Chapter 119 Arms Dealers?

"Do you know why I know the delivery cycle for Siemens?"

"I don't." Mu Xin was starting to feel annoyed; this guy was really fucking tedious.

"My biotech company needed a set of specialized ultra-high-pressure sterilization systems, and Siemens is the best supplier in the world."

"I had the procurement department ask, and they came back saying the delivery cycle was twenty-eight months. I said no, that's too long, I can't wait."

"The procurement manager said twenty-eight months was the fastest speed we could get. From that day on, I started paying attention to the power supply chain."

"It's not because I care about your project; it's because I discovered an opportunity—an opportunity everyone saw, but no one dared to touch."

"What opportunity?" Mu Xin asked.

"Have you heard of 'Gas Turbine Power Modules'?"

Mu Xin frowned slightly. He had, of course, heard of gas turbines—the kind used in power plants, massive things weighing dozens of tons that required specialized foundations and factory buildings.

But Ramaswamy said "modules," and the word made him feel something was off.

"Not the stationary, large-scale gas turbines," Ramaswamy explained. "It's a modular, mobile power generation device, the size of a shipping container."

"Put a gas turbine inside a forty-foot shipping container, connect the fuel and cables, and it can generate electricity."

"No need for a specialized foundation, no need for complex installation and commissioning—you can use it as soon as it's delivered to the site."

"Who produces this kind of thing?" Mu Xin asked.

"General Electric and Siemens Energy are both doing it," Ramaswamy explained.

"But they don't make new ones; they make refurbished ones. They take apart retired military aircraft engines and convert them into ground power generation modules."

Mu Xin was stunned. "Military aircraft engines?"

"Yes," Ramaswamy nodded. "F404, F414, CFM56—these are all engines from fighter jets and civilian airliners. The technology is mature, the reliability is high, and the power density is astonishing."

"A retired F404 engine, after modification, can output twenty to thirty megawatts of power."

"Twenty to thirty megawatts? That's enough to cover the peak load of Oxford Town," Mu Xin said uncertainly.

"And its footprint is only the size of a shipping container. You don't need to build a specialized factory, you don't need to pour a foundation dozens of meters deep. You haul it to the location, and it can generate power within twenty-four hours."

Mu Xin calculated rapidly in his mind. Twenty to thirty megawatts. The peak load of Oxford Town was twenty megawatts; one unit would be enough.

No need to wait in line for three years, no need to fight internet giants for production capacity, no need to worry about imports from China getting stuck at customs.

A retired fighter jet engine, modified into a shipping container-sized power module, hauled to the construction site in Hueston Woods, connected to fuel, and it works.

He had seen similar news. A few years ago, General Electric launched a mobile generator set called the "TM2500."

It used a CF6-6 aircraft engine, the size of a forty-foot container, which could be loaded onto a truck and hauled around. If a place lost power, they would haul it over, hook it up, and provide electricity.

But the problem was, could you even buy this stuff on the market?

"Mr. Ramaswamy, General Electric and Siemens are indeed making these power modules, but I don't think they would sell them to me," Mu Xin said.

"That's why I don't go to General Electric, and I don't go to Siemens," Ramaswamy said, looking at him, the curve of his mouth deepening.

"Mr. Mu, in your opinion, besides the United States, which country has a large number of retired military aircraft engines?"

Mu Xin's pupils constricted slightly. "Russia."

"Correct," Ramaswamy nodded. "When the Soviet Union dissolved, it left behind a massive number of military aircraft and engines."

"MiGs, Sukhois, Tupolevs—thousands of engines scattered in warehouses across various former Soviet republics, gathering dust, rusting, slowly turning into scrap metal."

"Someone saw this opportunity, collected these engines, refurbished them, modified them, and turned them into power modules to sell to people who can't wait three to five years."

"For example?" Mu Xin was curious.

"For example, mines in Africa, oil fields in the Middle East, remote islands in Southeast Asia."

"These places aren't covered by power grids, and traditional diesel generators are expensive, noisy, and not environmentally friendly."

"A modified Russian engine, burning natural gas or diesel, can run continuously for tens of thousands of hours, and the maintenance cost is much lower than a diesel generator."

"So you're telling me you've been doing business with the Russians?"

Ramaswamy looked at him and chuckled.

"Mr. Mu, don't be so blunt. I haven't been doing business with the Russians; I have a partnership with an energy equipment trading company registered in the UAE."

"This company acquires retired engines from Kazakhstan, refurbishes and modifies them, and sells them to clients globally."

"I just help them make the connections and occasionally earn a tiny bit of a finder's fee."

Mu Xin stared into his eyes for a few seconds without speaking.

This man, Ramaswamy, was far more complex than he had imagined.

A Republican Party candidate who played the role of a patriotic entrepreneur in public, a politician who railed against China, Russia, and everything that threatened America's national security at campaign rallies, was secretly dealing with retired Russian engines.

Yacht epiphany...

Mu Xin shook his head inwardly. This wasn't a yacht epiphany; this was meeting an arms dealer on a yacht.

"Mr. Mu, I know what you're thinking," Ramaswamy's expression didn't change, but his tone became a bit more serious.

"You're thinking, how could a Republican Party candidate get involved with the Russians?"

"But let me ask you a question: those people on Capitol Hill who shout 'America First' the loudest—where does their campaign funding come from?"

"Arms dealers, oil giants, Wall Street. I've just switched to a more direct track."

"So you don't want to be Governor anymore?" Mu Xin frowned.

"I do," Ramaswamy answered quickly. "But not right now. My current status allows me to do many things."

"Senator immunity—you know, some things are completely different with or without this status."

Mu Xin understood. Ramaswamy wasn't giving up on politics; he was utilizing politics.

Running for Governor wasn't his destination; it was his cover.

A Republican Party candidate with presidential backing, media attention, and immunity—these things combined to form a protective umbrella.

Under this umbrella, he could do many things.

"Mr. Mu, I didn't come here today to talk politics with you; I came to talk business."

Ramaswamy took his phone out of his suit pocket, swiped a few times, and turned the screen toward Mu Xin.

This time it wasn't a screenshot of an email or a photo, but a video.

In the video was a gray-white shipping container, forty feet long, standard size, with some rust on the surface.

A man in work clothes opened the container door, and inside was a device with a metal casing—pipes, cables, instrument panels, densely packed, like a miniature power plant.

On the side of the device was a label with a few lines of Russian printed on it.

"This is a ground power module modified from an AL-31F engine," Ramaswamy's voice came from the side, like a voiceover.

"Thrust of 12.5 tons, power generation of 21 megawatts, fuel can be natural gas, diesel, or kerosene."

"Container size, total weight less than thirty tons; a flatbed trailer can haul it away."

In the video, the man in work clothes pressed a button, and the device emitted a low roar.

Mu Xin stared at the jumping numbers on the instrument panel on the screen—voltage, current, frequency, power—all jumping within the normal range.

"This machine is in Oxford Town right now."

Mu Xin jerked his head up to look at Ramaswamy.

Ramaswamy took his phone back, leaned against the back of the sofa, crossed his legs, and looked relaxed.

"I had someone haul it over on a flatbed trailer from Cincinnati; it arrived last night."

"It's currently parked in a warehouse on the east side of Oxford Town, the commercial property you bought earlier—the one the Williams Family sold to you."

Mu Xin's fingers clenched.

The two commercial properties Henry Williams sold him: one in the town center, one on the east end of town.

The one on the east end had been empty; the location was too remote, and no one wanted to rent it.

After he bought it, he hadn't even gone to look at it; it had just been sitting there gathering dust.

He hadn't expected Ramaswamy to hide a power module modified from a fighter jet engine in that empty warehouse.

"Mr. Mu, I said I've checked into your project. I know what land you bought, what companies you acquired, and who you signed contracts with."

Ramaswamy's tone had no hint of showing off; he was simply stating a fact.

Mu Xin looked at him, silent for a long time. What exactly did this man want?

What Ramaswamy wanted was deeper, more complex, and more dangerous. He wanted a co-conspirator.

Not an employee to do his bidding, not a subordinate to take orders, but someone who knew his secrets—someone tied to the same boat as him.

As long as Mu Xin accepted that engine, as long as he connected that modified Russian power module to his own grid, he would never be able to clear his name with Ramaswamy again.

Not because he had done something illegal, but because legally speaking, a Republican Party candidate importing military engine modification equipment from Russia and then selling it to a Chinese international student—if this were exposed by the media, both of them would be finished.

Ramaswamy knew this, which is why he put the equipment on Mu Xin's property. Not for convenience, but to leave Mu Xin with no way out.

"Mr. Ramaswamy," Mu Xin spoke, his voice very calm. "You said you brought an engine to Oxford Town for me to inspect?"