Working as a police officer in Mexico.

Chapter 732 You're not paying salaries? Then no wonder the brothers aren't giving you face!
Time: Four days after President George W. Bush delivered his speech on Capitol Hill and successfully secured the return of the three states.

Location: 1st Battalion, 75th Ranger Regiment, U.S. Army, stationed at Fort Stewart, Georgia.

The 75th Ranger Regiment, an elite airborne light infantry unit, is quite formidable, renowned for its outstanding performance in numerous military operations, including World War II, Vietnam, Grenada, and Panama.

Their motto, "Rangers, Lead the Way!" has appeared in many films and television shows.

American movies are pretty good.

That being said, even the most glorious military force cannot withstand the erosion of the times.

The atmosphere inside Stewart Castle seemed somewhat unusual compared to its reputation as an elite force.

Soldiers were still training on the field, but their spirit seemed to be shrouded in an invisible haze. The equipment was being maintained with great effort, but some minor oversights were inevitable.

Most importantly, there was an atmosphere, a sense of restlessness and being forgotten.

Deep inside the camp, rows of barracks looked fairly neat.

Today, the barracks are exceptionally "clean" and "quiet" inside and out because important figures from the division headquarters are coming to inspect the area.

The soldiers of the 1st Battalion were notified in advance that all personnel not on duty were required to remain in the barracks to tidy up their quarters and prepare for inspection.

In the barracks of a platoon under Charlie's company, codenamed "Spearhead," a dozen Ranger soldiers stood in two straight rows. They were wearing standard army combat uniforms, but upon closer inspection, some of their boots were badly worn, and some of their uniforms were faded from washing, with even barely noticeable patches.

Standing at the very front of the column was Sergeant First Class Calvin Harris.

He was a burly black man with a short, thick neck, sharp, eagle-like eyes, and taut cheeks. He was a professional soldier among professional soldiers, having served for over 14 years.

Standing at the end of the column was Sergeant First Class David Wilson, slightly older than Harris, his face etched with the wrinkles of time and weariness. He was also a veteran Ranger, highly skilled and experienced, the pillar of the platoon, and usually gentle and well-liked by the younger soldiers.

The two men were the squad leader and deputy squad leader, and also supplementary officers of the combat platoon. If the platoon leader died, they would take over command. Therefore, the sergeant major in the U.S. Army still had considerable power.

The sound of footsteps came from far to near.

The light dimmed at the entrance, and a group of people walked in.

Leading the procession was Major General Robert E. Lee, commander of the 75th Ranger Regiment, who was about fifty years old and whose uniform was impeccably pressed. Behind him were the division chief of staff, the battalion commander of the 1st Battalion, and several staff officers. The regimental commander happened to be at a meeting at division headquarters that day and did not accompany them.

According to the organization of the 75th Ranger Regiment, it did not actually have a traditional divisional unit. However, after the outbreak of the US-Mexico conflict, the order of command was disrupted. They also suffered heavy losses in the border conflict and were then reorganized, but they still belong to the US military's "elite forces".

"stand at attention!"

Sergeant First Class Harris roared in his distinctively loud voice.

"Whoosh!" The two rows of soldiers moved in perfect unison, heels together, chests out, eyes looking straight ahead.

A satisfied look appeared on Major General Li's face. He nodded slightly and walked slowly past the front of the column, his gaze sweeping over every face, young or no longer young. Occasionally, he would stop to ask a soldier's name or hometown, or pat a soldier on the shoulder and say something like, "Good morale," or "Keep it up."

The battalion commander following behind him was on edge, afraid that something might go wrong. They knew the situation at the grassroots level all too well. Pay was owed for months, supplies were scarce, and resentment had long since reached a breaking point. They were only being suppressed by the traditional sense of honor and strict discipline of the Rangers.

I wonder what the leader is here for?
Do you really think your personal charm is more valuable than money? Tell the brothers to calm down.
I don't deny that there are such people, but they are extremely rare.

Major General Li walked to the end of the line.

He stopped in front of Sergeant First Class David Wilson.

Wilson's age and rank were considered quite high among the junior soldiers, and Major General Li glanced at him a couple more times.

Such an old... soldier is rare.

"Secondary Sergeant Wilson?" Major General Li looked at his nameplate, his tone relatively calm.

"Yes, sir!" Wilson's voice was a little hoarse.

Major General Li nodded, seemingly intending to say a few words of encouragement and then leave, just like before.

Just then, Wilson suddenly spoke up, "Commander."

Major General Li stopped turning around, faced him again, and still wore that formulaic smile: "Is there something you need, Sergeant Major?"

Wilson's Adam's apple bobbed, and the muscles in his face twitched as if he were desperately suppressing something. He looked at his division commander, his eyes bloodshot, filled with struggle and an almost desperate plea. He asked softly, his voice so low that only a few people nearby could hear him:

"Will I get paid today?"

These words created an instant awkwardness.

Everyone's expressions changed.

The battalion commander's face flushed red instantly, then turned deathly pale. He took a half step forward and shouted sternly, "Sergeant Wilson, mind your discipline! In front of the division commander..."

Major General Li raised his hand to stop the battalion commander.

His smile vanished, but he didn't immediately erupt in anger. Instead, he frowned slightly and spoke in a tone that, while seemingly understanding, was actually a deflection, laced with official jargon: "Sergeant Major, I understand your feelings. The division headquarters and higher-ups are taking the issue of military pay very seriously and have reported it to Washington multiple times. The country is currently in a critical period, and we hope everyone can understand and overcome these difficulties to give the higher-ups some time..."

“Give them time…” Wilson murmured, the last glimmer of light in his eyes seeming to fade, leaving only a gray void. He spoke as if to a teacher, or perhaps to himself, his voice trembling with a chilling intensity, “Who will give my child time?”

Major General Li frowned even more, seemingly getting impatient with the old soldier's persistence, and he prepared to end the conversation.

However, just as he parted his lips slightly, preparing to utter the next comforting word—

A sudden change occurred!

A crazy and resolute light suddenly burst forth in Wilson's previously empty and desperate eyes, and his right hand, which was on his right side, reached into the pocket of his ACU combat uniform with lightning speed!
That's not a pocket for pens!

A cold light flashed!
He pulled out a US-made M9 multi-purpose military knife!

This is standard issue equipment for Rangers. The blade is sharp with a deep blood groove, suitable for both melee combat and survival in the wild. This knife accompanied him on countless missions in the rainforest and mountains.

At that moment, this military knife, saturated with the blood of the enemy, whistled through the air with lightning speed, and pierced straight for Major General Li's unprotected neck!
Fuck you!!!

Wilson's actions were ruthless and decisive, showing no hesitation whatsoever!
That was the muscle memory the Rangers had developed through close-quarters combat, the full force that erupted after reaching the depths of despair!
"Pfft!"

The M9 military knife, with its blade over ten centimeters long, almost completely pierced into Major General Li's neck, with a small section of the tip, tinged with blood, protruding from the other side!
Major General Li's expression froze instantly, a look of utter astonishment and disbelief. His eyes bulged out, his mouth opened wide, but he could only make a "hoarse" sound as his trachea was blocked by blood.

Bright red blood gushed out of his wounds and mouth like a burst pipe, splashing Wilson's face and the warm, sticky liquid on the battalion commander and Harris beside him.

Time seemed to have stopped at this moment.

Everyone was stunned by this sudden, bloody massacre that happened in the blink of an eye!
The division commander... was killed?!

He was stabbed through the neck with a military knife by one of his own sergeant majors in full view of everyone?!

"Division Commander!!" The battalion commander let out a heart-wrenching scream and instinctively lunged forward.

But Wilson was faster!

He suddenly pulled out his M9 saber, spraying out an even larger cloud of blood. Major General Li's body fell straight backward like a broken wooden stake, crashing heavily onto the floor with a dull thud.

Wilson didn't even glance at the corpse on the ground, nor did he pay any attention to the terrified officers and soldiers beside him. He rushed to a bed against the wall, ripped open the neatly folded blanket, reached under the pillow, and pulled out a—

M67 defensive grenade!

An oval-shaped green shell with serrated fragment grooves.

Let's go to hell together!!!

Wilson let out a roar of utter despair!
The voice contained the humiliation of being owed wages for four months, the humility of his wife receiving relief meals in front of the church, the pain of his seriously ill child with no money for treatment, and all his resentment towards this messed-up world, towards his boss and government who ignored their lives!

Without hesitation, his thumb pried open the safety clip on the top of the grenade, his index finger gripped the pull ring, and he pulled hard!
A soft metallic click.

"Grenade!!!" Sergeant First Class Harris finally reacted. He instinctively tried to rush over to stop it, but it was too far away, and it was all too late!
The soldiers closest to Wilson instantly lost all color in their faces, their mouths agape in terror, yet no sound came out.

Some people instinctively retreated, some tried to lie down, and some stood frozen in place, their minds blank.

The chief of staff and several staff officers following behind the division commander were terrified and tried to turn around and run away, but the door was blocked by the people behind them, and chaos ensued!
"boom!!!!!!!"

The deafening explosion suddenly swallowed up all other sounds!
An M67 grenade exploded inside a confined dormitory room, amplifying its power several times over! Pre-fragmented shrapnel sprayed wildly in all directions at speeds exceeding several thousand meters per second!
The powerful shockwave violently blew everyone away, whether they were standing, lying down, or running away!
The windows shattered instantly, the wooden bed frame was torn to pieces, and the walls were instantly covered with countless bullet holes and splattered blood!
The smell of gunpowder and blood instantly filled the entire space.

After the deafening explosion, there was a brief silence, which was then replaced by a chorus of inhuman, piercing screams and groans.

Limbs and severed bodies were scattered everywhere, and the walls and ceiling were smeared with glaring crimson and fragments of internal organs. Several people near the epicenter of the explosion were blown beyond recognition.

Those a little further away were also riddled with holes from shrapnel, lying in pools of blood, convulsing and screaming in agony. The air was thick with the smell of gunpowder and burnt flesh, mixed with the stench of blood, making one want to vomit.

Several officers and soldiers who were standing near the entrance, reacted quickly, or were a little further away were lucky enough not to be killed directly by the explosion, but most of them were injured. The shockwave caused their ears and noses to bleed, and they were dizzy. Looking at the horrific scene before them, they screamed in terror.

"Medics! Call medics quickly!!"

The battalion commander lay on the ground, his arm ripped open by a piece of burning shrapnel, the wound so deep it exposed bone, and blood gushing out. But he ignored the pain and roared hoarsely toward the door.

The guards and officers outside, who had heard the explosion and commotion, finally reacted and rushed in in a panic. But when they saw the horrific scene inside the dormitory, many of them bent over and vomited, or stood frozen at the door, too shocked to move by the bloody sight before them.

Blood and gore were everywhere, and cries of agony filled the air.

Sergeant First Class Harris collapsed not far from Wilson. A fragment of a grenade pierced his carotid artery, and blood gushed out like a fountain. He futilely covered the wound with his hand, his eyes wide open, staring at the ceiling, filled with resentment and confusion. He soon lost consciousness from blood loss.

The perpetrator, Sergeant First Class David Wilson, was blown to pieces the moment he pulled the pin on the grenade.

Amen……

This is what it's like to be broke.

News of the bloody explosion and the killing of a senior officer at the 1st Battalion's barracks of the 75th Ranger Regiment swept through the entire U.S. military.

Despite official attempts to control the news, in an era when the internet was just emerging and military networks and private communication devices coexisted, a bloodshed of this scale could not be concealed.

Within hours of the explosion, some extremely blurry photos began circulating among U.S. military bases through unofficial channels.

"Stewartburg has been bombed!"

"The Rangers killed the division commander and then detonated a grenade!"

"Driven by unpaid wages, a second-class sergeant major's child is seriously ill and he has no money for treatment..."

"Blood flowed like a river, and several officers died..."

The complex emotions of shared sorrow and grievance spread rapidly throughout various units of the U.S. military, especially among frontline combat troops who were also suffering from unpaid wages.

Oh shit!

They only know how to bully us poor soldiers, they might as well have joined Viktor!
At least he has money to give to his brothers.

Joint Langley-Eustis Base, Virginia, 1st Fighter Wing, United States Air Force.

In the wing commander's office, trivial news was playing on the television, but Wing Commander Major General Thomas Hardwick's mind was completely elsewhere.

He saw the chaotic news from Stewartburg.

Moreover, he knew that what was said online wasn't just nonsense, because he had received several phone calls about it.

The people opposite me were all classmates from military academy.

“Rangers…even the Rangers have mutinied…” Hardwick muttered to himself, his fingers tapping unconsciously on the table. The 1st Fighter Wing, equipped with F-15C Eagle fighter jets, was an elite force protecting the airspace of the United States, but even they hadn’t received their full pay for three months, and the ground crew were particularly resentful.

Fuck!
On several occasions, some even threatened to fly fighter jets to Mexico and defect if they weren't paid.

He grabbed the internal communications phone and connected with the base security officer and logistics chief: "This is Hardwick. Strengthen the guard of all ammunition depots, fuel depots and flight squadrons. Notify all squadron commanders to assemble all personnel, inventory and seal all individual weapons and issued ammunition. No one may use them without my direct order, especially the pilots' self-defense weapons. All of them must be centrally stored!"

"All units must immediately cease all non-essential training missions."

"Immediately confiscate all live ammunition issued to individual soldiers, retaining only ammunition for sentry posts and key duty points! Each battalion's armory will have two additional guards, with officers and senior sergeants jointly controlling the keys. Not a single bullet may leave the armory without the joint approval of myself and the division chief of staff!"

6666 ...

Joint Base Lewis-McChord, Washington State, is home to the U.S. Army's 2nd Infantry Division and special operations units.

In a heavily guarded meeting room.

Attendees included the base's top commander, the commander of the 2nd Infantry Division, representatives from the 1st Special Operations Group (Delta Force), and senior officers such as the commander of the Stryker Brigade stationed there.

The base commander, a three-star lieutenant general, spoke with a grave expression: "Gentlemen, I don't need to elaborate on the situation. The incident involving the 75th Ranger Regiment is a disastrous sign. Here, we are also a major area of ​​unpaid wages, and the soldiers' patience is being exhausted. We must do something, immediately, before they completely lose faith in us."

The commander of the 2nd Infantry Division chimed in, "The most critical issue is money. Without money, any appeasement is just empty talk. We must find a way to pay the soldiers' salaries as soon as possible, even if it's just for one month, to temporarily stabilize morale."

In a corner, a brigadier general in charge of logistics couldn't help but mutter, "They can't even hold on for four months? We're the U.S. military, serving our country is an honor, this little difficulty..."

Before he could finish speaking, a colonel from Delta Force rudely interrupted him, “General, I suggest you go to any infantry company barracks right now and repeat what you just said to those soldiers who are only eating two meals a day to save money, whose wives are crying on the phone about not being able to pay the rent. I bet my medals that they’ll tear you apart, chop you into mincemeat and make dumplings. Can honor feed you? Can it pay for medical bills? Can it support your children?”

The logistics brigadier was speechless, his face turning red, but seeing the equally unfriendly looks from the other officers around him, he wisely shut his mouth.

The base commander rubbed his temples: "Arguing won't solve anything. The key is how to get the money? We can't count on the Ministry of Finance; we'll have to figure it out ourselves."

Silence fell over the meeting room. What could they do? They were the army, not a money printing press.

At this moment, an adjutant responsible for external liaison and some material handling for the base hesitated and raised his hand. He was known as the "idea king" of the base and always came up with some crooked ideas.

“General, esteemed officers,” he said cautiously, “our base’s warehouses are piled up with a lot of obsolete, outdated, or slightly damaged weapons and equipment awaiting disposal. According to normal procedures, these should either be destroyed, returned to the factory for repair, or sold to allies at extremely low prices…”

He paused, noticing everyone's eyes were on him, swallowed hard, and lowered his voice even further: "I know a middleman with a complicated background, but he's incredibly generous. He's privately expressed interest in certain 'fully functional' samples, especially man-portable anti-tank missiles, portable anti-aircraft missiles, and precision rifles... the hard currency on the black market. If we can clear out some of our inventory for him, we might be able to quickly raise a considerable sum of cash to tide us over..."

There was dead silence in the conference room.

Selling weapons and equipment to the military? To arms dealers?

It doesn't seem like it's impossible...

This is a traditional skill; once the weapons are sold, they're sold. It even lets the people at the arms factory work overtime—isn't that a way to stimulate domestic demand?

"Is it safe for someone you know?"

"It's very safe. I know many of our allies know him."

The base commander nodded, rubbing his temples. "That's all we can do for now."

"Damn it, if the government doesn't give us money, I'll take my men to Washington and stage a coup!" the Stryker brigade commander said through gritted teeth.

Take that with a grain of salt. In any case, high-ranking officers are unlikely to go hungry; on the contrary, they will get fatter and fatter.

It's said that the commander of the Stryker Brigade owns no fewer than ten mansions.

The reason they held the meeting was simply because they felt the atmosphere among their subordinates was off and they were frightened by the subordinates' attempts to intimidate them. That was all.

"Garcia, you're in full charge of this. Call me if you have any questions," the base commander said to his adjutant, who was in charge of external communications and some supplies.

The main problem is... this is so embarrassing.

We definitely can't let ourselves and the others go!

Shameless?

"Yes, sir!"

"Meeting dismissed."

Lieutenant Garcia immediately returned to his office, locked the door, and dialed a number.

The call was answered almost immediately.

"Hey?"

“It’s me, Garcia.”

The adjutant lowered his voice, "Butter, we have a shipment that needs urgent processing. It's quite a large quantity and a rather varied variety. Would you be interested in taking a look at it?"

There was a two or three-second silence on the other end of the phone, followed by a low laugh: "Old friend, wait for me, I'll be there this afternoon."

Just after 2 p.m., a gleaming Cadillac Fleetwood drove straight to the entrance of the designated warehouse on the outskirts of the base's logistics area.

The car door opened, and a slightly overweight middle-aged white man wearing a flashy pink Hawaiian shirt and sunglasses jumped out. He had a thick gold chain around his neck and a gleaming Rolex on his wrist, looking exactly like a nouveau riche who had just won money from a Las Vegas casino.

Ok…

They're very rich.

Upon seeing his adjutant already waiting at the door, he immediately opened his arms, let out an exaggerated scream, and enthusiastically rushed over to give the adjutant a firm hug.

"Oh! Garcia, my dear friend! It's been a long time, and you still look as... well, serious!"

Butt slapped the other man's back hard, then leaned close to his adjutant's ear and whispered quickly in a voice only the two of them could hear, "Don't worry, your consulting fee, same place, Swiss bank, will be in your account this afternoon, even faster than the main payment."

Garcia couldn't help but smile, revealing a genuine smile. He hugged the other person back tightly, saying, "It's good that you came. Time is tight, let's get straight to the goods."

They led Butt into the huge warehouse.

Inside, the lights were on, and the mountains of crates and the outlines of equipment covered with canvas exuded a mixture of steel and machine oil smells.

Butt strolled around as casually as if he were in his own backyard. He walked to a pile of neatly stacked crates labeled M16A2 rifles, casually pried open one of the crates with the crowbar he carried with him, picked up a rifle, skillfully inspected the chamber and parts, then curled his lip and tossed it back into the crate with a clang.

“Old friend, not to be rude, but these outdated 5.56 small water pipes are practically everywhere on the black market, and they don’t fetch much.” He dusted off his hands, his tone critical.

Garcia frowned: "Then how much do you want?"

Instead of answering directly, Butt slowly pulled out a palm-sized electronic calculator from his pocket, his chubby fingers tapping away on it before handing it to the other person.

The screen displays a number followed by "USD/KG".

Garcia's eyes widened instantly, and his voice rose several decibels: "Selling by the kilogram?! Are you fucking kidding me? This is a standard-issue rifle, not scrap metal!"

Butt shrugged, looking helpless. "That's the market price. You know, AK and AR rifles are the cheapest. Even child soldiers in Africa complain that their recoil isn't 'exciting' enough. Selling them separately for parts might be more expensive, but you need cash in a hurry, right? This is the price for the whole batch."

Garcia's expression shifted, and finally, like a deflated balloon, he waved his hand weakly: "Okay, okay, that's the price, but that's not the point. Look below."

He led Butt deeper into the warehouse and lifted several huge canvases.

What's visible below are Javelin anti-tank missile launchers, M224 mortars, a batch of M249 squad automatic weapons, and even several well-maintained Stinger anti-aircraft missile launch tubes.

Boot's eyes lit up instantly, like a dragon spotting a treasure. He stepped forward, carefully examining the "hard currency," repeatedly announcing prices:

"Well... I can give this amount for each set."

"The price is calculated per mortar, this is the price."

"Stinger...hiss, good stuff, but this model is a bit old. I have to take the risk. How about this number?"

The adjutant listened to the price he quoted. Although it was countless times better than the price of rifles, which were sold by weight, it was still far below his expectations and the actual value of these items.

He couldn't help but speak bluntly: "This price is too low! Butt, this isn't our first time doing business together. You know the value of this shipment better than I do! This amount of money isn't even enough to pay the salaries of everyone at the base!"

"The US military is really in arrears with salaries? And for four months?" Butbut put away his calculator, his face showing genuine surprise and interest for the first time. He stroked his chin, his eyes darting around.

Garcia nodded heavily, his face filled with anxiety and helplessness.

Boot's small eyes lit up, as if he had discovered a new gold mine. He leaned closer to the other man, lowering his voice even further, and said enticingly, "Listen, old friend, even if you sold all of these small trinkets to me, it wouldn't amount to the astronomical sum you need. But if the stuff is a bit better, it'll be a completely different story."

He pointed to the warehouse ceiling, looking out at the helipad and armored vehicle parking lot: "Like... the big stuff! Tanks, infantry fighting vehicles, helicopters! These are the real hard currency, hot commodities on the international market. Any one of them is worth half the junk in this warehouse!"

Upon hearing this, the adjutant's face showed extreme hesitation and struggle.

Selling individual weapons is already crossing the line; selling heavy equipment, if discovered, would be enough to send him and his superiors to a military court a hundred times!

They'd lose their heads.

"This is too risky!" the adjutant instinctively refused.

Butt didn't rush him, but looked at him leisurely and said slowly, "Think about it, friend. Is it better to risk being shot in the back by your own angry soldiers, or to take a gamble, get the money, and stabilize the situation? If handled properly, who will know? It's just a matter of adding a few more lines to the scrap list. Besides, it's not like you're the only ones selling the latest active-duty models."

These words put Garcia at ease.

"Are there other people selling them?"

Butt nodded. "Of course, the brave ones enjoy the world first."

Upon hearing this, Garcia wavered. As long as everyone sold together, it would be fine; at worst, they would all die together.

"I'll make a call first."

Boot gave a knowing smile, nodded, and continued to examine the other "goods" in the warehouse.

About ten minutes later, Garcia walked back to the warehouse, nodded to Butt who was waiting there, and said, "We can sell them. But the quantity is limited, and the models are also restricted. They mainly consist of a few UH-1 'Huey' tanks that have been stored, some old M113 armored personnel carriers, and a small number of M2 Bradley infantry fighting vehicles in condition. That's all. Do you want them?"

Upon hearing this, Butt grinned, revealing two rows of teeth that were slightly yellowed from cigar smoke, his smile as bright as if he had won the lottery: "Of course, no problem, old friend."

He hurriedly followed Garcia to another, more secluded and heavily guarded warehouse to inspect the goods. After carefully examining the "big guys" that were covered in dust but had intact key components, Butt's face was almost overflowing with satisfaction.

About three hours later, the details of the deal were basically finalized.

At the base gate, Butt gripped the other person's hand tightly and assured him confidently, "The money will be transferred to the designated account by noon tomorrow at the latest! My men will come to pick up the goods tomorrow afternoon."

The adjutant nodded, even offering a word of thanks: "Thanks to you this time, Butt, you've saved us from a dire situation."

“Mutual benefit, mutual benefit!” Butt laughed and climbed into his conspicuous Cadillac.

The moment the car door closed, he pulled out another satellite phone and quickly dialed a number.

After the call connected, he asked with a smile:

“Mr. Bramo, I’ve just acquired a batch of high-demand original goods. The quantity is considerable, and the range includes everything from individual soldiers to armored vehicles and helicopters. Are you interested?”

“Illinois will definitely need it.”

...

(End of this chapter)