Blackstone Code

Everything Lynch said was true. He just used certain techniques in his speech to make his words more convincing.

The gentlemen in the room murmured among themselves. What Lynch presented was undeniably enticing.

Especially the concept of a decapitation strike—a strategy centered on attacking the enemy’s command headquarters. It was immensely valuable. If a command center was hit, the frontlines would quickly fall into chaos.

This was war, after all.

Every war involved tens of thousands, sometimes hundreds of thousands of soldiers. Without a head, even small problems could spiral into fatal disasters.

Toward the end, an official from the Ministry of Defense in charge of procurement raised the question on everyone’s mind: “Mr. Lynch, if we wanted to purchase a batch for mixed tactical testing, what’s the price?”

“150,000,” Lynch replied without hesitation.

He watched their expressions closely. No obvious reaction. In fact, they didn’t even think it was expensive.

In this world still dominated by battleships and heavy artillery, a single battleship cost as much as… the Ministry official calculated… around 10,000 planes.

Just this year, Congress had only approved the construction of two battleships, with plans for them to be commissioned within five years.

The Federation’s single full-strength fleet was still too weak. Now that the navy had proven its worth, there was no longer a need to worry that increasing the military budget might send the wrong message.

That kind of worry only existed when no one could beat anyone else. Now, they had to worry about everyone else.

The cost of just two battleships was around 370 million sols. With other additions, the entire Eastern Ocean’s 2nd Fleet had a total cost exceeding one billion.

The Ministry of Defense and the military had recently been handling budgets in the hundreds of millions. Even the smallest projects cost several million. So when they suddenly heard a price of 150,000 per airplane, their first thought was: why is it so cheap?

It felt almost absurd—was it this cheap because it was unreliable?

Seeing no dissatisfaction on their faces—only an unusual hint of doubt—Lynch realized he could raise the price.

He had learned this from an auctioneer friend.

That auctioneer had hosted countless auctions. He became friends with Lynch after they pulled off a swap scheme involving a consignment item. But that didn’t change the fact that he was a brilliant auctioneer.

He once told Lynch: when people are unhappy with a price, it’s obvious—maybe the price is too high, maybe they’re broke, or maybe they think they’ve seen through a pricing trick.

Whatever the reason, that dissatisfaction is easy to read—it’s just rejection, clear in their eyes.

But if someone shows confusion at an auction, it means one of two things:

First, the price is far lower than expected—they feel it’s cheap.

Second, they suspect the item is fake or flawed, hence the low price.

Dissatisfaction and doubt are easy to distinguish. Right now, some of these people were clearly unsure.

In Lynch’s pitch, the birth of the airplane—or more accurately, the birth of a functional airplane—was a world-changing force. But wasn’t the key to changing the world… a bit too cheap?

“Gentlemen, I was only quoting the price of the airplane itself. If you need more, that number isn’t fixed…”

Even the President felt this made sense. After all, some luxury cars cost tens of thousands. A strategic weapon of war shouldn’t be something just anyone could afford.

Of course, anyone referred to the people the President personally knew…

Twenty minutes later, Lynch watched them leave and let out a satisfied breath.

The chief engineer cautiously approached. “Mr. Lynch, I know it may be rude, but… did we succeed?”

Lynch didn’t look at him, just kept gazing into the distance, feeling a sense of pride expanding in his chest. “Of course.”

“How many did we sell?”

“Twenty?”

Lynch glanced at him sideways. “You’re off by a zero.”

Two hundred airplane. Each priced at 168,000. That was the discounted rate—Lynch used his patriotic sentiment as a reason to offer a markdown.

Two hundred planes. A total sale of 33.6 million. Subtracting under 10 million in production costs and 7–8 million in taxes, his profit margin was over 100%.

But it wasn’t that simple. The Ministry of Defense wouldn’t pay out of pocket. They’d submit the request to the Congressional Military Appropriations Committee.

Once approved, the funds would be transferred in installments to Lynch’s designated account.

To get the committee’s full support, he needed to show sincerity.

The military wouldn’t use their own power to help—rules were rules. So Lynch had to handle it himself.

That meant another 2–4 million spent—direct donations to foundations, plus lobbying costs.

In the end, Lynch would take home around 10 million. Maybe even less.

The chief engineer turned red and accidentally let out a fart. His reaction almost fooled Lynch into thinking he’d made a huge profit.

But really, this wasn’t that much money.

Still gasping, the chief engineer asked, “Mr. Lynch, I heard the selling price this time was… not cheap?”

He didn’t dare say high or expensive—just not cheap, carefully testing the waters.

Lynch nodded indifferently. No point hiding it. Once the request reached the appropriations committee, everyone who needed to know would know.

“Total sale was around 33 million. Why?”

“No reason!” The chief engineer’s hands trembled uncontrollably with excitement—five percent! Five percent!

1.65 million, paid in one go!

Everyone would get at least twenty or thirty thousand, maybe even over a hundred thousand for some.

Back at the old factory, you’d work yourself to death and never see that kind of money.

More importantly, this flawless military sale gave the chief engineer a glimpse of a bright future. If anyone now desperately wished for a war to break out, it would be him.

Every plane that went down was money.

Patriotism?

Sorry—faced with profit, he felt ashamed.

Ashamed, but with no intention to change.

Soon, all the researchers at the institute were fired up. The timing of this payout was perfect. Long, dull research needed something to break the monotony—and money was exactly that.

Lynch also left the institute shortly after, but he didn’t go home or look into acquiring production lines for parts. Instead, he went to see Mr. Truman.

With Truman’s help, he met with the old man who was still serving time—the Federation’s former Vice Admiral, and future Admiral.

“Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Lynch. You look younger and more handsome than you do on TV,” the Vice Admiral said warmly.

Perhaps because he had made what he believed to be the most important decision of his life, his spirit had reached another plane. He seemed younger on the inside than even his already youthful appearance suggested.

“Thank you for the compliment, Admiral,” Lynch said. After shaking hands, they went inside the house.

Although the Vice Admiral was still serving his sentence, it didn’t mean visitors weren’t allowed.

As they made their way to the study, Lynch glanced around the house and said, “I rarely use honorifics when addressing others. Deep down, I’m a proud man. I don’t believe anyone stands above me…”

The Vice Admiral chuckled as if reminded of something. “But you just used one!”

He pushed open the door to the study, invited Lynch in, then closed the door behind them.

Inside the Vice Admiral’s study was a liquor cabinet—perhaps this was the difference between a soldier and a politician.

“Care for a drink?” he asked. Lynch nodded. Without asking what kind, the Admiral brought over two glasses and a bottle of strong liquor.

As the Vice Admiral poured the drinks, Lynch offered a simple “Thank you,” and explained why he had used honorifics.

“Because you are someone I truly respect, Admiral. The Federation needs men like you.”

“When people abandon morality and let it be eroded by greed, when many believe everything can be solved through negotiation, we need someone who still defends the last line.”

“You made the right choice at the right time. You won us ten years.”

“The more our enemies hate you, the more we should honor you.”

“You deserve that respect.”

The Vice Admiral laughed heartily, completely unpretentious. “Truman warned me you’re quite the talker. Told me not to be fooled by words sweet as honey.”

“I know these words probably serve a purpose. Still, I’m glad to hear them.”

“When you get old, you start enjoying praise from the younger generation.”

He didn’t pretend to be humble, but Lynch smiled and said, “Even when speaking with the President, I’ve never used honorifics. Not even with the Emperor of Gephra.”

The Vice Admiral froze. That wasn’t something you could fake. Did Lynch truly respect him?

He fell into quiet contemplation.