Working as a police officer in Mexico.

Chapter 735 They are my closest friends and family!
January 18, 1996, early morning, off the coast of the Gulf of Maine.

A thin mist covered the sea, but it could not completely conceal the massive figure of a fleet that was deploying in battle formation.

After annexing California and taking over most of the legacy of the San Diego naval base, the Mexican Navy experienced a qualitative leap in strength. Warships that once flew the Stars and Stripes now bear the white, green, and red insignia of the Mexican Navy, forming the backbone of this "revenge fleet."

At the heart of the fleet is the somewhat aging but modernized amphibious assault ship USS Tenochtitlan (formerly USS Nassau LHA-4), whose massive hull resembles a mobile fortress, with helicopters and vertical takeoff and landing aircraft densely packed on its deck.

Surrounding it are several more imposing surface ships: including two Quautmok-class guided-missile destroyers (formerly the US Navy's Kidd-class destroyers USS Scott (DDG-995) and USS Chandler (DDG-996), and three Chimalpopoka-class guided-missile frigates (formerly the US Navy's Perry-class frigates).

In addition, there are several logistics support ships and landing craft carrying elite marines.

I have to say, my mouth was covered in grease from eating.

Inside the combat command center of the fleet flagship USS Tenochtitlan, the atmosphere was solemn and tense. On the huge electronic chart screen, the coastline of Maine, major ports, and areas where the U.S. Atlantic Fleet might operate were clearly marked.

The three naval commanders leading the operation were sitting around a nautical chart.

Mexican Navy Chief of Staff, Admiral Carl Dönitz, sat in the main seat, and to his left sat Vice Admiral Alfred von Tirpitz, Mexican Navy Operations and Training Director.

The other one was Lütjens, the captain of the mixed fleet.

Lieutenant General Tirpitz was tapping heavily on the location of Portland Harbor on the nautical chart with his fingers, his voice booming:
“Minister, Rear Admiral Lütjens! What are we waiting for? Our compatriots are being slaughtered ashore, and every minute of waiting is a disgrace! The main force of the U.S. East Coast Fleet is still licking its wounds in Norfolk, and its fighting strength is less than one-tenth. We should immediately order a naval barrage to bombard the defenses of Portland Harbor, and then the Marines should directly land on the beach! Establish a safe zone and send those sons of bitches of white thugs and the American police who condoned the violence to hell. The sea and war have always rewarded the brave!”

His proposal was filled with the heroic spirit of a Jutland-style decisive battle, but it also caused Rear Admiral Günther Lütjens, the commander of the mixed fleet standing beside him, to unconsciously twitch at the corner of his mouth. He knew all too well what such an action of directly attacking a port in the American mainland meant; it was almost equivalent to the start of a total war.

He opened his mouth, wanting to refute Tirpitz's recklessness, but seeing the other's almost fiery gaze, he swallowed his words. Vice Admiral Tirpitz's bad temper was notorious within the Navy.

I'm about to give you a hook punch; you're in for it.

All eyes were on General Karl Dönitz.

Dönitz didn't speak, but his gaze slowly swept over Tirpitz's face, which was flushed with excitement:
"Alfred, what do you think we are? Supermen from the M78 Nebula, or invincible alien invaders?"

He paused, picked up a light pen, and drew a few circles on the electronic nautical chart. "The US military is crippled, not dead. There are still operational warships at Norfolk, and their shore-based air force and missile sites are not entirely for show. More importantly, our military operations must strictly follow the strategic intentions of the military headquarters, and even Leader Victor himself. Without explicit authorization from Mexico City, do you dare to order the firing on a US port? Do you want to be court-martialed tomorrow for disobeying orders and triggering a full-scale war? Or do you think your shoulders can bear the responsibility of a full-scale war with the United States?"

Tirpitz's face flushed red and then paled. He wanted to argue, but looking into Dönitz's calm yet extremely imposing gaze, he ultimately swallowed his words. He knew his old superior all too well. Back when Dönitz was commander of the Mexican Naval Cavalry, Tirpitz had been his chief of staff, and he knew that behind Dönitz's composure lay deeper calculations and an even stronger will.

Disobeying him will never end well.

A brief silence fell over the command center, broken only by the faint hum of various electronic devices.

After a long pause, Dönitz spoke again, breaking the silence: "Contact the military and give a detailed report on our arrival at our designated positions, as well as the ongoing chaos along the Maine coast, and request further instructions."

He then changed the subject, saying, "While we await orders, we cannot do nothing. Our compatriots are still bleeding. Mexico's dignity needs to be upheld, and we need to put some real pressure on those unscrupulous thugs on the shore and the hesitant US government."

Upon hearing this, Tirpitz's eyes lit up, and he looked at Dönitz expectantly.

Dönitz pointed to a patch of international waters off the Maine coastline on the nautical chart, but very close, and then drew a line: “Instruct all ships to fire warning shots at the designated area on our side, outside the U.S. maritime boundary.”

He looked at Tirpitz. "Alfred, go and give the order. Remember, it's warning fire, and the target can only be uninhabited waters. I want to hear the cannon fire, but I don't want to see any unwanted results. Understand?"

"Yes, Your Excellency! I guarantee the mission will be accomplished!"

Lieutenant General Alfred von Tirpitz immediately stood up. Although he was somewhat disappointed that he could not directly bombard the port, the fact that the ship's guns could roar was enough to excite him. He saluted and left the command center with almost a charging gait.

Soon, piercing battle alarms sounded on the ships of the Mexican task force.

The 127mm main guns of the destroyer "Kwautmok" slowly rotated, their long barrels pointing towards the distant horizon. The 76mm rapid-fire guns on the other frigates also raised their muzzles.

"Fire!"

As the order is given.

"Boom——! Boom——! Boom——!"

The deafening roar of artillery fire shattered the tranquility of the Gulf of Maine in the early morning. Puffs of white smoke billowed from the cannons, and shells whistled through the air, flying towards the designated uninhabited sea area in the distance, exploding into towering columns of water on the surface of the sea.

The coastal defense command center in Portland, Maine, was in complete chaos.

"Radar confirmed! The enemy has opened fire! The shells have crossed our territorial sea line and landed outside our territorial sea line!" a radar operator reported loudly.

Commander Brigadier General Hudson snatched the communicator. His eyes were bloodshot from staying up all night and being extremely tense. When he heard the sound of artillery fire, he felt like his heart was going to jump out of his throat.

"Fight back! Fight back now! Target those Mexican bastards' flagship! Let them know who's in charge here!" Hudson roared into the communicator, his voice hoarse with excitement.

However, an awkward silence fell over the command post. Several staff officers and operators looked at each other, no one was carrying out orders, only the beeping of the equipment could be heard.

Hudson's rage intensified as he stared at the motionless control panel. "Are you deaf?! I order you to open fire!"

His adjutant, a young captain, stepped forward with a forced smile, his face showing embarrassment, and said in a low voice, barely audible to the two of them, "General, we're out of ammunition."

Hudson froze, then whirled around, staring intently at his adjutant. "What did you say? Say it again?"

The adjutant swallowed hard, his throat feeling dry. "I mean, the stockpiled coastal defense artillery shells, especially the 127mm and larger calibers, were mostly approved for 'disposal' during last month's 'non-core asset optimization review.' Our current stockpile isn't even enough for a single salvo. Logistics says new supplies won't arrive from South Carolina for at least three weeks." "Disposal?!"

Hudson's voice suddenly rose, filled with disbelief, "All sold out?! Who approved that?! Damn it! Those were our shells!"

He was so angry he was trembling, completely forgetting the satisfaction and approval he had felt when he approved the asset disposal document that would bring his unit a lot of "extra funding".

He slammed his hand on the control panel, making the coffee cup on it jump. "Bastards! Useless! A bunch of parasites! They can't even fire a single shell when it matters! I wish I could die for America and shed my blood on the battlefield! But now, even if the enemy stands at the door and pissssing at us, we can't even fucking fight back?!"

He waved his fists, his face flushed, and he cursed with spittle flying, cursing everything from the bureaucrats who approved the sale of artillery shells to the inefficient logistics, and then to the Mexicans who took advantage of the chaos, as if he wanted to vent all his frustration and fear through this angry outburst.

Hmm... seems very patriotic.

Just as he was raring to a halt, his throat parched from yelling, and he paused to catch his breath—

"Boom-boom!!!"

A very close whistling sound of a shell approached from afar, followed by a deafening explosion!

The thick bulletproof windows of the command post rattled, and dust fell from the ceiling. The explosion point was clearly off-target from the planned uninhabited sea area, landing near the breakwater outside the port, sending up not only splashes of water but also shattered concrete blocks.

"They're attacking!!" someone screamed.

Brigadier General Hudson, who had just been so passionate and eager to die with the enemy, was terrified by the explosion that was so close at hand. He instinctively dove under the sturdy mahogany desk, his movements so agile that he didn't seem like a middle-aged man who had gained weight.

He covered his head and huddled under the table. His earlier heroic spirit of "sacrificing himself for the country" had vanished without a trace, leaving only fear and embarrassment on his face.

The others in the command post were also terrified by the erratic shell, and chaos ensued.

Several seconds passed before Hudson, still shaken, peeked out from under the table, his face pale and his voice trembling: "Quick! Contact Washington! Contact the Atlantic Fleet! Tell them the Mexicans... the Mexicans have attacked us! They've really opened fire! We need support! Immediately! Right now!!"

Meanwhile, in the command center of the "Tenoch-Titlan".

The atmosphere instantly became tense because of that erratic shell.

Rear Admiral Lütjens almost immediately turned towards the gunnery department and demanded sharply, "What happened?! Which ship fired? Why did the target deviate from its designated area?!"

Soon, the slightly embarrassed voice of the captain of the USS Quautmok came through the communication channel: "Report! It is our No. 3 turret. A shell has deviated from the intended area by about 370 meters due to a delayed primer firing and a slight error in the initial velocity calculation. It has landed in the waters outside the breakwater of Portland Harbor."

"A calculation error?!"

Upon hearing this, Lieutenant General Tirpitz was not angry at all. Instead, a barely perceptible glint of excitement flashed in his large, bell-like eyes. He looked at Dönitz and said, "Your Excellency Minister! This might be an opportunity! We can claim that the US military's radar jamming or provocative actions led to our 'reactive tactical adjustments' and test their limits!"

Dönitz glared at Tirpitz. "Shut up, Alfred! Aren't you chaotic enough already?"

Tirpitz reluctantly shut his mouth, but his eyes still gleamed with resentment.

We almost went to war.

I really want a promotion!
Washington, D.C.'s communication lines have been nearly paralyzed due to an urgent military situation from Maine.

In the White House’s underground situation analysis room, the phone was directly handed to George W. Bush. He practically snatched the receiver, took several deep breaths to keep his voice from getting out of control, but the obvious blisters on the corners of his mouth betrayed his extreme anxiety.

"Victor!"

George W. Bush growled into the microphone, "Do you even know what you're doing, your fleet! Under your orders, you're shelling the American mainland! You're starting a new war!"

On the other end of the phone, Victor was also somewhat annoyed. "War? Bush, I think you've got one thing wrong. My purpose is to protect the Mexican-American expatriates who are being systematically massacred in Maine. I'd like to ask you, what is your government, your citizens, and even some of your military and police doing to my fellow countrymen? Isn't that a form of ethnic cleansing against Mexican citizens that you've condoned or even participated in?!"

"Does the life of a Mexican American mean nothing to you, the President of the United States?!"

George W. Bush felt his temples throbbing and his blood pressure soaring. He knew Victor was using this, but he couldn't deny the tragedy unfolding in Maine—an undeniable fact.

George W. Bush suppressed the urge to unleash a torrent of profanity. He stated, “I am deeply saddened and outraged by the tragedy that has occurred in Maine! I have ordered the deployment of federal law enforcement and reliable National Guard units to suppress all rioters in the area with the strongest possible force, whether they are members of the White Brotherhood or other opportunistic criminals! I guarantee they will be severely punished under the law! Furthermore, the U.S. government is willing to provide full humanitarian compensation and benefits to the Mexican-American victims and their families!”

He was practically promising to use swift action and money to shut Viktor up and calm things down.

However, Viktor's reply was firm: "Suppression? Reparations? Bush, do you think that's enough?!"

His voice rose eight octaves, filled with grief and indignation, as if he were standing on a moral high ground looking down at the White House: "My compatriots! On the land of the 'American Dream' you promised, they are being hunted and slaughtered like livestock by your people! Their blood has stained the streets, their bodies are piled up in the ruins! Their souls are weeping! This cannot be smoothed over with a few empty promises and a little compensation to appease beggars! This involves the national dignity of Mexico, the basic human rights and safety of every Mexican! This—is—not—enough!"

"What else do you want?!"

There was a brief silence on the other end of the phone, with only the faint "click" of a lighter being lit and the sound of Viktor slowly exhaling a puff of smoke.

“Little Bush, I’m a straightforward person. To protect my fellow citizens, to make amends for the immense trauma and humiliation they and our nation have suffered…”

"You need to pay more!!"

(End of this chapter)