freenovelworld Chapter 919 Plan (3)
Chapter 919 Plan (3)
The humming of the coffee machine finally stopped.
Instead, the Secretary of State, who was usually as refined as a wax figure but now had veins bulging on his neck, slapped the solid wood round table.
"boom!"
The sound wasn't too loud, but it was enough to drown out all the buzzing arguments in the room, like a swarm of flies.
“I’m sorry, gentlemen.” The Secretary of State withdrew his hand, took a handkerchief from his breast pocket, seemingly to wipe his palms, but actually to hide his trembling fingers from the force he had used. “Our time is not spent discussing ‘what ifs,’ ‘what ifs,’ or ‘buts’ in this room full of secondhand smoke.”
He didn't sit down, but looked around.
The conservatives, who had just been arguing heatedly with Thomas, now awkwardly avoided his gaze, either looking at non-existent dust in their hands or pretending to study the foam in their coffee cups.
"I know what you're worried about."
The Secretary of State's voice dropped a notch, losing some of the smoothness of a politician and gaining more of the ruthlessness of someone desperate.
He walked up to the chart and ran his finger hard across the grayed-out "Pennsylvania" section, his nails scraping uncomfortably on the paper.
“Pennsylvania no longer wants to play with us. They are now busy printing their own ‘Liberty Currency,’ and even published a thank you in the New York Times yesterday for the international friends who supported their independence.”
He sneered.
"Do you know what this means for Wall Street? It means our reputation is being flushed down the drain, like toilet paper in a toilet."
"If we were still here, hesitating or even scared out of our wits over a few hundred soldiers who died in the jungle and a few damned broken ships."
He suddenly raised his voice, his eyes filled with bloodshot veins that looked particularly menacing from days of insomnia.
"Then tomorrow, it might be California, it might be Texas, or it might even be Washington, D.C. right here! Everyone will think this elephant is old, and anyone can come up and tear off a piece of meat and leave!"
Patterson, sitting in the corner, moved his lips.
“But… Mr. Secretary. It is precisely because we… are weak.”
"What if... I mean, this really does look like a high-stakes gamble."
"bet?"
The Secretary of State turned around and looked down at him.
“That’s right, David. That’s gambling.”
"But tell me, what can a gambler do after losing all his chips if he doesn't want to be thrown out of the casino and fed to the dogs?"
He braced his hands on the edge of the table, leaning forward, his face almost touching Patterson's shiny bald head.
He could only slam the pocket watch, which he hadn't even warmed up yet, onto the table and yell—"showhand!"
Patterson fell silent.
He looked at his colleague, whose eyes burned with a desperate gamble, and finally just sighed softly, silently closing the reports on the table containing opposing opinions.
He knew that in the face of the logic that "we need to make up for it," so-called strategic prudence was as useless as asking a starving person to consider whether their eating manners were elegant.
"All right."
Seeing that the chorus of opposition had been swallowed up by the silent oppression, the Secretary of State straightened up with satisfaction and straightened his slightly crooked tie.
"Since we're going to fight, let's not be like those petty thieves in the CIA."
He looked at General Hughes, who was holding his breath and whose face was flushed.
"General, you've been complaining about not having enough authority. Now, I'm giving you that authority."
"Not special forces. Not agents. Not those money-grubbing exiles."
The Secretary of State held up three fingers.
"The 1st Mechanized Infantry Division, a brigade from the 82nd Airborne Division, plus units drawn from the Homeland National Guard Reserve. A total of five brigades, three division-level combat units."
"Fifty thousand people."
"This...this is at the level of total war."
The secretary taking notes next to him trembled so much that her pen poked a hole in the paper because of the alarming numbers.
"It has to be at the level of total war!"
The Secretary of State waved his hand, as if shooing away an invisible fly, or as if wielding a big stick he imagined.
"We want to confidently step onto that little hill called Maestra in front of cameras all over the world."
"We're not just going to wipe out those bandits with their lousy guns, we're going to build a base there, grow sugarcane, and mine copper!"
"We can't reach the other side of the Pacific, but it's right at our doorstep..."
He grinned maliciously.
"I don't believe that sending all of our army lads, who grew up drinking whole milk, to deal with a few guerrillas covered in lice, could possibly go wrong."
"Once the tanks get to that island, all the rumors will naturally disappear."
General Hughes jumped to his feet, his once dejected old face now glowing with a bloodthirsty red light.
He couldn't hide the sinister grin that finally seemed to be on the horizon.
"Yes, sir! Your will! I guarantee... This time, our tracks will crush every rock that dares to stand in our way, even if they speak that damn Cuban language!"
"That's settled then. Meeting adjourned."
……
Ten minutes later, in the Pentagon corridor.
The previous somber sound was replaced by hurried footsteps. Countless staff officers in military uniforms, carrying stacks of documents half a meter high, rushed down the corridor as if they were in battle.
The rapid, machine-gun-like clicking of teletype machines began to echo wildly in the communications center on the first floor.
General Hughes strode down the middle of the corridor.
His adjutant almost had to jog to keep up with his long strides, which were a result of extreme excitement.
"Send out my command, encrypted with the highest priority."
"The First Infantry Division, the 'Big Red 1st Division,' has ceased its rest and must complete its assembly in Florida within 48 hours."
"Also, notify the logistics department that those unscrupulous merchants can clear out all the old-generation canned goods piling up in the warehouse. Tell them I want as much as they have; this trip is to fleece the big spenders!"
The adjutant quickly took notes, but hesitated for a moment before asking:
“Sir, regarding intelligence support… it seems Mr. Patterson hasn’t been providing the latest satellite data…”
"Fuck Patterson!"
The general immediately swore. He stopped in front of a public telephone and shouted loudly, ignoring the stares of those around him.
"That old coffin-head is already scared out of his wits! Fifty thousand men! And three armored regiments of them! In the face of absolute power, what's the point of intelligence! We don't need to know where the rat hole is, we can just level the whole mountain, won't that solve the problem?"
He grabbed the receiver and frantically dialed the number pad, as if venting all his resentment towards the recent frustrating days onto the old telephone.
"Hey Jerry? It's me. Yeah, we're off. Enough talk, save your best bourbon for our victory celebration when we get back..."
"No, we'll drink it when we're in the presidential palace in Havana, using that country bumpkin Castro's skull as a glass!"
outside the window.
On the runway of a military airport.
The rows of transport plane engines, which had been covered by canvas and dormant for a long time, began to spew out puffs of bluish-green exhaust fumes in the twilight, starting a chilling preheating.
The huge shadow of the wing cast on the ground looked just like a flock of vultures preparing to pounce on the sheepfold.
No one mentioned the ghosts in the jungle anymore.
No one thought about the wrecked destroyers anymore.
Driven by madness and greed, the nation's war machine, once again laden with arrogance, rumbled headlong into the abyss.
This time, however, they were in a larger vehicle, so they felt it should be safer...