Chapter 56: The Chef Who Sells Dreams

A covert operation ultimately degenerated into a somewhat farcical press conference.

Thomas stood with a dark expression beside Song Heping, who had his arm hooked around Thomas's neck. Thomas looked as though he had been constipated for over ten days.

Once the event ended, Thomas marched back angrily to the Chinook, still clutching a photograph in his hand. In the photo, Song Heping stood right beside him, one arm hooked around his neck while the other flashed a V-for-victory sign.

This photo was taken because Song Heping had asked the journalists present if anyone had a Polaroid camera and enlisted one to take the snapshot.

Just as the photographer pressed the shutter, Song Heping had leaned in close to Thomas's ear and whispered provocatively in English, "Smile, you look like your old man just kicked the bucket."

"Motherfucker!"

Thomas slammed the photograph hard onto the floor.

Outside, watching the Chinook slowly ascend, Cook said, "I guess we've really made an enemy of this guy."

Grey Wolf chimed in, "And we've made an enemy of the Death Squads too."

He then turned to Song Heping, "Sang, we should have worn masks."

Song Heping asked, "Are you scared?"

Grey Wolf replied, "Not exactly scared, but I'm somewhat worried about trouble knocking on our door."

Song Heping sighed. "We didn't have a choice."

Cook, on the other hand, was quite optimistic, expressing utter disdain for Grey Wolf. "Grey Wolf, you're just a coward. What's the thing you fear most in our line of work? It's not death; it's nobody knowing who you are! As long as todays stunt makes the news, it's free advertising. I have a hunch... we're about to get rich!"

Song Heping didn't look particularly excited.

Cook was right.

Grey Wolf was right, too.

Taking this desperate gamble today was out of absolute necessity, and whether it would turn out to be a blessing or a curse remained to be seen.

Still, nothing in this world is entirely flawless.

Better focus on staying alive first!

"Roughly when will our five million dollars hit our account?"

That was what Song Heping cared about most right now.

Cook said, "Based on past cases, it should be sorted out within about a week."

He paused, then added, "Sang, are you in that much of a hurry for the money?"

Song Heping didn't answer Cook immediately.

After a long moment of deep thought, he finally said, "Once I get the money, I'm heading back home."

With that, he turned and climbed into the vehicle.

This left Cook and the others utterly dumbfounded.

Once everyone was inside the vehicle, Cook began trying to persuade Song Heping to stay.

He argued that their momentum was fantastic now, and once the news broadcasted their footage, countless business opportunities would surely roll in.

He went on and on, vividly painting a glorious picture: first, they would establish a Private Military Company (PMC); then, based on incoming contracts, they would purchase weapons and equipment, and expand their personnel.

He had even figured out where the recruits would come from. For ordinary tasks, they would hire locals—anyway, the unemployment rate in Iraq right now was astronomical, and hiring a regular security guard only cost about 150 dollars a month plus a firearm and ammunition, keeping total costs under 400 dollars.

As for expanding their core combat personnel, Cook had already planned that out too. He would post announcements in the Baghdad mercenary circles, recruiting former special forces members from various countries. If they couldn't find enough satisfactory candidates, he would personally fly back to Russia and recruit a bunch of paratroopers or Spetsnaz. Russia was poor right now, with persistently high unemployment rates, and discharged veterans had nothing better to do. Rather than being recruited by the mob to harm society, they might as well be recruited here to strike it rich.

Next, he began talking to Song Heping about profit margins.

He used a security contract that Blackwater had previously secured from the Iraqi Coalition Provisional Authority (CPA) as an example. This mission required recruiting three hundred mercenaries as security personnel to be responsible for the safety of CPA institutions and key personnel during transit.

As a result, Blackwater quoted a staggering price—

Fifty vehicles, including thirty Nissan 4x4 off-road vehicles for field and desert missions, and twenty sedans for urban commuting. Quoting 20,000 dollars per vehicle was a conservative estimate; the transportation alone netted the CPA a payout of one million dollars.

For three hundred mercenaries, the cost of firearms and ammunition alone was 400 dollars per person, which immediately came to 120,000 dollars—and that didn't even include mission consumption, uniforms, helmets, ammunition belts, and other miscellaneous expenses.

Add to that the office facility costs for a dedicated office established specifically for this project, such as computers, printers, desks, air purifiers, purified water, and staff salaries.

Then there was the consumption of tires and fuel, vehicle maintenance, repairs, and so on...

As for the regular Blackwater employees sent to participate in this project, they commanded a base salary of 1,000 dollars per person per day, with mission bonuses and various allowances calculated separately. For this item alone, Blackwater billed the CPA 1.3 million dollars every month.

He spoke with spittle flying everywhere, practically drooling at the mouth.

Song Heping had to admit that Cook was a highly persuasive demagogue. When he wanted to convince you, he could rattle off a fluent, passionate set of theories, and worst of all, he wasn't lacking in factual evidence either. Without the slightest exaggeration, he made the pie-in-the-sky he drew hang right in front of you, less than two inches from your mouth, so close that all you had to do was stretch your lips a little to take a bite...

Of course.

Song Heping wasn't an idiot.

Being tempted was one thing.

He remained very calm. Just as Cook reached the point of self-intoxication, Song Heping delivered a soul-searching question.

"Tell me, Cook, if you've got it all figured out so brilliantly, why were you doing so miserably before?"

Cook said quite indignantly, "That was just my bad luck! I spent nine years locked up in prison, which completely ruined the prime years of my entrepreneurial career!"

This was the first time Song Heping had ever heard that Cook had served time in prison.

And a nine-year sentence at that.

Come to think of it, this fellow was truly no ordinary character.

Most people would be completely ruined after serving nine years behind bars and returning to society.

Yet Cook had still managed to drag a few retired paratroopers over to Iraq and actually establish a foothold here.

Song Heping couldn't help but feel somewhat tempted.

If it were really as Cook described, starting a PMC company and landing a few major contracts would earn money much faster than he and Old Ghost selling miscellaneous goods here previously.

Seeing that Song Heping was somewhat moved, Cook hurriedly pressed his advantage and agitated further, "I heard that the US government is planning to allocate even more reconstruction funds for Iraq. There was already 87.0 billion dollars originally, and now they're adding another 30 billion. Look at those military brass and politicians in the CPA and the Reconstruction Program Office—aren't they looting money like crazy? It's US taxpayers' money anyway; not making it would be a crime, wouldn't you say?"

Eighty-seven billion plus thirty billion—over a hundred billion.

It was indeed an astronomical figure.

Having stayed here for three months, Song Heping had more or less caught wind of some underground grapevine gossip.

Old Ghost had once described it: this was simply a massive looting spree.

Why was this war fought?

Was it truly for justice?

For world peace?

To eliminate weapons of mass destruction?

To hell with bullshit justice!

To hell with world peace!

To hell with weapons of mass destruction!

It was merely using an excuse to give the military-industrial complex, financial giants, congressional lords, and politicians a glorious opportunity to rake in cash.

If one happened to be here and could grab a share of the spoils—even if it were just table scraps—it would presumably be enough to achieve financial freedom.

Grey Wolf continued to pour cold water from the side. "Cook, stop bragging. What kind of backgrounds do the PMCs making big money in Iraq have, and what kind of trash are we? We'll be lucky to make some blood money; you're still dreaming of starting a company and taking on CPA contracts? How many military bigwigs do you know? Or do you know any CPA politicians?"

This piece of sobering reality instantly extinguished the dream of getting rich that had just been ignited in everyone's hearts.

That's right, why would they?

They always said Americans didn't rely on connections and interpersonal interactions weren't that complicated.

In the three months Song Heping had spent here, what he saw was completely different.

Putting everything else aside, just look at Old Ghost.

If it weren't for his distant cousin Donald, he wouldn't even have been able to enter the Green Zone!

Having his bluff called by Grey Wolf, Cook grew somewhat annoyed out of shame and simply shut his mouth, falling silent.

The interior of the vehicle instantly grew quiet.

After a long while, Angel, who had remained silent all this time, suddenly chimed in, "Perhaps I can help you."