Mercenary I am the king

Chapter 1410 Imperial Bureaucrats
As the arms roll call at Camp Taji came to an end, the setting sun was turning the Iligo Desert blood red.

Song Heping stood on the watchtower in the warehouse area, looking at the military base that stretched for several square kilometers in front of him.

Hundreds of containers were neatly arranged, and in the distance, the hangar doors were half-open, revealing the outlines of armored vehicles.

The wind blows across the desert, stirring up sand and dust that patters against the corrugated steel sheet.

"Old squad leader, the list has been checked."

Jiang Feng climbed up, holding a tablet computer in his hand, his expression a mixture of exhaustion and shock.

"The small arms alone are more than three times the total amount we've handled in the past five years."

Song Heping took the tablet and swiped his finger across the screen.

The data gleamed coldly in the dim twilight.

He used to think he was a big shot.

He had sold AK-47s in Africa, dealt in Soviet assets in Eastern Europe, and established his own arms sales network in the Middle East.

He can close deals worth tens of millions of dollars with a few words, and the leaders of armed factions from various countries have to address him respectfully as "Mr. Song".

But today, standing before the sea of ​​munitions left behind by the US military, he realized for the first time that his perspective was too narrow.

Do you know what I was thinking about?

Song Heping suddenly said.

Jiang Feng shook his head.

"When I was a child, I went to a big city with my father for the first time. Standing under the tall buildings and looking up, my neck got sore."

Song Heping flicked his cigarette ash.

"It was then that I realized how big the world is, and the town I used to live in wasn't even a dot on the map."

"Do you still feel this way now?"

“Even stronger.” Song Heping took out a piece of chewing gum and put it in his mouth, and said with emotion, “National-level arms deals… what we used to do was like children playing house.”

The roar of an engine could be heard in the distance.

The convoy they brought is loading the first batch of goods.

Even with all their efforts, fifty vehicles could only transport 20 percent of the entire Taji camp's inventory at a time.

"Let's go." Song Heping turned and walked down the stairs. "We still have four bases to raid tomorrow. Tell the brothers to get a good night's rest tonight. For the next three weeks, nobody will get a good night's sleep."

As the jeep drove away from the Taji camp, Song Heping glanced back.

The searchlights were on, illuminating the entire base as if it were daytime.

Barbed wire, watchtowers, concrete bunkers.

This sophisticated and massive war machine is being slowly dismantled, and he will become the mover of some of its parts.

An absurd thought suddenly flashed through my mind.

Many of these weapons may never have been fired.

They were produced in factories in the United States, traveled across the ocean to Iligo, were stored in temperature- and humidity-controlled warehouses, and were then marked as "surplus goods" during an inventory check, eventually appearing on his purchasing list.

Taxpayers' money thus becomes the profits of arms dealers, with each intermediary getting a share.

Song Heping leaned back in the back seat and closed his eyes.

My phone vibrated; it was a transfer notification to my Swiss bank account.

That was a "coordination fee" for the commanding officer of the Taji Battalion, $200,000.

These "surplus supplies" are handled like a piece of fatty meat, leaving everyone's hands greasy.

He pressed the delete key, as if it were just a spam text message.

At 4 p.m. the next day, the convoy arrived at another military base 80 kilometers north of Baghdad.

Unlike the desolation of Camp Taji, this place still maintains a certain level of operation.

Sentry officers carefully checked everyone's identification at the checkpoint, drones hovered low overhead, and cameras rotated as vehicles moved.

Lieutenant Colonel Swift, who was in charge of the handover, was already waiting at the main entrance.

He was a typical American officer, around forty years old, with blond hair cut in a standard military style, but the wrinkles around his eyes and his slightly overweight waist betrayed the marks of his life stationed abroad.

"Mr. Song, you are very punctual."

Swift extended her hand.

The handshake was firm but brief.

"Let me introduce today's team."

He turned to the side, showing off the lineup behind him.

A major, two civilian officers, and three men dressed as “KBR” contractors.

This lineup is far more formal and complex than that of the Tajik camp.

"Major Walker, base security chief."

Swift pointed to the major.

Walker was around fifty years old, with gray hair and eyes as sharp as an eagle's.

He didn't shake hands, but simply nodded, his fingers tapping lightly on the holster of his M9 pistol at his waist.

"These two are civilian staff members from the Logistics Command of the Ministry of National Defense, and they are responsible for the administrative procedures of this handover."

Two civilian staff members stepped forward; one was bald and wore glasses, while the other was younger and carried a folder.

They were all wearing khaki pants and polo shirts, standing out from the camouflage uniforms of the soldiers around them.

"This is the contractor representative who handles the daily operations of our base."

Swift finally pointed to the three men.

"They are responsible for the daily maintenance and warehousing management of the base. According to the contract, the equipment condition assessment during the handover process requires their signature for verification."

Song Heping nodded in acknowledgment to each person, quickly analyzing the power structure in his mind.

Major Walker wields actual military power, civilian officials control administrative processes, contractors handle technical details, and Lieutenant Colonel Swift is the apparent coordinator, but in reality, he may be the middleman bridging the interests of all parties.

"What is the program?" Song Heping asked.

Swift glanced at her watch: "It's getting late. Let's take a look at the main warehouse area first. The official inventory count will begin at eight o'clock tomorrow morning and is expected to take three to four days. Following standard procedure, we need to conduct a 100% inventory check, enter all data into the system, and generate seven independent reports to be sent to—"

"Understood." Song Heping interrupted him, "Can our people begin work now?"

Swift was taken aback, clearly unaccustomed to being interrupted so directly.

Major Walker frowned and stopped tapping.

“A security briefing is needed first,” Walker began. “Then we’ll collect our passes. Some areas of the base remain sensitive; unauthorized entry will be considered a threat.”

“Of course,” Song Heping smiled. “We fully comply with the regulations.”

The safety briefing was conducted in a temporary tent and lasted forty-five minutes.

A sergeant major read out the precautions in a monotonous tone.

Photography is prohibited; personal electronic devices are not allowed in the warehouse area; all inspections must be conducted under the supervision of U.S. soldiers; any abnormalities must be reported immediately…

The dozens of mercenaries Song Heping brought listened quietly; they were all veterans and knew how to behave in this situation. Jiang Feng sat next to Song Heping, occasionally jotting down key points in his notebook.

After the briefing, Swift led them on a tour of the main warehouse area.

This base is smaller than Camp Taji, but its planning is more detailed.

Light weapons depot, ammunition depot, vehicle repair depot, electronic equipment depot...

Each area has its own independent security measures.

Swift stopped in front of a large hangar: "This is the heavy equipment area. Stryker armored vehicles, M-ATV mine-resistant vehicles, and some engineering vehicles."

The hangar doors slowly opened, and the lights came on one by one.

More than thirty Strykers were neatly lined up, their desert camouflage paint glossing matte under the lights.

Further inside were mine-resistant vehicles and several M113 armored personnel carriers.

"How is the equipment in condition?" Song Heping asked.

"Most of them are working well."

One of the contractor's representatives, a red-haired man named Davis, answered, "We perform basic maintenance weekly and a full inspection monthly. Some vehicles need battery replacements, and some tires are worn out, but these are minor issues."

Song Heping approached a Stryker and touched the armor plating on the side of the vehicle.

It is cool, smooth, and almost without any scratches.

He glanced at the odometer—423 miles.

"These cars haven't been moved much since they arrived in Iligo?" he asked.

Davis and Swift exchanged a glance.

“After the troop rotation, the equipment was stored away,” Swift said cautiously. “At the end of the War on Terror, a lot of equipment was in reserve. Now that the withdrawal process is accelerating, this reserve equipment has become surplus material.”

Song Heping nodded and did not ask any further questions.

But he knew in his heart that the so-called "excess" often meant shoddy procurement, chaotic changes in plans, and ubiquitous inefficiency and waste throughout the system.

Dinner was served at the base's canteen.

Song Heping and Jiang Feng were seated in the officers' dining area, at the same table as Swift, Major Walker, and two civilian clerks.

The food was a standard US Army field ration.

Steak, mashed potatoes, green beans, and unlimited Coke and coffee.

The television in the restaurant was playing CNN news, reporting on a budget debate in Washington.

"How long has Mr. Song been in the arms industry?" the bald clerical staff member asked.

His name was Johnson, and he introduced himself as an auditor from the Logistics Command.

“More than ten years.” Song Heping cut his steak. “I’ve done some small business in Eastern Europe and Africa, and in the last ten years I’ve mainly been in the Middle East.”

“Experienced.” Johnson pushed up his glasses. “Then you should know that a large-scale intergovernmental transfer of supplies like this would involve a very…complex process.”

Song Heping put down his knife and fork and looked at the other person: "How complicated is it?"

“The standard procedure has seven review stages,” Johnson said calmly. “The Department of Defense Logistics Command, the Central Command Logistics Office, the Joint Material Handling Center for U.S. Forces in Iraq, the Defense Contract Management Agency, the Office of the General Accounting Office in Iraq, the State Department’s Office of Nonproliferation, and finally the Iraqi Government Receiving Committee. Each stage requires the preparation of an independent report, the arrangement of on-site verification, and the waiting for approval.”

"What about time?"

“Normally, it takes three to six months,” Johnson said, taking a sip of coffee. “But if there are delays in some parts, it could drag on for more than a year.”

Jiang Feng couldn't help but speak up: "Our contract stipulates that the handover must be completed within thirty days."

"A contract is a contract, and procedures are procedures."

A younger, more administrative staff member chimed in.

His name was Miller, and he looked no more than thirty years old, but his tone was more mature than his age suggested: "In a mature system, the former often has to make way for the latter."

Major Walker, who had been eating in silence, suddenly looked up and said, "Mr. Song, let me be frank. There are some...sensitive items in the base's inventory. Javelin anti-tank missile systems, Stinger anti-aircraft missiles, and a batch of new individual radios. According to standard procedures, the transfer of these items requires an additional seventeen approvals."

“But the contract we signed includes all of these items,” Song said calmly. “And there are clauses in the contract prohibiting their sale to hostile forces in the United States, which I will strictly adhere to.”

"The contract is one thing, the actual operation is another."

Walker put down his knife and fork: "I can make these sensitive items 'temporarily unavailable' and then 'accidentally' discover them after all the regular supplies have been inventoried. This will speed up the process considerably. Of course, this will require additional... coordination work."

The restaurant was silent for a few seconds.

On television, a lawmaker is criticizing the Department of Defense's budget overrun.

"How much?" Song Heping asked.

Walker quoted a figure: $750,000.

Jiang Feng clenched his fist, but Song Heping gently nudged him with his foot under the table.

“I need to think about it,” Song Heping said.

“Of course.” Walker picked up his knife and fork again. “You have twenty-four hours. Once the inventory begins tomorrow, a decision will need to be made.”

Dinner ended in silence.

As he left the cafeteria, Lieutenant Colonel Swift caught up with him.

"Mr. Song, may I have a word with you in private?"

The two walked to the smoking area outside the cafeteria.

Swift lit a Marlboro and took a deep drag.

“Major Walker’s words… were a bit blunt,” Swift said. “But he’s telling the truth. Without his cooperation, you might never get those sensitive equipment. Or even if you did, it would be delayed until the contract expired.”

"So the 750,000 was given to him?" Song Heping asked.

Swift laughed: "Walker gets a share, the civilian staff gets a share, and the contractors get a cut. In addition, the soldiers responsible for the actual inventory need a 'hardship allowance,' the warehouse manager needs a 'handling allowance,' and the transportation coordinator needs a 'dispatch fee.' Seven hundred and fifty thousand is the total, so it's not much for each person."

"And you, Lieutenant Colonel? What role do you play?"

“Me?” Swift exhaled a puff of smoke. “I’m the mediator. Making sure everyone gets their share, making sure the process doesn’t get stalled because of unequal distribution of spoils. My compensation… is already included in the total price.”

Song Heping looked at the lights of the base in the distance.

Night had completely fallen, and the beams of searchlights swept across the barbed wire fence, with Humvees occasionally patrolling by.

“What if I refuse?” he asked.

Swift shrugged: “Then the inventory will be incredibly slow. Only two warehouses can be opened each day, and each warehouse will need to be checked more than three times. Sensitive equipment will be ‘temporarily lost,’ requiring additional retrieval procedures. The civilian staff will demand certificates of origin for all equipment, which may require contacting more than a dozen manufacturers in the United States. The contractors will nitpick on the condition assessment report, classifying 90% new equipment as ‘needing repair.’ A 30-day contract period? That’s a pipe dream! Six months would be considered fast.”

Song Heping said, "If the contract cannot be fulfilled on time, you base officers and contractors will also get nothing."

“No, we’ll still get it,” Swift corrected. “Contract extensions will incur additional storage and administration fees, which will be borne by the receiving party. The longer it drags on, the more ample the base’s maintenance budget will be. The soldiers can also receive their overseas allowances for a few more months. As for the sensitive equipment…”

He paused. "There are always other ways to handle it. The black market, aid from allies, or simply 'accidental damage.' This system has been running for over a century, Mr. Song. It won't be changed by one person."

Song Heping remained silent for a long time.

Finally, he said, "I need to see the list, a complete list of all the sensitive equipment."

“I’ll give it to you tomorrow morning.” Swift tossed away his cigarette butt. “Also, regarding the seven hundred and fifty thousand—cash, old bills with non-consecutive serial numbers, in five packages. I’ll inform you of the delivery method separately.”

He turned and left, but after a few steps he turned back, a smug look on his face, and said, "Welcome to the real war economy, Mr. Song. Here, corruption is not a loophole, but a lubricant."

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(End of this chapter)