Chapter 1637: Chapter 749: If You Won’t Take My Kindness, Then Eat My Bullet! (Part 3)
Days of standoff and small skirmishes had everyone on edge. Suddenly, he seed to hear sothing.
He imdiately raised his G3 rifle, shouting harshly into the fog with a heavy accent in English, “Stop! Who’s there?! I’ll shoot if you co any closer!”
The footsteps stopped.
The fog swirled, vaguely revealing the outlines of dozens of figures appearing within it.
Rodriguez’s heart jumped to his throat, his finger on the trigger, and his comrades beside him were also alard, the sound of cocking guns clicking through the position.
“Raise your hands! Let see your hands!”
Rodriguez shouted again, his voice a little distorted from tension.
The figures in the fog seed to hesitate, and then, they began awkwardly and slowly raising their hands.
As the distance closed, Rodriguez and the xican soldiers finally saw clearly—it was a group of U.S. soldiers coming their way!
Their clothes were tattered, many without helts, the face paint washed off by sweat and dirt, their eyes vacant, lips cracked.
Most shocking was that many of them had tied their hands in front of them with torn pieces of cloth, belts, even phone cords, or had wrapped them symbolically around their wrists, indicating they had given up resistance.
The leading U.S. Captain, his uniform relatively intact, but the light in his eyes had gone out, leaving only endless exhaustion and a touch of humiliation.
He looked at the xican soldiers who were ready for battle, his cracked lips moved a few tis, speaking in a hoarse, barely audible voice:
“Food, can you spare so food? Even just a sip of water…”
His voice was weak, but terrifyingly clear in the dead morning silence.
Rodriguez was stunned, hesitantly lowering his gun a bit, turning to look at the Lieutenant Commander who rushed over upon hearing the news.
The U.S. Captain, seeing that the other side didn’t shoot imdiately, seed to muster his last bit of strength, adding with a barely concealed plea in his voice: “There are over two thousand of us surrendering in Gree City. The condition is for food.”
The Lieutenant Commander looked at the emaciated Arican soldiers before him and was instantly dumbfounded!
Two hours later, with the last group of U.S. soldiers who had held on in the ruins of Gree City laying down their weapons, dragging their exhausted bodies out of the shelters, this city, which guarded a crucial traffic artery, fell bloodlessly into the hands of the xican Army after a fierce struggle.
Over 2000 U.S. POWs were temporarily housed in an open area on the outskirts of the city, sitting or lying numbly as they took the compressed biscuits and bottled water handed out by xican soldiers, devouring them greedily.
For many of them, this was the first al in days.
…
At the sa ti in the White House reception room.
Little Bush sat on one side, opposite sat seven or eight bankers representing financial capital forces of both the United States and the world.
Little Bush had just finished a long and difficult explanation about the “temporary difficulties” the nation was facing, the sacrifices of front-line soldiers, the “regret” of the Detroit tragedy, and his hope for the banking industry to “consider the bigger picture,” “voluntarily” delay debt collection on military families, and provide “patriotic loans” to weather the storm.
What responded to him was a prolonged silence.
Truly, silence…
Not a single word.
The bankers exchanged glances but no one spoke first. It was more like a silent refusal.
Finally, a representative of the Morgan Consortium spoke up.
“Mr. President, we understand you and the special challenges facing the federal governnt at the mont, and we are sympathetic to the soldiers’ sacrifices.”
“But business has its rules, and contracts have their spirit. Banks are not charitable organizations; we have fiduciary responsibilities to millions of depositors. Large-scale, mandatory debt deferral would not only severely damage banks’ asset quality and liquidity but also undermine the fundantal confidence in the US dollar and the Arican financial system in the capital markets. The loss of that confidence could be more catastrophic than a military defeat. Please forgive our candor; we cannot, and dare not set this precedent.”
Another banker from the West Coast chid in, “Mr. President, the Detroit incident is a tragedy, but the root cause lies in individual households’ financial planning and lack of risk tolerance. Blaming banks for exercising legitimate contractual rights is unfair and not the right solution to the problem.”
Little Bush listened quietly, the muscles on his face gradually tensing up.
He could feel the blood slowly rushing to his head.
He took a deep breath, as if trying to compress all the suppression and anger in his chest into that breath.
“So what you’re saying is, you can’t understand , nor can you help this bleeding country, right?”
His gaze swept over each of the bankers’ faces, eyes no longer those of a president seeking compromise.
A cornered rabbit would damn well bite back!
The bankers fell silent again.
I won’t speak. What can you do to !
If you dare, kill ?
Seeing this, Little Bush slowly nodded.
“Good. Very good.”
He muttered, then suddenly stood up straight!
“This—is—you—all—forcing—!!”
“Sons of bitches!!!!”
…
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