He slapped the hood again vigorously, as if patting the neck of a loyal old horse.
"Tough as hell! Tougher than those powdered British das in London by a damn mile!"
A burst of coarse laughter erupted in the hangar, lightening the heavy atmosphere a bit.
Collins took a big gulp of liquor, wiped his mouth, and laughed, "White Bear, since when the hell did you beco such an expert on British won? Watch out, or Miss M from MI6 will hear and send an agent to take you out!"
"To hell with Miss M!"
White Bear waved dismissively, spitting on the ground.
"Boss!"
He turned to Song Heping, eyes ablaze, "This battle is clear! Just relying on what runs on the ground isn't enough! We need wings! We need the iron birds that tear the sky! How did old Lumar die? Didn't his head get blasted off by our 'Whip' (Mig-23 nickna)? Back when we were in South Arica, it was thanks to two Su-24s that made the Colombian governnt army obedient! Here we have to borrow their military planes, they aren't ours, never will be ours, so it seems we have to build a flight squadron! Get a damn fleet of Soviet-style aircraft! Mig-21, Mig-23, Su-25 strike fighters even better! Let every traitor and sellout on this continent see clear as day, dare to have crooked intentions, I'll send them to et God from the sky!"
"Planes aren't armored vehicles!"
Jiang Feng sneered, "White Bear, you're damn drunk, do you have any clue how much a fighter jet costs? A whole squadron? Just maintaining them can bleed you dry!"
"Right, right! Planes are not easy to maintain."
"Planes not only need pilots, but also ground crews. The few planes and teams in South Arica burn up a good billion dollars a year in training and maintenance. If you're establishing another squadron here, the yearly expenses are no joke..."
Everyone started discussing animatedly.
Everyone seed to agree with Jiang Feng's perspective.
They felt White Bear drank too much, was daydreaming.
"It's alright, we can afford it."
Unexpectedly, Ferrari spoke up from the corner.
"Isn't it just money? Money? Money isn't a damn problem!"
The final line "money isn't a damn problem" was stated with nail-biting certainty, exuding the arrogance of soone newly rich.
Song Heping lifted his gaze from the ground, where two fast-evaporating patches left only dark stains of liquor, and looked at Ferrari.
No expression showed on his face, just a faint hint of doubt flickering deep in his eyes. He picked up an old military tablet computer caked in oil stains from the ammunition box, swiped open the screen, tapped it a few tis, then handed it to Ferrari.
Song Heping's voice was calm, as if he already knew, "So, tell , how much of 'isn't a problem' do we have?"
Ferrari grinned, took the tablet, fingers swiftly swiping and clicking on the greasy screen, pulling up encrypted files and data streams.
He cleared his throat, the aura of a shrewd businessman instantly replaced the earlier roughness, "Song, I know you're always about fighting wars, not bothering with the accounts. But today, you have to listen, once you hear you'll be shocked!"
He started counting on his fingers, spitting as each weighty number landed like chunks of heavy gold bricks on the ground:
"First, South Arica! The lines through Colombia, Venezuela, guerrillas, drug lords, and those tiny border countries that fight over useless things, just selling AKs, RPGs, mortars, and damn second-hand armored vehicles, bring in a steady two billion! US Dollars! Pure!"
He paused, looking at Song Heping's slightly raised eyebrows, proudly extending a second finger, "In xico, the smuggling routes we control are now busier than the Arican interstate highways! Goods go north, dollars go south. Last year, just last year alone, net turnover was fifty billion! US Dollars! This ain't paper, it's real gold and silver! Enough to buy a street of casinos in Monaco!"
"And here!"
He jabbed at the section of the tablet's screen representing the northern mining district with force, "The gold mines in Northern Darfur, plus those big mining districts in northern Sen Republic we've just 'helped stabilize,' diamonds, gold, and damn rare tals! Conservatively estimated, fifteen billion a year, minimum! That's after splitting it with the Sena Governnt!"
He gasped for breath, his eyes shining with a nearly greedy gleam, his finger swiping towards another complex financial chart, "The most impressive is this! Our savings from all these years, those in the shadows, scattered across Cayman Islands, Switzerland, Dubai, I've ford several top-notch shell companies, specially handling real estate in Dubai, Qatar, London, New York! And guess what? Just in these recent years, those concrete monsters have yielded us another dozen billion!"
He shoved the tablet back into Song Heping's hands, gesturing extravagantly with both hands, his voice heightened by excitent, "So I say, money isn't a damn problem! Now, no matter what those bastard politicians and dia say about our 'Musician' defense, no matter if you still hang on their goddamn 'terrorist' lists! When talking real gold and silver, about those who can act and the guns, planes, and artillery, who cares about Black Water? EO? That's all damn history! When they see us, they gotta think twice!"
The hangar fell silent, only the low hum from the ventilation ducts could be heard. White Bear opened his mouth wide, almost dropping the enal mug from his hand.
Collins forgot his cigarette, only realizing when the smoke burned his fingers, making a sizzling sound as he flicked it away.
Even the Queen, with her cold elegance, showed a trace of shock.
Hunter's dagger-wiping motions ca to a complete halt. Klein pushed his glasses, his eyes wide behind the lenses.
Even Jiang Feng, always calm and composed, showed a rare bewildered expression.
These years of fighting, smuggling, living on the edge, they knew the company was wealthy, but no one imagined it would be this damn wealthy!
An annual inco exceeding sixty-seven billion US dollars!
This is no longer a rcenary company, it's damn near a sprawling financial military empire hidden behind smoke and blood!
Song Heping looked at the long line of dizzying zeros on the tablet screen for a long ti, silent.
The cold sheen of the screen lit his chiseled features, revealing none of the thrill of sudden wealth.
He raised his head, his eyes slowly sweeping over the familiar faces in front of him — the sincerity and honesty of White Bear, the shrewdness of Henry, the calm restraint of Jiang Feng, the lone wolf aura of Hunter, the icy resilience of the Queen, the techie spirit of Collins, the irreverence of Klein.
Each face bore a unique mark of this blood-soaked land.
He put down the tablet, picked up an enal mug, and poured himself a full cup of vodka.
The harsh alcohol scent hit his nostrils directly.
"Brothers..."
He began, his voice not loud but exceptionally clear, cutting through the hangar's hum, and silencing the stir caused by the enormous wealth.
"The war's won. Lumar is dead, Sen is temporarily stabilized. Money, it's damn piled into heaps."
He paused, his gaze sweeping like a searchlight across each person's eyes.
"Enough. Enough for every one of us here to find a sunny beach, a paradise, buy a big house, marry a few beautiful wives, have a heap of kids, and live out the rest of our lives calmly, comfortably. No need to sll the cursed odor of gunpowder, no need to worry about whether we'll have our heads blown tomorrow."
He raised the mug, "I propose, dividends. Take out the big cut, divide it the old way. And then..."
He took a deep breath, as if making a huge decision, "Then, those who want to go, take the money, leave. Go live a good life. This profession has reached its end."
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