The morning after the devastating air raid on Bogotá was eerily quiet. Smoke hung heavy over the city, blotting out the rising sun. The once-bustling capital of Gran Colombia now resembled a war-torn battlefield. Streets were littered with rubble and debris, the remains of government buildings lay in ruins, and the acrid smell of burning wood and steel filled the air. Survivors wandered aimlessly, their faces streaked with soot and tears, their expressions a mixture of disbelief and fear.
In the presidential palace—or what was left of it—President Mariano Velásquez stood in what had once been his office. Now, the walls were scorched black, the windows blown out, and the grand desk splintered into fragments. Velásquez, his face pale but his eyes burning with fury, turned to his gathered cabinet and military advisors. The group was smaller than usual; several key officials had perished in the bombing, their absence a glaring reminder of the attack's toll.
