131: Chapter 131 The Military's Empty Promises

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The third night after the rebellion in Washington ended, Pediatric ICU, Downtown Hospital.

The citywide power outage had lasted over 24 hours. The diesel for the backup generator was completely exhausted, and the corridors were pitch black.

The indicator lights on the incubators went out one by one, and the heart rate monitors flattened into horizontal lines.

A newborn, born at 28 weeks premature, lay in an incubator with its breathing growing weaker and weaker.

The child's father, Mark, knelt before the doctor, his forehead bleeding from kowtowing as his voice shook uncontrollably: "Doctor, please, save my child! I beg you!"

Clutching the defibrillator, the doctor said helplessly, "Without electricity, we can't do anything! The operating rooms are shutting down, and the ICU's backup power has long been empty!"

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Just as everyone fell into despair, the roar of car engines came from the parking lot.

Thirteen pickup trucks bearing the DYB logo pulled up to the hospital entrance.

Soldiers got out of the vehicles, pulled open the tailgates, dragged out thick cables, and plugged them directly into the ports at the rear of the trucks.

"What are they doing?"

"I don't know?"

The hospital administrator rushed over upon hearing the news. Watching the soldiers busy themselves, he mustered his courage and asked, "Officers, what are you doing?"

The lead soldier said, "We are the National Guard, ordered to station at the hospital and provide emergency power."

"Power? With these trucks?" The administrator frowned. Rather than using trucks to generate electricity, it would be better to take the diesel out for the generator.

Soon, the administrator learned why.

The next second, the pitch-black corridor suddenly lit up.

"These are electric trucks?!"

The administrator watched as the pickups were connected to cables and, after some tinkering, were hooked into the hospital's electrical box.

The darkened hospital regained its light once more.

The lights in the ICU corridor flickered on one by one, the incubator indicator lights jumped back to green, and the ventilators emitted their familiar hum.

Fluctuating curves reappeared on the heart rate monitors.

Mark slumped to the floor, covering his face as he wailed loudly.

A reporter on the scene captured this entire moment.

Half an hour later, a video titled "In Blacked-out Washington, DYB Pickups Save American Newborns" shot to the top of the Twitter trending list, with over a hundred million shares and thirty million likes.

The comment section completely exploded.

"What kind of truck is this? It can be used directly as a mobile power station?"

"Can a Ford Raptor do that? My Chevrolet can't even power a car fridge!"

Immediately after, more videos flooded social media.

At various shelters, DYB pickups were responsible for the power supply.

Crowds gathered around DYB pickups to charge their phones.

There were even construction crews relying on the external power from DYB pickups for emergency repairs.

One netizen joked, "If there's a road a DYB can't pass, use an electric jackhammer."

Another netizen posted online saying they plugged a power strip into the pickup and ran a fridge, TV, microwave, and a small air conditioner for 8 hours, and the battery only dropped by 1%.

With just three videos, the DYB pickup was elevated to a legendary status.

But when people asked where to buy one, they found out the truck wasn't for sale at all!

A resident from Yellowstone revealed: "We're right by the DYB factory. This plant has been open for nearly a year, and they haven't sold a single truck to the public. It seems they only take military orders; they're very mysterious all day."

"Yeah, my dad and I went to the factory once. The security is the tightest I've ever seen. There's all sorts of black tech inside. I bet this is definitely prepared for the military. I heard they're even bulletproof!"

Richard, the investment bank executive who had previously sneered at the DYB pickup, now believed it wholeheartedly.

He had seen with his own eyes the machine guns mounted on the DYB, and even recoilless rifles!

That sci-fi appearance, the avant-garde design...

Most importantly, Richard had previously heard rumors that Apple founder Steve Jobs had once strongly supported the development of this vehicle.

"If this truck is Apple's next-generation product, then..."

Richard gasped. He realized that Steve Jobs's layout might very well disrupt the world again!

"I must find a way to get one to study. If I can get a foot in the door and understand the technical content, maybe the next chance for financial freedom is right in front of me!"

Richard acted immediately, using every connection he could find.

There were many like him, though not everyone was in it for the investment; some just wanted a sense of security.

Could a vehicle procured by the military be bad?

Soon, Fu Haoran's phone was ringing off the hook.

All sorts of people he knew and didn't know called, all asking to buy a DYB pickup truck.

Even Jimmy, far away at the Yellowstone factory, called:

"Boss! The production line is at full capacity with three shifts 24/7! Next month's capacity is already booked up! Orders from North America dealers are backed up until the end of next year!"

Fu Haoran was somewhat caught between laughter and tears.

After the rebellion ended, he was still worrying about how to take back the 4,000 DYB pickups he had brought.

It was too much trouble to transport them all the way back to the Yellowstone factory.

As it turned out, the inventory was cleared out overnight.

Not only were ordinary wealthy people scrambling for them, but fire departments, civilian rescue teams, farmers, and Wall Street tycoons were all using their connections to get a truck from him.

On the third day of the pickup's explosion in popularity, Wall Street analysts rushed to the DYB factory overnight for an on-site investigation, only to be turned away at the door.

The NYSE called Jimmy's phone to inquire about financing intentions.

Fu Haoran thought for a moment and said, "Jimmy, tell them that for immediate delivery, there's a markup. 400,000 USD per truck, and they can pick directly from my stock."

"New cars require a wait. Our factory is still in the ramp-up phase and cannot deliver on a large scale. The starting price is 360,000 USD."

Fu Haoran wasn't in a hurry to sell the trucks, but those who could find him weren't ordinary people.

America is also a society of connections; otherwise, there would be no need for things like letters of recommendation.

Fu Haoran knew the importance of favors, so he made a concession.

The next day, in the wealthy Upper East Side, someone posted a selfie.

Her family relied on a DYB pickup plus rooftop solar panels to power the whole house's air conditioning, lighting, and fridge. In the darkness of the citywide blackout, they lived a life no different from usual.

In the video, the owner said to the camera, "Solar power during the day, use it sparingly, and it's no problem to last a day. This is absolutely a survival pod in a disaster."

The comment section was soon filled with envious messages.

Meanwhile, in a conference room at Pentagon, a secret meeting regarding the rewards and punishments for Fu Haoran was being held.

...

Smoke swirled in the enclosed space, and the ashtray was already overflowing with cigarette butts.

The core of the meeting was simple: how to put shackles on the hero who had just saved Washington.

Sitting at the head of the table was Secretary of Defense Robert Gates, a civilian political appointee of the Democratic Party, backed by the votes of the military-industrial complex. He spent the whole time rubbing his temples with a grim expression.

To his left was Army Chief of Staff George Casey, an old-school Army man in a crisp uniform. His face was full of arrogance; he looked down on Fu Haoran's militia from the bottom of his heart, believing only the regular army deserved to be called an armed force.

Beside him sat the Chief of the National Guard Bureau, Robert Harris, who was caught between Congress and local governments, suffering from both sides. He clutched Fu Haoran's background investigation report with a complex expression.

On the other side of the round table sat Deputy Secretary of the Navy Miller, representing the interests of the Newport News Shipbuilding. He remained grim-faced and silent for most of the meeting.

At the end of the round table was the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, Michael Mullen, an old fox from the Navy. He didn't speak much, only tapping the table at key points. He was the final designer of this "praise to kill" scheme.

In the shadows of the back row sat a man in a suit without a tie, a consultant for the military-industrial complex behind Raytheon and General Dynamics. He didn't speak throughout but signaled the high-ranking officials with his eyes at every critical decision.

"Let's hear it," Secretary of Defense Gates tapped the table, his voice hoarse. "How exactly are we going to handle this Fu Haoran?"

Army Chief of Staff Casey immediately snorted and slapped the table, saying, "How else? A civilian militia organization bringing tens of thousands of armed men into Washington. Though their equipment is a bit worse than the Army's current active duty, they are a veritable state within a state! Disarm them directly and arrest him for interrogation!"

This proposal gained the approval of quite a few people.

Clearly, the military's intelligence was limited; otherwise, no one would have such a foolish idea.

"Interrogate him for what?" Harris immediately countered. "He suppressed the ape rebellion, saved Washington, and saved Capitol Hill! All of America's citizens are watching! If you kill the donkey once the grinding is done now, do you still want those votes?"

"But we can't just leave it like this!" Casey's face turned red. "A militia leader who doesn't rely on Congressional funding and supports a hundred thousand armed men himself—we simply cannot control such a person!"

The conference room instantly erupted into a chaotic argument.

The hawks wanted to take him down directly, while the doves wanted to keep him to deal with the mutant apes yet to be cleared from the Amazon rainforest. The two factions argued incessantly.

Just then, Chairman of the Joint Chiefs Mullen tapped the table, and the room went silent instantly.

"Arguing won't solve the problem." Mullen lifted his eyelids, his tone flat. "He wants fame, we give him fame. He wants an official designation, we give him an official designation."

"But as for actual power, we won't give him a shred."

Everyone's eyes focused on him.

Mullen opened a file and laid out his plan point by point, each one precisely aimed at the "praise to kill" strategy.

"First, promote him to Major General of the Army National Guard and grant the 102nd Independent Division an official designation with a rated strength of 22,000 men. However, not a single regular soldier will be provided; only the quotas for three supplementary companies will be given."

A personnel official immediately opened a file to supplement: "Three companies: the Intellectual Disability Recovery Company, the Court-Martial Parole Company, and the Administrative Sanction Pending Discharge Company. All of them are trash that no one wanted after several rounds of screening."

Casey laughed: "What's the IQ?"

"Below 70."

"They can barely understand orders." Casey leaned back in his chair. "As for those with violent priors and troublemakers... perfect, let them be a thorn in his side."

Mullen nodded and continued: "Second, equipment procurement."

"The procurement budget for equipment within the designation will only be 50% of the standard. For the rest, let him find his own way."

The logistics chief immediately chimed in with a sinister smile: "HMMWVs, helicopters, heavy weapons—none of them will be allocated."

"Doesn't he know how to build trucks himself? Let him use his own DYB pickups for military vehicles. We'll reimburse him at the civilian procurement price, a subsidy of 20,000 dollars per vehicle."

Someone whispered: "The regular procurement price for a military HMMWV is 150,000 per vehicle."

"What about attack helicopters?" someone asked.

"None," the logistics chief spread his hands. "If he wants them, he can build them himself."

"For M4 carbines, we have retired ones in the warehouse; sell them to him at 500 dollars apiece. For body armor, helmets, and plate carriers, only give half the money. For the rest, let him solve it himself."

The room was silent for two seconds, followed by low laughter.

The procurement price for a brand-new M4 carbine was 1,500 dollars.

Selling retired old guns for 500 was clearly a rip-off.

Mullen waited for the laughter to stop and looked at Deputy Secretary of the Navy Miller: "Third, the shipyard. The 680 million dollar balance for the Yellowstone Shipyard from before will be settled in full."

"However, for subsequent naval vessel maintenance and refurbishment orders, the procurement price will be compressed to one-fifth of the normal quote for domestic shipyards, with the construction period requirements tightened by half. Liquidated damages will be three times the breach of contract fee."

"Giving them the orders that domestic shipyards are unwilling to take is also a good choice."

"If he takes them, he will undoubtedly lose money, directly dragging down his shipyard."

"If he doesn't, he'll be charged with refusing to execute military orders, and we'll directly revoke his shipbuilding qualifications."

Everyone in the conference room laughed.

A quote of one-fifth, in the eyes of domestic shipbuilding giants, wouldn't even cover the cost of raw materials. Only a fool would take it.

Finally, Mullen tapped the table and threw out the most ruthless move, the one they felt was "foolproof."

"Fourth, grant Yellowstone Industries full qualifications for military equipment R&D, production, and sales, allowing him to establish a defense company. However, all R&D funds must be self-raised; the military will not guarantee procurement and will only provide regulatory qualifications."

"At most, they are allowed to sell arms externally."

The military-industrial consultant in the back row finally showed a smile.

Military R&D is a bottomless pit.

Without guaranteed procurement orders from the military, the money invested is all down the drain.

This qualification looks glorious but is actually just a scrap of paper.

They were certain that a factory making civilian electric trucks and batteries could never even touch the threshold of military R&D.

Mullen leaned back in his chair, looking at everyone at the table, his tone certain: "Gentlemen, with this set of measures, if he accepts, within half a year, he'll either lose everything and disband his team himself..."

"...or there will be military discipline scandals or contract breaches, and we can take him down legitimately."

"What if he doesn't accept?" someone asked.

"Even better if he doesn't," Mullen sneered. "We'll tell the public that he gave up his legal designation and rank himself, and that he is essentially an illegal armed force. Then we can handle him however we want."

"No matter what he chooses, we win."

In the conference room, everyone shared a knowing smile.

Amidst the swirling smoke, the oil painting of the Normandy landings on the wall looked particularly ironic under the lights.

They had just saved Washington from a rebellion, and in the next moment, they had dug a certain grave for the hero who saved them.

The day after Pentagon meeting ended, Fu Haoran looked at the official Pentagon documents. The more he flipped through them, the wider the smile on his face became.

Jimmy, looking at the documents in his hand, was extremely angry:

"Boss! This is basically pushing us into a death trap!"

"They're only giving this much money, how could it ever be enough!"

Fu Haoran, however, laughed out loud.

Jimmy was stunned: "Boss? This contract is such a trap, and you're still laughing?"

"A trap?" Fu Haoran put down the documents and leaned back in his chair, his eyes shining with startling intensity. "Jimmy, do you know what mistake they made?"

Jimmy shook his head.

"They underestimated my strength, and they underestimated the backing behind me."

"They only said I had to procure everything myself; they didn't say I wasn't allowed to produce it myself."

Fu Haoran added silently to himself: Behind me is an entire industrial planet, and especially a group of free labor. They think they're trapping me, but they're actually sending me money.

Fu Haoran didn't explain further but instead ordered: "Jimmy, go register a new company. The name will be... Warhammer Defense."

"Include everything we're qualified to produce within its scope."

"I'll let them know who gets the last laugh."

How could Fu Haoran not understand those little schemes of the military?

However, for now, there were more important things.

Fu Haoran had no time to deal with those "childish" politicians.

"It's time to go back to Warhammer. Those remnants of the old nobility have probably prepared something big for me."