The Juarez War had been raging for over 40 hours.
It was like a gigantic meat grinder, processing everyone within, amalgamating them before dragging them out like waste.
Both sides had committed nearly a hundred thousand troops, and due to the peculiar structure, the Northern Army could only slowly dismantle buildings!
After more than 40 hours, they still hadn't pushed into the city center!
When the battle report landed on Victor's desk, he winced at the casualty figures.
"Nearly half a regiment killed? Over 2000 injured? What the hell is Siegmut List, the commander of the Marine First Division, thinking? Does he have a chamber pot for a brain?!"
He grumbled discontentedly, thinking, "We only have six regiments in total, and you almost wiped out one."
Kennedy, standing by with gritted teeth, spoke up, "General, Juarez covers an area of 188 square kilometers. The drug traffickers control the high points, their anti-air firepower is strong, and our air force can't conduct effective strikes. The ground troops are getting embroiled in street fighting and building assaults. Casualties are bound to increase. If we remove Siegmut List now, it could seriously shake the morale of our frontline troops."
Victor frowned and took a drag from his cigarette.
The telephone on the table rang abruptly, and Jason, the squadron leader beside him, glanced at him before answering the call, his face quickly turning strange.
"General, the United States will send a delegation to talk with you, arriving at Tijuana at 1300 hours."
"What do the Americans want? To eat shit?" Rudendorf blurted out indignantly on one side.
Chief of Staff Horatio Herbert Kitchener stood by, twitching at the corners of his mouth.
Rudendorf was well-known within the Northern Army for his disdain for Americans. He had even written a report titled "On the Importance of American Land and Industry to Mexico" for the internal academy journal, suggesting that if Mexico expanded eastward into American territory, Mexico would become a true great power.
He was nicknamed: Dreamer.
Victor gave him a glance and immediately understood the Yanks' intention; they were planning to come and "guide" his conduct!
Juarez was an important city on the US-Mexico border, with millions of Americans passing through to enter Mexico every year, and likewise, 70% of drugs entered the United States through here.
An incredibly important border city.
Victor also admitted to himself that he had been "less and less honest," and surely the American side was becoming increasingly annoyed and hoped to give him a wake-up call.
"Invite them to the Juarez front lines!"
"I think it's time for them to see the Mexican people's determination in the drug war!"
Victor spoke with narrowed eyes, staring at Kennedy, "Bring our 'old gentleman' over, Juarez's drug traffickers need them!"
General Kennedy Heisenberg was taken aback and met the Governor's gaze, nodding solemnly.
As soon as the American delegation arrived in Tijuana on a chartered flight, Casare told them that the General was waiting for them in Juarez.
Donald Rumsfeld, leading the delegation, looked around and joked, "Our Mexican Governor seems to take the military very seriously."
The staff accompanying him chuckled along.
CIA Senior Assistant Kenstbourg, on the other hand, was expressionless, looking as if someone owed him money.
Actually, the CIA already had a rocky relationship with Donald Rumsfeld. During the Ford administration, when Rumsfeld served as Defense Minister, he reached into the CIA more than once, hoping to establish an intelligence agency that aligned with The Pentagon's interests.
The power struggle between them made quite a spectacle.
And the FBI's Pearson stood at the back, well versed in the art of playing dead; better not to stick your neck out!
Casare was also smiling, but his expression seemed a bit unnatural.
Can't you keep your mouth shut or will it kill you?
But the boss is under a lot of pressure too; the leader of this delegation is her "girlfriend's" grandfather, after all.
The Northern Army arranged for five Mi-8 armed helicopters to transport them to Juarez.
Despite being 60 years old, Rumsfeld climbed onto the plane nimbly.
Casare looked up as the helicopters flew away and touched his chest three times, "Victor bless."
"Mr. Envoy, I do recall that Victor is currently in a passionate romance with your granddaughter Belsaria, right?"
Inside the helicopter, CIA's Kenstbourg suddenly spoke up, bluntly confronting Donald Rumsfeld with the insinuation.
The rest of the people inside the aircraft instantly held their breath, and FBI's Pearson looked at him in surprise. The CIA jerk really had no fear of death; didn't fear being thrown down from the helicopter.
Hearing this, the old defense minister's expression turned grave, and he pushed his glasses up his nose, "Since when does the CIA care so much about young people's romance?"
"If you want to become gossip journalists, let me know. I can introduce you to a job."
Kenstbourg's face darkened immediately, beaten by an old man's tongue-lashing?
But he didn't have the guts to flip the table; Donald Rumsfeld was robust, a famous boxer back when he was a Navy flight instructor. Who would win in a fight was really not a sure thing.
"Also, please be quiet, or else, I'll beat you to death, son of a bitch CIA!"
Pearson couldn't help but laugh out loud, and when Kenstbourg glared at him with rage-filled eyes, Pearson glared back, "Son of a bitch CIA!"
The FBI and CIA agents butted heads while other department staff enjoyed the spectacle; it was certainly entertaining.
Donald Rumsfeld squinted his eyes; although he cursed the CIA outwardly, inside, he was somewhat displeased about his granddaughter finding a Mexican boyfriend.