Chapter 904: Routine

“Investigate. Leave no one out!”

The Chairman of the National Security Committee paced back and forth. Shards of glass still littered the floor, and his military boots crushed them underfoot without pause.

Military boots were designed to counter dirty tricks—like rusted nail meshes buried under loose soil. During the war, one such tactic had forced Gephra’s landing troops to retreat immediately.

That incident also led to the discovery of a terrifying, incurable disease: Rust Plague.

When rusted metal pierced the body, it sometimes left behind a deadly bacterium. It didn’t take long to manifest, and once it did, it was fatal.

So far, not even the Federation’s medical conglomerates had found a cure—or even a way to delay death.

The only effective response was to immediately cut open and disinfect the wound.

To prevent such incidents, protective boots became standard issue in military procurement—steel-plated soles and fronts.

Kicking a wall in them could leave a dent. Glass shards meant nothing.

With a sickening crunch of glass beneath his feet, the chairman stopped in front of the officials.

“I demand a full-scale purge across the entire Federation. All of you, get out of your offices and into the field. Find those damn spies!”

“We can’t tolerate this kind of humiliation. This is a direct disgrace to your careers—you let a Gephran spy sail back home with critical intel!”

“You’ll pay for your incompetence. I expect that after this operation, there won’t be another leak for a long time.”

“This operation’s codename…”

“…will be Thunderstorm.”

In the morning, Lynch got out of bed. Not long after, he received a call from Mr. Truman.

“The aircraft intel’s been leaked,” Truman said, clearly frustrated. No one had expected this.

The most absurd part was that the leak came from a senator. The Security Committee, Military Intelligence Bureau, and Ministry of the Interior all assessed the situation and concluded it wasn’t a targeted espionage operation.

Most likely, a Gephran spy stumbled across the intel during routine collection.

Even so, both the Security Committee and Ministry of the Interior launched another round of purges. It had been two years since the last one.

Now the domestic intelligence landscape was about to turn brutal. This would become one of the most mystery-riddled periods in Federal history.

Soon, news would flood the media to distract the public—stories like alien sightings, for example.

Only that kind of nonsense could convince people their neighbor’s sudden disappearance wasn’t the government’s doing, but aliens abducting them.

“I have a general idea of what happened. Anything I need to watch out for?” Lynch asked calmly, without surprise or concern—almost as if he’d anticipated it.

Truman sighed. He, too, had known the aircraft project couldn’t stay hidden forever—it had to go through military budget approval.

And Congress was a sieve. Nothing stayed secret. Whether domestic or foreign actors, they’d all get wind of it.

Once enemy agents spotted the budget line item, they’d trace it to the project sooner or later.

Still… no one expected the leak to happen this fast. Just a few days in.

“To avoid anyone harassing you, the Security Committee has raised your and the institute’s security clearance, so…”

“We’ll assign two agents to accompany you. They won’t interfere with your daily work or life.”

“Also, you should start planning the institute’s future development. Now that the information is out, it’s very likely more spies will try to infiltrate.”

After obtaining the intel, Gephra’s Ministry of Defense held an emergency meeting with the President. The President was shocked by how fast the leak occurred—and then proposed another possibility.

If the secret couldn’t be kept… why not just make it public?

It would show the Federation’s commitment to world peace.

Look, we’re willingly revealing our advanced weapons—shouldn’t others do the same?

Maybe they could even send a delegation abroad for military exchanges, and see if there was anything worth learning.

This unexpected proposal received the President’s tentative approval—nothing finalized yet, but he was open to it.

Since the core aircraft technologies were in Lynch’s hands, his cooperation was essential.

As with past and present arms races, mixing truth and lies was the best way to drag others into the quagmire.

If it was all fake, no one would buy it. Experts could tell.

If it was all real, then you’d be the idiot.

Lynch was exceptionally skilled in this area. With his help, the outcome would be much better.

“No problem. I’ll handle it quickly. Also…” he paused, “when assigning agents, make sure at least one is female. You know… sometimes it’s inconvenient having only men around.”

Lynch’s private life was a mystery. The public was obsessed with it.

A Gephran princess, the heiress of a federal financial group, a rising starlet, a White House intern dubbed the “people’s flower”…

Everyone loved seeing Lynch’s name in the headlines. He was handsome, charming, witty—and unlike traditional politicians or capitalists, he didn’t pretend to be perfect.

He didn’t wear rigid suits or slick his hair back. He didn’t check time with a pocket watch.

He cursed on live media. He vented emotions openly.

He never hid his preferences—he enjoyed being around beautiful women and always kept his distance from unattractive ones. He never pretended to approach anyone out of ulterior motives.

Authenticity was the label society gave Lynch, and that alone made people like him. In a world full of pretense and lies, something real always stood out.

It’s just that… sometimes, certain situations really weren’t suitable for men to be present.

“I’ll try to arrange that. Also, the budget’s been approved. Call the Ministry of Defense later and give them your account information.”

“When will the funds arrive, and how much?” Lynch asked. Money was always a good thing—especially since he’d just burned through tens of millions. Publicly, he claimed it was over a hundred million to stabilize the stock price.

He didn’t have much liquid cash at the moment, and this money would help relieve that pressure.

“The first batch will be around fifteen million. The rest will be transferred gradually, in three to five installments…”

The Federation wasn’t stupid, and neither was the Ministry of Defense. They’d never release the full amount to contractors all at once. Every budget was issued in stages.

The initial payment was usually 5% to 15% of the total. If the Ministry saw results, they’d continue funding according to the plan.

There had been people who scammed the Ministry this way—using sunk costs to keep the funds flowing. Eventually, the unlucky one at the center of it took a bullet to the head.

Shortly after the call ended, two stunning female agents arrived outside Lynch’s house.

He couldn’t help but wonder if Truman had anticipated his “preferences” and arranged this in advance.

After a brief introduction and job briefing, Lynch forwarded his account information to the Ministry of Defense, then drove out to the research facility in the suburbs.

The research center looked very different now. About a kilometer from the site, Lynch noticed workers on both sides of the road installing barbed wire.

He hadn’t ordered it. As far as he remembered, the land didn’t even belong to him yet.

Buying or developing land in the Federation wasn’t easy.

Unclaimed land outside urban planning zones could be claimed by whoever developed it—hence the many large landowners in remote regions.

Mechanized farming made it possible to quickly acquire huge tracts of land, but not everyone was suited to it.

Depending on local laws, land development came with a cost.

For every certain amount of land claimed, you were required to provide between two to two hundred jobs. In short, land ownership came with the obligation to create employment.

Eminence was the most desirable area in the Federation, and the “cost” here was steep. Even Lynch was cautious when buying land to build his factory.

Some people had tried to snap up land ahead of Eminence’s urban expansion to get rich, but they were ultimately crushed—by payroll alone.

The minimum wage in Eminence was nearly 287 Sol. Actual pay ranged from 350 to 450 for low-tier jobs.

If the city assigned Lynch 500 workers, even at 400 per person, adding insurance, benefits, and meals, each worker would cost about 600 a month.

That’s 300,000 Sol in wages alone.

So while land development granted ownership, the associated costs meant few dared to take the risk.

As his car passed the construction area, Lynch looked away from the barbed wire, hoping the city would foot the bill for all this.

Not him.

There was a well-known saying in the Federation’s capitalist circles:

I can afford a million-Sol car, but I can’t afford a hundred workers.

Of course, the second half of that saying was—

Unless I can exploit them.