Capítulo 1463: Chapter 692: Enduring Old Man

As time slipped into September, the entire nation of Mexico was already immersed in a frenzy of celebration.

For Mexicans, Independence Day carries a significance far beyond other holidays.

It marks the beginning of their liberation from colonial shackles, the declaration of national independence, a pride and passion etched in their bones and blood.

In Mexico City, this celebration reached its peak.

The streets, from Paseo de la Reforma to Constitution Plaza, were already flooded with green, white, and red national flags.

Huge flags hung down the facades of skyscrapers, and strings of small triangular flags rustled in the breeze, linking every lamp post.

The storefront windows facing the street were meticulously decorated with patriotic themes, and the supermarkets were filled with special Independence Day merchandise.

In the evening, people spontaneously gathered in the streets, their faces painted with the national flag, wearing broad-brimmed sombreros or traditional ethnic headdresses, waving small flags, singing and dancing along with street bands.

The air was filled with the scent of roasted corn, the greasy aroma of fried pork skins, the sweet stickiness of sugary syrup, and an omnipresent, restless, and jubilant hormonal atmosphere.

The laughter of children, the playful banter of couples, the blaring trumpets and songs of mariachi bands, the shouts of vendors selling souvenirs… all these sounds mixed together, forming a colossal wave of noise that seemed to nearly overturn the city.

It was a joy that came from the heart.

The night before Independence Day, September 15, 1995.

A military airport in Mexico City.

A Boeing VC-25A, without any visible markings, landed silently on the runway, taxiing to a designated area.

The level of security at the airport was far beyond usual.

In addition to the ubiquitous Mexican soldiers and military police, there were some special security personnel dressed in black suits, wearing earpieces, with sharp gazes, scattered around.

The airplane door opened, and the stair car quickly docked.

George Walker Bush appeared.

He deliberately avoided wearing the iconic flight jacket or casual wear, opting instead for a formal suit with a tie.

However, his face looked unusually haggard, with deep eye bags, a tense mouth, each step down the stairs seemed heavy and stiff.

Casare, who had been waiting at the foot of the stairs, immediately stepped forward.

Still with his round appearance, wearing a suit that seemed perpetually one size too big, his face piled with overly enthusiastic smiles, resembling a Maitreya Buddha.

“Mr. President,” Casare offered his pudgy hand, “Welcome to Mexico City, it’s been a hard journey.”

“Mr. Casare.”

There were no red carpets, no honor guards, no children presenting flowers, and no swarming journalists.

This was an absolutely secret, low-profile reception.

After a brief exchange of pleasantries, Little Bush and his extremely streamlined entourage were swiftly led to a waiting motorcade.

The motorcade consisted of five black Chevrolets with deeply tinted windows, also American vehicles, but the drivers and security personnel in the escort cars were all Mexicans.

Little Bush was invited to the back of the middle car.

Casare deftly opened the door and sat beside him.

With a “bang,” the car door shut.

The motorcade immediately started without sirens or flashing lights, silently leaving the military airport, merging onto the road leading to the city center.

The atmosphere inside the car was oppressively suffocating.

Little Bush stubbornly turned his head towards the window, watching the rapidly passing scenery outside.

Casare sat beside him with a smiling face, showing no intention of initiating a conversation, occasionally observing the American president who was masking his dejection with forced composure with the corner of his eyes.

The motorcade first passed through the industrial zone and relatively remote suburban areas around the airport.

But soon, the scenery began to change.

The closer they got to the city center, the stronger the festive atmosphere became.

The roads became congested, and although their motorcade had a dedicated lane, they could still feel the surging crowd and noise waves around them.

The streets were filled with bustling people, shoulder to shoulder.

People held national flags, waved glow sticks, sang, danced, their faces beaming with pure and unrestrained smiles.

“A unified, powerful, brand new Mexico! Glory belongs to Mexico! Glory belongs to Victor!”

The crowd erupted in louder cheers whenever an image of Victor appeared.

“¡Viva México!” (Long live Mexico!)

“¡Viva Víctor!” (Long live Victor!)

The waves of sound, though muted by the excellent soundproofing of the car windows, still faintly reached Little Bush’s ears, pounding like tides.

On lampposts, building walls, even some speeding car bodies, simple and powerful slogans were posted:

“¡Unión, Fuerza, Orden!” (Unity, Strength, Order!)

“¡El Futuro es Nuestro!” (The future is ours!)

“¡Bienvenido Texas a Casa!” (Welcome Texas home!)

These slogans stung Little Bush’s eyes.

He saw young couples kissing passionately by the roadside, a group of laughing and playing students passing by;

All this stood in absurd contrast to his current mood, and to the nation he represented, which was bleeding, losing an important part.

A sense of immense absurdity enveloped him.

Is this really the Mexico that was once viewed by the United States as its backyard, filled with poverty, drugs, and corruption?

The play of light and shadow from the car window flickered on Little Bush’s face.

When his Old Dad was the Director of the CIA, Mexico was not like this!