Chapter 21. The Onrushing Storm

San Francisco's modest little publishing house.

Rarely did it see such a boom—the rotary presses were roaring at full tilt, the noise echoing wildly through the place.

"Kuh, kuahaha! Haha hot!!"

"Boss, your grin's splitting to your ears."

"Can you blame me? What a goddamn jackpot!"

The publisher beamed ear-to-ear, caressing a freshly printed book.

He had no clue where this Dwight Van Bradley noble prick had crawled out from, but who gave a shit about origins? The thing was a walking goldmine.

Until that random Asian dude showed up with a manuscript, the publisher hadn't dreamed it ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠could make a dime—not even ant-shit worth.

But the guy sweet-talked him: "I'm just the proxy; the real author's shy about his identity." And one editor swore up and down it had to be published. So they printed a tiny test run, snot-sized.

First sales matched the publisher's pulp fiction gut: zilch, as expected from his years in the gutter.

The book ignored pulp tropes—no thrilling adventures, just a tragedy packed with madness and death. Every page choked you with frustration like a raw sweet potato. Characters dropped like flies; hell, you couldn't even tell who the protagonist was.

Who the fuck buys this crap?

The pushy editor wrote a tearful resignation. The publisher magnanimously forgave him.

Just as memories of the flop faded...

War erupted in Europe.

"Boss!! Boss!!"

"What?"

"The Germans! The Germans crossed the Belgian border!"

"And? So what? They gonna ride giant squid and dolphins across the Atlantic to Belgium?"

"No! No no!! That book we published last time! It's exactly like that!!"

Reading it again... yeah, spot on.

The publisher's brain spun like a capitalist whirlwind. He launched a blitz: splashy ads screaming "Prophesying Europe's Great War!!"

And now.

Orders flooded in: "Send even one copy of that damn book to our store NOW!" Desperate pleas from bookstores everywhere.

Why'd I print just a goddamn speck? If I'd filled a warehouse, no headache now!

The publisher cursed the air, then whipped his head to glare at the editor.

"Hoo... Hey."

"Yes, boss."

"Did our... er, the author say anything about Volume 2?"

"I'm meeting that Asian proxy, but due to the author's circumstances, no manuscript for 2 yet."

"Shit. What's pulp fiction to them? You crank it out dog-style daily to ride the wave. Just write the damn thing—why can't they?"

"Ha... haha..."

"Authors are lazy bastards. They only grab the pen when deadline's breathing down their necks. Avoiding the hassle, so they send a proxy? That it???"

The editor flailed under the machine-gun rant.

Then—

BAM BAM BAM!!

"Anyone here!!"

"Wh-who is it?"

"Police. Coming in."

Police? Why the hell—?

Rough-looking cops stomped in, snatching the fresh stack from the press: The War That Will End All Wars.

"Hey, this is my private—"

"We're looking for the author."

"Ha, you think I'll spill? Get a warrant!"

True publisher spirit: buck the evil government's censorship first.

Even a third-rate pulp mill—hell, any American, especially frontier-spirited Westerner, flips the bird at government meddling.

"We have a seizure warrant. Cooperate."

"Wh-what?! Why! What's this book done? Huh??"

"Take it up with Washington D.C. We don't know details."

"Goddamn feds!! Why the fu—!!"

Ignoring the publisher's razor screams, the poor editor spilled everything under cop siege.

Across the Atlantic, London.

Lieutenant Richard, of the storied Royal Navy of the British Empire, lucked into a brief home leave.

Stepping inside, who greeted him but his brother, a merchant mariner.

"Bro, how're you home? The war?"

"Business. Pulled me out temporarily. You're the surprise—off the ship?"

"Nah. Back to the Yanks in days. Cargo imports are nuts."

Mid-chat, slumping into a chair, Richard spotted a garish-covered book.

"What's that?"

"Oh, that. The book the Yanks are going nuts over. Lucky I snagged one."

"The War That Will End All Wars... Europe's dying for it, but Yanks treat it like a joke? Ignorant pricks..."

"No, bro. Check the pub date."

He flipped through reluctantly, checked the date, pondered, then eyes bulged saucer-wide.

"What. Pre-war?"

"Yup. Tiny print run—book nerd Yanks and occult freaks are desperate."

"Holy... what the..."

Impossible.

Post-war, everyone crawled out claiming "I knew it!" flaunting foresight.

But this book...

First Balkan shots. Austrian crush on Serbia. Kaiser burning to torch the world—Belgium just a Paris pit stop—

Richard swallowed hard, unbidden.

"Hey."

"What, bro? That look's ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠creepy. Like when you'd steal my toys—"

"I'm taking this."

"Hey why! Crazy?! Sell to Yanks, that's big bucks!"

"No. Gotta show my CO."

Mind changed.

No time for R&R.

June 12, 1915.

West Point graduation loomed.

But awkwardly,

I was swamped with handshake requests pre-diploma.

"Cadet Eugene Kim."

"Yes, sir."

The history instructor's face soured like a lemon.

This guy's just wiping his mouth clean? Or ashamed, trying to throw me a bone...?

"I've pulled strings. Got a prime opportunity for you."

"What is it?"

"Your academics: top 40. Leadership shining through. Broke racial barriers, aced the curriculum. Especially field fortifications—stellar. Considering all—"

What.

What.

Don't like where this ominous tail's going.

"I'm specially recommending you for the Engineers. Thoughts?"

Aaaaaah!!

You bastard!!

How'd this dogshit instructor figure it out? If he's screwing me, it's Asura Earl vs. Mazinger Z level grudge. Photon lab exploding wouldn't faze.

"Grateful for the golden chance, sir, but as a U.S. Army cadet by principle, I want fair evaluation."

"This is the fair result."

"No, sir. Without our bet, it'd never happen. Classmates might buy it, but top 40 to Engineers? Brass won't swallow."

"Kuhm...!"

Begone.

Fuck. Wanna sprinkle salt. Hit a diner for some later.

Even shaking off that demon, approaches persisted.

Artillery? Pass.

Cavalry? Hell no.

Just ship me quiet to Infantry. Infantry! Know your infantry!!

WW1 deployment? Shut up and Infantry. My weakest: equitation. Cavalry vetoed.

Artillery too. War hero path: trench crawling. Artillery iffy.

Plus, superintendent's Artillery. Sketchy.

"Pleased to meet you, Cadet Eugene Kim."

"Uh... mind if I ask who...?"

"Ah, no intro."

A stranger middle-aged man handed his card.

"Ford Motor? Why me from a car company?"

"Heard you authored this."

What the—

Unseen before, yet eerily familiar.

Title: my pick, obviously.

Pen name: mashed three dorks. James still whines, "Why just 'Van' for me???" Sulked awhile, that punk.

"Uh... I'm not Van Bradley. Sorry—"

"Heh heh. Don't underestimate our intel. Friendships confirmed. Borrowed their names."

This guy's scary.

Cadet socials how???

"Wrote it here, passed to bro for pub—all verified. How'd this emerge? Suspicions many: secret Euro intel source?"

Yeah. America.

Mega-corps fly under radar.

"Others sniffed too. Washington probed pub process... so solid firms like us get tips."

Don't brag "swiped gov intel" so bold. This era trashy or me nuts?

"Heard you predicted much here, most hit."

"...You know it all. Cut to chase."

"You're no army man. ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠Foresight like yours leads business steering America. Unimaginable terms."

He listed "terms" briefly. Even disinterested me reeled—intense offer.

But I'd drilled it: money means squat.

"Regret, but pledged this body to the U.S. Working for Ford's patriotic too, but I wanna bleed for country."

"Saving Europe's dying boys under Ford name—thoughts?"

"Pardon?"

"Heard you flagged needs: 'armed tractor mobile in shell-torn fields.'"

Wait, not in the book.

Before I replied, he sly-grinned.

"How 'bout dominating future battlefields with us?"