Working as a police officer in Mexico.

Chapter 693 Angsa Guanlong Youths!

Washington, D.C., the White House, the Oval Office.

"Bang!"

Bush slammed the expensive encrypted telephone receiver back onto its base with such force that the entire mahogany desk seemed to tremble.

His chest heaved violently, veins bulged on his forehead, and his face was a purplish-red hue mixed with extreme anger.

Just now on the phone, he almost screamed out that taboo word—the X button!

Threaten that Mexican butcher with the destruction of all of North America!

Let's die together!!
Now, the frenzy has subsided, and reality is like a bucket of cold water poured over his head, chilling him from his spine to his heels.

He, George Walker Bush, was a true Star-Spangled Bannerman, a good man from the Guanzhong Plain!

The Bush family has been working on this continent since the Mayflower era. His father was a "cold-faced politician" who experienced World War II and the Cold War, and can be considered one of the last remaining veterans!

Even the Queen of England has to address him as a cousin according to their generational relationship!

Who is he? He is the President of the United States of America! The leader of the free world!
But now?

Texas!

Texas! Such a big state!
Texas, home to the richest oil reserves in the US, the most expansive ranches, and the epitome of cowboy spirit, was lost during his term!

Stuart, that idiot!

He had originally hoped that Paul Constantine Stuart could hold out a little longer, even if it became a government-in-exile, he could maneuver in Congress and gradually turn the situation around through negotiations, sanctions, and secret support, or at the very least preserve Texas's legal status.

But who the hell could have imagined this!
Stuart collapsed so quickly! So completely! The Mexican armored onslaught advanced faster than the fucking Wall Street crash!
While his wrangling on Capitol Hill was still going on, Houston City Hall had already been adorned with the Mexican eagle emblem!
"Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!"

Bush slammed his foot on the heavy desk, the expensive solid wood surface groaning dully. A sharp pain shot through his toe, but it did nothing to alleviate his inner turmoil.

He staggered out of the Oval Office, ignoring the astonished looks of his secretary and security personnel behind him, and plunged into the private study next door, slamming the door shut and locking it!
Shame! An unprecedented shame!

This isn't just smearing his political record; it's throwing his record into a Texas oil well and setting it on fire!

"Knock, knock, knock!" A knock sounded on the door, accompanied by the anxious voice of a trusted advisor:

"Mr. President? Are you alright, sir?"

"Get out! All of you get out! Don't bother me!" Little Bush roared, his voice hoarse.

The area outside the door fell silent instantly.

He slid down onto the carpet, running his hands through his meticulously styled but now slightly disheveled hair, his expensive suit crumpled into a mess.

It's over, it's over.

He knew that he was now inextricably linked to the title of "the most disgraceful president in American history."

How will history books describe him in the future? How will textbooks evaluate him?
"George Walker Bush lost the homeland of Texas during his term."

They might even give him an extremely awful posthumous title: "Marquis Who Ceased Territory"? "Duke Who Lost Morality"? Or worse, those damned Eastern elites and opposition parties might even give him the temple name "Bolshevik Cult," which would be a complete joke.

Although the Soviet Union is gone now, this label still tarnishes the Bush family's century-old reputation...

He couldn't help but curse in Texas dialect, but then an even greater sorrow welled up inside him. He was almost losing even the right to curse in Texas dialect!
"Paul Constantine Stuart misled me."

He suddenly remembered that he had almost been berated by Congress at the meeting today. He was a member of the Stars and Stripes, but other political families had also been high-ranking officials for generations.

For George Walker Bush, that night felt like an eternity.

The study was filled with smoke, with expensive cigars and cheap cigarettes burning together, much like his anxious and chaotic state of mind at that moment.

Several times, he almost lost control, his fingers trembling as he reached for the phone, wanting to reconnect to that damned number that had brought him such humiliation.

He wanted to question Viktor about why the diplomatic note hadn't arrived yet.

What exactly do the Mexicans want? Do they really want to push him, and America, to the brink of collapse?

But his remaining rationality, or rather, his lingering fear of the bottomless abyss represented by that "X button," pulled him back time and time again.

He can't be too anxious.

He could only wait.

The sky outside the window gradually changed from inky black to grayish-white, and then revealed the faint light of dawn.

George W. Bush slumped on the sofa, his suit crumpled, his tie loose, and his eye bags heavy, looking as if his spine had been removed.

As the first rays of sunlight pierced the study, he finally stood up unsteadily, took a deep breath of the stale air, and turned the locked doorknob.

Outside the door, his chief foreign policy advisor was walking briskly with a document in his hand, clearly having been waiting for some time.

When the consultant looked up and saw what little Bush looked like, he was startled and almost dropped the folder in his hand.

“Mr. President! God, you…” the advisor’s voice was filled with shock and worry, “You need to rest immediately, or have a doctor come and see you! You look terrible.”

George W. Bush waved his hand, his voice hoarse: "I won't die, what's up?" His gaze fell on the documents in the advisor's hand.

The advisor immediately handed over the documents, his tone carrying a barely perceptible hint of relief: "A formal diplomatic telegram from the Mexican Ministry of Foreign Affairs, inviting you to attend their Independence Day celebrations to be held in Mexico City on September 16."

George W. Bush grabbed the documents, his bloodshot eyes quickly scanning the official rhetoric.

September 9th?
More than half a month to go? The flames of anxiety in his heart flared up again. Was that damned Viktor deliberately keeping him hanging? But he quickly suppressed these emotions.

He understood that the other party was controlling the pace of the game, telling him: What's the rush? The initiative is in my hands now.

He swallowed hard. “Reply to them that I will be there on time.”

"Yes, sir. I'll arrange it immediately." The consultant nodded and turned to leave.

"Wait!" Bush suddenly called out to him, rubbing his throbbing temples as his mind raced through extreme exhaustion.

The consultant stopped and turned back, puzzled.

George W. Bush hesitated for a few seconds, his eyes flickering, and then lowered his voice and said, "Send a non-public order to the relevant domestic departments to immediately lift all special control and screening measures targeting Mexican residents within the country. All the previous ones... are suspended."

He paused, lowering his voice even further: "Also, tell certain people, especially those groups and militias that have been making a big fuss about Texas, to keep quiet for now. The government should not have any public or private contact with them for the time being, at least not until I return from Mexico City, so as not to cause any further trouble."

I was afraid Viktor would misunderstand.

The consultant paused for a moment, then nodded solemnly. "Understood, sir. I will handle this with utmost care." "Go," Bush said wearily, waving his hand.

That's fucking ridiculous.

……

Victor deliberately dragged out the negotiations until after Mexico's Independence Day on September 16, not merely to humiliate George W. Bush or to demonstrate his dominance.

This precious month was a crucial window for him to digest Texas, consolidate his rule, and make the situation irreversible. He wanted Bush to arrive to see a fait accompli, a Texas where the flames of resistance had been largely extinguished and a new order was taking root.

The order, issued from the National Palace in Mexico City, was swiftly translated into action across Texas via encrypted radio waves and loyal messengers.

The intensity and frequency of Mexican military patrols have increased to an unprecedented level.

Especially in rural areas and urban-rural fringe areas, where resistance is bred, UH-1 Huey and Mi-17 helicopter formations roar overhead almost around the clock, and the enormous noise itself serves as a psychological deterrent.

On the helicopter flying low overhead, the machine gunner's cold gaze and the dark muzzle of his gun swept across every field, every road, and every house below.

Any suspicious movement could provoke a warning shot or directly lead to a sweeping operation by ground troops.

In order to completely eradicate the breeding ground for "swarm" attacks, Victor instructed the Texas provisional administration to implement a grassroots control system derived from ancient Eastern wisdom but modernized—a variant of the Baojia system.

In townships and urban communities, a "dual-management chief system" is being implemented.

The head of the village was a respected local Texan who was willing to cooperate, while the deputy head was a surrendered person ("traitor") who had performed "well" and had been incorporated into the system.

The two supervised each other and were jointly responsible for population registration, resource allocation, intelligence gathering, and maintaining public order within their jurisdiction.

If any attack occurs in any district and no warning is given in advance or no clues are provided afterward, both the head and deputy head of the neighborhood will be held accountable. The consequences range from being stripped of their rations to being imprisoned.

This system makes great use of human selfishness and fear, forcibly extending the tentacles of management into the most basic cells.

The effects were significant and brutal.

In order to protect themselves and avoid implicating their families and neighbors, many ordinary residents who had previously remained silent began to actively pay attention to and report any unusual occurrences around them.

Trust has further collapsed, but attacks have indeed dropped precipitously.

The resistance forces lost their most important cover and source of supplies—the silence and tolerance of the people.

The allure of money continues to grow.

With the exorbitant reward offered, informing became rampant. In late August, a secret intelligence report from the "model town" of Fredericksburg directly led to a major victory.

The informant accurately provided the hiding places and activity patterns of the main leaders of the "Lone Star Brotherhood," an extremely stubborn and highly capable group entrenched in the nearby mountains.

Elite commandos from the Mexican Army's 5th Airborne Brigade launched a precision strike at night.

The intense firefight lasted less than half an hour, during which all seven core members of the Brotherhood, including its supreme commander, former Texas Ranger Captain Jackson Jack Holyfield, known for his extreme xenophobia and ruthlessness, were killed.

When Holyfield's body was dragged out, it was almost riddled with bullets, but his face was still contorted with unbelievable rage.

Mexican authorities unceremoniously transported the bodies of Holyfield and several other leaders to Austin and "displayed" them in the plaza in front of the state capitol building.

Reporters flocked to the scene and captured the cold, wretched end of these once-arrogant resistance fighters.

The photo made the front page of all Mexican-controlled media outlets, with headlines full of sarcasm: "The 'Lone Star' has fallen, the end for the resisters!"

This was a devastating blow to the morale of the remaining resistance forces and sent a message to all Texans: the toughest nut had been cracked, and it was only a matter of time before the final blow came.

Meanwhile, the "carrot" arrived just in time.

In towns that cooperated earlier and were designated as "safe zones," Mexican supply convoys were constantly arriving and departing.

Flour, corn, cooking oil, medicine, and even fresh fruit and coffee from Mexico—supplies that were scarce during the war and blockade—were distributed openly and in large quantities.

While far from abundant, it was enough to sustain basic survival, which held an irresistible appeal for many ordinary families ravaged by war.

Even more drastic, Mexican authorities announced a pilot program for a simplified healthcare system in several major cities and "model counties."

Medical teams, composed of Mexican military doctors and recruited local cooperating physicians, set up temporary clinics under the protection of Mexican soldiers to provide basic free medical services—wound treatment, vaccinations, and the distribution of antibiotics and malaria medication—to residents who had cooperated with the confiscation of weapons and were registered.

This is like a godsend for many communities that have long lacked medical care and medicine.

"They took the guns, but gave us medicine and food."

Such whispers began to circulate among the people, complex and realistic.

For many, dignity and tradition no longer seem so paramount when faced with the challenge of survival.

By early September, significant changes had occurred.

Gunfire in major Texas cities—Houston, Dallas, San Antonio, Austin, and El Paso—became sparse, until it almost disappeared.

Mexican military checkpoints remained numerous and rigorous, but the fear on the faces of passing vehicles and pedestrians gradually gave way to numbness and compliance. Shops began to reopen, though the variety of goods was limited and prices were high, at least there were signs of commercial activity.

The curfew at night remains strict, but it is no longer completely silent; the occasional sound of Mexican soldiers' patrol vehicles can be heard passing by.

On the radio, the stations controlled by the Brelock and Harris families broadcast news about "peace and reconstruction" day and night, interspersed with cheerful Mexican folk songs and Texas country music, deliberately creating a distorted atmosphere of "harmony".

Victor sat in the National Palace, reading the latest report sent by Casare, a satisfied smile on his face.

“The grassroots control system must be strengthened. The village chiefs should be given some incentives, such as priority supply of some scarce materials, so that they can truly feel the benefits of cooperation.”

Victor instructed Casare, “Healthcare and education must keep up. Tell our Texas capital to fund the establishment of several foundations to sponsor the children of our partners to study in Mexico City or at our universities. We need to cultivate the next generation of pro-Mexico Texas elites.”

“Understood, boss. The list is already being shortlisted,” Casare nodded in response.

“The resistance has gone underground, but it hasn’t been eradicated yet.” Victor tapped the table. “Especially those drug dealers and radical white supremacists. They won’t give up. Intelligence work can’t be relaxed. We need to keep the pressure on them and make them collapse from within.”

"Yes, we have already turned several low-level leaders to our side and are now following the clues."

"very good."

Viktor stood up, walked to the window, and looked north.

"The stage prepared for Mr. Bush is almost set up. When he comes, I want him to see a peaceful Texas, a Texas that is recovering, and to understand that all resistance is futile. Sitting down to talk and accepting reality is his only option."

"There is only one sun in Latin America."

……

(End of this chapter)