Chapter 154: That Time I Invested Overseas (5)

TL: Skye

San Marcos's sovereign wealth fund was officially named the UJ Fund.

Yu-jin had objected, but they insisted that naming it in honor of San Marcos’s supreme leader, Comrade Yu-jin, would boost public participation, so he reluctantly gave his approval.

In any case, the UJ Fund succeeded in absorbing most of San Marcos's private capital.

In an ordinary country, that much money being sucked out of the domestic economy would raise concerns about a recession and slowing growth, but San Marcos was an exception.

That was because dollars continued to flow in from the Northern Oilfield, Black Oil, and Tortilla Energy.

Those dollars were then released back into the private sector through the Tortilla Group, which provided countless jobs, while private businesses of all kinds grew by leaps and bounds every day.

Whether viewed in terms of production or consumption, the structure made a domestic slowdown unlikely.

From another perspective, the dollars lying dormant in bank accounts were simply being channeled into overseas investment.

With all preparations complete and nothing left to do but wait for the UJ Fund's launch, Yu-jin was meeting with Jeong Min-sik.

“So you're saying we should go in using the migrants from Tortilla Farm?”

“No matter how I look at it, I can't trust the locals. Besides, you said public security there was terrible. Who knows what they might pull at the construction sites?”

“Hmm... It doesn't sound like a bad idea...”

“Your coffee.”

“Oh, you really didn't have to.”

Isabella had arrived with coffee just then.

Seeing Min-sik grinning from ear to ear, Yu-jin sighed and said,

“Do you really think the Venezuelan government will accept that?”

The Venezuelan government was not stupid.

They had imposed the Venezuelan worker priority hiring clause to reduce unemployment and bring dollars into the country by any means possible.

But bringing back the migrants who had been sent to San Marcos and employing them?

Venezuela would gain nothing from that.

“That's why I'm saying we should offer them a carrot. International relations are all about give-and-take, aren't they?”

“A carrot? What kind of carrot?”

“How should I know? I'm not the president. How am I supposed to decide that?”

“You crazy bastard...”

As Yu-jin stared at him in disbelief, Isabella joined the conversation.

“Your Excellency, may I make a suggestion?”

“Go ahead.”

“What if we establish Tortilla Farm in Venezuela?”

Yu-jin blinked.

“Tortilla Farm?”

“Yes. We would take all of Tortilla Farm's expertise and establish large-scale farms in Venezuela. If we employed locals there, the Venezuelan government might accept our proposal. In the long run, it could also reduce the amount of food aid we provide.”

Yu-jin cupped his chin and sank into thought.

“Hmm... If we build a distribution network at the same time as we establish the farms...”

If Tortilla Foods entered the market as well, it could directly distribute the food produced on the farms. Building a distribution network would create even more jobs.

“From the standpoint of securing the market early... it's not a bad idea.”

Yu-jin nodded and looked at Isabella.

“What keen insight. That's Chief of Staff Isabella for you.”

“Not at all. I merely followed your will, Your Excellency.”

Isabella bowed her head. But beneath her lowered head, her body was trembling faintly.

‘As expected of His Excellency...’

If Tortilla Farm expanded into Venezuela, San Marcos would gain control over Venezuelan food production and distribution.

In other words, it would hold one of the most essential things to human survival in its grasp.

Isabella's heart raced.

She had made the initial proposal, but Yu-jin had instantly drawn up a vision encompassing not only the farms, but distribution and even exports.

‘He is the true conqueror.’

In Isabella's eyes, Yu-jin looked like Caesar, the great conqueror.

“Contact Senior Secretary Sophia. Tell her to take the proposal for Tortilla Farm and Tortilla Foods to enter Venezuela and renegotiate the contract.”

“Yes. I will relay your instructions immediately.”

Caracas. The Venezuelan Ministry of Construction.

Senior Secretary for Foreign Affairs Sophia once again sat across from the construction minister.

The minister looked slightly weary at seeing Sophia return when only a few days had passed since the contract was signed.

“I would like to propose a revision to the Venezuelan worker priority hiring clause in the contract.”

The minister's expression hardened.

“We intend to deploy Venezuelan workers trained in San Marcos to the construction sites.”

“Venezuelans trained in San Marcos...?”

“They are migrants who came to San Marcos. Since they have refugee status, they are still Venezuelan nationals in every legal sense. That does not violate the Venezuelan worker priority hiring clause.”

The minister furrowed his brow.

“Hmm... That runs contrary to the intent of the clause. We want to provide jobs to Venezuelan citizens living here, not bring in people who live in San Marcos.”

“Of course. That is why I brought an alternative.”

Sophia took out a tablet and showed him a photograph.

Farms stretched endlessly across a vast expanse of land. Thousands of laborers were working the fields.

It was Tortilla Farm.

“We will establish Tortilla Farm, a large-scale integrated farming operation, in Venezuela.”

The minister's eyes widened.

“Each farm will employ at least ten thousand people. Three farms would mean thirty thousand jobs. Once the distribution network is included, the number of jobs created will be enormous.”

“......”

“In the long run, the construction jobs will disappear once the projects are complete, but the jobs on the farms and in the distribution network will be nearly permanent as long as the business continues. And it goes without saying that Venezuela's food situation will improve.”

As the construction minister let out a contemplative groan, Sophia lowered her voice.

“Surely you're aware that many of your people are still rummaging through garbage cans in the streets in search of food.”

It was true. Venezuela's food situation remained dire.

“Give us your approval, and we will build the farms. We will also establish the distribution network and create jobs for you.”

The minister thought for a long while.

“...I will put the proposal to the acting president.”

“Ah, and please show her this as well when you do.”

Sophia held out another document.

“What is this?”

“We adapted the plan originally drawn up for Tortilla Farm to suit Venezuela. Acting President Telsy will probably find it quite satisfactory.”

The minister opened the document. His eyes grew wider with every page he turned.

“Th-this is...!”

“Heh heh. Do you like it?”

Sophia gave him a meaningful smile.

Sophia's proposal was sent directly to Telsy.

After reading it, Telsy was so shocked that her hair stood on end.

“To think such a method existed...!”

She thought,

‘Yu-jin Choi, just what kind of man is he?!’

When she had met him in person, he had seemed like an entirely ordinary Asian man.

There was nothing aggressive about his personality, either. In conversation, he was incomparably gentler than the macho men of Latin America.

But just look at this report.

‘Forced labor in the twenty-first century...’

Of course, Venezuelan gangs were notorious.

They committed virtually every serious crime imaginable, including drug trafficking, human trafficking, murder, and kidnapping.

If the gangs that had once existed in San Marcos were spicy ramen, these were Buldak, while Mexican gangs were nuclear Buldak. That was roughly the right comparison.

But... even so, wasn't this an idea that would make Satan himself admit defeat?!

There was even one key difference between Venezuela's version and what San Marcos had done.

‘They'll pay the farmworkers' wages to the government?’

In San Marcos, at least some pay had been deposited into bank accounts in the gang members' names or paid to their families.

But the proposal to Venezuela was to pay their wages to the government and let it distribute the money as it saw fit.

Or...

‘It could keep all of it.’

It was an offer a government desperate for every last cent would find difficult to refuse.

Like the wicked serpent tempting her to eat the apple in the Garden of Eden, the proposal ultimately seduced her.

“Ah... I have no choice but to accept this...”

Of course, she had grounds for her decision as well.

First, Venezuela was currently under martial law.

There would be no legal problem with arresting gang members in the name of public security.

Second, Venezuela desperately needed money, or more precisely, dollars.

Even with food aid from San Marcos, foreign currency earned by sending out workers, and the departure of a million refugees who had been an enormous burden, the country had already sunk as low as it could go.

Its currency had long since become worthless scraps of paper, and no one knew when government employees' salaries might fall into arrears.

To improve the situation even slightly, they had to struggle in every way imaginable. Faced with an offer that would bring in bundles of dollars, she could not help but waver.

“Tell them... we accept their terms.”

It was the moment the decision was made to build a Latin American gulag.

***

A few days later. Caracas.

Four in the morning.

The Petare district, a slum in eastern Caracas, was the most dangerous area in Venezuela.

Crude buildings made of concrete blocks densely covered the hillside, and gang markings were painted in every alley.

It was a place even the police did not dare enter. Here, the gangs were the law.

But today was different.

“All units are in position.”

A captain in the Presidential Security Service whispered into his radio. Behind him, two hundred fully armed soldiers lay concealed in the darkness.

At the same time, troops from the FAES Counter-Terrorism Special Unit and Joint Special Operations Command were tightening the cordon from all four sides of Petare.

A total of 2,800 troops had been deployed.

Twenty-four armored vehicles. Seven helicopters.

Five tanks prepared just in case.

The Presidential Security Service, Joint Special Operations Command, Bolivarian Militia, and FAES Counter-Terrorism Special Unit. Every elite force Venezuela boasted had been mobilized.

And with good reason.

During Drump's Operation Maduro, the military's defenses had been breached with humiliating ease.

In other words, it had lost face before the entire nation.

Ever since, the military leadership had been consumed by a single thought.

‘We have to prove ourselves, no matter what.’

They thought only of restoring their honor.

To that end, they gritted their teeth and worked and worked.

At last, orders came down from above.

[Arrest every gang member in Caracas. You will not be held responsible even if you kill them all.]

It was by no means an easy order.

Under ordinary circumstances, spies recruited by the gangs might have caused the entire operation to collapse.

But not this time.

This was their only chance to restore the public's lost trust in the military, so they maintained absolute secrecy and prepared flawlessly.

And now.

The operation began.

“I don't care how many die. Nor do I care how many you kill. Show them the overwhelming prowess of our military.”

Their morale was high enough. No, their bloodlust was.

“Commence the operation.”

And so, at 4:15 a.m.

Fweee~ Boom!

A flare streaked across the sky.

The Petare district lit up as bright as day.

Boom!

A tear gas shell exploded at the entrance to an alley. White smoke filled the narrow passage.

“What the hell?! What's...”

Gang members jolted awake and stumbled outside. They rubbed their eyes and tried to draw their guns, but it was already too late.

“Get down! Move and we shoot!”

FAES operators stormed building after building. With ballistic shields raised and assault rifles aimed, they charged into the gang hideouts.

Ratatat!

Of course, the gangs were no pushovers. The gangs of Caracas possessed not only military rifles, but even grenades.

Naturally, firefights erupted in the narrow alleys.

“Concentrate your fire!”

“Cover us! Team Two, flank them!”

Bang! Ratatat! Bang!

Bullets chewed through the concrete walls. Fragments flew in every direction.

A gang member sprayed AK-47 fire from a window.

Just as a stalemate began to form.

“Armored vehicle, advance!”

An armored vehicle rumbled into the alley from the far end, and its 12.7 mm heavy machine gun opened fire.

Brrrrrrt!

The window shattered, and holes were torn through the wall.

Whoever had been inside was almost certainly dead.

But.

“Move to the next block!”

The Venezuelan military advanced without the slightest hesitation.

Battles like this were raging simultaneously throughout the Petare district.

Helicopters circled overhead, illuminating escape routes with their searchlights.

Snipers positioned atop high-rise buildings fired without pause.

Fleeing gang members ran into the cordon and fell.

“Surrender and you'll live! Drop your weapons!”

Some surrendered, while others resisted to the bitter end.

And those who resisted to the end met only one fate.

“You motherfuck...”

Bang!

Death.

Even so, the soldiers did not so much as blink.

They only advanced.

And advanced again.

By the time dawn broke,

the alleys of Petare were filled with the smell of tear gas and gunpowder.

Spent casings littered the ground, the walls were riddled with bullet holes, and bloodstains covered the pavement.

A total of 1,840 gang members had been arrested. Another 747 were killed and 189 seriously wounded. The confiscated weapons filled three trucks.

But this was only the beginning.

Operations to eradicate the gangs were underway throughout Venezuela.

And at the end of that war, Tortilla Farm awaited them.

*****

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