Working as a police officer in Mexico.

Chapter 662 Look, the sun is about to set.

The morning mist in Belfast smelled of gunpowder.

The vanguard of the 3rd Airborne Brigade is advancing north along the M1 highway.

The tracks of the Challenger tank rolled over the wet road, and mud splattered from between the track teeth onto the roadside sign, blurring the words "12 miles from Belfast city centre" into a hazy brown.

It might have some poop on it.

"Remain vigilant; maintain a distance of 50 meters between all units."

Colonel Hawkins, the brigade commander, transmitted his voice to every tank via radio.

Suddenly, a reflection flashed across the roof of an abandoned textile factory 300 meters ahead.

"RPG!" Before gunner Miller's roar could even land, the rocket, trailing a grayish-white contrail, was already upon them.

“Bang—”

The tank's reactive armor exploded into a ball of orange-red fire, and the shockwave caused the vehicle to shake violently. Miller's forehead hit the gunner's sight, and blood instantly seeped out, leaving him dizzy.

Before he could react, dozens of figures suddenly sprang up from the drainage ditches on both sides of the road.

They wore oil-stained overalls, their faces smeared with coal dust, and their AK-47s spat fire, bullets striking the tank armor with a crisp crack. Even more terrifying were the young men carrying anti-tank rocket launchers; they didn't even bother to take cover, standing right in the middle of the road aiming at the track joints, as if performing a death ritual.

"Left! They're trying to blow off the tracks!" the tank commander roared, pulling the control lever. The tank's gun barrel suddenly turned, and a high-explosive shell blasted down half of the factory building. Several muffled thuds came from the brick and stone debris, but more figures poured out of the ruins.

A Samurai infantry fighting vehicle attempted to accelerate through the ambush zone, but its tracks became entangled in a steel cable thrown from an overpass. Before the crew could jump out, three figures wrapped in fire blankets rolled under the vehicle with explosive charges, and the fuses sizzled in the morning mist.

"No—!" The infantry fighting vehicle commander had just pushed open the hatch when a violent explosion lifted the vehicle off the ground, sending parts and human fragments raining down on the road. The figures of the three young men were frozen in black silhouettes in the firelight before being torn apart by the shockwave.

Colonel Hawkins stared at the constantly flashing red coordinates on the radio, his teeth grinding together.

These resistance fighters didn't care about casualties at all. They charged at the steel torrent in the most primitive way—some rode motorcycles towards the tank tracks, with the people on the back of the motorcycles throwing Molotov cocktails into the engine compartment; some lay in the roadside ditches and used explosive packs to destroy the road surface, causing the tanks to fall into craters; there was even an old woman who rushed out of the ruins with a bundle of grenades in her hand. She was shot down by machine gun fire when she was still ten meters away from the tanks. The grenades rolled to the side of the tank tracks and exploded with a dull thud.

Modern warfare…

As the old saying goes, even a dog strapped with a bomb can kill dozens of people.

"Stop advancing! Construct a ring defense!"

Hawkins finally gave the order. As he watched the figures falling on both sides of the road, he suddenly remembered his grandfather's account of the Dunkirk evacuation.

The German army did the same thing back then, using light weapons to slow down mechanized forces.

By the time the sun was high overhead, the vanguard had only advanced three miles, with the roads littered with the wreckage of burning tanks and roadblocks.

The resistance fighters retreated like a tide into the residential areas on the outskirts of the city, leaving behind only bullet-riddled streets and Hawkins's list of the dead: 27 dead, 11 tanks destroyed, and ammunition used up by more than 40% of the expected amount...

Before the coffee at 10 Downing Street was even ready, Defence Secretary Sir Davidson stormed into the Prime Minister's office, clutching a report. His dark circles were darker than his tie, and the numbers on the report were glaringly red.

“Prime Minister, we can’t hold on any longer.” Davidson slammed the report on the table. “The 3rd Airborne Brigade’s ammunition reserves are down to only 30%, and the 120mm shells for the Challenger tanks need to be transferred from German warehouses, costing £8 million in transportation fees alone. And the repairs to those damaged vehicles will require at least £12 million—”

"More money?" The Prime Minister's fingers dug deep into his temples. The funds obtained three days ago through mortgaging assets had vanished like water. "I just approved the allocation of escort funds to the Royal Navy yesterday, and the Treasury's account is already empty."

“Blood is flowing on the front lines!” Davidson raised his voice.

"Colonel Hawkins' telegram says that the resistance fighters have dug tunnels in the residential area, and they're suddenly emerging from the sewers to attack patrols. Yesterday, a squad of soldiers was trapped in a supermarket, surviving for 12 hours on canned food and bottled water. We need more night vision goggles, bulletproof vests, and tear gas for clearing operations—all of this costs money!"

The Prime Minister stared out the window at the gloomy rain, the spires of the City of London appearing and disappearing in the fog. The financial tycoons who had bought up British assets were drinking champagne in their offices, while he was worrying about funding for tear gas.

“Go talk to Silverwing Capital and Equator Trading,” the Prime Minister’s voice suddenly became hoarse. “Tell them I can give up another 5% of my stake in Scottish Electricity, and they need to send me £2000 million immediately.”

Davidson was stunned: "That's a core asset of the State Grid—"

“I have no choice,” the Prime Minister interrupted him. “If the garrison in Belfast collapses, the whole of Northern Ireland will be out of control, and we will lose more than just the power company.”

The Prime Minister's fingertip hovered over the Scottish Electricity Company's shareholding documents for a full half minute, the edges of the paper unconsciously crumpled. Rain slanted across the windowpane, blurring the spires of the City of London into a hazy gray, much like his own confused state of mind.

“That’s settled.” He finally spoke, his voice hoarse with a drained strength. “Tell Silverwing Capital that the 2000 million will be in their account within three days. As for the shares, let them have them.”

Sir Davidson opened his mouth, but in the end he only nodded heavily.

He knew that Scottish Electricity controlled the power grid hubs of Glasgow and Edinburgh, and a 5% stake, though seemingly small, meant that foreign capital was touching the energy lifeline of northern England for the first time.

However, the tear gas procurement contract is already three days overdue. In Colonel Hawkins' telegram, soldiers are using expired gas masks to deal with the backlash from the tear gas. Those masks are from the Gulf War stockpile in the 1990s. The rubber gaskets have long since hardened, causing many people to cough incessantly and even making aiming a problem.

Don't think it's excessive...

It's said that in 2020, Britain is still saving on the maintenance costs of its nuclear weapons... which means that they'll just automatically fly away with a whoosh sometime soon.

"I'll contact them right away." As Davidson turned around, the metal clasp of his briefcase hit the door frame with a dull thud that was particularly jarring in the quiet office.

Before the door was even closed, the head of MI6 burst in, his trench coat still damp with rain, and his usually meticulously combed hair now plastered messily to his forehead.

“Prime Minister, urgent intelligence.” His voice was extremely low, but carried an undeniable urgency. “Our listening station has intercepted encrypted communications from Strasbourg, France. The Deputy Director of the European Department of the French Ministry of Foreign Affairs secretly met with senior members of the Scottish National Party last week.”

The Prime Minister sprang from the sofa, his fingers tightening abruptly around the shareholding documents, the paper cracking under the weight: "The French? What are they up to?"

“It’s more than just a meeting.” The supervisor pulled a wiretapped record from his briefcase, the smell of ink mixed with the dampness of rain hitting the air. “Our people filmed that when the National Party leader’s personal advisor came out of the French embassy, ​​he was carrying documents that appeared to be part of an economic aid plan in his briefcase. What’s more troublesome is that the French National Railway Company is in contact with the Scottish local government to discuss a plan to upgrade the cross-border railway after independence. They are preparing for Scottish independence.”

The Prime Minister staggered half a step, his back hitting the cold fireplace.

The fires of war still raged in Northern Ireland, and beneath the ice of Scotland lay hidden undercurrents. All he could offer to extinguish these flames were the nation's assets, constantly being mortgaged. "Have they gone mad?" the Prime Minister's voice trembled with disbelief. "The Anglo-French alliance has lasted half a century; how dare they stab us in the back now?"

“It’s not stabbing us in the back, it’s taking advantage of our misfortune.” Elliott’s tone was also somewhat disappointed. “The riots in Northern Ireland caused the pound to plummet, and Scottish independence sentiment was already high. The French extending an olive branch at this time is tantamount to handing a match to a bomb. Their goal is very clear: to weaken Britain’s voice in the EU and, incidentally, to reclaim the benefits they suffered in the North Sea oil field division.”

The Prime Minister's hand, which was resting on the fireplace, suddenly slipped, causing the bronze statue of Churchill on the fireplace to sway and the base to collide with the marble with a soft sound.

He recalled Wilson's sarcastic remark on the phone three days earlier—"Capital never pays for impulsiveness"—but now, even former allies were raising a glass to Britain's predicament.

"How much more can the Ministry of Finance's accounts squeeze out?"

The Prime Minister's voice was hoarse, as if he had swallowed sandpaper.

He was thinking that perhaps he could suspend supplies to the Persian Gulf fleet and divert the money to appease Scotland, but this idea was quickly dismissed. If the navy were cut off from supplies, the Mediterranean shipping lanes would immediately fall under the control of other countries' fleets.

The supervisor, noticing the redness spreading in the Prime Minister's eyes, said in a low voice, "Aside from the emergency allocation to the Belfast garrison, there's only... £700 million left, not even enough for half a year's allowance from the Scottish local council."

A deathly silence fell over the office, broken only by the tireless ticking of the wall clock.

Every tick was like a heavy hammer blow to the Prime Minister's nerves.

He suddenly remembered another corner of the oil painting in his grandfather's study. Indeed, his grandfather had quite a few oil paintings.

In 1940, Churchill sat in his basement on Downing Street, a cigar in hand, with the flames of German bombings outside the window. But at that time, Britain still had resources from its colonies to draw upon, and allies around the world willing to provide financial support.

Now, all he has are mortgage agreements and an intelligence briefing that reads "French Interference in Scotland".

"Send the Foreign Minister to see the French Ambassador immediately."

The Prime Minister took a deep breath and said, “Tell them that if they dare to interfere in Scottish affairs, we will release the archives of France smuggling weapons to the IRA during the de Gaulle era, and we will expand the bidding for North Sea oil field development rights to Mexican companies, so that the French know they are not the only buyers.”

He himself felt unsure of his own words when he said them.

Those files are Cold War secrets, and their release would only rupture the already tense Anglo-French relations. Introducing the Mexican company would be a short-sighted solution, as Victor's capital has always been more greedy than that of Parisian politicians.

The supervisor agreed, but as he turned around, he heard the Prime Minister say in a low voice, "Send a telegram to Colonel Hawkins and tell him... to hold on a little longer."

Perseverance? With what? With the worn-out soles of soldiers' boots, or with the "collateral" constantly being cut from the body of the nation?
He didn't dare ask, and simply closed the door gently.

The Prime Minister was the only one left in the office. He slumped slowly onto the sofa, his gaze fixed on the Scottish Electric Power shareholding document. The words "United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland" at the top of the document looked particularly ironic in the dim light.

……

As traders in the City of London typed in the final buy order on their screens, three more control codes for British assets were added to Manuel Garcia's private account at Silverwing Capital.

This time, they've set their sights on the power grid hub in northwest England!
Those high-voltage power towers that once powered Manchester's textile mills and Liverpool's shipyards have now become targets of Silverwing Capital's "18% return" financial report.

"While Downing Street was still debating whether to introduce a foreign acquisition review bill, we had already acquired a 25% stake in the Cheshire substation."

Garcia was reporting to his direct "superior" on the other end of the phone. Behind him, an electronic screen was displaying the real-time yield curve of British government bonds. The steep upward curve looked like a knife cutting through the British economy.

Capital always has a faster sense of smell than politicians make decisions.

While the Prime Minister was pounding on the table at a cabinet meeting demanding that the "bottom line of national assets be protected," a Qatari consortium had quietly acquired the operating rights of the container terminal at the Port of Southampton through three offshore companies. Meanwhile, Wall Street hedge funds, under the guise of "debt restructuring," took over the mining permits for four century-old coal mines in the Welsh valley. The black coal that once supported the Industrial Revolution has now become a bargaining chip for hedge funds to pledge to Luxembourg banks.

More deadly infiltrations occur in unseen areas.

A Singapore-registered telecommunications company, under the guise of "technology upgrades," acquired stakes in three undersea cables connecting the UK to mainland Europe. MI6 technical experts warned in a secret report: "This means that 70% of cross-border data transmission in the City of London will pass through the other party's server nodes."

But the report was buried at the bottom of the Prime Minister's desk because the Treasury needed the company's promise to "create 1500 jobs" to embellish the quarterly figures.

Britain's weakness has never been a sharp drop in GDP figures, but rather the realization, when a crisis arrives, that it has already lost control of its economic lifeline.

At the budget hearing, the Chancellor of the Exchequer read out a set of figures to the MPs in a trembling voice: "In the past year, foreign investment in the UK totaled £37 billion, of which 83% was concentrated in the energy, transport and communications sectors... Our foreign exchange reserves are no longer sufficient to repurchase any of these core assets."

Before the words were even finished, reporters in the gallery had already started flipping through their notes. The pound had fallen another 0.5 points against the dollar, marking its fifth drop this week.

investment?

That's fucking an acquisition!

This weakness is even evident in the most basic areas of people's livelihood.

The Prime Minister in his Downing Street office late at night.

"They didn't even bother to hide it anymore."

The Foreign Secretary privately told the Prime Minister that he had just returned from Brussels, where the European Commission rejected the UK’s request to “delay the opening of the energy market,” and that the arrogant EU Trade Commissioner happened to hold 10 preferred shares of Silverwing Capital in his private investment account.

The tide of capital shows no mercy. Before the smoke of the Belfast conflict had even cleared, an international rating agency suddenly announced that it was downgrading the UK’s sovereign credit rating from AA+ to AA, citing “debt repayment uncertainty caused by domestic turmoil”.

This adjustment means that the interest cost of the British government issuing national debt will rise instantly, with an additional £10 million in interest to be paid annually for every £2000 billion borrowed.

Ironically, the main force behind the rush to buy British government bonds was precisely capital hunters like Garcia.

“They used their own government bonds to pay for the acquisition of their assets.”

listen!
The sun never sets...

It looks like it's about to collapse!
……

(End of this chapter)