How to Fight the Darkness (8)
"This old man may be nothing more than a humble country bumpkin, but I've seen and heard enough in my life to offer you one piece of advice."
"Yes, sir."
"This country belongs to the WASPs. We see in real time how the Irish are looked down upon, and how Italians are treated like a criminal race again after the recent attempted presidential assassination."
No one could even respond—they simply listened in silence.
"And though it's deeply insulting to us, those WASPs have no intention of recognizing our identities. No matter how loudly we proclaim ourselves Chinese, Japanese, or Joseon, we will always be lumped together as 'yellow people'—a single category, seen as a future calamity that will bring disaster."
"..."
"So whether we like it or not, we have become a community bound by shared fate. A conspiracy by a Japanese communist can lead to a Chinese restaurant burning the next day. A mad Korean murderer can trigger a lynching of Ryukyuans."
"You speak the truth."
"We must unite to survive. If we scatter, it's not just the isolated ones who die—we all die. Our hometown customs? Our roots? You can live here just fine without them.
Things that aren't necessary for survival but bring joy and comfort—those are called hobbies. Save them for your free time. The faster we assimilate, the faster we can escape the shackles of the 'Yellow Peril.'"
Kim Sangjun clipped his cigar, neatly finishing his speech.
He often thought this, but what sin had he committed in a past life to end up like this—unable to quietly lie down in a coffin in his old age, instead spouting words he didn't even believe himself? If Dosan were still alive, he might be horrified.
It was all because of that wretched son of his being too capable. Riding on the back of a tiger and charging ever forward—it might once have been exhilarating, but now it had become a situation where there was no turning back. Whether he lived or died, he could only keep running.
Oblivious to his inner regret, the influential figures in the room encouraged one another, talking about shedding Asia and becoming American as quickly as possible. It was quite a sight.
"Now then, enough with the long introduction. Let's eat! If we are to lead the future of Asians, you must all eat well!"
"Sir, may you live long in good health and continue to be our shield!"
"To your longevity!"
"To your longevity!"
The doors swung open, and a feast of delicacies waiting outside once again filled the tables.
Kim Sangjun briefly fixed his gaze on one of the servers carrying food, but no one noticed.
***
I escaped that terrifying wall of people under the excuse of having a smoke. Only after hiding in a secluded corner, far from prying eyes, could I finally catch my breath as I took in some nicotine.
I'm just a soldier—not Doraemon, not Zhuge Liang. People keep grabbing me, whining about wanting to live well and asking for good business ideas—but I really don't have any!
Honestly, no matter how much Yushin and I rack our brains together, our family's power is somewhat inflated. We're basically stamping labels on money-eating monsters just to keep everything running day by day. That's exactly why I've been trying to restructure things into a media and content group.
While I was grumbling like that, someone actually walked all the way over to this corner where I'd deliberately hidden myself.
"Um—"
"Got a light? Just one match, please."
"…Sure."
It's not like I could tell him to get lost—Yujin Kim's character is just too kind. I struck a match, grinding my teeth inwardly, hoping he'd leave once he lit up.
"Thanks."
"Yeah."
Looking closer, he seemed to be one of the many attendants hired for the event. Wait—didn't I pay extra for them to work today? And he came all the way out here just to smoke?
My irritation flared up. I should give him a good scolding later—
"My father seems to be working quite hard for the integration of Asians."
That voice.
I suppressed a laugh. This lunatic, seriously.
"What are you doing here, of all places?"
"Part-time work."
This isn't some reality show experience. Why aren't you sending a subordinate—why are you here yourself?
The "attendant" who had come all the way to the West Coast from the opposite end of the country—none other than J. Edgar Hoover—cracked his joints and muttered.
"The Oriental Education Development Fund."
"Is there a problem?"
"Do you know what hot-blooded intellectuals from oppressed colonies usually study when they come to free America?"
I didn't answer, but Hoover spat lightly on the ground and continued.
"You know very well. They study Marx and Lenin. That's why I came personally."
"You're picking a strange fight. Reds arise naturally. Even Aristotle wrote that maggots, fleas, and radicals spring from dust. How is this my fault?"
"Judging by this, West Point's curriculum must be terrible."
We traded nonsense, but we both said what needed to be said. We weren't amateurs—this was enough of an exchange.
"In any case, I have no further demands. Just keep things under control as you have been."
"Control? In a free country, how exactly am I supposed to control what young people read?"
"Indeed. Well then, I'll be off. I've slacked off long enough."
He's not going back to D.C.—he's going back to being an attendant? Is he insane?
"Well, of course. How could I miss such a perfect chance to get paid by you?"
Chuckling, Hoover returned to the banquet hall.
Damn it… I have to pay him too? What a waste of money.
***
The banquet didn't end in a single day.
Guests had come from all over, even from the distant East Coast—how could we just send them back? They were already busy moving around among themselves, discussing business.
Which is why this particular visitor was completely unexpected.
"I'm a bit late. Congratulations on your father's birthday."
"I didn't expect you to come. Congratulations on your promotion to rear admiral."
"It's not something I'm particularly happy about. My promotion came as a result of Admiral William A. Moffett's death. Being suddenly put in charge of the Bureau of Aeronautics… frankly, it's more than I'm capable of."
Sigh. Would it hurt to just take it in stride?
Was it the USS Akron? I'd heard the Navy wasn't in a good mood after that airship crash.
The mention of an airship crash suddenly brought Billy Mitchell to mind—and along with it, the terrifying gaze of Calvin Coolidge. It felt like old trauma was quietly rising from deep within my chest. King's eyes sharpened.
Get a grip.
"My condolences."
"Thank you."
"I was just playing poker a moment ago—would you like to join? Everyone there is worth knowing."
"Very well."
Yes, that worked out. I had something new in mind anyway—something to prepare neatly for the coming Second World War.
Bringing King along, I returned to the table where cards were already in play. The men, each with a cigar in their mouths, gave slight nods of greeting.
"Will you jump right in?"
"I'll watch a round first."
Suit yourself.
Black and red cards flew across the table in a blur for a few seconds. Then it was time for chips to start flying.
But truthfully, very few people here cared about their hands. The chips on the table were nothing compared to the business being discussed.
"Colonel Kim, you don't seem very interested in real estate?"
"Who isn't interested in real estate? But I've seen too many people crack their heads open down in Florida. Makes me cautious."
"This is far more stable than Florida. There's a development project in the middle of the Nevada desert. The plan is to build a city of pleasure and gambling—"
"Ah, that one. Yushin's probably handling it. Three hundred."
"That's quite an opening bid."
"I've heard Colonel Kim's early aggression is all bluff. I'll match 300—and raise another 300."
Wait, that rumor's already spread? Unbelievable.
After a few rounds, the chips in front of me had dropped to less than half. Meanwhile, the attention at the table shifted toward King, who sat beside me quietly studying my cards.
"And who might the gentleman next to you be?"
"A high-ranking Navy officer. No harm in getting acquainted."
"Oh? I see. Everyone here deals with ships or aircraft on the West Coast. It'd be good to stay on friendly terms."
"I'd welcome future opportunities to meet."
The cards were dealt again, and the conversation shifted—this time filled with groans about impending doom.
"They keep talking about the New Deal, but it feels like only the East benefits while we're left to die."
"That Franklin D. Roosevelt fellow's practically a red. Saving people is all well and good, but if companies like ours—holding massive infrastructure—collapse, what happens to all those jobs?"
"I hear the East Coast guys are greasing up the Democratic Party nicely."
"They say the Democratic headquarters' doorstep is slick with Manhattan oil."
In the end, their concerns were all the same:
They wanted a share of the work.
But in this harsh era of disarmament, what kind of warships could possibly be built? If they wanted government money, they'd need something that looked like rearmament—but not quite.
That was the key.
"Admiral, would you like to join the table now?"
"Yes, deal me in from the next round."
King put a cigar in his mouth as the new game began.
"Check."
"What kind of move is checking right after joining?"
"Disarmament, you see. The President has already 'checked' my wallet."
Sharp tongue, this one.
"Do you remember our earlier conversation about the Philippines?"
"I do."
"This is just my personal opinion, but I think there will be significant demand for transport boats and ships. As you know, land weapons are one thing—but ships don't just appear when needed. There are limits to requisitioning as well."
"True enough."
"So if we start building in advance, the shipyards here won't sit idle—and both the Army and Navy would benefit, wouldn't they?"
King placed his hand flat on the table and took a sip of his drink.
"That sounds more like something you should take to Congress."
"I was just curious about the Navy's perspective. Are there any plans for new transport ships in preparation for future warfare?"
"There are always ideas being floated. Assuming the budget gets approved."
"Then how about this."
Now we get to the point.
"In line with the New Deal's goal of circulating money throughout the country, we place orders for transport ships."
"And?"
"But Congress, reluctant to spend, won't approve it outright. So instead, we structure a special contract with the government. For example—conditional orders stating that 'if war breaks out within ten years, the government will purchase the ships.' Meanwhile, we take… say, a 10% down payment."
"I'm not entirely following, but go on."
"If war does break out, the government pays the remaining 90% and takes the ships for military use."
"And if it doesn't?"
"Then that's fine too. The United States effectively buys insurance at low cost, and the shipyards get steady work."
A few people tilted their heads, asking questions—about construction costs, ownership if no war occurred, and potential usage.
But come on—I'm not an executive or a naval expert. I'm just throwing out a rough concept here. Don't interrogate me like this.
"If a reasonable profit is guaranteed, my family is willing to act as a guarantor."
One thing, however, was certain:
War would come.
Transport ships would become desperately needed.
And if we could set the board properly—we'd win, no question.
So please—use those sharp minds of yours and work out the details.