Command & Conquer
Command & Conquer — America was in the thick of election fever. The presidential race itself had not yet begun, but the primaries to select the Democratic and Republican nominees were in full swing. Bill Clinton, whose only title until now had been governor of the rural state of Arkansas, had become a whirlwind sweeping through the Democratic primaries. In early April, New York would hold its primary, and the American media predicted another decisive victory for Clinton there.
With his strikingly fresh young face, an eloquence that never faltered, and the formidable backing of his wife Hillary Clinton’s powerful family, the other Democratic candidates had either dropped out for various reasons or simply lacked the appeal to compete. Still, Bill Clinton could not afford to relax. He needed at least fifty percent of the vote in New York to be declared the clear frontrunner and force the remaining candidates to concede. He had not reached that threshold yet.
Moreover, his once-powerful supporter, Hillary Clinton, had recently found herself in the headlines for all the wrong reasons. Her confidence was admirable, but she had grown so aggressive that she openly attacked President Bush, the Republican frontrunner. To Yoo Jae-won, Hillary’s actions seemed calculated. She only lashed out after Clinton came under fire over his personal scandals. With reports naming a woman called Jennifer Flowers as his mistress, leaving things as they were would clearly damage Clinton’s presidential prospects.
Then, in the midst of the crisis, Hillary Clinton struck back by claiming President Bush had also had an extramarital affair. Bush naturally denied it outright, calling it a baseless rumor, and Clinton quickly followed suit, minimizing the damage. Yoo Jae-won suspected Clinton’s own scandal was real. After all, the man who struggled so much with scandals now would later enter the White House and still fail to restrain himself, eventually facing impeachment hearings.
Anyway, when Alan mentioned that the likely next president of the United States wanted to meet him as soon as possible, Yoo Jae-won felt more puzzled than pleased.
“With the New York primary right around the corner, he must be incredibly busy. How does he have time? Isn’t he supposed to be campaigning there right now?”
“Yes, that’s the issue. I’m afraid the boss will have to go to New York. Or we could wait until the California primary in June.”
The political landscape shifted by the day. The longer they waited, the higher Bill Clinton’s stock would rise. Meeting him early and offering substantial support would earn far more goodwill than jumping on the bandwagon once he was already the inevitable nominee. By then, the competition for his attention would be fierce.
Yoo Jae-won opened his diary and checked his early-April schedule. Nothing urgent stood out. With no new ventures launched, he had little pressing business. A few meetings with venture companies he had invested in through Silicon Valley and one appointment with a film studio were all that was scheduled.
“Understood. I’ll make the trip.”
He would rearrange or postpone his lighter commitments to meet Clinton as soon as possible.
“By the way, how much have we donated to Bill Clinton so far?”
“One million dollars under the name of ID Technology.”
“Hmm. That’s not much.”
One million dollars was hardly pocket change, yet Yoo Jae-won spoke as if it were modest. Even more amusing was that Alan, seated across from him, nodded in agreement. The American political donation system was highly developed. The sheer size of the country meant campaign costs operated on an entirely different scale. A nationwide presidential campaign required hundreds of millions of dollars. National television advertising, local radio and television stations, billboards in densely populated areas, staff salaries, travel, and lodging all added up. No individual, no matter how wealthy, could shoulder the full burden alone.
That was why lobbying was legal in America and why there were virtually no limits on fundraising, though the system distinguished clearly between hard money and soft money for the sake of transparency. Hard money went directly to the candidate, capped at one thousand dollars per individual donor, and any expenditure over two hundred dollars had to be itemized. Soft money, usually funneled through Super PACs or the party itself, had no such limits and could be used for almost anything.
“How much would we need to donate to appear at the very top of the Democratic donor list?”
Alan momentarily lost his voice. He had long known his young chairman possessed extraordinary boldness, but he had not expected such audacity even in politics. Both the Democratic and Republican parties boasted legions of passionate, wealthy supporters from old-money families and corporate giants. To rise to the very top of that list would require an enormous sum. Alan’s mind raced, recalling past donation rankings he had once dismissed as gossip.
“Around eight million dollars, I would estimate.”
Yoo Jae-won nearly blurted out that the figure was cheap. In the twenty-first century, nine-figure donations would become commonplace. The record belonged to the Republican side: the Koch brothers, oil tycoons, had given four hundred million dollars, the largest political contribution in history. They had reaped enormous returns. Their top priority had been approval for the Keystone Pipeline, a 3,200-kilometer oil pipeline from Canada to Houston, Texas. With that permit secured, the brothers stood to gain a hundred billion dollars in potential profit — a 250-fold return.
“Understood. After my meeting with Clinton, I’ll donate that amount. Please make the necessary preparations.”
There was no need to spend that much yet. Eight million dollars was two million less than Yoo Jae-won had originally considered.
“Yes, sir.”
Adding the existing one million brought the total to nine million dollars. To Alan, the sum was staggering, yet if Clinton won, the returns would far exceed it. The investment was worth making.
A few days later.
“Things are getting lively.”
Yoo Jae-won clicked his tongue as he stared at the monitor. The screen displayed NextCom’s news portal, as usual. Henry Samuel, president of NextCom, knowing Yoo Jae-won’s habit of browsing the news, had worked tirelessly to improve the portal’s features and design. As a result, more media outlets supplied articles, and user-friendly functions had multiplied. The latest addition was a personalized news feed. Users could enter keywords for topics they wanted to follow, and the system would automatically clip relevant stories and send alerts when new articles appeared. The feature worked on both the English and Korean versions of the site. Yoo Jae-won found it extremely convenient.
His registered keywords included weighty names such as the Democratic Liberal Party, the Tongil National Party, Kim Young-sam, Jeon Myeong-heon, and Choi Hyun-hee, along with terms like “exclusive,” “shock,” and other phrases the press used for major scoops. The article currently on his screen had been caught by the keywords “shock” and “Democratic Liberal Party.”
Shock — Democratic Liberal Party suffers crushing defeat, internal strife intensifies, calls for accountability grow louder.
After failing to secure a majority in the last general election, the Democratic Liberal Party had moved quickly to recruit independent lawmakers sympathetic to the ruling party in an attempt at artificial realignment. They had learned from bitter experience how powerless a ruling party became without a parliamentary majority, so their response had been swift. Yet their plan failed because someone had acted even faster: Assemblyman Jeon Myeong-heon.
Though he still held no official position within the Tongil Democratic Party and remained an ordinary lawmaker, no one in the National Assembly or among the public treated Jeon Myeong-heon as a mere freshman. A single word from him carried more weight than the decisions of the party leader elected at the national convention or the floor leader chosen by the forty-four Tongil National Party lawmakers.
Jeon Myeong-heon’s most trusted ally was Yoo Jae-won. Yoo Jae-won had targeted the independent lawmakers, and Jeon Myeong-heon had followed his lead without hesitation. Even if they could not recruit the independents themselves, they had ensured the independents would not join the Democratic Liberal Party — and they had succeeded. Despite the ruling party’s lavish offers of political favors, the Democratic Liberal Party had secured only 145 seats, four short of the 149 needed for a majority. Passing any legislation they desired would now require cooperation from the Democratic Party or the Tongil National Party.
With the majority slipping away, it was only natural that voices within the Democratic Liberal Party began demanding accountability for the election loss. The article described a fierce clash between President Roh’s faction and Kim Young-sam’s faction, warning that the party might split. Perhaps because it was a conservative newspaper, it exaggerated the ruling party’s troubles.
“Split? There’s a much bigger game ahead.”
Though they had lost the general election, the presidential race still offered hope. If the voters who had supported the Democratic Liberal Party in the parliamentary election voted the same way in the presidential contest, their candidate’s chances of victory exceeded ninety percent. That was why the current internal strife within the party was likely being deliberately amplified. Kim Young-sam’s camp probably intended to purge or sideline President Roh’s faction over the disastrous nomination process, secure the presidential nomination for themselves, and simultaneously rally their supporters by instilling a sense of crisis. If people grew complacent believing the Democratic Liberal Party was finished, they would be making a grave mistake. In politics, nothing was over until it was truly over.
Fortunately, Assemblyman Jeon Myeong-heon had kept his composure despite the Tongil National Party’s unexpectedly strong showing. He had already formed a negotiating group in the Assembly and was swiftly moving to secure chairmanships and seats on key standing committees. The Tongil National Party was aiming for at least two chairmanships among the Legislation and Judiciary Committee, the Strategy and Finance Committee, and the Land, Infrastructure and Transport Committee.
The Legislation and Judiciary Committee reviewed every bill passed by the National Assembly and wielded enormous power. Originally tasked with checking whether proposed laws conformed to the Constitution and met legal requirements, it sometimes used that authority to encroach on other committees’ jurisdictions or arbitrarily rewrite legislation. Bills that posed problems were often left to languish until they expired at the end of the term.
The Strategy and Finance Committee handled the National Assembly’s decisions on national finances and economic policy. It became especially critical during the year-end budget deliberations, attracting the parties’ top economic experts and giving them significant influence.
The Land, Infrastructure and Transport Committee was equally powerful, overseeing housing, land, construction, water resources, railways, roads, aviation, and logistics — areas overflowing with money and influence. Because lawmakers could most visibly claim credit for building roads and infrastructure, the committee’s sway was considerable.
“Will it work out?”
Securing two of the three most coveted committees struck Yoo Jae-won as overly ambitious. He thought aiming for the Legislation and Judiciary Committee and the Education Committee might have been more realistic, but Jeon Myeong-heon clearly had his own calculations, so Yoo Jae-won decided to wait and see.
“If it succeeds, it’ll be a huge win. If not, it won’t matter much either way.”
Korea granted its lawmakers powers almost unparalleled in the world, yet an even more concentrated authority existed: the presidency. There was a reason people called it an imperial presidency. Used wisely, that power could steer the nation effectively and drive progress. Used selfishly, it could just as easily drain the country dry.
Until the 14th National Assembly formally convened in June, Korean politics would remain extremely turbulent. Even after the new Assembly opened, the presidential election only a few months later might prevent it from functioning properly.
“In any case, once the Assembly convenes, I’ll have to make sure those two bills pass.”
The bills in question concerned strengthened safety inspections, the establishment of permanent inspection teams, and regulations on the issuance of convertible bonds and bonds with warrants. With some negotiation with the Democratic Liberal Party or the Democratic Party, passage seemed feasible.
“On another note, Chairman Choi Hyun-hee’s lack of reaction is getting boring.”
Convertible bonds were a lethal blow to Choi Hyun-hee. Meanwhile, Yoo Jae-won had been pouring two billion dollars into buying up shares of Ilseong Group’s major subsidiaries. Since Yoo Jae-won had issued aggressive buy orders, the stock prices of Ilseong Electronics, Ilseong Construction, and Ilseong Trading had at least doubled and in some cases nearly tripled. The smaller Cheil Fiber had already exceeded the ten-percent stake target, so purchases had stopped and its share price had since declined. Using their rights as major shareholders, experts were now poring over the company’s books, demanding materials not available through ordinary public disclosures. With accountants who had long worked in the textile industry brought in, the company was about to be thoroughly picked apart.
Although the larger targets, Ilseong Electronics and Ilseong Construction, had not yet reached their acquisition goals, steady buying continued and completion was only a matter of time. Any owner would naturally be sensitive to changes in shareholding, yet Choi Hyun-hee’s continued silence suggested he might be plotting something else. Yoo Jae-won was not particularly worried. There was nothing new under the sun, and having been repeatedly burned by their tactics in his previous life, he felt confident he could dismantle any scheme they devised.
After finishing the Democratic Liberal Party articles from other outlets, Yoo Jae-won moved to the next category.
Second mobile telecommunications license competition intensifies!
Conglomerates launch rosy advertising war.
POSCO, SsangYong, and Kolon rush to begin PR campaigns!
While the political world simmered with the aftermath of the general election and preparations for the presidential race, Korea’s business community was abuzz over the second mobile telecommunications license. The government had announced it would finalize the operator selection by August, triggering a flurry of corporate maneuvering and advertising campaigns. When even POSCO, a company with no connection to telecommunications, joined the fray, the intensity was palpable even to Yoo Jae-won across the Pacific.
“Because mobile telecommunications is a business for the entire nation, only the people’s company POSCO can handle it? What kind of absurd logic is that?”
The peculiar reasoning of the early 1990s was beyond Yoo Jae-won’s comprehension.
“I wonder how President Lee Yong-kwon is preparing.”
He had not been in frequent contact with Lee Yong-kwon of TG lately. The man was stretched thin preparing both new products and the bid for the second mobile telecommunications license. Since both projects were closely tied to Yoo Jae-won himself, he was not overly concerned.
The first project was the third model in the Egg series and TG’s first attempt at manufacturing laptops. The name was still undecided, but a prototype already existed and mass production was being prepared. The design concept drew inspiration from a scallop shell, paying homage to the original Egg PC by using polycarbonate for the casing. Yoo Jae-won had sketched the overall design, which TG’s design research center then refined with their engineers. The laptop featured a 486 CPU, 4 MB of memory, a 360 MB high-capacity hard drive, a TFT-LCD screen for vibrant colors, and the latest lithium battery allowing four hours of continuous use on battery power alone. The price would be astronomical, but demand was certain to exist. Yoo Jae-won had already ordered the top-tier model in anticipation of university life.
The second mobile telecommunications bid was also a venture Yoo Jae-won had encouraged. Lee Yong-kwon had received the tip while still vice president and had been sharpening his knife ever since. Of course, he did not expect to win this particular license round, which felt almost predetermined. Instead, the experience of drafting the business plan and proving the technology would position TG to compete seriously for the third or fourth license. Lee Yong-kwon had established a mobile telecommunications division within TG and simultaneously commissioned consulting services from ID Technology’s Korean branch. TG possessed plenty of enthusiasm but almost no knowledge of mobile telecommunications. Although ID Technology also lacked a track record in the field, its successful operation of NextCom’s online communications business gave it a clear edge over other bidders.
Lee Yong-kwon had not based his decision solely on that. He had also considered the uncanny accuracy of Yoo Jae-won’s past advice. Yoo Jae-won had gladly accepted the commission. The actual work fell to Kim Taek-soo, who oversaw the consulting business. For Kim Taek-soo, who had previously supplied POS systems to small chicken franchises and neighborhood supermarkets, the pressure of handling a project of this scale was immense. Yet Yoo Jae-won provided daily direction and solved difficult problems, so the task never felt overwhelming.
The first decision reached through ID Technology’s consulting was the name of the mobile telecommunications division: TG Mobile. Simple and clear. No one knew exactly when TG Mobile would launch full-scale operations, but when it did, it would mark the end of the other carriers’ comfortable existence.
“Well then, shall we go meet the world’s greatest playboy?”
Having cleared his urgent matters, Yoo Jae-won rose lightly from his seat. It was time to meet the future president of the United States.