Capítulo 1581: Chapter 730: You Won’t Pay Wages? Then Don’t Bla the Brothers for Showing No Respect! (Part 4)
At this mont, a deputy officer responsible for external communications and handling so supplies at the base hesitated and raised his hand. He was known as the “ideas man” at the base, always able to co up with so crooked thods.
“General, officers.” He cautiously said, “In our base’s warehouse, there’s quite a bit of outdated or slightly damaged equipnt waiting to be dealt with. Normally, these would either be destroyed, sent back for repairs, or sold at a very low price to allies…”
He paused, noticing all eyes on him, swallowed, and lowered his voice further: “I know a middleman with a sowhat complicated background, but he’s very generous. He privately ntioned before that he’s interested in certain ‘functioning samples,’ especially man-portable anti-tank missiles, portable anti-aircraft missiles, precision rifles…hard currency on the black market. If we could clear so inventory to him, we might quickly gather a significant amount of cash to relieve our urgent need…”
The conference room fell into dead silence.
Selling military equipnt? To an arms dealer?
Seems like it could work…
This is a traditional skill, anyway. Once the weapons are sold, they’re sold. It could even make the people at the arms factory work overti, which boosts dostic demand.
“Is the person you know safe?”
“Very safe, I know quite a few of our allied forces are acquainted with him.”
The base commander nodded, rubbing his temples, “It’s our only option for now.”
“Damn it, if the governnt doesn’t give us more money, I’ll take my n and march to Washington to protest!” the Striker Brigade commander said through gritted teeth.
Those words… that’s just for listening. No matter what, senior officers will never starve; they’ll only get fatter.
It’s said that the Striker Brigade commander owns no fewer than ten luxury hos.
The reason they’re having the eting is because they feel sothing’s off with their subordinates, only scared by the underdog situation.
“Garcia, you’re fully in charge of this. Contact him if you have any questions.” The base officer said to the deputy officer responsible for external communications and so supplies.
Mainly… this is too embarrassing.
We certainly can’t have soone like us go!
Do we not care about our reputation?
“Yes, officer!”
“eting adjourned.”
Deputy Garcia imdiately returned to his office, locked the door, and dialed a number.
The call was answered almost imdiately.
“Hello?”
“It’s , Garcia.”
The deputy officer lowered his voice, “Bout, we have a batch of goods here that need urgent handling. The quantity is quite considerable, and the types are varied. Are you interested in coming to take a look?”
There was silence on the other end of the line for two or three seconds, followed by a low chuckle: “Old friend, wait for . I’ll be there this afternoon.”
Just after two in the afternoon, a gleaming Cadillac Fleetwood drove straight to the designated warehouse entrance in the logistics area of the base.
The car door opened, and a slightly overweight middle-aged white man in a flashy pink Hawaiian shirt and sunglasses jumped out. Around his neck was a large gold chain, and on his wrist was a shiny Rolex, looking just like soone who had just hit the jackpot at a Las Vegas casino.
Hmm…
Clearly very wealthy.
He saw the deputy officer waiting at the door and imdiately spread his arms, letting out an exaggerated yelp, enthusiastically embracing the deputy officer with a firm hug.
“Oh! Garcia, my dear friend! Long ti no see, and you look as… hmm, serious as ever!”
Bout vigorously patted the other’s back, then leaned into the deputy’s ear, speaking quickly in a voice only the two of them could hear, “Rest assured, your consultation fee, sa place, Swiss Bank, will be credited this afternoon, faster than the main paynt.”
Garcia couldn’t suppress the upward curl of his mouth, revealing a genuine smile. He hugged the other firmly in return: “It’s good you could co, ti is tight, let’s go directly to see the goods.”
With Bout, he walked into the massive warehouse.
Inside, it was brightly lit, with mountains of crates and equipnt covered with tarps, emitting a mixed scent of steel and oil.
Bout road around like it was his backyard. He walked over to a neatly stacked pile of crates labeled with M16A2 rifles, casually pried open a crate with a crowbar he carried, and picked up a rifle, expertly inspecting its chamber and parts, then shrugged and tossed it back into the crate with a clang.
“Old friend, it’s not just saying this, but these outdated 5.56 pipettes are almost flooding the black market, can’t sell for much.” He dusted off his hands, his tone picky.
Garcia frowned: “Then what’s your offer?”
Bout didn’t answer directly but leisurely took out a palm-sized electronic calculator from his pocket, his chubby fingers tapping on it rapidly, then handed it over to the other’s face.
The screen displayed a number, followed by “USD/KG.”
Garcia’s eyes widened imdiately, his voice rising a couple of notches: “Selling by the kilo?! Are you fucking kidding ? These are standard rifles, not scrap tal!”
Bout spread his hands, wearing an “I’m helpless too” expression: “The market price is like this, you know, AK and AR series rifles are the least valuable, child soldiers in Africa even dislike them for not having enough kick. Selling them for parts might fetch a higher price, but aren’t you in a hurry for cash? To process the whole batch, that’s the price.”
Garcia’s expression changed, and ultimately, like a deflated balloon, he weakly waved his hand: “Alright, alright, we’ll go with that price, but that’s not the focus, look below.”
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