Chapter 876: – Planes

“Planes!”

Mr. Truman’s voice cut through the crowded conference room like a blade. He jabbed his finger forcefully on the table, and the sound seemed to hit everyone in the chest with an invisible force.

He repeated, “Lynch’s planes!”

Then he began explaining. “Previously, a manager from Blackstone Security—codename ‘Sergeant’—told me that if they ever ran into trouble, they could reach out to me for help. At the time, I didn’t understand what I could possibly do for them.”

“But just now, when the President said we couldn’t conduct effective searches at sea, it suddenly hit me.”

“Planes!”

The President was a bit surprised—so he had actually played a key role? He’d unintentionally reminded Truman what to do! Instantly, he felt that Truman was someone truly reliable, trustworthy, capable… just a good man, all around.

“I won’t waste time explaining whether our planet is round or flat—planes give us the altitude to see a far wider area. And the technology is already mature.”

“I’ve heard that with additional fuel tanks, they can fly nearly a thousand kilometers—more than enough to send back valuable intel.”

“And they’re faster. No need to worry about reefs or currents slowing them down. Planes weren’t just developed to detect submarines—they were made for reconnaissance in all environments!”

The President’s hands, still resting behind Truman’s shoulders, clenched into fists. Hell yes, they might actually get through this. Amazing.

Of course, outwardly, he kept his composure, just nodding in that wise, elder-statesman manner he liked to project—though “wise” wasn’t exactly accurate.

With the crisis—at least potentially—under control, the President’s theatrical instincts resurfaced.

He slipped in smoothly between Truman’s words, asserting his presence: “Then what we need to do now is…”

Truman, knowing the President all too well—he wouldn’t be a trusted advisor otherwise—immediately handed him the cue he wanted. “We should head to Lynch’s research facility now and see if the planes are ready.”

The President nodded in quiet satisfaction, playing the role, “Then what are we waiting for, ladies and gentlemen?”

A ship full of tycoons had vanished. Some people were watching the tycoons, some were watching the police or the military, and others—were watching the President.

So when he and a swarm of presidential staff walked out together, those observers instinctively followed.

Soon, they arrived at the research facility on the outskirts of Eminence, near the restricted zone.

The chief engineer had been waiting for a while. If not for the President’s aide calling him, he wouldn’t even have known that Mr. Lynch had vanished along with a ship.

He now understood why they had come.

“We’ve met before,” said the President with a serious expression as he shook the engineer’s hand. Reporters were nearby, so he couldn’t afford to seem relaxed. That would be bad press.

He acted as if his long-dead father had just crawled out of the grave and boarded that missing ship too. “Let’s skip the meaningless pleasantries. Are the planes ready?”

The engineer, tense, nodded and led the group around the back of the facility.

Behind the research center was the factory, already in operation.

In truth, the main difficulty in aircraft production now was the engine—not the body.

As long as there was enough aluminum, full-alloy fuselages could be cast and shaped with molds. Even if the edges were a bit rough, it didn’t matter.

Hell, planes covered in leather over wooden frames had flown—these aluminum aircraft were practically perfect.

The true technical challenge was the engine. So far, while tuning the production line and running tests, they had completed six aircraft. Including the original two prototypes, there were eight in total.

“Too few!” the President said, clearly disappointed. “Can’t we speed up production?”

If this had been the Emperor of Gephra questioning his merchants, they’d bankrupt themselves or borrow money just to fulfill the order.

But this was the Federation—things worked differently.

The chief engineer played it smart. “We’re out of money.”

The President paused, turned to Truman—at this point, he only trusted this man.

Truman gave a light cough. “Congress is still reviewing the budget, so no funds have been approved yet…”

That explained everything.

No money? Then how the hell are we supposed to build anything?

“Bureaucracy!” the President growled through gritted teeth, making sure reporters nearby caught it. They just saw a headline. But Truman knew the subtext.

On one hand, the President was shifting the blame—if the planes don’t fly, it’s not his fault, it’s Congress’ for withholding funds.

On the other, he was laying the groundwork for future political negotiations—Look at the mess you caused last time. I let it go. Now it’s your turn to repay the favor.

Some people are just born for this role.

Then, facing the cameras but speaking directly to Truman, he said, “As President, I believe I have the authority to push through certain budget proposals under special circumstances, correct?”

Truman nodded.

“Then call them now and release the funds. I want more planes in the Western Ocean—fast!”

What a responsible president—so noble, so selfless.

The chief engineer beamed from ear to ear. In truth, this was his own idea. It wasn’t like Lynch couldn’t afford this—he just didn’t want Congress to withhold the budget, which would mean no profit-sharing for the factory.

If Lynch built and took the planes himself, it wouldn’t count as a sale, and there’d be no dividends. You always had to watch out when dealing with capitalists.

With the funding secured, the chief engineer immediately promised to go all out on engine production.

Under everyone’s gaze, eight aircraft were lined up on the runway.

Only…

“Could something go wrong?” the President asked, watching several workers still adjusting the landing gear on one of the planes. He was suddenly uneasy.

Mr. Truman reassured him, “Don’t worry. They’re not going to risk their lives just to joke with us.”

Under the watchful eyes of the media and cameras, the eight planes took off one after another, to the astonishment of the onlookers, and quickly headed for the west coast.

“Gentlemen, in just four hours, our planes will arrive at the military base on the west coast and begin the search for the missing ship.”

“If it hasn’t sunk, we’ll definitely find signs of it…”

A swarm of reporters rushed forward, realizing these planes could change the global balance of power.

Planes were no longer suicide machines that could only take off but not land—they were about to conquer the skies.

Meanwhile, Lynch—whom the chief engineer feared might have sunk with the cruise ship—was watching an incident unfold not far away.

Not everyone can stay calm when they know they’re in serious trouble. This wasn’t the right moment to come forward and expose everything.

Like now—a young man in his early twenties, with a baby face flushed red, stood on the second deck, loudly confronting the first mate.

He couldn’t stand the oppressive atmosphere on board any longer and decided to speak out. First, he demanded to see the captain, then insisted the captain come to the second deck.

Impossible.

With the ship in its current state, what if there was an assassin?

The captain hadn’t appeared publicly for days to avoid just that. It might sound paranoid, but it was actually smart.

Assassinating the captain would be highly profitable.

The captain had sent the first mate to handle the situation, but the young man snapped and blurted out everything he suspected. He demanded the ship dock immediately and let them off.

Stupid.

The older passengers hadn’t said a word—not out of fear, but because they knew how foolish that would be.

First, docking was unrealistic. Even if the captain agreed, which direction would they go?

The captain could only estimate their location roughly on the chart. He couldn’t even be sure he was right. Navigational instruments had been abandoned—they were using only a compass.

God knows whether the instruments had been tampered with by people secretly onboard.

Second, yes, the atmosphere was suffocating. If someone jumped out to make a scene, they’d just become a target for everyone’s pent-up frustration.

Watching the idiot scream at the first mate, even slap him, Lynch knew the guy was finished. 𝘧𝓇ℯℯ𝑤ℯ𝘣𝓃ℴ

The captain wouldn’t dare offend all the tycoons at once—but if hurting one could ease the tension for the others, it was worth it.

The first mate didn’t hesitate. He kicked the young man hard in the stomach, sending him flying into the wall before he crashed to the ground.

The man clutched his belly, pale and in pain, but the first mate just walked up and started kicking him in the head. The guy curled up on the floor, covering his head and sobbing, promising he’d never do it again.

The crew dragged him off—not back to his room, but down to the third or even fourth deck.

Soon after, Lynch’s personal manager appeared outside his cabin.