Chapter 111

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Translator: Ace

Chapter: 111

Chapter Title: Beaming US Army Maker (5)

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Americans were always hungry.

Of course, I'm not talking about literal starvation. America was too prosperous a country for that. A nation where lobsters were considered low-class food and black slaves tore into chickens—it wasn't going to go hungry.

No, it was the absence of history and tradition.

The endless ridicule of being a rootless nation.

Of course, most Americans never showed any inferiority complex about it. Hell, an inferiority complex? Any guy who pulled that unmanly, pathetic crap would have his balls cut off on the spot!

But that's exactly why it piled up deep inside, layer upon layer.

Like a shiny bald guy envying thick hair.

Or someone who never set foot in a school envying the bookworms.

Or an upstart resenting the nobility.

This wasn't about success or failure. It was just rage at things you'd never have and never would.

What good were all the inventions and technologies they churned out? That didn't conjure up a history out of thin air.

Even many ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠of those inventions were based on tech stolen from Europe amid curses of "shameless Yankees." Just like Japan copied America, Korea copied Japan, and China copied Korea—America copied Europe.

Through The Sun, I scratched at that itch like a dutiful grandson.

"Tanks? What kind of new weapon is that?"

"They say it's war with tractors."

That's all the recognition it had at first.

"Don't hand the symbol of the Union over to foreign powers!!"

"I won't trade my pride for thirty pieces of silver!!"

"The government and Congress, explain yourselves now!"

Look at those Stars and Stripes waving.

Ecstasy. Pure thrill. More addictive than opium, sweeter than whiskey.

In the land of capitalist monsters that is the United States, did anyone think the people who saw The Sun making money would sit still?

They called it "Uragaki" or something in the trade lingo? A swarm of knockoff rags popped up.

And it didn't take long to realize copying The Sun's killer content was the real moneymaker. No teeth? Use your gums. If The Sun sold out, they'd buy their own papers instead.

So when The Sun really started lighting the bonfire, the tinderboxes unleashed even more sensational, utterly outrageous "believe it or not" stories. Talk about a sure thing.

But as long as Eugene Kim was around, no one could catch up to that cutting-edge pizzazz. Keep grinding for another decade, rookies.

"Isn't the effect better than expected?"

"We've got friends following along."

"Even so, this exceeds my projections. A tank's just a military weapon, right? Not like a battleship, a national symbol."

"True. But now it is. At least the public thinks so."

The chairman looked pretty flustered.

"By the way, how do you plan to handle the fallout?"

"What fallout? Nothing's happened ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠so far."

"But trying to sell to the Soviets is true!!"

"It fell through, end of story. Heh."

But you need a kernel of truth to maximize impact.

We got a secret offer, but the chairman naturally shot it down. No proper diplomatic ties yet, and NEP wasn't even a thing. Why invest in Bolshevik hell?

"Some of the others are getting antsy. If The Sun gets investigated, they'll be mighty displeased."

"I already told them."

I'd squared it with Hoover. Worst case, splash a sexy headline like "[Ford Chairman Lectures Reds on Freedom and the American Dream!]"

The more I thought about it, Hoover was a monster. With all the big shots tied to The Sun, how'd he reach me?

Anyway, The Sun's role ended there.

Stirring public interest? Mission accomplished. No more milking it, and we shouldn't.

And things were unfolding just as I'd planned.

Of course tank projects tanking benefits other defense contractors. In this capitalist jungle, win-win is rare. It's a brutal war over a fixed pie.

Seeing them counter with lowbrow agitation and fabrications the moment they sniffed the public mood—America sure was something.

The Defense Bill, just awaiting a vote, got dragged back into partisan brawls, with fierce yes/no debates, smears, and counterattacks based on individual reps' interests and beliefs, party lines be damned.

Amid that chaos, I attended a party at Pershing's house.

"Come on in."

"Long time no see, General."

King-God-Emperor-General Pershing's prestige echoed across the entire Union.

March, the de facto head of the faction opposing Pershing, had finally retired.

And without a peep, the new Army Chief of Staff slot naturally went to Pershing's man.

The Showmon faction claimed total victory, and March's underlings scattered to the winds. Their choices now: shed the uniform or get sidelined to paper-pushing posts.

But Pershing himself, fresh off the big win and now head of the US Army... he looked a bit drained.

The Pershing I'd met at Showmon was furious at the cold shoulder from Britain and France, burning with zeal to uphold American prestige and glory, weighed down by responsibility for his mission.

Was reaching the top the problem? Or the eternal regret of not becoming president like Andrew Jackson or Grant?

I couldn't find that old fiery passion in today's Pershing.

"How's army life treating you?"

"Thanks to the Chief's consideration, I'm getting by day by day."

"My consideration? Marshall's the one who pulled strings."

Pershing nodded toward the woman draped on his arm.

Yeah, I'd been dying to ask. Who's the young lady? Not his daughter.

"This is Louise Cromwell Brooks. Quite the notable socialite."

"Pleased to meet you. Eugene Kim."

"I've heard so much about you from Mr. Pershing. Call me Louise."

Remarrying, huh? No wonder he smiled faintly whenever she was around... but... the age gap...

"I'll say hello properly when there's time."

"Appreciate it. So many folks dying for a word with me. Enjoy yourself."

"Come play sometime~"

Every step Pershing and Miss Brooks took drew a swarm like sardines, all angling for a face-time hello.

Me getting a greeting too—pretty high regard?

Glancing around just in case, the stares weren't casual.

'Why that guy!'

'Why's the general talking to that punk!'

'Yellow monkey!!'

Hmm, speech bubbles practically visible. Jealousy and envy raining down.

Eugene Kim here gladly gives haters reasons to hate. I've got plenty of asshole moves coming—stay tuned, boys.

Over there, Drum beaming through chats with some folks.

Opposite him, Marshall in serious talk. Obvious work mode even at someone else's party.

No way I'm wandering over with a wine glass cluelessly—I'll get roped in. A gentleman avoids danger. Can't volunteer for overtime hell.

So who do I hang with...

"Junior."

"Whoa! You got invited too?"

"Yeah, something like that."

MacArthur grinned.

Yeah, the living gotta live. MacArthur's gotta keep soldiering, so bend where needed, play nice.

Just endure a few years, and he'd be tipped as future Chief. No point stirring trouble here.

"Public mood shifting at home, huh."

"Yes. More pro-tank sentiment than expected."

"Your doing?"

"A mere major manipulating opinion? Paranoia flaring again? Mind control waves or some-"

"You keep painting me as a nutcase. There were circumstances last time."

"1st Division heroes catch German spies, oh, 84th Brigade's MacArthur is a German spy... Mmph! Mmmp!!"

MacArthur frantically clamped my mouth with his free left hand.

"Sing that damn song once more, and it's pistols at dawn. Tell Patton I'll drop by with my revolver soon."

"Mmmp! Mmmp!!"

"Got it?"

"Mmp!"

Whew. Air at last. Felt real killing intent there.

"Got a prior engagement, so excuse me. Catch you later."

"Sure. I'll be around awhile."

Alone now, I hustled through greetings with assorted officers and bigwigs, networking like mad.

"Major Kim! How's Mr. Ford?"

"Fit as ever. Could go another fifty years."

"Really? Tanks suddenly hot—any word from him...?"

"He's baffled. Wishes they'd hype the Model T instead."

"Haha!! Say, any interest from Ford in the new tank contract? Maybe a consortium with us-"

Business.

"Heard you married well. Curtis must be thrilled."

"Over the moon, heh."

"Kansas benefits from this US MILK deal, so smiles all day. Mind if I visit him personally?"

"Of course. I'll wire my father-in-law soon."

Business.

Business everywhere.

Man, gonna die.

My neck prickling—glance back, Drum and Marshall lasering me with eyes. What the hell. Those burning "why not come yet" stares.

This is hell.

Now I see: ego battle. Who I approach first. Grown-ass men acting like kids!!

That's why they say all ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠men are boys. Sick of it. Before the admirers trisect me into Yoo/Jin/Kim, Drum and Marshall'll quarter me first.

I deliberately avoided both, sticking to business talk till the stifling air choked me, then bolted to the backyard.

Out back, haha-ho-ho laughs and tangled man-woman sounds hit like Dolby surround. Parties gonna party.

Aimed for the darkest corner—miscalculation. Darkest ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠spot's prime for sticky fun, occupied naturally.

Finally, after wandering, found a hidey-hole for a smoke.

Match strikes, harsh nicotine hits throat. Mmm. When'll I quit at this rate.

Zoning out with the cig, eyes adjusted, spotting a couple in the distance swapping hot kisses, every move dimly visible.

"What the."

Man obscured, but woman was that Brooks from earlier.

But no matter how I looked, not Pershing?

What bullshit is this. At a party in Pershing's house, the near-hostess sucking face with another dude? Unmarried or not, basic manners.

My inner Confucian couldn't stomach it. Pershing wasn't some boomer deserving this.

Marched straight at the damn pair. Shoot the man, shoot the woman. Equal toss in the Hudson.

"Eek!"

"You thunderstruck idiots. Think you can pull this in the host's backyard and skate? Huh?!"

"Junior?"

What.

"Senior... why are you here?"

"Misunderstanding, total misunderstanding. Hold on, hear me out. Holster that pistol."

MacArthur wiped lipstick off his cheek, waving hands wildly.

Fuck, America is truly amazing.

Now it's a soap opera?