Chapter 1367: Chapter 659: The Fate of the Realm, Long Divided Must Unite
The Minister of Internal Affairs opened his mouth: “Pri Minister, live ammunition authorization might…”
“Might let them know who’s the master here!”
The Pri Minister suddenly slamd the table, splashing coffee over the cup’s edge, “From the barracks attack to now, our soldiers are bleeding, journalists are being shot down from the sky, and London’s stock market is still falling! If we keep retreating, the whole of Ireland will ignite, followed by Scotland, and then Wales!”
He walked to the map and jabbed his finger heavily at Belfast’s position: “Surround this city for , search every house for weapons, arrest all those involved in the riot, whether they are old people or children! I want them to understand the consequences of challenging the British Empire!”
“Pri Minister.”
Sir Davidson, the Minister of Defense, suddenly stood up, pulling out a yellow report from a folder, his finger trembling over the numbers, “The deploynt of the Third Parachute Brigade requires C-17 transport planes, just the fuel and ammunition supply… we’ve already overspent by 12% of the military budget for this quarter.”
The Pri Minister’s motion abruptly froze.
No money?
Damn it, the Old Buddha has no money?
“The Persian Gulf fleet rotation you approved last month hasn’t been settled, the maintenance cost of the new destroyers has exceeded the budget, and the renovation of the barracks for the troops stationed in Germany…”
Davidson’s voice grew lower, “The Treasury Departnt’s briefing just said, if we initiate another large-scale military operation, this year’s defense budget will directly breach the red line, possibly affecting next year’s equipnt procurent plan.”
A deathly silence fell over the eting room, only the ticking of the clock on the wall piercingly loud.
The Pri Minister slowly turned around, his lips trembling, “Say that again?”
“The military budget… really isn’t enough, sir.”
Davidson avoided his gaze, staring at his own shoes, “The Army’s ammunition stock might not even support a moderate-sized street battle, if we need to suppress the whole of Belfast, we might need to borrow equipnt urgently from France or the United States, but that would take at least three days—”
“Three days?”
The Pri Minister suddenly laughed, anger stabbing at his liver, “By the ti they send the equipnt over, the people of Belfast might have already reached Liverpool!”
He grabbed the phone on the table, the cord pulled taut: “Get the Treasury Departnt! I don’t care what thod they use, even if they have to lt down Buckingham Palace’s silverware, gather the necessary military funds for suppression! Tell them, this is not a request, it’s an order!”
Whatever was said on the other end made the Pri Minister’s face darken inch by inch, before he finally slamd the phone down hard.
He walked to the window, looking out at the perpetually gloomy sky, his silhouette appearing particularly solitary in the dim light.
He spoke softly, as if muttering to himself, “Why are so people still not clear, now is not the ti to be stingy with money.”
The Pri Minister stood at the window, his fingers unconsciously rubbing the cold glass, London outside shrouded under a leaden gray cloud, like a faded oil painting.
The tough stance he had earlier in the eting room was like a thin layer of ice, now being gradually shattered by the frustration surging within his chest.
He pulled out his phone, the familiar nas in his contact list at this mont seed like thorns—Barclays Bank’s chairman, the Rothschild family inheritor, the oligarchs of London Financial City.
There was a ti when these people had to rely on the whims of Downing Street, but now, he had to lower his stature as Pri Minister, to beg them for a “loan.”
“Connect to Jas Wilson.” he said gravely into the phone.
Wilson was the most powerful financial tycoon in London Financial City, controlling over half of the United Kingdom’s private capital.
The mont the call connected, the distant sound of a golf club striking, accompanied by leisurely laughter: “Your Excellency the Pri Minister? Calling at this ti, surely not to invite for afternoon tea at Downing Street?”
The Pri Minister took a deep breath, suppressing the bitterness in his throat: “Wilson, you’ve seen the situation in Belfast, the military needs funds, imdiately, right now.”
The laughter abruptly ceased, replaced by a deliberately slow speech, carrying a hint of arrogance: “Funds? Pri Minister, you know the current market conditions, the yield on UK bonds has already risen by three points, the interbank lending rates have broken through the warning line.”
“I am not discussing market conditions with you!”
The Pri Minister’s voice suddenly rose, then quickly lowered, “I need fifty million British Pounds, to be in the account within a week. In return, the governnt can relax the North Sea oil field’s extraction permits, or… put part of the London Underground’s operational rights up for tender.”
There was a mont’s silence on the other end, the crisp sound of ice cubes clinking against the glass was heard: “The North Sea oil fields? That’s been a piece of at eyed by the Labour Party for ten years, as for the Underground operational rights, Pri Minister, you’re using national assets as collateral.”
Wilson’s tone carried a hint of amusent, “Let think about it, how about I give you a response by tomorrow morning? After all, my advisors need to assess the risks.”
“Tomorrow morning?” the Pri Minister gritted his teeth, “By the ti your assessnt is out, the riots in Belfast could have spread to Edinburgh!”
“I can’t help with that,” Wilson’s voice floated lightly, like a feather pressing on the Pri Minister’s heart, “Capital never pays for impulsiveness, Your Excellency, especially in a country that needs to borrow money for troop supplies.”
The busy tone of a disconnected call stabbed like a needle into his ears.
The Pri Minister suddenly smashed the phone onto the sofa, the leather making a dull thud.
He recalled the painting in his grandfather’s study—the 1918 Royal Navy Fleet passing through the Gibraltar Strait, cannons like a forest, flags billowing.
Back then the United Kingdom never needed to borrow money from anyone, because the entire world endorsed its British Pounds, but now, funding for a ho-stationed parachute brigade needed to be mortgaged with oil fields and the underground rail.
When nightfall ca, the Pri Minister’s private email received seven “loan intention statents.”
Barclays Bank was willing to provide thirty million, but required a five-year franchise of Manchester Airport as collateral, a Qatari consortium offered to inject capital, on the condition of participating in the follow-up developnt of infrastructure venues, even a Wall Street hedge fund sent an email, suggesting “liquidity support,” the price being part of the UK power grid’s equity.
“Sign.” The Pri Minister spat the word at the Chancellor of the Exchequer, his eyes bloodshot, “Agree to all conditions, as long as the money arrives in three days.”
He didn’t notice, two of the statents ca from offshore companies registered in the Cayman Islands.
One called “Silver Wing Capital,” the other “Equatorial Trade,” the actual controllers of both companies, at this mont were sitting in a top-floor apartnt in xico City, watching real-ti stock prices of London Financial City through floor-to-ceiling windows.
“The fish is on the hook.” Manuel Garcia raised a glass of tequila, with the salt grains on the glass rim shimring in the light, his grandfather was a guerrilla leader during the xican Revolution, and he beca a financial hunter trained by Wall Street.
After Victor ca to power, there was a worldwide call for the xican diaspora to return ho and build their holand, never underestimate the Old xicans, they can slay on Wall Street or compete with Chinese people in dishwashing, truly a match for anyone.
The secretary Sofia opened an encrypted email, the screen displayed the list of evaluated UK assets: “Downing Street is eager to use money, the review process is very loose, through ‘Silver Wing’ we secured 20% of the container terminal’s equity at Liverpool Port, used ‘Equator’ to buy bonds from three Scottish whisky distilleries, bits and pieces that nobody would notice.”
Garcia laughed, his fingertips tapping the glass of tequila, the salt grains on its rim sparkling under the light, his grandfather once a guerrilla leader in the ti of the xican Revolution, “In the era of Victor, the whole world calls for xican people to return ho, and never underestimate old xico, they can fight on Wall Street and equally contest Chinese people when underestimating them.”
“Next target is the Welsh coal mines and Cornwall’s tin mines, old industrial base, the governnt is worrying about the lack of contractors, what we have to do is gradually remove their skirts and let them shiver in the cold wind.”
Garcia swirled his glass, the amber liquid reflecting London’s lights, “The British care most about preserving appearances, like Victorian ladies, even if they have torn petticoats, now they are the scraps, but when the UK’s economy spirals out of control like the streets of Belfast, the skirts will be the levers to pry open their ribs.”
Sofia pulled up another docunt: “The next targets are the Welsh coal mines and Cornwall’s tin mines, an old industrial base, the governnt is worried about no takers.”
Garcia swirled his glass, the amber liquor reflecting London’s lights, “British people care most about preserving appearances, like Victorian ladies with torn petticoat outward skirts, our job is to gradually strip their skirt supports, leaving them shivering in the cold wind.”
Suddenly, fireworks blossod over xico City, illuminating the outline of the distant volcano. Garcia raised his tequila glass in a distant toast toward the Atlantic Ocean: “To the decline of the British Empire.”
…..
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