How I Built a Power Company in South America (2)
The CEO's office, Perfect Solar headquarters, on the outskirts of Austin, Texas.
The room was choked with cigarette smoke. James Miller, who hadn't so much as showered in days, stared at the phone on his desk with hollow, bloodshot eyes.
The cigarette hissed as he crushed it out.
"Hah."
He lit another one immediately.
I have to win this bid. No matter what it takes.
The San Marcos project was that desperate a lifeline.
He couldn't have said how much time passed. Then the ringtone shattered the silence, and James snatched up the phone like a man possessed.
"Yeah, it's me. How'd it go?"
The voice on the other end made his eyes go wide as saucers.
"Are you serious? We... we got it?! Okay. Good work."
He hung up with trembling hands and stared blankly into space. When he stepped outside, the employees waiting there swallowed hard and looked at him.
"B-Boss? Don't tell me..."
"We got it."
James clenched his fist and roared.
"We won it! The San Marcos project—it's ours!"
"YEAAAAAH!"
A cheer erupted that threatened to blow the roof off the office. The vice president and the executive director grabbed each other and jumped up and down. Someone, overcome with emotion, flung a whole stack of papers into the air.
They had every reason to. The company had outstanding technology, but Chinese low-price dumping had been driving it into the ground. Factory utilization was less than half of what it had been at its peak, and they'd already gone through several rounds of layoffs. America was a country where firing people was easy. If this kept up, more and more of them would have to clear out their desks.
And in that situation, they had gambled—diverting a shipment bound for Ghana. The gamble had paid off.
"We're saved! We're actually saved!" James shouted, wiping away the tears streaming down his face. "Pack your bags! We're going to sign the contract!"
A few days later, at the San Marcos Presidential Palace.
Cold sweat ran down James Miller's back as he made his way toward the reception room.
So this is it... the palace of that iron-fisted dictator.
In preparing for the bid, James had researched San Marcos thoroughly. Naturally, that meant studying Eugene Choi just as thoroughly—and the more he learned, the more astonished he became.
Eugene Choi, the iron-blooded leader who had ended decades of civil war, rounded up every last gang, and shipped them all off to forced labor camps. The man who had purged corrupt officials and built a new order in blood—in effect, South America's last remaining dictator after Maduro's capture.
Even James, who prided himself on being a tough Texas man, couldn't help but be nervous at the prospect of meeting such an infamous figure.
And sure enough.
The moment he passed through the palace gates, his eyes went wide. Guards carrying M4 carbines—the standard-issue rifle of the U.S. military—were only the beginning. He looked up, and on the palace rooftop, 20mm Vulcan cannons pointed their black muzzles at the sky. In a corner of the garden, beneath camouflage netting, the gun barrel of an enormous tank and the rotors of an attack helicopter gleamed.
This is insane.
It felt like standing in the middle of a war zone. James swallowed hard despite himself. A wave of fear washed over him—one wrong word and he might not walk out of here.
"This way, Mr. Miller."
Guided by Protocol Secretary Ana, he was led inside, and a moment later a heavy door swung open. The thought of meeting a dictator had James's face locked in a rigid mask as he stepped through.
"Welcome."
And then—
Huh?
The man who rose from the sofa to greet him was nothing like the image James had built in his head. He'd known the man was well-groomed, of course. He'd held a summit with the President of the United States; his photos were all over the internet. But the feeling was different.
How to put it... Rather than a dictator who had purged countless people, he gave off the impression of a capable Silicon Valley engineer, or a Wall Street fund manager.
But James didn't let his guard down.
You can't judge a man by his face.
Look at history. Young Stalin and Hitler had looked like nothing more than a shy literary type and a struggling painter, hadn't they? The cruelty hidden behind an ordinary face—that was the truly terrifying kind.
To this wary man, Eugene offered a gentle smile and extended his hand.
"A pleasure to meet you. I'm Eugene Choi, President of San Marcos."
"J-James Miller, CEO of Perfect Solar! Thank you for giving us this opportunity."
James answered at the top of his lungs, like a private snapping to attention, and shook the offered hand.
"Giving you an opportunity? Perfect Solar won this fair and square on merit."
Eugene offered him a teacup and asked, feigning surprise.
"By the way, I noticed you listed the construction period as six months. Is that physically possible?"
"Yes, sir! It is!"
James explained with a grim, determined expression.
"We had a shipment headed for Ghana, in Africa. It was about to be loaded, but when we saw the San Marcos announcement, we stopped the shipment and broke the contract."
"You broke a contract?"
"Yes. Even if it meant paying the penalty, we decided to go all-in on San Marcos. We moved the panels to the Port of Tampa, so we can have them here as early as tomorrow!"
Eugene lifted his teacup to hide the smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
Jackpot.
He'd been expecting a year—ten months if they were fast. But six months? That meant retirement just got that much closer.
Winners really do win, huh.
Eugene looked at James with thoroughly satisfied eyes.
"Impressive. That kind of decisiveness—I like it a great deal. I'll be looking forward to the results."
"I'll complete this if it kills me!"
That was when it happened. A knock at the door, and a middle-aged man carrying a briefcase walked in.
"Your Excellency, I'm late. I was inspecting the site..."
"Not at all. You were working. Don't worry about it."
Eugene greeted him warmly and introduced him to James.
"Ah, Mr. Miller. Allow me to introduce you. This is Aman, Senior Secretary for Industry—he'll be overseeing the entire project."
Aman extended his hand with a grave expression.
"A pleasure. I'm Aman. I look forward to working with you."
"James. Likewise!"
The two men shook hands.
"If you need anything, just ask Senior Secretary Aman. He can take care of just about everything. A Senior Secretary in San Marcos is equivalent to a cabinet minister anywhere else."
"I-is that so? Thank you very much."
James's face lit up at the news that someone of ministerial rank would be personally handling the project. It meant San Marcos was taking this just as seriously as he was.
"Now that you've met the man in charge, shall we sign the contract?"
And so Eugene signed a two-billion-dollar contract for the construction of a solar power plant.
The ink on the contract had barely dried before a convoy of massive container trucks stretched across a plain some hundred and fifty kilometers from Libertad. Perfect Solar's panels, flown in from Texas, had arrived. Behind them came the engineers, the civil engineering team, and thousands of local San Marcos laborers.
Atop the site office container, James Miller of Perfect Solar stood in a cowboy hat, shielding himself from San Marcos's brutal sun, looking down with a face full of worry.
"...I don't know if this is gonna work."
It wasn't a technical problem that had him worried. It was a clause in the contract.
Simple assembly and transport work shall prioritize the hiring of San Marcos local labor.
It was a clause Eugene had insisted on the day of the signing, driven by a determination to create jobs by any means necessary. Flushed with the joy of winning the bid, James had nodded along without thinking. The problem was that, in his experience, South American workers and a war of speed did not mix.
Siesta culture, they called it—napping in the afternoon, taking breaks because it was hot, taking breaks because it was raining. When he'd first started at Perfect Storm, that kind of thing had made his blood boil more than once or twice.
And above all: this project had to be finished in six months. A single day of delay meant paying a penalty.
"William, come here a second."
James picked up his radio and called over the site supervisor, who had been checking the workers as they climbed down from the trucks.
"Yes, Mr. Miller."
When the man arrived and acknowledged him, James gave him a stern, unblinking warning.
"The success or failure of this project comes down to managing the workers. They'll slack off the second you look away, so keep a tight watch on them."
"Ah, yes... understood."
A strangely uneasy look crossed his face.
"What? Is there a problem?"
"Honestly, I'm not sure this is going to work. You know how the culture is around here..."
"Work or not, we have to make it happen. Labor's cheap enough as it is, so dangle some extra money or feed them well and push them that way. But do not—under any circumstances—use force. The people of San Marcos are not to be trifled with."
"Understood."
As it turned out, James's instructions were completely unnecessary.
"Boss! Boss!"
"What is it?"
"Well... I think it'd be faster if you just saw it yourself."
James tilted his head and followed Supervisor Kim down to the work zone. And when he reached the site, he came face to face with a sight he had never imagined.
"What the..."
"Run! Team Three! Bring more panels!"
"Swap the drill batteries! Don't stop for even a second!"
"Uwaaaaaah!"
Thousands of laborers were sprinting around like Marines on stimpacks. They were hauling heavy solar panels on their backs, and not a single one of them was walking. In a complete reversal of the natural order, the middle managers were actually telling them to slow down before someone got hurt.
James grabbed a worker who was rushing past. The man was bathed in sweat from all the running.
"Hey. Why the rush? You're getting paid by the day either way."
The worker's eyes went wide at James's question.
"There's no time!"
"What?"
"His Excellency is waiting! He promised we'd have light within six months. We cannot break His Excellency's promise by dragging our feet!"
"No, but you can take it easy, it's fi—"
"If you'll excuse me, I need to get back to work!"
James grabbed another worker and asked again. This one was different—a weathered, bearded middle-aged man.
"Why are the workers going this hard?"
"What else? To repay the grace His Excellency showed us."
"Grace?"
"Three years ago, my boy couldn't even go to school. I could work all day and barely fill our bellies. Then His Excellency came, and everything changed. He sent our children to school. He fed us until we were full. After receiving a grace like that, how could we possibly take it easy?"
James had nothing to say. The site supervisor standing beside him clicked his tongue in disbelief.
"You see? These people are insane. They wanted to work through lunch. I had to force them to sit down."
And it didn't stop at night. According to the original plan, work should have halted and everyone should have withdrawn. Instead, searchlights blazed across the site as bright as day. The workers had voluntarily requested night shifts.
"Heave! Heave!"
The work chants ringing through the darkness were as solemn as a military anthem. James watched the scene from a distance, a cigarette between his lips. His hands trembled faintly.
"San Marcos really is a terrifying country..."
He'd heard that dictators ruled through fear, but this was something else entirely. Not fear—voluntary obedience born of reverence.
That night, James had no choice but to fall asleep with his whole body trembling.