167: Chapter 167 I'm in Charge Here

Three days after the cataclysm ended.

This book was first published on Taiwan Novel Network, providing you with an error-free and orderly reading experience.

Washington Police Department.

Old Mike dragged his leg into the lobby. His uniform was still stained with Xenomorph acid burns, and his pant legs were corroded with holes.

A written resignation letter was tucked in his pocket.

He had been a patrol officer for twelve years. During the cataclysm, his partner was torn apart by a Xenomorph while covering civilians. The police department gave a $1,200 funeral allowance, which wasn't even enough to buy a coffin.

His wife had diabetes, and her insulin was almost gone.

Two children were waiting to eat, and there was less than $200 left in his account. He planned to resign and become a security guard on the black market.

Pushing open the lobby doors, he was met with a long line of people.

Old Mike was stunned.

Several people in DYB uniforms sat behind the counter, with small mountains of cash piled in front of them.

Officers held signing forms, their faces showing a sense of relief he hadn't seen in days.

After waiting for nearly twenty minutes, it was finally Old Mike's turn.

Across from him was a Chinese girl who looked like an international student. She spoke fluent English and skillfully pulled up his duty records and salary.

“Officer Mike, you accumulated 78 hours of overtime during the cataclysm. Calculated at double the hourly rate, that's a total of $3,744.”

“Paid in cash. Please sign here. This money goes through a donation channel, so it's tax-free.”

Old Mike clutched the thick stack of dollars, his fingers trembling.

He first counted out enough money for three months of insulin and carefully tucked it into his inner pocket. He gripped the remaining bills so tightly that his knuckles turned white from the effort.

After standing there for several seconds, he pulled the crumpled resignation letter from his pocket, tore it to shreds in front of the girl at the counter, and threw it into the nearby trash can.

That afternoon, all 26 officers of the Washington Police Department who had originally planned to resign tore up their resignation letters.

This was the third day after the cataclysm ended. Order in Washington was being rebuilt, centered around Fu Haoran.

Washington National Guard Temporary Base.

Riley walked into the tent with red eyes, clutching his comrade's dog tags tightly to his chest.

His childhood friend and fellow squad mate had been torn apart by a Xenomorph while covering the retreat of civilians outside the Tri-Union Building.

The military's conclusion was 'accidental death in a non-combat state,' approving only $12,000 in funeral expenses—not even enough to buy a decent burial plot.

His comrade's wife had just given birth, there was still $280,000 left on the mortgage, and the bank had already sent a foreclosure notice. She and the baby would soon be out on the streets.

He had spent three days running to the Military Affairs Office, only to receive the same cold response: 'Does not meet the criteria for combat death certification.' An officer pushed a copy of the 'Combat Death Certification Guidelines' toward him, with three lines circled in red ink:

“First, death must be instantaneous on-site.”

“Your comrade only stopped breathing after being dragged into the Xenomorph nest. That doesn't count.”

“Second, it must be directly caused by the enemy.”

“There were no eyewitnesses on-site to confirm which Xenomorph killed him. It's questionable.”

“Third, identity must be verifiable.”

“The remains couldn't be recovered. Dog tags only prove he wore them; they don't prove he died in action.”

The officer pulled the document back.

“None of the three criteria are met. Either bring a Xenomorph's head to get a certificate, or have your comrade come back to life and fill out the form himself. Otherwise, it can only be processed as an accidental death.”

Riley gripped his comrade's dog tags, not knowing how to explain this to his friend's family.

After hearing that the Asian general was paying out overtime, Riley decided to try his luck.

...

“Fuck, what kind of animal came up with those conditions?” Jimmy couldn't help but swear after hearing Riley's story.

He pulled open a filing cabinet and took out a stack of pre-printed standard documents—'Federal Emergency Military Operation Combat Mission Certification' and 'Hostile Force Fatality On-Site Investigation Report.' Fu Haoran's Major General title and authorization seal were already stamped at the bottom.

He picked up a pen and filled in the comrade's name, unit number, time, and location of death. In the cause of death column, he wrote clearly: 'Heroically killed in action while encountering hostile alien biological fire during a federally authorized anti-alien invasion military operation.'

Jimmy slapped the document down in front of Riley and stamped it with the official seal of the Emergency Command Center.

“Don't worry. Take this document to the Department of Defense Pension Office.”

“The $100,000 one-time lump sum pension for combat death, the monthly living allowance for your comrade's wife and child, and the full waiver of the unpaid mortgage—not a single cent will be missing.”

Riley was stunned. He had been a soldier and had been to Afghanistan; he knew how hard it was to get a death certificate, and even more so, no officer was willing to waste time on the lives or deaths of those under them.

Riley hadn't actually held any hope when he came here; he just wanted to see if he could apply for a few hundred dollars in relief money to help his comrade's wife get through the month. But this result was something he hadn't even dared to imagine.

“Sir, but the military said this wasn't a military operation...”

“Whether it counts or not isn't up to them; it's up to General Fu.” Jimmy pointed to the Major General's signature on the document. “The emergency command authority for all of Washington is in General Fu's hands.”

“If he says it's a combat mission, then it's a combat mission.”

“The General specifically instructed that we cannot let soldiers shed blood and then shed tears.”

That day, the families of 17 fallen soldiers all received formal combat death certifications signed by Fu Haoran.

The previously evasive Department of Defense Pension Office, when faced with Fu Haoran bringing over a hundred soldiers armed with large-caliber 'Truth,' didn't dare raise a single extra question. The full pension was deposited into the families' accounts within 24 hours, and the mortgage banks simultaneously received military mortgage waiver notices.

The families, who had previously been at their wits' end, wept together at the entrance of the temporary base while holding their phones with the deposit notifications.

In another tent, Vance lay on a cot. His right leg had been burned by Xenomorph acid, and all the skin from his knee to his ankle was necrotic.

The military health insurance company denied the claim on the grounds of 'non-combat injury.' The hospital said he needed an amputation, and the surgery alone would cost $80,000, with hundreds of thousands more for subsequent rehabilitation.

As an ordinary soldier with a monthly salary of $2,000, he could only wait to be carried onto the operating table to have his leg sawed off.

When Jimmy reported the situation to Fu Haoran, Fu Haoran was looking at sales data for solar panels and didn't even look up.

“Issue 'Combat Injury Certifications' for all injured military and police personnel. Two copies each: one for the insurance company and one for the Military Health Bureau.”

“For those willing to go to East Asia hospitals for treatment, have the hospitals use the US Army Overseas Combat Injury Medical Reimbursement channel. Bill everything to the Pentagon.”

“For those unwilling to go, calculate a one-time disability subsidy according to the highest military disability standards and have the insurance company pay it.”

Jimmy was stunned for a moment, then realized the implications and couldn't help but worry. “Boss, the Pentagon will definitely investigate afterward.”

Fu Haoran glanced at Jimmy and said, “If they dare to investigate, I'll follow their lead and have the auditors suffer 'accidental deaths.'”

“Also, tell the people at the Pentagon for me: if they want me to clean up their mess, they have to do it according to my requirements. If they don't like it, don't come to me to clean up their mess next time.”

That afternoon, all 47 injured military and police personnel received Combat Injury Certifications signed by Fu Haoran.

The insurance companies that had previously denied claims didn't dare say a word of nonsense and immediately opened green channels for payment.

41 injured personnel signed agreements to go to East Asia for treatment. The hospitals interfaced directly with the US Army overseas medical reimbursement system, and they didn't have to pay a single cent throughout the process.

As the chartered flight took off from Dulles International Airport, Vance lay on a stretcher, looking at Washington through the porthole, and said with red eyes, “In the army before, we risked our lives and they wouldn't even pay for medical expenses.”

“General Fu is backing us up. This life of mine belongs to him now.”

...

It is worth mentioning that on the day the cataclysm ended, Washington's power grid was still completely paralyzed.

Rich neighborhoods relied on generators. Gasoline prices changed daily, and it was hard to even get any.

Those with the means chose to flee.

But some people had no choice but to stay.

Ordinary residential areas were plunged into total darkness. Phones were dead, people were cut off from the outside world, food in refrigerators rotted, and in the thirty-degree heat, even fans couldn't be turned on.

Just then,

Dozens of mobile charging vehicles marked with the DYB logo drove into various communities.

Loudspeakers broadcasted on a loop: “Free charging, all models welcome, no time limits, open 24 hours.”

In the next second, every mobile charging vehicle was surrounded and packed tight.

People held up their dead phones as if they had found a source of water in the desert.

While charging, everyone noticed the advertisement printed on the vehicles: Plug-and-play balcony solar panels. No grid permit required. $899 per set. Provides power for phones, refrigerators, and small air conditioners the same day. Free replacement if broken.

Below the advertisement was a line of small text: Cataclysm Special Price, limited time 7 days.

The first to buy were families in the rich neighborhoods.

Lawyers from Georgetown, lobbyists from K Street, retired officers from the banks of the Potomac River...

After using them for a day, they posted photos in community groups: the refrigerator light was back on, phones were fully charged, and fans were spinning.

Over two thousand sets were sold that day.

On the second day, ordinary families began to scramble for them.

Long lines formed at DYB's offline stores in Washington as early as 4:00 AM.

Daily sales surpassed ten thousand sets. The factory, working 24 hours a day, couldn't keep up with the demand.

The store manager's voice was excited when he called headquarters: “Boss, the inventory is gone. We need more stock.”

Some even resold them outside the stores at a premium. The basic $899 set was being flipped for $1,500, and people were still rushing to buy them.

A week passed in the blink of an eye.

Over sixty percent of households in all of Washington had installed DYB's balcony solar systems.

People discovered that two panels could only meet basic needs. To power all household appliances, they needed a higher-power system.

Fu Haoran took the opportunity to launch whole-house solar packages and cooperated with banks to offer 'Solar Loans' with 12 months of interest-free installments.

Orders were backed up for three months.

Fu Haoran didn't take these minor episodes to heart.

...

S-Sai No. 4 Planet, Alpha Hive City.

Fu Haoran brought a batch of new supplies through the portal. Servo-skulls were moving precision machine tools and solar panel production lines from the 2K World into storage.

Wade ran quickly from the other end of the corridor.

“My Lord, the deep space monitoring station at the spaceport just sent an emergency report.”

Fu Haoran stopped in his tracks.

“The main fleet of the Seven Hive Alliance has exited the Warp and been captured by our deep space array. They are estimated to arrive at S-Sai No. 4 Planet in two weeks.”

The system panel popped up in front of Fu Haoran's eyes.

[Main Quest Updated: Struggle for Air Superiority]

[Quest Objective: Obtain at least one atmospheric aerial force capable of combat before the Seven Hive Alliance fleet arrives.]

[Current Air Superiority Assessment: 0. It's not a disadvantage; it's non-existent. Literally zero. You don't even have a single aircraft that can last three minutes in the sky.]

[Estimated Enemy Aerial Units: Heavy landing craft, atmospheric fighters, orbital bombardment platforms. The Hive City airspace is completely open; they are welcome to bomb at any time.]

[Failure Penalty: Orbital blockade, ground forces completely suppressed. You will spend the rest of your life counting canned food in the fortress—if the cans haven't been turned to ash by orbital bombardment.]

[PS: Two weeks in the Warhammer World is about five months in the 2K World. Enough for you to buy a second-hand plane, provided the seller doesn't mind your aggressive bargaining.]

Although only two weeks remained in the Warhammer World, the effect of the Reincarnator's time-dilation item was still active. Two weeks in the Warhammer World was about five months in the 2K World.

Fu Haoran turned to look at Kallen.

“Kallen, come back to the Garden World with me.”

...

DYB Headquarters.

When Li Jianguo was called in, there were dark circles under his eyes from staying up late. He was a whole size thinner than when he was preparing the F-22 production line in Washington.

Fu Haoran didn't waste any words and projected the holographic parameters of the RX-92-00 Mars-type Composite Engine onto the screen.

“We have the engines. The Warhammer STC Printer can mass-produce them directly.”

“I need a fighter jet that can mount this engine. I must have the first batch of finished products within five months.”

Li Jianguo stared at the parameters of the engine on the screen.

His Adam's apple bobbed. He didn't ask where it came from. He only asked one thing: “Are the thrust figures real?”

“Atmospheric speed of two thousand kilometers per hour, with a thrust-to-weight ratio sufficient to lift a medium fighter.”

Li Jianguo was silent for a few seconds before looking up.

“President Fu, regarding the situation with the F-22 production line, I must be honest.”

“The tooling equipment has been completely disassembled, and the domestic replacement plan for the supporting supply chain has been finalized.”

“But resuming production within five months is impossible.”

“Just the forming process for the titanium alloy integral wall panels of the fuselage would take at least eight months to calibrate.”

“As for the stealth coating formula and spraying parameters, we are still doing sample testing.”

“The adaptation of domestic chips for the avionics system requires rewriting over ten million lines of code.”

He paused.

“In five months, we can at most guarantee that we can start work, but it will take at least a year or two for the first prototype to roll off the line.”

The meeting room was quiet for a few seconds.

Fu Haoran didn't get angry; he knew Li Jianguo was telling the truth.

The F-22 was an industrial masterpiece that Lockheed Martin spent over a decade and hundreds of billions of dollars to create. For Li Jianguo's team to catch up from scratch using a domestic supply chain, two years was already the result of desperate compression.

But when the Alliance fleet arrives in five months, without air superiority, the Hive City will be an isolated island.

Fu Haoran tapped his fingers on the table twice.

“We won't build new planes. We'll modify existing airframes. I need a platform that is rugged, cheap, capable of rapid mass production, and can fly as soon as the engine is installed.”

Li Jianguo looked up.

“Give me three days. I'll sift through all major active and retired aircraft models worldwide and list those that can complete modification and adaptation within five months.”

“You only have two days.”

“Understood.”

Fu Haoran stood up.

“Continue pushing forward with the F-22 production line. Don't stop.”

“Also, notify Jimmy to prepare channels for global acquisition of retired airframes. Once the list is finalized, lock down the sources immediately.”

Li Jianguo nodded and walked out of the meeting room, his pace twice as fast as when he entered.

Fu Haoran picked up an encrypted communicator and dialed Jimmy's channel.

“Jimmy. Two things. First, contact the retired fighter channels of major global arms dealers and prepare for a large-scale acquisition of airframes.”

“We don't want finished products, only retired airframes with intact structures. I'll give you the list in two days.”

“Second, have Cheng Beixiao run through the aviation accessory supply chain in the Delta. List the fly-by-wire chips, hydraulic servo systems, and avionics replacement parts needed for airframe modification. Sign exclusive supply agreements for all of them within three months.”

Fu Haoran hung up and dialed Kallen's channel.

“Kallen, status of the RX-92-00 engine mass production.”

“My Lord, the STC Printer has completed the parameter calibration for the core engine components.”

“The first batch of engine casings will roll off the line within 72 hours.”

“I've calculated that under full load, one complete engine can be produced per week.”

Fu Haoran was not satisfied with this result. The STC he possessed was, to put it bluntly, just a 3D printer, not a production line; its output was naturally not high.

Continuing to push the F-22 production line was a long-term plan.

But the air superiority needed in five months must rely on modified aircraft to fill the gap.

As for which airframe to use, Li Jianguo would give him the answer in two days.