Lavaz Town – The tractor factory bustled under gray, drizzling skies. The constant clang of hamr on steel echoed through the yards and workshops like a heartbeat.
Before Joseph set off for Arica, Charles made a visit to his office.
Joseph's space was simple: just a desk, a few chairs for guests, and a pot of French chrysanthemums in the corner—his favorite flower.
When Charles appeared at the door, Joseph's face lit up with joy. He imdiately put down the docunts in his hand and ca forward to grasp Charles's hand with heartfelt enthusiasm.
"It's been too long, Master Charles," Joseph said with his usual gentle tone. Though he always addressed Charles as "Master," now that Charles wore the uniform of a general, even Joseph seed unsure for a mont.
"Or should I call you General now?"
"No need, Joseph," Charles replied. "We're family. Titles don't matter between us."
"It's my honor, Master Charles," Joseph smiled warmly, accepting the sentint without hesitation.
They sat on the couch together. A flicker of guilt crossed Charles's mind.
When the Bernard family had been under the thumb of Francis, Joseph had always supported them in the shadows—especially Charles, whom he had treated like his own son.
And yet Charles had barely seen him in almost a year—not even when visiting the factory or returning ho.
But Joseph didn't hold it against him. He knew Charles was busy saving France. Even his current leave was filled with responsibilities.
Besides, Charles had saved Mathieu's life and guided him into becoming a confident, competent engineer.
Joseph felt nothing but gratitude.
"Have you thought through your plans for the U.S.?" Charles asked, taking the coffee Joseph handed him.
Joseph hesitated for a mont.
"I think we should start with grenades. They're easy to produce, cheap, and suitable for mass manufacturing. It'll help us gain a foothold."
Start simple—that was his philosophy. But Charles shook his head.
"No, Joseph. You need to roll out everything as soon as possible. Not just grenades. Mortars, submachine guns, rifles—even helts."
"Helts?" Joseph frowned. "But the U.S. Army doesn't wear helts, sir."
He'd done his research. U.S. soldiers wore campaign hats. Helts were foreign to them, and Charles's designs might not even suit their taste. Wouldn't it be wiser to talk first before producing?
But Charles insisted:
"Just produce them. Don't worry about the rest."
Charles was sure the U.S. would use them. When the ti ca, Arica would be so desperate for equipnt they'd put cooking pots on their heads if it ant protection.
"Understood, Master Charles," Joseph nodded.
If all else failed, the helts could always be shipped to France—they'd sell at a premium during warti.
Charles added one last thing:
"You'll have a budget of one hundred million dollars."
Joseph, who had just sat down, jerked back in shock.
Charles was betting everything on the success of U.S. arms production.
"Isn't that a bit risky?" Joseph asked.
"No, Joseph," Charles said calmly. "Your job is to use that capital to expand production as fast as possible. Your focus is to maximize output in the shortest ti with the best quality."
"As you wish, Master Charles," Joseph said, sitting up straighter.
He guessed that Charles must have so grasp of how the war would unfold. Otherwise, he wouldn't make such a bold, seemingly reckless move.
Charles then issued a critical directive:
"But the weapons you produce—don't let the U.S. military know how much stock we're holding. Keep the warehouses hidden."
Joseph understood imdiately. It was a classic capitalist trick: artificial scarcity. Create the illusion of limited supply, drive up demand, then sell at a massive premium.
But Joseph didn't know that Charles's plan was far more complex.
At this mont, Arica still believed it wouldn't join the war. As a result, procurent would be cautious—just enough to keep operations running.
Colonel Johnson had already promised Charles "minimum procurent volus" to ensure the factory wouldn't fail—making it look like Charles had been given favorable terms.
But in reality, they were trying to slowly bleed him dry while quietly stealing his know-how and workforce.
What they didn't expect was that Charles was counting on that exact attitude.
During negotiations, Charles could use the minimum volu as leverage:
"What? Only a thousand rifles?"
"That's too little—Europe is buying hundreds of thousands at a ti!"
"Even ten thousand isn't enough to cover overhead."
"Fifteen thousand? Fine. But only at double price. Otherwise, there's no profit."
The Aricans, after so calculation, would agree. They couldn't let Charles go bankrupt—not before they had what they wanted.
And it wouldn't just be rifles—every product would follow the sa script.
At first, the Aricans would think they'd gotten a bargain. For a small cost, they'd acquired modern European weapons, technologies, and even tactical doctrines. These were things you couldn't buy on the open market.
But then, the day would co when the U.S. entered the war.
"We need 100,000 rifles—imdiately!"
"What? Production can't et demand?"
"We'll pay more. Just get it done!"
And Charles would deliver those weapons at three, four, even five tis the normal price.
And not just rifles—grenades, ammunition, even the fabric for uniforms, canteens, dicine—everything would spike in price.
(Historical note: In 1917, the U.S. military had only 130,000 troops. After declaring war, they expanded to 4 million in just one year, deploying over 2 million to the Western Front. Their equipnt was woefully inadequate, and they were forced to rapidly issue French and British helts, among other shortages.)
Charles's entire strategy targeted the U.S. Army's vulnerable expansion window—a ti when they'd be flush with cash and desperate for equipnt.
They thought Charles was a lamb to fleece.
They had no idea the lamb had shears of his own—and he'd co to fleece them.
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