Lynn closed the last financial statement and tossed it onto the velvet-covered sofa.
On the report, the total sales of war bonds brought in by the "Captain America National Tour" were an astronomical figure sufficient to make any tycoon's heart race.
It even exceeded the total Military orders of Hammer Industries for a quarter last year.
At the very end of the report.
The expenditure column for "Publicity and Event Expenses" was also a staggering number.
This money, having passed through layers of hands and inflated reporting, was disguised as stage construction fees, media PR fees, and logistics support fees.
Eventually, it trickled like tiny streams into dozens of anonymous accounts he had opened in Switzerland.
It was smooth.
But the efficiency was too low, and the methods were not clean.
This money carried the stench of blood and copper; every cent was linked to some greedy officer or politician.
War is the biggest business in the World.
Lynn now held the two hottest "products" in this business—Soldier Boy and Captain America.
But he needed a more stable, more legal commercial entity.
A white glove that could wash this bloody black money until it was cleaner than God's robe.
A... future Vought International.
One week later.
Bern, Switzerland.
A German-Jewish man named "Jacob Rosenberg" signed the registration documents for Vanguard holding company at a law firm.
All the data for this Mr. Rosenberg was flawless.
It was a masterpiece that Lynn had personally selected from thousands of war refugee death files over three days.
He was born into a wealthy watchmaker family in Berlin.
After "Kristallnacht," he drifted into exile; his family members all died in Nazi atrocities, and only he escaped with the family's last assets.
A perfect, sympathetic image of a war victim.
No one knew that the real Jacob Rosenberg had died of illness on the road to escape two years ago in a refugee camp unknown to anyone.
His identity, along with his tragic past, had been unearthed by Lynn from the piles of old papers.
It became his most perfect disguise.
The day Vanguard was established, it began its low-key yet rapid expansion.
Using "legal" funds from Swiss banks, it crossed the Atlantic Ocean.
It acquired several small companies in the United States that were on the verge of bankruptcy due to the war.
A pharmaceutical factory located in New Jersey.
A mechanical workshop in Detroit that provided screw parts for the three major car manufacturers.
And a transport company with a dozen broken trucks.
These inconspicuous assets, which looked like garbage in the eyes of Wall Street giants, were key pieces on Lynn's chessboard, falling toward the future.
The pharmaceutical factory would provide a hotbed for future serum research.
The mechanical company had already set its sights on the leftovers outsourced by Howard Stark's vast industrial empire.
And the transport company, thanks to Lynn's connections in the Military, would soon be able to take the biggest slice of the pie in the river of gold that was material transport.
The nerve endings of a vast commercial empire were quietly spreading in corners that no one noticed.
...
"Mr. Morris, you also have research on penicillin?"
In the drug research and development department of the Strategic Scientific Reserve, Professor Fleming, with graying hair, looked at the young "consultant" before him with some surprise.
Lynn's current status was that of someone representing the Military to inspect the production progress of "important strategic materials."
And penicillin, this magical drug known as "God's gift," was undoubtedly a strategic material more important than bullets and shells.
It was just that the output was simply too low.
The existing "surface culture method" was like growing vegetables in one's own backyard.
The yield depended entirely on the weather and luck.
It could not meet the bottomless demand from the front lines at all.
"It's not research, Professor."
Lynn wore a humble smile on his face and pointed to the thin layer of greenish-blue mold in the petri dish.
"I was just thinking, are we being too gentle?"
"Gentle?"
Professor Fleming adjusted his glasses, his face full of confusion.
"Mr. Morris, the cultivation of microorganisms is a precise science. Any slight change in the environment could lead to the death of the strain. We must provide it with the most perfect environment."
"We keep it on a plate, giving it the best environment, afraid that it might die."
"But what if... we throw it into a deeper, harsher environment and force it to breed crazily for survival?"
He picked up a pencil and drew a crude cylinder on a piece of scratch paper.
"For example, a fermentation tank. We pour the culture medium in, then pump sterile air in from the bottom, letting the liquid in the whole tank churn."
"This way, the mold won't just grow on the surface, but will fight and breed in the entire three-dimensional space!"
This "deep-tank fermentation" method, which seemed like common sense to chemical engineering students in later generations, was nothing short of a thunderclap to Professor Fleming!
He stared fixedly at the sketch, a fanatical light bursting in his eyes.
"And..."
Lynn suddenly remembered something and added: "I heard that corn steep liquor is cheap and nutritious. If we use it to replace the expensive beef broth culture medium, could the cost be..."
He didn't continue.
Because Professor Fleming had already rushed toward his laboratory like a gust of wind.
He even knocked over a row of test tubes as he turned.
He was muttering "deep fermentation," "corn steep liquor," and "My God" over and over again.
Lynn watched his back and tossed the paper with the sketch into the trash can.
He didn't need to go down in history; he only needed the patent rights.
Half a month later.
The output of penicillin increased hundreds of times in an explosive manner!
The entire Allied Forces high command was shaken by it!
In his report, Professor Fleming attributed this historic breakthrough to "a genius concept inadvertently proposed by a young consultant who wishes to remain anonymous."
Everyone knew who this "young consultant" was.
Lynn Morris.
The discoverer of Captain America, a close friend of Dr. Erskine, and now a genius who had saved the lives of countless soldiers.
His reputation was unmatched for a time.
As the proposer of the "key suggestion."
Lynn's Vanguard pharmaceutical company, located in New Jersey and having just completed equipment upgrades, logically obtained part of the civilian production authorization granted by the Military.
This was a signal.
A signal tacitly approved by the Military high command to win over and reward this "God of Wealth."
Lynn's pharmaceutical factory was running at full capacity.
An endless stream of cheap penicillin was sent to the front lines, winning him the reputation of a "patriotic businessman."
Only he knew the truth.
For every ten boxes of medicine produced, seven were secretly labeled with other tags and transported to his secret warehouses scattered across the country to be hoarded.
Late at night.
Lynn stood in the underground warehouse, where rows of wooden crates were piled up like mountains.
The war would eventually end.
By then, these inconspicuous boxes of medicine would be more expensive than gold and more tempting than power.
It could save lives.
Of course, it could also decide who should die and who could live.
Lynn casually picked up a packaged penicillin injection; the glass tube touched his fingertips.
This thing could save people.
But what he saw was that it was clearly marked with a price for everyone who needed it.
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