The deal with the Air Force went smoothly. When the tankers drove into the aircraft graveyard to extract the now-valuable fuel from each plane, MacArthur glared angrily at the logistics officer behind him.
The officer looked just as aggrieved. After all, when the Air Force split from the Army, many things were left in chaos.
Had he known these piles of junk were full of such treasures, he would have scrapped them long ago.
Leo ignored the regret on both Hoyt's and the officer's faces, stepped forward, and shook Hoyt's hand.
"General, it's been a pleasure doing business."
With that, he left the site to a locally hired, low-cost engineering team. They'd handle the plane dismantling.
Leo drove back to Richmond, but he didn't go home. Instead, he headed straight to a factory on the outskirts of the city.
Months ago, Jesse had nearly ended his life here. And now, they met again in the same place.
In the middle of the empty factory sat a single table, a steaming copper hotpot on top.
"Did I prepare the meal well?"
Leo asked.
Jesse instinctively said it was good, but when he saw Leo's meaningful gaze, he instantly understood what Leo was really asking. He replied:
"I'm satisfied. You really delivered. Honestly, watching those once-revered figures and old-money families fall into your hands—it still feels surreal."
Jesse knew that his homosexuality was a card Leo held over him. He could never escape Leo's grip.
Moreover, the way James and the others abandoned Harry left Jesse with no affection for those heartless people.
So when he spoke, he was entirely sincere.
"They want me to go after O'Brien. Gave me unlimited firepower. Their goal's clear: to contain you, to make sure you don't grow so uncontrollably before the next election.
Do you need me to do anything?"
Leo shook his head and said:
"No. You're my most important partner. You not only can't help me, you must do exactly what they said—attack me with everything you've got. But remember, Jesse, my friend, I'm only going to grow faster, and so will my enemies."
As they parted, Jesse asked worriedly,
"Can Truman really win?"
"No doubt about it, my friend. As you've seen, I'm good at making miracles.
So, Jesse, please, always stay my friend.
Don't end up like Harry."
Leo formed his hand into a gun gesture and grinned as he got into the car.
He picked up the newspaper Noodles had left on the seat. The front page covered Truman's latest disarmament proposal to Congress.
It was his third submission this year. The first two had been crushed by the military and defense-industrial complex.
This time didn't look promising either.
The Washington Post ran a biting headline:
"A lame-duck president controlled by a Republican Congress, still dreaming his delusional dreams."
"Is the vote today?"
Leo asked Noodles.
Now more of a secretary than a butler, Noodles replied,
"Yes."
Leo looked out the window and murmured,
"Man proposes, God disposes."
In the Senate, after Truman's disarmament proposal speech, James turned and glanced behind him—instantly greeted by a chorus of boos.
Smug, he looked at Truman. From past experience, the Democrats would boo first, and the Republicans would soon follow suit.
One more year, Harry. Just one more year, and you're done.
James whispered to himself.
But after a few seconds, the expected boos never came. Instead, whispers spread among Republican senators.
James and his aide exchanged nervous glances—something was off.
Before his aide could even stand to investigate, the normally mellow Speaker abruptly took charge and launched the vote.
When James stepped out of Congress, not even the sun could lift the cloud over his heart.
Something had gone terribly wrong on the Republican side. Two-thirds of Republican senators had voted in favor of the proposal.
Combined with the Democratic support from Truman, Marshall, and Thomas, the disarmament bill had passed.
Four million soldiers going home—James didn't care.
What terrified him was what the bill's passing represented.
At that moment, his aide ran up, sweating profusely.
"Sir, they won't answer their phones."
James closed his eyes. The military-industrial complex his father had built… was now turning on its master.
But what his aide said next made him collapse on the Capitol's white marble steps:
"Sir, Eisenhower just announced in the paper:
He's dropping out of the presidential race."
In New York, inside the Cotton family's conference room, everyone sat silently, waiting for today's meeting host:
Maxim MacArthur.
Bang!
The door slammed open. Maxim—bearing a 70% resemblance to Douglas MacArthur—strode in and sat at the head seat like a king.
He glanced around the room, only nodding at Harold in respect, then asked impatiently:
"Where's James?"
"He's seriously ill. Couldn't come,"
replied Oswald.
"Gentlemen, I've consulted with Douglas. He said if you can stop the disarmament bill, you'll get what you want in the Far East."
Everyone exchanged looks, their eyes landing first on Harold.
The old man coughed and said,
"Why are you all looking at me? The Cotton family's in decline. Even the Seventh-day Adventists in Virginia are growing restless.
We need to preserve what little we have."
They turned to Walter next. Walter shrugged:
"We have zero say in the military. You all know that better than anyone."
Maxim scoffed and said,
"Then you'll lose your chance at Far East profits."
With that, he stormed out of the room.
"In last year's midterms, Republicans took both houses.
The Senate passed it. The House will too.
It's over. That kid won again. He's somehow tied the military to his chariot,"
Walter said.
For Jewish capital, this was their dream come true—and Leo had made it look easy.
Walter didn't seem too bothered. After all, he wasn't deeply invested.
Instead, he glanced at the others with smug satisfaction. Far from losing, they had just become his profits.
Gavin was done. Without Citibank's support, the Chicago syndicate was collapsing.
Then Walter turned to Harold:
"Mr. Cotton, have you considered my offer?
Believe me, we're offering far more than Rockefeller."
Before Oswald could protest, Harold said:
"Name your price."
"Father!"
Oswald was stunned. His own father was going to sell all of the Cotton family's assets to the Jews?
"A wise choice. I know Rockefeller offered 130 million.
I speak for Mr. Weil and Mr. Samuel—we're offering 180 million."
"Two hundred million,"
Harold said calmly.
Walter shook his head:
"For that, you'd need to hand over the Central American corridor controlled by the Cotton family.
Otherwise, you and I both know—it's not worth that much anymore."
"Deal,"
Harold said.
"Oh, one more thing. Mr. Weil also wants your castle. At its original purchase price.
That's a non-negotiable condition."
That was it for Oswald.
Fifty-year-old market price? A blatant insult to the Cotton family.
He lunged at Walter, grabbing his collar.
Walter didn't flinch. Coldly, he said:
"Think carefully, Oswald.
We know full well the South and West have slipped from your control.
Even Virginia—the cradle of your family—is barely holding on.
This is your last chance to exit gracefully.
You hit me? Fine. But next time, it won't be me—it'll be scavengers."
"Let him go,"
Harold called out.
He looked ten years older in an instant.
With a sigh, he said:
"I agree."
After everyone left, Harold turned to his son:
"Start packing, son. We're buying a ship. Heading to Brazil.
The Cotton family will rise again there."
Ashamed, Oswald whispered:
"I'm sorry, Father. I failed you.
Didn't you say that if Truman lost the election, we could defeat that damn brat and restore our legacy?"
Harold waved his hand:
"If he had failed this time, maybe we could've waited.
But now, he's shown real power—enough to sway national policy.
People will start reevaluating the risk of opposing him.
He's becoming the true ruler of this country.
And we've gone from rulers… to prey.
We can't wait any longer.
Send the Knights first. We'll need protection in Brazil."
"And what will we do in Brazil, Father?"
Oswald asked.
Harold's eyes lit up:
"Shipping—and narcotics."
Just then, the butler entered.
"Sir, someone wants to buy our old mansion in Richmond's Fan District."
"Who?"
Oswald asked.
The butler hesitated:
"Leo Valentino. He's offering 20% above market price."
Oswald's veins popped in rage. But seeing his father's closed eyes—his silent goodbye to America—he gritted his teeth:
"Sell it."
In Chicago, at a defense contractor meeting, Maxim was passionately warning everyone of the financial disaster of disarmament.
"No soldiers—who needs guns? No guns—how do we make money?
Wake up, you idiots! Only by uniting can we keep this world as our personal ATM!"
The small manufacturers cheered wildly.
But the big companies—the ones Maxim really wanted—just murmured quietly among themselves.
One aircraft executive whispered to a shipbuilder:
"I'm sick of these meetings with crude factory owners.
They earn a few bucks per soldier. Me? A pilot needs a plane worth hundreds of thousands.
And your profits? Millions per head!"
The shipbuilder nodded:
"Exactly. And we're the ones paying those soldiers' welfare.
That's a cost.
And who does Maxim think he is? Even Roosevelt wouldn't speak to us like that."
In the end, the meeting—Maxim's last hope—produced no agreement.
Days later, in Japan.
Douglas MacArthur was reviewing plans to reshape Japan.
Pipe in mouth, he waved at a map, speaking with fervor.
Then his aide burst in.
MacArthur immediately stopped. He'd ordered his aide to monitor the House vote.
"Sir, the vote's in. The disarmament bill passed.
Truman just signed it into law."
Crack!
His pipe shattered on the floor.
He looked out the window, his gaze trying to pierce the Pacific toward America.
In a chilling tone, he said:
"Gentlemen… the Rainbow Division disaster has repeated.
While I strive for America's hundred-year glory,
I am once again betrayed.
Marshall—damn him! And that Missouri ox, Truman!
Perhaps it's time… I consider running for president myself.
I've had enough of morons ruining my plans."
He stormed out, trembling with rage.
Back in his room, MacArthur grabbed the phone and called Maxim:
"Activate the team in the Philippines.
I want that Virginia cockroach who insulted the great MacArthur name—dead!"
In a Chicago suburb, Austin, now forced into retirement, listlessly tended his garden.
He looked well-kept, but he knew his life was in ruins.
Gavin, in full miser mode, not only refused him a proper severance,
but sued him for company losses—wiping out his last savings.
He even forced Austin to sign an unbearable non-compete clause.
Without money, Austin's gold-digging wife had naturally left him, taking their child.
Now, he even struggled to pay alimony.
Then he heard a car engine.
A familiar Bentley pulled up.
The driver opened the door. A familiar face stepped out.
"Mocking me won't give you much satisfaction anymore.
Congrats—you win again. You always win,"
Austin said.
Leo replied calmly:
"You're right. You're not even worth mocking now.
As for winning—can't help it. Just lucky.
But I'm here for business, not revenge.
Austin, I sincerely invite you to join Valentino Real Estate.
I want you to develop the Northeastern states you once built up for Tishman.
You'll get your own subsidiary—with equity.
I'm not Gavin."
"I signed a non-compete,"
Austin said.
Leo laughed:
"Don't worry about that scrap of paper.
Right now, the entire U.S. real estate industry listens to me.
If I say you're hired—you're hired."