Chapter 8: Bankruptcy

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Song Heping had never imagined that one day he would go bankrupt. After all, he had once been proletarian; if you have nothing, how could you possibly go bankrupt? Originally, he had planned to take advantage of the chaos in Iraq to harvest some capitalist profits, but unexpectedly, instead of reaping the crops, he became the wild weed.

That evening, after handling everything and returning to the Green Zone, Song Heping and Lao Yao finally sat down at the table to share a meal that felt like a blessing after surviving disaster.

The food was quite good—a large basin of lamb, some Arabic flatbread, a grilled fish prepared by Lao Yao himself, and a bottle of foreign liquor. Yet, the two men sat in silence, the dim lighting of the shop and the heavy atmosphere permeated with sorrow.

“Eat something! Eat until you’re full, then we’ll talk.” Finally, Song Heping broke the silence.

He picked up the bottle and poured wine for both of them, raising his glass.

“Cheers.”

Lao Yao looked up at Song Heping across the table, then instinctively glanced around. Usually, four people would eat together—Plump Tan and Aguan sitting on either side. Now, two were gone, leaving only the two of them.

He quietly raised his glass and clinked it with Song Heping’s.

Song Heping drained his glass in one gulp; Lao Yao quickly warned, “Slow down, this liquor is strong...”

Song Heping grabbed a lamb rib and bit into it heartily, asking, “Can the remaining three generators still be repaired?”

“Yes,” Lao Yao answered bluntly. “Two of them can be fixed, but not here. They’d have to be sent to Kuwait for repairs, and the cost is higher than buying new ones. The other one has a cylinder that was completely pierced—no chance, it’s scrap metal now.”

This answer was no surprise; Song Heping had transported the generators himself and knew their condition well.

“If we treat them all as scrap, how much could we get for them?”

Lao Yao said, “This godforsaken place doesn’t even have scrap collectors now. Everywhere in Iraq is littered with scrap, but who would want ours?”

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That was true. In the past few months, battles raged everywhere; abandoned tanks left by the National Guard were scattered about. If you wanted scrap, it would be better to collect those—each weighing tens of tons.

“How much money do we have left on hand now?” Song Heping asked.

Lao Yao replied, “About twenty-six hundred dollars.”

“Send two thousand back to Aguan and Plump Tan’s families,” Song Heping said. “Especially Aguan—he has many children, with both elderly and young to support.”

Lao Yao looked troubled. “That leaves just over six hundred for the two of us. What about us? Not enough even for plane tickets home.”

“Are you planning to go back?” Song Heping asked.

Lao Yao hesitated. “Where else can I go? We’ve spent all our savings on this business. We were counting on it to rise up in one stroke. Now the goods are gone, all stuck here. If I don’t go back, I won’t even have money to restock. What, just wait to starve?”

Song Heping silently finished the lamb rib, tossed the bone onto the plate, wiped his hands with a napkin, and said, “I’m not going back. We lost the stock this time, and in a few months, the bank loan is due. Even borrowing from friends and relatives needs to be repaid. If I go back and work for a few hundred yuan a month, I’ll never be able to pay it off. My younger brother and sister still rely on me for living expenses.”

Surprise flickered in Lao Yao’s eyes. “You still plan to make a fortune here?”

Song Heping said, “Wasn’t it you who said the more chaotic, the more opportunity there is? Didn’t you say to get rich, you have to not fear death?”

Lao Yao’s face instantly dropped two inches in expression. “Seeking wealth in danger is true, but now we’ve lost all our capital. This war zone is a huge casino. Look at all of Iraq—no, just Baghdad where we are—there are others doing business and making money. We made money before, didn’t we? But making money also requires some luck, right? We lost. Heping, we’ve lost everything. What do we have left to turn things around?”

Song Heping lifted his glass again, emptied it, grabbed another lamb rib, and said while chewing, “Go ask your cousin.”

“My cousin?!” Lao Yao’s face turned green.

“What for? He’s a tightwad. Want to borrow money from him? Might as well ask a weasel to lend you a chicken.”

Lao Yao’s cousin, Donald, was a Chinese American whose whole family emigrated before the reform era. At first, Donald struggled miserably in the US—washing dishes in restaurants, living in basements, helped financially by Lao Yao’s parents at his lowest point.

But he grew up determined, got into a state military academy, and after graduation joined the National Guard as a reserve officer. When the US military launched the war in Iraq, he was assigned to logistics support and was currently stationed in the Green Zone.

Lao Yao’s ability to live and work in the Green Zone was precisely due to this connection.

Song Heping said, “I heard the US military logistics has some rescue supply transport contracts subcontracted out. Can you ask if our Mercedes can be repaired? If it can, we might get some work. Better than returning empty-handed and crestfallen.”

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During the past few months in the Green Zone, to practice his spoken English, Song Heping often chatted casually with some American soldiers there.

The Green Zone was a unique place. Calling it a safe zone was accurate; an administrative center was also fitting; a large military base wouldn’t be wrong; and calling it an intelligence exchange hub was also true.

People passing through included military personnel, members of the Iraqi interim government, intelligence agents, diplomats, businessmen, and journalists.

Journalists came for news leads and inside stories; intelligence agents exchanged information; businessmen were mostly representatives of various global financial powers. After all, the previous Iraqi government had been overthrown, and the new regime’s reconstruction would involve massive projects with nearly a hundred billion dollars in funding. Iraq was rich in oil, and business opportunities were everywhere.

Anyone with ability and ambition wanted a piece of the pie.

Besides the above, there was another group: military contractors, known as PMCs.

PMCs varied in size, from large firms like Blackwater International to small teams of a few or a dozen people.

The US government could be seen as the principal, managing many projects covering infrastructure, energy, military, and more. PMCs were contractors handling parts of these projects—security, transportation, training, even sensitive military operations.

Projects naturally varied in difficulty and importance. Big companies like Blackwater, with strong resources and connections, would subdivide large contracts, handling the high-profit, specialized tasks internally. Smaller, scattered jobs were subcontracted out—allowing for maximum profit and convenience.

This model was like a real estate company hiring a construction crew to build a building, then outsourcing smaller tasks like plumbing or landscaping to subcontractors to maximize efficiency and profit.

Song Heping had Lao Yao ask his cousin about such small jobs. Even a crumb from a big contractor could be enough for him and Lao Yao to survive.

At this time, fighting continued in many parts of Iraq—Mosul in the north and Ramadi west of Baghdad. The US troops were still conducting urban clearing operations there.

This required establishing forward bases near these strategic points—camps everywhere needing massive logistical support. Many locations lacked airports, and air-dropped supplies were insufficient.

Currently, US weapons and supplies arrived partly through the port in Kuwait and partly flown into Baghdad Airport using C-17 transport planes, then loaded onto trucks to be delivered to US military camps throughout Iraq.

There were hundreds of bases and camps of varying sizes within Iraq. Relying solely on military transportation was inefficient and manpower was tight. This was why reserve National Guard units like Lao Yao’s cousin’s were deployed here—to handle logistics, transport, and camp guarding—relatively simple support tasks.

Using PMCs had other benefits. The compensation for a dead American soldier was far higher than for a dead PMC worker. The former required US government funding; the latter bore no responsibility, and any problems could be shirked. PMCs were even more convenient than temporary workers.

“Heping,” after hearing Song Heping’s plan, Lao Yao showed a troubled expression, struggling to speak after a long pause, “I don’t want to do this anymore. It’s too dangerous here...”