156: Chapter 156 An Unintentional Success
Shengze Town.
Hengxin Textile Factory.
Sun Zhixu watched the last crate of military uniforms being loaded onto the container truck and finally breathed a sigh of relief.
Flame-retardant coating: standard met. Abrasion resistance index: 12% higher than US Army standards.
The veteran master, Lao Tao, walked over with a cigarette in his mouth. "Director Sun, the goods are all loaded."
Sun Zhixu didn't move.
"Sign here."
Lao Tao glanced at him but didn't rush him.
Everyone in the factory knew that this batch was the first major order since the factory had been acquired.
From sampling to production, Sun Zhixu had monitored the entire process in the workshop, even sleeping on the cutting table for three days.
When the container truck drove out of the factory gates, all the workers from the workshop gathered around.
Not knowing who started it, everyone began to clap.
Someone whistled, another shouted "We did it!", and Lao Tao stubbed out his cigarette, a grin spreading across his face.
Sun Zhixu looked at these veteran workers who had worked for his father for over a decade, and his nose felt a bit stingy.
Just a few months ago, the factory couldn't even pay wages. His father was lying in the hospital, and he sat in the empty workshop, calling the last supplier to plead for an extension.
Now, all the machines were running.
He turned around, his voice slightly hoarse. "Extra food tonight. My treat."
Pentagon.
Logistics Agency Warehouse.
Admiral Jensen tore open the seal of a crate of military uniforms, pulled out a set, and felt it; it felt good.
He had someone light a fire, threw the uniform in, and took it out after thirty seconds.
There were only faint scorch marks on the surface.
"It'll do. Send this entire batch to the Tri-Union Base," he said, tossing the uniform back into the box. "Give them to the test subjects."
The adjutant hesitated. "General, according to the contract, this batch should be distributed to..."
"I signed the contract," Admiral Jensen interrupted. "It goes where I say it goes."
The adjutant fell silent.
Admiral Jensen picked up a pen and signed the application for an additional order.
Fifty thousand sets, unit price unchanged, kickback unchanged.
To him, these were just work uniforms for the Super Soldier Project, nothing significant.
...
Tri-Union Biotech North America Research Center.
Basement Level 3, Test Subject Training Ground.
Hudson stood in the observation room, staring at the tests in the field through bulletproof glass.
Twelve test subjects, wearing the newly delivered military uniforms, were undergoing a weighted cross-country test.
Each person carried forty kilograms, running on a treadmill at a speed of twelve kilometers per hour.
They had already been running for forty minutes.
Hudson called the technical supervisor over. "Where did these uniforms come from?"
"Sent from the Pentagon. Specially approved by Admiral Jensen."
"What about the fabric data?"
The technical supervisor pulled up a tablet. "The flame-retardant index is 12% higher than military regulations, and the abrasion resistance is 15% higher. The infrared suppression is a full level better than the standard, and the breathability far exceeds any active-duty combat uniform."
Hudson was silent for a few seconds.
"Have the test subjects accelerate to fifteen kilometers."
The treadmill speed increased.
The twelve test subjects ran for another twenty minutes; not a single one stopped.
Hudson noticed a detail: these test subjects, injected with Origin Factor, had body temperatures much higher than normal people. Wearing ordinary combat uniforms, they would find it unbearably stuffy after running for ten minutes.
But this time, no one pulled at their collars to vent.
However, no one cared about such a small detail.
...
Peterson Air Force Base.
Warrant Officer Charlie Mike's combat boot sole fell off.
It wasn't worn through; the entire rubber sole had detached from the upper.
He sat in the rest area of the shooting range, holding the sole-less boot and cursing for three minutes.
These boots were standard issue, worn for less than four months, and cost 220 USD.
A logistics sergeant passed by, glanced at him, and laughed. "Another pair ruined."
"What do you mean, 'another'?"
"That's the third pair this week." The logistics sergeant shrugged. "Standard issue boots have soles glued on. In the desert sun, the glue melts and the soles fall off."
Warrant Officer Mike slammed the boot onto the ground. "Then what? Am I supposed to go on missions barefoot?"
The logistics sergeant looked around and lowered his voice. "I'll give you a link to Amazon. It's not through official channels, but the stuff is really good."
"What brand?"
"DYB. Never heard of it, right? Neither had I."
"But I bought a pair to try, and after two months, the tread still shows no obvious signs of wear."
Warrant Officer Mike pulled out his phone and clicked the link. Tactical boots, steel toe, puncture-resistant, breathable fabric. Eighty dollars. He checked the price three times and confirmed it wasn't second-hand. It wasn't. Brand new. Free shipping.
"At this price, is it even usable?"
"Buy a pair and you'll find out."
Warrant Officer Mike placed an order and also bought two sets of combat uniforms—one for himself and one to send to an old comrade in Afghanistan.
Two days later, the goods arrived.
He opened the package and pulled out the boots.
As soon as he touched them, he knew they were different. The rubber of the sole was molded as a single piece, not glued on.
The junction between the upper and the sole was double-stitched.
He put them on and stomped on the ground twice; the steel toe felt secure but didn't pinch his feet.
He ran five kilometers in these boots without the slightest discomfort.
A few days later, Mike threw the link into the base's tactical gear discussion group.
"Brothers, if your boots break in the future, buy them from here."
Afghanistan.
Sergeant Thompson's combat trousers had split at the crotch again.
This was the fourth pair of pants he had ruined in three months.
He sat on the edge of his dorm bed, holding the split pants, his expression numb.
A teammate poked his head in from the doorway. "Old Tom, your crotch split again."
"Shut up."
"I've got something good here."
The teammate handed over his phone; on the screen was an Amazon product page.
DYB Tactical Combat Uniform: top, pants, and tactical belt for 120 USD.
Thompson looked at it for five seconds. "It's a fake, right?"
"The set I'm wearing is exactly this."
"Alright, I'll try it too."
A week later.
The mailroom at Bagram Airfield was flooded with packages.
The mailroom's Master Sergeant stood before a mountain of Amazon packages, expressionless.
The sender's address on all these packages was the same, all from a brand called DYB Outdoor Products.
He picked one up and weighed it in his hand.
He picked up another and weighed it again.
"Exactly how many of these are there?"
The corporal beside him flipped through the logbook. "370 arrived today."
"420 yesterday, and just over 300 the day before."
"That's over a thousand in total."
"And it's still increasing."
The Master Sergeant tossed the package back, took out his phone, opened Amazon, and searched for DYB.
Then, he silently placed an order.
Two sets of combat uniforms, one pair of boots, and one tactical belt.
Meanwhile, at the Quartermaster's office.
First Sergeant Rodriguez sat behind the counter, legs crossed, flipping through an outdated sports magazine.
His counter was stocked with standard-issue combat uniforms, 1,200 USD per set.
Boots, 220 USD a pair.
Tactical belts, 60 USD each.
Throughout the entire morning, not a single person came to buy anything.
He put down the magazine and called out to a passing corporal. "Hey, your pants are torn. Want to come exchange them for a new pair?"
The corporal looked down at his worn-out knees. "No thanks, I bought new ones on Amazon."
"How much?"
"120."
Rodriguez's face twitched.
Rodriguez sat behind the counter and was silent for a good while.
Then he pulled out his phone, opened Amazon, and searched for DYB.
He stared at the screen for a long time, then placed an order.
He bought two sets.
...
Shengze Town.
Hengxin Textile Factory.
Sun Zhixu stared at the computer screen, watching the order notifications that refreshed from time to time.
They weren't popping up one by one; they were flipping by the page.
Every time he refreshed, there were three hundred more orders.
Refresh again, five hundred more.
Lao Tao pushed the door open and came in. "Director Sun, the fabric inventory is insufficient; we need to restock."
"See for yourself."
Lao Tao leaned toward the screen and took a look.
Then he took off his reading glasses, wiped them, and put them back on.
"How many... is this?"
"170,000 sets," Sun Zhixu's voice drifted. "Scheduled until next March."
Lao Tao was silent for a full five seconds.
"I'll go tell the production line to work night shifts."
He walked to the door, then turned back.
"Director Sun, does this mean... we don't have to go bankrupt?"
Sun Zhixu didn't answer.
He picked up the phone and dialed Fu Haoran's number.
The moment the call connected, his voice was still trembling.
"President Fu, the orders have exploded."
Fu Haoran also took a while to process the news.
When he initially acquired this clothing factory, it was only to produce clothes for the soldiers in the Warhammer World; he hadn't planned on selling them externally.
One should know that the fabric for these clothes was processed directly in the Hive City using Promethium.
"Alright, that's good. Try to expand production capacity and manpower; you handle the arrangements."
Fu Haoran hung up the phone in a daze, unable to figure out how such a thing could become so popular.
...
Pentagon, E Ring, Third Floor.
Department of Defense Logistics Agency Meeting Room.
At the end of the long table sat Major General Bradley, Deputy Director of the Logistics Agency. To his left was Colonel Howard, Chief of the Military Procurement Office, and to his right was the legal advisor.
Each of the three had a report spread out before them, with the DYB logo printed on the cover.
Bradley slammed the report onto the table.
"Someone explain this to me."
He flipped to the first page, his finger jabbing at the data column.
"At Bagram Airfield in Afghanistan, over the past two weeks, the mailroom has received a cumulative total of 17,000 Amazon packages, all from the same company."
"Combat uniforms, tactical boots, gloves, vests—at one-tenth the price of standard issue."
He scanned the people present.
"At the Quartermaster's counter, they've sold four sets of standard-issue combat uniforms, two pairs of boots, and zero tactical belts in two weeks."
He flipped the report to the next page.
"Meanwhile, DYB sold 37,000 sets on Amazon in just two weeks!"
"Our soldiers are running around the battlefield wearing gear they bought privately online."
Bradley looked up.
"Howard, you're in charge of procurement. Tell me, what's the background of this company?"
Colonel Howard opened the folder in front of him, his Adam's apple bobbing.
"General, DYB Outdoor Products is registered in Yellowstone Park, on the border of Texas and California. The actual controller is named Fu Haoran."
"The source of this equipment is an order we approved ourselves."
The meeting room was silent for a few seconds.
"Four months ago, Admiral Jensen signed an order for a batch of special operations combat uniforms."
"Ten thousand sets at a unit price of 2,800 USD. The supplier was DYB. Article 47, Clause 3 of the contract specifies that Party B has the right to sell civilian versions of the same product on the open market."
Bradley didn't speak.
Howard braced himself and continued reading, "After the contract was signed, DYB listed the civilian version on Amazon."
"Jensen signed it," Bradley's voice dropped an octave. "2,800 dollars a set, and he signed for ten thousand sets. Then this company turns around and lists the civilian version for 120 dollars."
"Jensen signed it," Bradley's voice dropped an octave. "2,800 dollars a set, and he signed for ten thousand sets. Then this company turns around and lists the civilian version for 120 dollars."
"Yes."
"Our soldiers are voting with their feet. Instead of buying the standard-issue junk, they're buying the 120-dollar civilian version."
"Yes."
Bradley flipped the report to the joint appeal letter from the military suppliers.
The wording was intense, with seven or eight sections in bold.
"Three suppliers have filed a joint complaint, accusing DYB of predatory dumping and endangering national security, and demanding an immediate ban."
He looked up.
"What kind of garbage are they making themselves? Combat uniforms split at the crotch in three months, boots lose their soles in four, and at 1,200 dollars a set, the quality isn't even as good as the 120-dollar ones!"
"Now that someone is selling affordable and high-quality gear, they're panicking? Filing joint complaints?"
Neither Howard nor the legal advisor dared to respond.
Bradley flipped to the last page of the report and stared at the cost estimation line for a long time.
"Bring this Fu Haoran to me."
Howard was stunned. "Bring him where?"
"The Pentagon, to the House Armed Services Committee." Bradley closed the report. "Doesn't he have a contract? Doesn't he have Jensen's signature? Let him explain it in person. Within three days, I want to see this man."
After the meeting adjourned, Howard caught up with Bradley in the hallway.
"General, there's one more thing."
Bradley didn't stop.
"Fu Haoran's file has been pulled. He's with the National Guard."
"He's officially assigned to the 102nd Independent Division of the Washington National Guard, with the rank of Major General."
Bradley's footsteps stopped.
"National Guard?"
"Yes."
Bradley stood in the hallway, silent for a good while.
"So he's not just a businessman; he's one of our own officers. Jensen gave him the order and left a loophole in the contract."
"He listed the civilian version on Amazon, slashed the price to one-tenth of the standard issue, our soldiers are scrambling to buy it, the suppliers are filing joint complaints, and Congress is watching this matter."
Howard didn't dare to respond.
Bradley turned around.
"Send the inquiry letter as planned, but change the wording. It's not a summons; change it to an invitation to cooperate with the investigation."
"If he comes, we'll talk. If he doesn't..."
"What then? Do I need to teach you how to handle that?"
...
The door to Fu Haoran's office was pushed open, and Jimmy walked in quickly.
"Boss, a formal letter from the Pentagon. You'd better take a look."
Fu Haoran took the tablet; on the screen was a formally worded letter.
Sender: Major General Bradley, Deputy Director of the Department of Defense Logistics Agency.
The content was an invitation for him to go to Washington within three days to cooperate with the House Armed Services Committee for a supplier qualification review.
The signature area was stamped with the seals of both the Logistics Agency and the Armed Services Committee.
Jimmy stood by, speaking rapidly. "Boss, I've checked. This isn't a normal inquiry."
"Three military suppliers have filed a joint complaint, accusing us of predatory dumping."
"The pressure has gone straight to Congress. Bradley is the second-in-command at the Logistics Agency. The fact that he personally signed the letter means this matter has reached the highest levels."
Fu Haoran didn't speak; he set the tablet down.
Jimmy swallowed and continued, "I've re-examined the contract. Article 47, Clause 3 of the order signed by Admiral Jensen indeed authorizes us to sell the civilian version. It's completely legal."
"But if the military wants to cause trouble, they can approach it from the angle of supply chain security to make things difficult for us."
Fu Haoran understood. On the surface, this inquiry was about contract compliance, but in reality, it was a 'Hongmen Banquet'—a trap.
Fu Haoran nodded.
"Since they've invited us, let's give them some face," Fu Haoran said nonchalantly, his fingertip lightly tapping the desk. However, he knew in his heart that this was absolutely not a qualification review; it was clearly pressure from military suppliers, a probe by Congress, and Jensen setting him up from behind.
"It's just a business trip. How much could go wrong?"
Fu Haoran didn't know he had just unintentionally raised a flag.
Almost simultaneously, in the Appalachian Mountains on the outskirts of Washington, a bizarre space-time rift suddenly tore open. Several burning "meteorites" whistled as they fell, crashing into the dense forest and kicking up clouds of dust.
The largest "meteorite" among them was not a celestial body, but a pitch-black alien spacecraft covered in gouges. A crack opened in the hull, and several glowing, egg-shaped objects rolled out through the gap, silently burrowing into the soil.