Chapter 18. Revelation
“Hmm...”
I paused to collect my thoughts as I gazed at the letter that had just arrived.
My father had heard about Syngman Rhee's “attack” and immediately fired back a reply brimming with rage—you could tell just from the handwriting.
Dear Eugene,
I had hoped this would be a fine opportunity for you, but alas, it seems not to be.
Should you ever need assistance, know that I stand ready to help in any way.
With sincere regrets,
— Syngman Rhee
Syngman Rhee's influence in the Korean community was growing by the day, but Father must have decided, “If things keep going like this, who knows what that bastard might do with my son.”
I hadn't heard the details of what happened next, but at least Syngman Rhee's momentum had been checked in San Francisco. A natural-born politician like him would surely recognize that “check” as my real answer.
Here, even Syngman Rhee had no choice but to take a step back. Try to undermine my father's sway in the Korean community? That would mean all-out war.
This latest letter from him was just a string of meaningless phrases: regrets about a missed opportunity, offers of help anytime. It was his way of saying, Let's call it quits here.
I hoped he'd learned his lesson—that habitually jabbing at others could lead to a thornier path in life—but when cornered, that bastard could even drag President Wilson into it. Feeding him to Pacific sharks would have to wait another eight years.
With that, I wrapped things up and turned to my next preparations.
“Hey, Eugene. Haven't seen your mug around much lately.”
“He's busy scribbling love serenades for Miss Dorothy every night in his letters.”
“Nah, get outta here, kids~”
These assholes. That stuff was second nature now—I could knock it out in thirty minutes flat.
“I'm four years older than you punks, so I guess I don't have to go?”
“Your mental age is kid-level anyway, so you're good—gack! Gack! Quit it!”
I flopped around like a chicken at Seoul Station under Ike's merciless headlock.
Vicious bastard. Getting more twisted by the day.
Ike had come a long way, though.
The guy who'd looked ready to die when he could no longer play football had fully committed to a coaching path by his junior year. He'd been impressed by how he'd stand there arms crossed, cockily barking orders every time I was up to bat.
“Anyway, show us that stuff you're scribbling every night.”
“Fine... just don't make fun. Guess it's time for some critique from West Point's top talents.”
I pulled a thick stack of papers from my drawer.
This was the culmination of months spent forcing my sluggish brain to churn out ideas.
Predictions on the Aspects of Future Warfare and Proposals for Preparation Thereof
“Hmm. <Predictions on the Aspects of Future Warfare and Proposals for Preparation Thereof>. What a grandiose title.”
“Forget the literary flair—look at the content.”
Ike released the headlock and flopped face-down on my bed, starting on the first page.
“Gah!!”
“Hey, read together.”
“Lemme see too.”
And just like that, their crime of sprawling on my bed earned them a heavy price.
Omar, James, and Anastacio soon piled on in a neat hamburger stack, and Ike's face turned beet red.
“G-get off, you bastards.”
“What the hell are you doing on my bed? Shit, it's gonna get filthy.”
“We showered, so it's fine, right?”
“Yeah, if you showered, it's cool.”
“I'm not cool with it, you pricks! Cool my ass!”
Ha. Hard to believe these idiots were the shining stars of the future.
It hit me sometimes: maybe they weren't all that impressive after all.
“‘As the specter of all-out war looms between the European powers, each nation's leadership will find it impossible to resist the pressure for total mobilization. The fear that their mobilization might lag behind the enemy's in scale or timeline—that is the spark that will ignite Europe's great war...’ Eugene?”
Ike twisted his awkwardly pinned head to look at me.
“What the hell is this?”
“What else? Just a light report.”
“Bullshit. This ain't a report. This is... fuck, it's the Book of Revelation, you lunatic!”
The reaction was fiercer than expected.
Whether from reading it or being squashed, veins were bulging on his face anyway.
Not waiting for my reply, Ike shoved his face back into the pages.
“The German Empire and France, in total mobilization, millions... Alsace-Lorraine's narrow front... rear threat from Russia... Germany likely to violate Belgian neutrality for a short war, expanding the front... German projections into the Low Countries pose a grave threat to the British Empire's security... Fuck, what is all this? You spike your rations or something?”
“Same slop as you guys.”
“We don't think psycho shit like this!!”
Psycho? Harsh.
Anyone with real insight could predict this stuff easily enough.
Of course, since I'd basically copied it straight from history books, folks in this era would find it hard to believe anyone could foresee it.
No way they'd invade a neutral country unilaterally, right?
No way the other powers won't mediate, right?
No way they'd wage a war that tanks everyone's economy and finance, right?
But they would.
And yelling like that over the first few intro pages—before the real meat— was a bit much.
Ike tossed the read pages to his piled-up buddies and tore through the rest.
Spiced up a little, sure, but the report was basically a plea for investment.
That's the feedback I wanted, but apparently the intro already had too much to swallow.
West Point cadets should grasp the basics: monkey-level stuff.
Dig a trench, spray machine guns—war's a breeze. The enemy prays you do the same.
The desperate side charges first... but can you break a trench that way?
To push enemy trenches, you need massive artillery support. Battlefields will be vast. To spot targets, seize the skies—or get one-sidedly observed. Plan for air superiority.
Got air control? How to relay observations? How do millions upfront and HQ in the rear communicate? Runners? Joke's on you.
Charging trenches with the standard M1903 sucks. Pistols tempting. What about a weapon dumping rounds right in your face at point-blank? Or curved-fire support for small units?
Between your trench and theirs: cratered hell from endless shells.
Cars won't cut it—need something like a “tractor” to rumble through. Armor it against bullets. While rolling, mount machine guns or cannons for value...
I'd crammed the pages with ideas like that.
And between the “speculation,” endless descriptions of human fodder dying without such gear.
My original intent was a courtship dance for the brass, but judging by their faces, it came off like a Maori haka. Expressions dead serious.
Finally, having passed the report around, they all clamped their mouths shut. Long off the bed now.
“I... don't even know what to say.”
Omar looked queasy.
“Yeah. The logic tracks. Assuming the battlefield shapes up like this.”
“But... this bad?”
Exactly. That's how it'd be.
“If war goes like this, Europe'd be ghost towns, every man dead. Politics would end it first.”
“Could be. Didn't think of that.”
“Yeah... Anyway, it just feels viscerally wrong.”
They get the logic, but accepting it shreds your faith in humanity or God.
All nodded at that.
“You been thinking shit like this all along?”
James sighed it out; heads nodded again. Irritating as hell.
“No, what, you think I'm some bloodthirsty—”
“Try picturing the author after reading this: one of the Four Horsemen, the red rider of war. Submit it, and your rep's toilet paper! Just hold off!”
By the end, he was yelling, overheated.
“Whoa, calm down. That's why I showed you pre-submission.”
“So you're not submitting?”
“Hmm. So I prepped a milder version?”
I pulled another stack from the drawer. Earlier they'd clawed for it; now they eyed it like the Black Death.
“Read it.”
“This... a novel? Pulp fiction?”
“Bingo.”
21st-century webnovels; this era's pulp mags.
Same content. Dry factual report vs. skkadokbap of imagination and history as fiction—that was the diff.
“...Same shit, you bastard.”
“Nah. This is just a gloomy, bleak novel.”
Ike sighed deeply.
“Yeah. Better this way. Won't sell jack, but some gloom-lovers out there.”
“Right? Use both.”
“What??”
“Report goes up the chain. Per you guys, it'll get cut off somewhere and shelved. So sell the novel publicly.”
Can't use my name, obviously.
Time to borrow poor little bro's name again.
Pen name, naturally.
After my friends' physics-backed earnest persuasion, I shelved the report submission—for now.
Decided to think it over more.
“Eugene, you're gunning for name recognition with this, right?”
“Yup.”
“Then flip it.”
Following Anastacio's advice, I first circulated the infamous report to my classmates.
“So this is in Eugene's head.”
“Damn, but it kinda... makes sense?”
“Sense my ass.”
“Yo, how'd you break German trenches leading a platoon?”
“......Fuck. War ain't happening, so quit that bullshit thinking.”
Soon dubbed the “Armageddon Report”—who first?—it toured the class in a flash, then predictably hit the seniors.
Armageddon Report
“West Point's biggest psycho emerges.”
“If half this hits, he's not psycho—Cassandra.”
And soon after.
I got summoned to the superintendent and submitted the report.
He said nothing, just quietly shoved the tattered pages into a drawer and waved me off.
All preparations at West Point complete.
Now, just wait for the shots in Sarajevo.