The hot, humid air of a New York summer pressed down on Wall Street. It was August 1914, but the city had been on edge for over a month. The headlines of the New York Times screamed of an assassination in a place most Americans had never heard of—Sarajevo—and the subsequent tangle of ultimatums and troop mobilizations across Europe. For the titans of finance, this was a moment of supreme peril. The world's interconnected financial markets were on the brink of collapse, and a single panicked withdrawal could bring the entire system down.
In the mahogany-paneled stillness of the Hemsworth family's private office, there was no panic. Damon, now a lanky, formidable sixteen-year-old, sat calmly at his father's immense desk, a map of Europe spread out before him. Pins of different colors marked troop movements and naval fleets. He was not reacting to a crisis; he was observing the final, agonizing minutes of a disaster he had been preparing for for over half a decade.
Arthur Hemsworth paced the room, a cigar unlit in his hand. "The European exchanges are shuttering. The London Stock Exchange has closed. Our correspondent banks are calling in every cent of capital. The telegraph lines are burning up with frantic pleas from Paris, Berlin, and London. They need liquidity, Damon. They are begging for it."
"Let them beg, Father," Damon replied, not looking up from the map. "They made their bets. We made ours. Our bank holds a greater reserve of gold and cash than any other institution in this city, with the exception of Morgan himself. We liquidated every volatile position months ago. Let the weak burn themselves out."
The news came on August 4th, transmitted in a single, breathless telex. Great Britain had declared war on Germany. The world was officially at war.
Wall Street descended into pandemonium. Brokers ran through the streets, tearing their hair. The New York Stock Exchange, seeing the catastrophe in Europe, announced it would close its doors to prevent a total crash. For the first time in his life, Arthur Hemsworth was not consumed by fear; he was filled with a cold, electrifying sense of purpose. Damon had given him a shield against the coming storm. Now, he was about to use his son's plan to go on the offensive.
"The loans, Father," Damon commanded, his voice a quiet steel that cut through the hysteria of the city outside. "They will be coming to us, hat in hand. Our conditions are non-negotiable."
Within twenty-four hours, the desperate calls began. The French Ambassador, the British military attaché, the Belgian government-in-exile—they all sought massive loans to finance their war efforts. Arthur, his hand steady, laid out Damon's terms: a staggering interest rate, but also something more valuable—collateral in the form of future industrial contracts and resource concessions.
"We require a contract to supply your entire military with Thorne vehicles for the duration of the conflict, as well as a controlling interest in your steel production facilities, at a pre-war price," Arthur told the British attaché, as though he were merely discussing a routine business deal.
For the French, it was an exclusive long-term contract for oil from Apex Fuels and a controlling interest in a state-owned railway line. For the Belgians, it was the rights to their immense copper and rubber resources in the Congo once the war was over. The price for victory was a permanent lien on their national assets. In their desperation, they all agreed. The Hemsworth Conglomerate was not just a bank; it was now the silent financier of the Allied war effort.
While Arthur handled the grand chess game of international finance, Damon orchestrated the pivot of his industrial empire with the ruthless efficiency of a military commander.
A telegram was sent to William Thorne in Detroit: ALL CIVILIAN PRODUCTION HALTED. RETOOL FOR MILITARY VEHICLES. FOCUS ON DURABLE TRUCKS AND ARMORED CARS. EXPANSION FUNDING APPROVED FOR IMMEDIATE CONSTRUCTION OF TWO NEW FACTORIES. The Thorne Model T assembly line, designed for speed and simplicity, was perfectly suited for a rapid shift to mass-producing military vehicles. The profits would be immense, and the new factories would be paid for by the U.S. government when it inevitably entered the war.
At Apex Fuels, a coded instruction was sent to Dr. Elias: ACCELERATE ALL PETROCHEMICAL R&D. SECURE LONG-TERM MIDDLE EASTERN SUPPLY CONTRACTS. ALL SURPLUS PRODUCTION TO BE HELD FOR ALLIED CONTRACTS. Damon knew that the war would be fought not just with bullets, but with fuel, lubricants, and chemicals. The Conglomerate, already a master of the oil supply chain, would be indispensable.
The two newest pillars, Airlines and Semiconductors, were given their first true test.
"Father, contact Samuel Vance immediately," Damon instructed. "Offer our entire fleet of Vance Air Transport's modified biplanes to the military for reconnaissance and transport. Offer our pilots and mechanics as well, on the condition that we are a preferred government contractor for all future aircraft. And tell him to start building bombers. The contract for military mail and military transport will be the most valuable one in the world." Vance Air Transport, a laughingstock just a year prior, was now in the unique position of having a fleet of operational aircraft and a team of experienced pilots at a time when the military desperately needed them. The war was the proving ground that would legitimize air power, and the Hemsworths would be at the forefront.
Even more critical was the work at Hemsworth Labs. Damon visited the New Jersey lab himself, a rare trip away from Wall Street. He found Dr. Elias in a cluttered room, surrounded by humming vacuum tubes and buzzing wires.
"Dr. Elias," Damon said, cutting to the chase. "We are going to war. The military needs reliable, encrypted communication. Your work with crystal diodes and radio transmission is a primitive foundation. I am giving you a new mandate. Focus on military radio communications. The government will fund all of your research. In return, the patents, all of them, will be owned by the Hemsworth Conglomerate. This is your opportunity to move your science from the theoretical to the practical. The nation's defense will be built on our intellectual property."
Dr. Elias, his eyes wide, understood the gravity of the offer. It was a chance to turn his decades of obscure research into something of national importance, all with unlimited funding and no commercial pressure. He agreed without a moment's hesitation. The war, a terrible human tragedy, was the single greatest catalyst Damon could have hoped for to accelerate the development of the Semiconductor pillar.
As the months passed, the Hemsworth Conglomerate's profits soared. Arthur was now a figure of immense power, a shadow to J.P. Morgan's last, fading light. He was revered as a patriot for financing the Allied cause, while in reality, he was a cold, calculating general in a war of capital. The moral cost, however, was becoming a heavy burden.
One evening, Arthur slumped into his leather chair in his study, exhausted. "We are making a fortune, Damon. More than we could ever spend. Our profits from these past six months alone are greater than the last decade. But… it is all built on the bones of men in a muddy trench in France. Is this what it means to build an empire? To profit from human misery?"
Damon looked at his father, his face impassive. "Father, this empire is a fortress. A fortress does not choose the weather, it prepares for it. The weather is war. The wealth we accumulate now is not just for us. It will be used to rebuild, to innovate, and to secure our dynasty for the generations to come. The men dying on that battlefield are not just fighting for their nations; they are, however unknowingly, building the world that we will command."
Damon placed a reassuring hand on his father's shoulder, a chillingly adult gesture from a boy. "We are not the monsters, Father. We are simply the ones who see the storm coming and build the ark before the flood. And when the floodwaters recede, we will be the ones to inherit the earth."