Global (27): Rasputitsa
GB and Secretary Ko had assumed this war would be a short special operation. They scrambled to prepare foreign currency they could unload quickly. They also stocked up on product, convinced that once the fighting ended and things stabilized, supply would dry up. The memory of the last windfall after the U.S. election was still fresh—the kind of special Uncle Gonzales used to talk about.
But even our Bear Country couldn’t beat nature. Have you ever heard of Rasputitsa? In Russia, Ukraine, and Belarus, vast stretches of black soil known as chernozem are famous for their fertility and high agricultural output. Between mid-March and late April, the spring thaw turns the entire black-soil belt into a sea of mud. The ground that stayed frozen all winter melts, and the clay-rich soil drains so poorly that fields and unpaved roads become impassable. That phenomenon is called Rasputitsa—“the season of mud” in Russian.
The effect is worst on flat land and dirt roads. In severe cases, vehicles simply cannot move and roads are closed for days. Our Russian friends suddenly found their occupation campaign grinding to a halt. In the middle of a war, decent roads were already scarce. News footage showed armored vehicles and tanks bogged down, unable to advance. Russia, the world’s second military power, failed to live up to its reputation. We had expected modern warfare to look like the American playbook—especially when a developed nation rolls over a smaller one: air strikes followed by armored and infantry divisions sweeping in to occupy territory. Instead, Rasputitsa handed the defenders a natural advantage we hadn’t fully accounted for.
The war dragged on. What we thought would last two weeks stretched past a month with no end in sight. Secretary Ko and I kept debating when to cash out the foreign currency we held. Over those thirty days, my brother had managed to generate another ten million dollars. He said government VIPs had been especially helpful on top of the usual high-roller tourists. In return, he’d issued one hotel membership card. Ten million dollars sounds like a fortune—roughly ten billion won—but in physical cash it’s only five apple boxes of hundred-dollar bills.
We consulted outside experts and tried to read every signal. On the one-month mark of the special operation, I followed Valentin’s advice and liquidated everything. He had warned that the United States was about to intervene and push for a ceasefire. For two weeks the foreign-exchange fees on physical-dollar orders climbed while commodity prices dropped. I had complained loudly enough. The packing lists we received over three weeks alone weighed about five hundred kilograms, and fourth-week shipments were already being prepared. Quality varied wildly—product was arriving from every corner of the globe, so consistent standards were impossible. When I pushed back on the inconsistency, they offered a ten-percent discount. I had tried to act tough and refuse low-grade stuff, but they simply asked whether I could really complain at these prices. They had a point; the material was running at roughly twenty percent below normal market rates. Besides, the prison line didn’t care about quality, so demand remained steady.
Because inspection was taking so long, Director Yeoni said the quality-control team needed to be expanded. We had plenty of won and GBC to cover salaries, so I approved it. Two days later a report came up that five new people had already been hired. The support structure was growing. Internal affairs, security, IT, purchasing, quality control—the organization was starting to feel like a real corporation.
While I watched for the right moment to sell, I reached out to Duke Vladimir like a nervous retail investor.
The reply came back almost instantly; he must have been waiting.
That same afternoon I issued the organization’s first official order to the Philippine security team: Operation Cash Transfer. Whether moving cash was routine or whether they had simply received the plan from the Korean security team, an operational blueprint arrived the next day. They had even run their own simulation. I read it and showed it to Cheol-min.
“Looks like a special-forces op plan,” he said.
I thought the same. Twenty-five personnel were being mobilized. Even with poor local security, it felt excessive. Three days later we received confirmation that Duke Vladimir had taken delivery.
Once again our predictions were wrong. Valentin had been right—the United States did intervene. But when the Russian president threatened to use nuclear weapons if they got involved, the Americans backed off. I had promised to keep a low profile after the Europe and Philippines trips, yet the world refused to leave me alone.
Two months into the special operation, demand surged. Governments worldwide were so focused on Russia and Ukraine that internal controls had loosened. The real war windfall had begun. It started in Europe. Valentin’s people, having made good money on the last cocaine shipment, placed a fresh order after clearing their inventory. An idea struck me.
I also contacted Diaz for the first time in a while—to arrange another shipment and to ask how the situation was developing. Last time he had said his group would take revenge on the rival organization and then surrender to the Americans.
I looked the phrase up. It meant each person looking out for themselves. The U.S. was apparently unable to mediate. While I had him, Diaz also requested the fifth batch of weapons. It seemed like too many guns, but if you’re losing, you die there too. I passed the list to Redflag.
Then the old man suddenly started throwing his weight around.
He claimed OEM orders were backed up. Raw materials were coming in from Russia, being processed, and re-exported. The two countries used the same weapon systems, after all. Even the neighbors were enjoying their own war windfall.
Koreans sometimes mock their own “pot mentality”—short attention spans. I’d experienced it plenty, but after two months even the Russian situation was losing airtime. Rising food and energy prices had become the new justification. Meanwhile, the rehabilitation center was planning an event and asked me to come down. I had been busy with sales and transaction control, but things were finally stabilizing, so I agreed. When I asked why, they told me it was good news. The building behind the center—formerly the old security-team training ground—had been completed. They wanted to hold an opening ceremony and celebrate the organization’s assets crossing the one-trillion-won mark. The official ceremony was off-limits; local officials and National Assembly members would be there, and drawing attention was unwise. They told me to come the day after.
Orders were orders. Secretary Ko, Cheol-min, and I drove down to the center. The hills were lush and green. It felt like only yesterday we were told the cherry blossoms were blooming, yet I hadn’t managed to see them this year. The highway was wide open and the air was clear. By the time we finished catching up, we were already climbing the hill road leading to the center. When had they paved it? The dirt track had been replaced with asphalt. The center was doing well. A banner still hung in the parking lot from yesterday’s event.
Congratulations on the opening of Seongsim Rehabilitation Center
The name was perfectly ordinary. As we pulled into the lot, Executive Ha and Director Jo were waiting.
“Good afternoon.”
“Welcome, Chairman.”
We exchanged smiles and checked on each other’s health. Director Jo’s face had filled out; Executive Ha, on the other hand, looked worn from stress.
“Director Jo, you really should exercise more.”
“Haha, I walk in the hills every day.”
“Executive Ha, you ought to take it easier. Your face says it all.”
“I’m ready to submit my resignation right now.”
Every time I saw him he threatened to quit.