336: Chapter 336 The Seventh Coordinate

President Te picked up the glass of bourbon and drained it in one gulp.

The glass slammed heavily onto the table.

"Are you threatening the President of the USA?"

Greenberg didn't even blink.

"No, I am merely stating your options."

No one on either side of the long table spoke. In those long seconds, the only sounds in the Situation Room were the hum of the air conditioning vents and the faint whirring of Abramovich's laptop fan.

Then President Te stood up.

He leaned forward with both hands on the table, the skin on his neck flushing a dark red—a color that only appeared when he vented his rage on Twitter countless times over the past four years.

"You goddamn vampires." His voice was low, but every word seemed squeezed out from between his teeth. "Who do you think you are? Do you think I'm sitting in this seat because of your stinking money? You gave me 240 million—do you know how much those military-industrial lobbyists stuffed into Congress? Thirty billion over ten years. You were fighting your wars long before I became president. Afghanistan, Iraq, Syria—which one didn't start with you drawing the bombing coordinates first and then telling the Ministry of Defense to buy your bombs? You think I don't know?"

He pointed at Haskins. "You, Raytheon Director, former Under Secretary of the Army. How much blood is on your hands? Do I need to pull the files from the Office of the Inspector General at the Ministry of Defense?"

He pointed at Greenberg. "You sit in a secret room forty meters beneath Manhattan, never even seeing the sunlight, yet you want to decide how the USA Navy sails its ships in the Red Sea. I'm telling you, I am the President, not you."

He didn't finish his sentence because Greenberg also stood up.

"Mr. President, you are not talking to your staff. You are talking to your bank."

These words were like an ice pick slicing across the long table. President Te's face turned from flushed red to an ashen gray; his lips quivered, but no sound came out.

Greenberg retrieved the document from the table, straightened it, and placed it back into Abramovich's hands. Then he pulled a neatly folded piece of paper from his coat's inner pocket, unfolded it, and placed it in front of President Te.

It was a campaign rally schedule.

"Next Tuesday, Dallas, Texas. You have a rally. We suggest you attend as scheduled."

Why did he mention that specifically? Before President Te could react, Greenberg had already turned toward the door. Haskins and Abramovich followed closely behind. The woman who had never spoken was the last to rise; as she reached the door, she looked back once, her gaze as calm as if she were reviewing a finalized official document.

The blast door closed behind the four of them, and the Situation Room returned to a dead silence.

President Te slowly sat back in his chair. He looked at the half-glass of flat dregs on the table and reached up to wipe the sweat from his forehead. The scent of bourbon mixed with the cold air of the AC, fermenting in the enclosed space into a smell similar to hospital disinfectant.

"Meadows." He called the Chief of Staff's name.

"Here, sir." The Chief of Staff's voice was trembling.

"Those goddamn vampires, they think they're the masters."

The Chief of Staff didn't respond because he was thinking of the same reality—they didn't just think it; they actually were.

President Te turned his head: "Get me the Attorney General. I want to find out how many of Greenberg's people are lurking in my government. Also, the Dallas rally—increase security. Maximum level."

At the same moment, in a secret room within the Presidential Palace in Naypyidaw.

Through the encrypted communications intercepted by Old K, Zhang Cheng "listened in" on the entire verbal battle almost in real-time. He leaned back on the two-year-old leather sofa, facing three glowing screens. One showed real-time satellite tracking of Greenberg's motorcade, one was a text transcript from the bug in the White House Situation Room, and the third was a summary of intelligence just sent by Old K.

"They mentioned Dallas, Texas at the end. President Te's campaign rally, next Tuesday."

"Next Tuesday." Zhang Cheng repeated those three words. "Old K, tell me, if a man who owes a bank 240 million tells the bank 'I'm not paying,' what does the bank do?"

Old K was silent for a moment: "They seize the collateral."

Zhang Cheng picked up his teacup; the tea was already cold. He didn't drink it, merely watching through the steam as Greenberg's motorcade left the vicinity of the White House West Wing and merged into Washington's sparse early-morning traffic.

"Get ready for a good show; the USA's own backyard is about to catch fire." He set down the teacup and said to Old K, "Notify Sinwar and Houssa. The focus now is on consolidating the front lines; do not advance recklessly. I don't want our forces tied down in any unnecessary skirmishes before the USA implodes. Let President Te and his bankers have their fight first—no matter who wins, the victor will discover that the real creditor isn't sitting at any negotiation table."

"Also, have Zhao Gang come over. the Dragon Kingdom needs to know that their 'strategic competitor' might be too busy to worry about the South China Sea starting next week."

Dallas, Texas.

February 18th, 4:20 PM.

On the plaza outside the Dallas Convention Center, over fifteen thousand people gathered within the metal barricades. Bright red 'Make the USA Great Again' hats surged like a tide of blood, and countless Stars and Stripes snapped in the dry prairie wind. The stage was set up on the south wing's outer plaza, backed by a giant four-story electronic screen of the American flag, with banners reading 'Trump 2024' and 'Save the USA' hanging on both sides. The air was thick with the smell of popcorn and barbecue, as well as that unique agitation found at campaign rallies—a mix of anger, hope, and an indescribable fanaticism.

President Te's plane, Air Force One, had landed at Dallas-Fort Worth International Airport twenty minutes ago. According to the Secret Service's original security plan, all high points within a two-kilometer radius of the rally site would be controlled by counter-sniper teams, mobile patrols would be deployed at major intersections within five blocks, and three Black Hawk helicopters would circle the site during the rally.

But there was a loophole in these arrangements.

This loophole wasn't in the security plan itself, but in the person who made it.

That morning, Kevin Morrison—a forty-six-year-old deputy-level agent at the Secret Service's Dallas field office with twenty-two years of experience and three presidential commendations—used a red pen to cross out the seventh coordinate on the high-point control list while reviewing the final version.

The building corresponding to that coordinate was an abandoned food warehouse 480 meters southwest of the convention center. Built in the 1970s, it was four stories high with a flat roof and outer walls of dark red old brick. It had been rated as 'Medium Risk' in last month's security assessment—because it was close enough to the rally stage that a marksman rifle could effortlessly send a bullet into the airspace behind the podium that the Secret Service called the 'Presidential Protective Bubble.'

The reason Morrison gave for crossing out that coordinate was: "Building's internal structure is unstable and cannot support the weight of a sniper team. Coordinated with Dallas PD to set up mobile patrols on the perimeter."