enjoyebooks Chapter 91: Gender Tanks Won't Encounter Acute Heavy Metal Invasion
Chapter 91: Gender Tanks Won't Encounter Acute Heavy Metal Invasion
Chapter 91: Gender Tanks Won't Encounter Acute Heavy Metal Invasion
James Jones stood in the corridor on the second floor of the city hall, waiting.
He changed into a relatively clean training uniform, and wiped most of the mud off his boots.
There were four people standing behind him.
On the left are two men in casual clothes, but standing upright, around forty years old, carrying aluminum briefcases.
On the right is a major general wearing an army uniform with one star on his shoulder, and a middle-aged man wearing a gray suit with his hair neatly combed.
The major general's name was Anto Smith, he was fifty-six years old, and he had an old scar on the bridge of his nose.
The man in the suit is Darko Michelangelo, a representative of a weapons manufacturer from Pennsylvania.
The oak door at the end of the corridor was closed.
James raised his hand and looked at his watch: 2:17 PM.
The door opened from the inside.
Carl Jensen came out, wearing that olive green field shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows.
The cross scar on the back of his right hand was very noticeable, with dark red edges.
He had just finished his midday prayers, and there was still a fine layer of sweat on his forehead.
"Sir."
James stepped forward and introduced, "This is Major General Anto Smith, from the 10th Mountain Division."
"This is Darko Michelangelo, the representative of Michelangelo Industries."
"The other two are his assistants."
Karl's gaze swept over the four men, lingering on Anto's epaulettes for half a second.
"Hello,"
Anto extended his hand. "I am Major General Anto Smith. It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Saint."
His voice was steady, with the straightforwardness of a soldier.
Carl took his hand.
The handshake lasted three seconds.
Anto's knuckles began to turn white, and the muscles in his arm tensed.
It has a moist feel.
Is it sweat? How could I possibly be sweating?
He tried to keep his expression unchanged, but his lips twitched slightly.
Karl released his hand.
Welcome to New Canaan.
Anto quickly withdrew his hand, put it behind his back, and unconsciously twitched his fingers a few times.
"Thank you for your hospitality."
He nodded, speaking a little faster than before, "We've brought some goodwill."
He gestured to his assistant on the left.
The assistant opened the briefcase, which contained bound documents and several data storage cards.
"A basic equipment list for a company-level unit,"
安托说，「M4A1卡宾枪三百支，配套弹药二十万发；M240通用机枪十二挺；M2重机枪四挺；AT4反坦克火箭筒二十四具；单兵防护装备和医疗包各三百套。」
He paused, observing Karl's expression.
Karl's expression remained unchanged.
"condition?"
"No conditions."
Anto said, "This is a small gift. We can offer more if needed later, but of course, we'll need to discuss the terms then."
"for example?"
"For example, priority access to the Port of Detroit, or the right to purchase certain industrial raw materials. These can be discussed gradually."
Carl nodded.
Anto turned to Darko Michelangelo.
"This is Darko Michelangelo."
He explained, "Michelangelo's industry has mature technological reserves in the production of small arms and ammunition."
"They are interested in setting up a production line here."
Dak stepped forward and extended his hand.
"Nice to meet you, Mr. Saint."
Carl shook hands with him, which was normal this time.
"We also have two partners,"
Dach said, pointing to two other men in plainclothes behind him, "This is Frank Lee, from Lee Precision Machinery, specializing in barrel and receiver machining."
"This is Tony Rossi, a representative of Rossi Chemicals, in charge of propellant and explosives production."
Frank and Tony nodded to each other.
"Let's find a place to talk."
Carl turned and walked toward the conference room.
The conference room was long, and there were still traces of blood on the oak table.
James wiped his hands with his sleeve and pulled out a few chairs.
The five people sat down.
Dak opened his briefcase and spread out the drawings and technical manuals.
"We can provide complete drawings and technical guidance for three production lines."
He spoke very quickly, as if reciting a memorized text: "The first line is a 5.56mm rifle ammunition production line, producing 50,000 rounds per day; the second line is a 7.62mm machine gun ammunition production line, producing 20,000 rounds per day; the third line is a simple firearms assembly line, based on AK and AR series, with a daily output of 30 to 50 pieces."
"What do we need?" Carl asked.
"Site, electricity, basic raw materials, and workers."
"Our people will be responsible for the equipment installation and initial training, but you will need to provide the operators," Dak said.
"In addition, we will take 50% of the products produced as technology licensing fees."
"Thirty percent."
"35%. That's the bottom line."
Karl was silent for a few seconds.
"Can."
Regarding raw materials,
Frank Lee interjected, "We need steel, copper, and lead. Leave the chemical raw materials to Tony."
Tony Rossi nodded: "Nitric acid, sulfuric acid, cellulose—these are the basics. It would be best if there were stockpiles from fertilizer plants or chemical plants."
"Yes," Carl said. "There's still a lot of stock at the BASF plant in the East End."
"That's fine."
Dak closed the blueprints. "We'll start with the bullet production line. The cartridge case stamping machine, the propellant loading machine, the primer assembly line—we'll need two weeks to ship these machines from our warehouse in Ohio."
"in addition,"
Anto leaned forward. "We hope to establish a permanent liaison office in Detroit to facilitate future coordination."
Karl looked at James.
James nodded: "There's a bank building in the South District that's in good condition and can be used as a base."
"Then it's settled."
Anto stood up and extended his hand again. "It's been a pleasure doing business with you, Mr. Saint."
Carl shook hands.
"It's a pleasure working with you."
The third floor of the Social Sciences Building at Detroit State University.
It's noisy in the hallway.
Screams, cries, the sound of heavy objects hitting each other, and sporadic gunshots.
Jack Edwards kicked open the door to classroom 307.
He was holding a Glock 19, the muzzle pointing downwards.
He walked to the front of the classroom and looked at the blackboard.
The narrative of the "white left" was written on it in colored chalk.
"Workshop,"
Jack read the word aloud and smiled.
The two girls screamed.
Jack walked up to the white girl and squatted down.
"I remember you,"
He said, "Tank gender? Huh? You'd better be a real tank."
The girl started crying and apologized incoherently.
Jack looked at the Black girl.
"And you? You said all white people are murderers, right?"
The Black girl stared at him, her lips trembling, but she didn't say anything.
"Um."
He took two steps back and raised the muzzle of his gun.
Please!
The white girl covered her head.
boom!boom!
Two gunshots rang out.
Two more Gundams appeared on the ground.
It's obvious that this tank isn't tank enough.
He walked out of the classroom.
Other people in the hallway were doing similar things.
Screams and pleas for mercy echoed everywhere.
Jack walked to the window at the end of the corridor.
A dozen Gundam figures were lying in the plaza downstairs, being dragged and arranged into a cross shape.
In the distance, at the industrial zone on the other side of the city, several chimneys began to emit smoke.
The new production line is about to start.
Here, old debts are being settled one by one.