Chapter 7: I Need a Private Army

A day later.

A multi-billion-dollar vault stuffed with high-tech machines, medicine, and food was just a treasure chest waiting to be cracked open if you didn’t have teeth to protect it.

Julius leaned back in his leather desk chair, looking at the fresh page in his planner.

The other players had lightning fists, regeneration, and super speed. Julius was just a guy who had died of cancer a year ago. In a fistfight against an SSS-rank powerhouse, he’d fold like cheap paper.

He didn’t need to learn how to throw a punch, though. That was what modern defense contractors were for. Why throw a fireball when you can launch a radar-guided surface-to-air missile from twenty miles away?

Julius closed his planner, picked up his phone, and dialed Arthur Jacobs.

"Mr. Vance!" Jacobs answered on the very first ring, sounding as eager and breathless as ever. "How can Vanguard assist you today?"

"I need private security," Julius said simply. "Not mall cops, and not bodyguards in cheap suits. I want the most elite private military company on Earth. The ones who run black ops, guard sovereign oil fields in active war zones, and hold international arms-broker licenses."

Jacobs swallowed audibly through the receiver. "Sir... an outfit of that tier operates under strict international maritime laws. But there is one group above all others. Aegis Strategic Solutions. Their headquarters is in Geneva, but their tactical command is based out of London. They’re run by ex-special forces brass and employ thousands of battle-hardened veterans."

"Get their CEO on the line," Julius said. "Tell him I’m wiring a hundred million dollars to his account right now just to take a twenty-minute meeting."

"Right away, Mr. Vance!"

Two hours later, a secure encrypted video feed connected on Julius’s desk monitor.

The man staring back at him was in his late fifties, with a buzz cut of iron-grey hair, broad shoulders, and a jagged scar trailing down his left temple. He wore a crisp dark polo shirt. His name was Colonel Thomas Mercer—no relation, just another quirk of the world’s database—and he looked like he hadn’t smiled since 1995.

"Mr. Vance," Colonel Thomas said, his voice deep and raspy. "Your broker wired a rather obscene retainer to my firm. Usually, people who pay that kind of money want to overthrow a small country."

"I don’t care about overthrowing countries," Julius said, leaning forward and resting his elbows on the desk. "I own St. Jude’s Spire in the North Atlantic. Eighteen square kilometers of sovereign volcanic rock. I am turning it into the most fortified private perimeter on Earth, and I want Aegis to design, man, and command the defense."

Thomas raised a graying eyebrow. "Defend it from what? Somali pirates don’t sail the North Atlantic, and state navies aren’t going to invade an empty rock."

"Defend it from everything," Julius replied calmly. "Rogue aircraft, hypersonic missiles, stealth drones, suicide surface craft, and deep-sea boarding teams. Assume the threat level is a coordinated assault by hostile special forces, biological horrors, and unexplainable aerial anomalies."

Thomas gave a dry, humorless chuckle. "You’re talking about an integrated air defense network, coastal artillery, and anti-submarine sonar arrays. Even with our international broker permits, sovereign defense hardware isn’t cheap. A single C-RAM battery runs fifteen million dollars. A modern air-defense missile battery with phased-array radar will run you half a billion by the time you stockpile spare interceptors."

Julius didn’t blink. He reached into his pocket, pulled out the sleek black card, and tapped it against the desk.

"Colonel, let me make this very clear. You have a blank check."

The PMC commander paused, the smirk fading from his weathered face.

"I don’t care what it costs," Julius continued, his voice dead serious. "Whatever can be legally purchased under sovereign maritime defense treaties, buy it. Whatever needs backroom export waivers or third-party holding purchases, grease the wheels and get it delivered. If a piece of equipment exists to destroy an airborne or sea-borne target, I want four of them on my island."

Julius ticked the list off on his fingers:

"First: Point Defense. I want eight Phalanx C-RAM automated 20mm rotary cannon systems positioned along the high cliffs. Anything flying within three kilometers that doesn’t have an encrypted transponder code gets shredded by four thousand rounds of high-explosive tungsten per minute."

Thomas’s eyes sharpened. He was leaning in now, listening intently.

"Second: Surface-to-Air Networks. Buy two full Patriot PAC-3 battery units or the equivalent naval NASAMS suites. Radar domes on the highest volcanic peaks, integrated with early-warning thermal suites. I want an iron umbrella over this island with an eighty-mile kill radius."

"Third: Coastal and Maritime Denial. Automated remote 30mm Bushmaster chain-gun stations along the sea cliffs. Sonar buoys dropped across the perimeter waters to spot any submersibles or deep-sea divers. And sea-skimming anti-ship missile launchers tucked into disguised rock silos overlooking the harbor entrance."

"And finally: Ground Forces. I want a standing garrison of three hundred of your top tier-one operators on that island on rotational contracts. Triple their standard combat pay. Station them with night-vision systems, anti-materiel rifles, portable anti-tank missiles, combat shotguns, and heavy machine guns. If a fly lands on that rock without an invite, I want it dead in three seconds."

The office went quiet except for the quiet hum of the cooling fan inside the computer.

Colonel Thomas stared at the screen, looking at Julius as if he were looking at an apparition. In thirty years of military contracting, he had dealt with paranoid dictators, oil princes, and billionaire doomsday preppers. None of them had ever ordered an entire sovereign nation’s missile defense system in a single casual conversation.

"You’re not building a security detail, Mr. Vance," Thomas said softly, his voice full of genuine awe. "You’re building an anti-access area denial zone. That’s a three-billion-dollar shopping list."

"I’ll wire five billion to your escrow right now," Julius replied without hesitation. "Three for the equipment, two for your firm’s retainer and operations. Can you have the first C-RAM systems and two hundred operators on that island within thirty days?"

Thomas leaned back, took a deep breath, and rubbed his temples. The sheer sheer weight of the capital was crushing any doubt he had left.

"For five billion dollars liquid, Mr. Vance... I’ll have transport planes touching down on your helipads by next week. The paperwork will be signed off by four defense ministries before sundown."

"Good," Julius said. "I’ll see you on the island, Colonel."

Julius ended the call.

He opened his banking app on his phone, punched in the wire transfer to Aegis Strategic Solutions, and watched the gold border flash once: [TRANS-ID: #1084920 - $5,000,000,000.00 APPROVED].

He picked up his fountain pen, turned to his planner, and wrote beneath the security tab:

C-RAM Point Defense: Ordered.

Medium/Long-Range SAM Network: Ordered.

Coastal Anti-Ship Silos: Ordered.

300 Elite Operators: Deployed.