing the bitter reality.

The dream of rivaling Louisiana appears so ridiculous and fragile in the face of the realities of national survival.

"you're right."

Paul's voice was hoarse, filled with an unprecedented sense of frustration. "I understand. I will contact our intermediaries in Louisiana immediately and try... try to reach a ceasefire. You, try to find a way, no matter what, to make contact with the Mexican leadership again, even if it's just to meet with a vice minister, to test their bottom line and buy us some time."

“I’ll give it a try, brother, but… don’t get your hopes up too high.” Lawrence’s mood was extremely heavy.

After hanging up the phone, Lawrence felt a deep, bone-deep weariness wash over him.

He sat on the sofa, smoking a cigarette.

……

Austin, the underground bunker of the presidential residence.

This place was originally an emergency communications center, but now it has become the last stronghold for Paul Constantine Stuart to issue orders.

The air was thick with the smell of smoke and anxiety.

“The Mexicans… they don’t even want to talk…” Paul sat in his chair, rubbing his throbbing temples with his fingers. His younger brother Lawrence’s words, “We must cease fire immediately, and even ask Louisiana for help,” were like needles pricking his nerves repeatedly.

Bow down to Louisiana?

This was worse than death for him. He dreamed of turning the tide like Roosevelt, not begging for mercy like a defeated dog.

He always believed he could win! He fantasized more than once that if he were in the Civil War, Washington would have been out of the picture.

But the reality is cruel.

As it turns out, he's now in a dilemma.

Mexico to the south is meticulously crafting a pretext for war, Louisiana to the east is launching a fierce offensive, and its powerful allies are only concerned with reaping the benefits... Texas is truly on the verge of being torn apart.

"Mr. President..."

His personal assistant, a young man, carefully handed him a document. “This is our… list of possible intermediaries with the Louisiana side. At the top is James Hopkins, who has a lot of influence in Springfield and… is said to have a past relationship with the Louisiana Secretary of Defense.”

Paul stared at the list, remaining silent for a full minute. Finally, he took a deep breath, as if using all his strength, and grabbed the encrypted satellite phone on the table. Theoretically, this phone could bypass many conventional snooping attempts and connect directly to certain specific numbers in the north.

“Dial it,” he said hoarsely. “Connect James Hopkins.”

The phone rang for a long time before being answered. A middle-aged man's voice, tinged with a hint of laziness and wariness, came through: "Who is this?"

“Mr. Hopkins, I am Paul Constantine Stuart.” Paul tried to make his voice sound steady.

There was a moment of silence on the other end of the phone, followed by a low, enigmatic chuckle: "Oh? The President of Texas?"

"Time is of the essence, Mr. Hopkins, so I'll get straight to the point."

Paul, barely suppressing his impatience, said, “The current conflict between us is a tragedy, a misunderstanding that hurts our own people and pleases our enemies. Now, our common country is facing a serious external threat, a real threat from the South. I propose that we both immediately implement a ceasefire along the existing front and explore the possibility of jointly addressing the threat.”

"A ceasefire? A joint response?"

“Mr. Stuart, it was your troops who crossed the red line first, and it was you who declared that you would liberate Louisiana. Now that you can’t withstand the pressure in Louisiana and see the Mexicans sharpening their knives, you suddenly remember your shared country? There’s no such thing as a free lunch.”

Paul's face flushed, but he had to hold it in: "Past actions can be attributed to misjudgment and poor communication. We can make compensation, the disputed border areas can be renegotiated, and economic compensation can be discussed. But now, we must stop the internal strife!"

"Compensation? Negotiation?"

Hopkins scoffed. "Mr. Stuart, you seem to have missed the point. It's you who are begging for a ceasefire, not us. Want to talk? Fine, first have your troops on Highway 42 in the north withdraw twenty miles, hand over the Rockford checkpoint you occupied last month, and then we'll see if the Louisiana legislators are in the mood to listen to your proposals."

Retreat twenty miles? Surrender strategic points? That would leave the northern Texas defenses wide open!

Just as he was about to roar out loud, there seemed to be some commotion on the other end of the phone, and someone said something urgently to Hopkins.

Hopkins paused for a moment, and when he spoke again, the previous languor and sarcasm had vanished, replaced by an icy rage.

“Mr. Stuart…”

Hopkins' voice sounded like it was being squeezed out between clenched teeth, "You just said it was a misunderstanding?"

Paul was taken aback, a very ominous feeling creeping over him: "What do you mean?"

"What do you mean?! Fuck you!!"

Hopkins raised his voice sharply, almost roaring, "At the very same time you're making this damn peace call to me! In Springfield! In the underground parking garage of the downtown shopping mall! The wife and six-year-old daughter of General Abrams, Commander-in-Chief of the Louisiana Republic Border Force! were attacked by gunmen! The lady is being stabbed twice and is being treated! The general's daughter... died on the spot!"

Paul was struck dumb, his mind went blank: "What?! This is impossible! I don't know..."

"Shut up!"

Hopkins roared, "The gunman was shot dead by mall security! His handgun and spare magazine were found at the scene! The evidence is irrefutable!"

"This is a setup! It's a conspiracy!"

Paul cried out, his shirt instantly soaked with cold sweat, "It must be Mexicans! Or Louisiana! They're trying to sow discord among us!"

"Fuck your conspiracy!"

Hopkins' voice trembled with extreme anger. "Stuart, listen, this is no longer a border conflict. You've crossed the line, you've crossed all the lines. General Abrams is a national hero! You killed his daughter… You Texans, you'll pay with your lives for that little girl!"

A loud crash! The phone was slammed shut, followed by a busy tone.

Paul Constantine Stuart stood frozen in place, microphone in hand, his face grim.

"Hold!"!
At the same time, in Springfield, the capital of the Republic of Louisiana.

The underground parking garage level B of the "Zhongxi Shopping Center" was now enveloped in the piercing sound of sirens and the dense flashing blue and red police lights.

Police cordoned off the scene, and reporters who rushed to the scene crowded outside the cordon, trying to capture the footage inside with their cameras and microphones.

A blue family sedan sat askew, the driver's side door open. A large pool of blood, not yet fully congealed, lay gruesomely on the ground beside the car. Detectives in trench coats, their faces grim, examined the scene, taking photos, measuring, and collecting evidence.

Not far away, a small figure covered with a white sheet lay quietly on the ground. Underneath that was General Abrams's six-year-old daughter. A few steps away, another white sheet covered the body of the gunman who had been shot dead by security guards.

A police officer at the scene, his face grim, was giving a brief explanation to the television cameras:
"About an hour ago, the victim's vehicle had just entered the parking lot when the gunman suddenly approached from the side and rear, firing directly into the car... Mall security reacted quickly, exchanging fire with the gunman and ultimately killing him... Sadly, the little girl died at the scene, and the general's wife was rushed to the hospital..."

The camera skillfully avoided the most gruesome scenes, but the atmosphere of the tragedy could not be concealed.

At that moment, a detective quickly walked to the on-site commander and handed him a transparent evidence bag containing a wallet and a few miscellaneous items. The commander picked up the wallet.

"According to the identification documents found on the gunman, his name is Juan Márquez, born in El Paso, Texas, 32 years old, and has a criminal record..."

"Texas?" The sheriff frowned, glanced at the reporters beside him, and felt his throat go dry.

The news quickly made the headlines.

Everyone could sense that something was wrong.

That's so damn fake!!
However, reason is meaningless in the face of overwhelming rage.

The news spread like wildfire across the border to the front lines of the standoff along the Red River.

On the Louisiana front, soldiers learned of the news through radio and word of mouth.

General Abrams enjoyed a high reputation among Southern soldiers.

"Those cowboys are capable of anything! They have no moral bottom line!"

Hatred and anger need an outlet, and reason and discipline begin to crumble in the face of extreme emotions.

"What are we waiting for?! Let's teach those sons of bitches a lesson!" A fierce-looking sergeant major jerked back his rifle. "For Miss Abrams! For Louisiana!"

"For Miss Abrams!"

Chaotic shouts erupted on the Louisiana front, igniting the pent-up anger that had been building for days.

That night, fog blanketed the banks of the Red River.

Without a formal order to attack, or even a well-coordinated tactical plan, the first shot rang out from some angry Louisiana soldier, the bullet whistling through the night sky and striking a watchtower on the Texas side of the river.

"boom!"

This shot was like a starting signal, instantly igniting the entire line!

"Open fire! Kill them!"

On the Louisiana front, machine guns spat fire, mortars roared, and shells slammed into the Texas positions, the explosions tearing through the night.

The Texas National Guard was stunned by the sudden and fierce attack.

"They're crazy!"

Behind the earthen mound, the Texas soldiers frantically searched for cover while shouting into the radio, "We need reinforcements! Repeat, the Louisiana are launching a general offensive!"

M16 rifles and old M60 machine guns began to return fire, bullets weaving a deadly net over the Red River, tank engines roared, and Louisiana's armored vehicles began to force their way across the river.

On this night filled with doubt and driven by anger, war broke out in a manner that was almost out of control.

Texas and Louisiana, two historical rivals, finally broke off all pretense of civility and began fighting each other with the most primitive weapons on both sides of the Red River, driven by their shared border land, pent-up resentment, and the flames of revenge ignited by the death of a six-year-old girl.

Meanwhile, in the south, on the Mexican border, General Guderian stood beside his command vehicle, listening to the faint sounds of artillery fire coming from the north.

The script is unfolding step by step, following the direction written by certain people.

……

(End of this chapter)