Midland Oil Field, Texas.
The afterglow of the setting sun spread across the edge of the Great Plains, dyeing the vast, boundless Gobi Desert in a rich golden-red.
Dozens of old pumpjacks were scattered across the wilderness. Their massive metal cranks appeared as black silhouettes against the backlight of the sunset, rising and falling at an extremely slow frequency. The rusted mechanical bearings rubbed against each other, emitting a monotonous, dull, and rhythmic creak.
A black Ford F-150 heavy-duty pickup truck was parked on the side of the dirt road.
Satsuki wore a pure white cotton shirt with the sleeves casually rolled up to her elbows, paired with a pair of washed-out jeans and a wide brown cowboy hat on her head. Cowboy Satsuki-chan.
She didn't mind the dust on the vehicle's surface and sat casually on the pickup's broad hood, holding a bottle of chilled cola. The dry, hot evening wind of Texas quickly dispersed the wisps of white mist escaping from the bottle's mouth, leaving only the condensation beads on the glass walls to quietly dampen her knuckles.
Frank stood on the left side of the pickup.
Even in this temperature, he still wore a formal dark business suit, his tie knotted meticulously.
"Through the liquidation process issued by the Resolution Trust Corporation, the agreements to acquire bankrupt oil fields around Midland and Houston were all signed this afternoon."
Frank flipped open the folder in his hand, his speaking pace steady.
"The savings and loan crisis in Texas over the past few years has led to widespread bankruptcies among local independent energy companies. In this round of bottom-fishing, we have taken over hundreds of abandoned drilling platforms and supporting oil extraction facilities."
He closed the folder and looked at Satsuki, who was sitting on the hood.
"Additionally, two hours ago, the Chief of Staff to the Governor of Texas paid a secret visit to our temporary office in Houston."
"The other party conveyed very clear political goodwill. The massive capital injection from S.A. Investment directly revitalized the local energy supply chain, which was on the verge of paralysis, and saved the jobs of tens of thousands of oil workers in Texas."
Frank raised his hand and wiped a drop of sweat from his temple.
"The Chief of Staff made a substantive commitment. The Texas consortium and several heavyweight members of Congress representing this state will provide political escort for the S.A. Group in the upcoming House and Senate hearings. Any proposal attempting to block us at the CFIUS level will be intercepted in advance by Texas politicians within the committee."
"Mm-hmm."
Satsuki was staring blankly at the distant steel beasts, seemingly not listening at all, taking intermittent sips of her iced cola.
Fujita Tsuyoshi stood on the right side of the pickup.
He held a top-secret briefing that had just been received via satellite communication equipment, decoded, and printed.
"Young Lady."
Fujita Tsuyoshi took a step forward and handed over the briefing.
"The intelligence sent back by the SIS Middle East branch has been cross-verified."
"Washington officially signed the executive order to mobilize reservists three hours ago and announced the formal full-scale launch of Operation Desert Shield. Currently, heavy armored units of the US military are moving at full speed for strategic deployment to the Persian Gulf region."
Fujita Tsuyoshi's gaze fell on the bold black font of the briefing.
"The armored clusters of the Iraqi Republican Guard have crossed the border and penetrated deep into the heart of Kuwait. Since the crude oil shipping routes in the Persian Gulf are under substantive threat, international crude oil futures prices are challenging historical extremes."
The wind blew from the west, sweeping across the Gobi Desert with a low howl. The mechanical friction of the pumpjacks continued to echo unhurriedly in the distance.
Satsuki's gaze remained fixed on the edge of the vast Gobi Desert, as if she had completely tuned out the reports that were enough to trigger a global financial earthquake.
"Frank."
She suddenly spoke, raising her empty left hand and pointing toward the end of the road.
"Look at the smoke coming out of the chimney of that motel."
Frank and Fujita Tsuyoshi froze in place. Their minds were racing with Washington's political trends and the war situation in the Middle East, and they were prepared to hear the Young Lady's super-detailed countermeasures, only to have their thoughts interrupted by Satsuki's sentence.
Ah. What? A motel? Do we need to buy it?
Frank followed her gaze and saw only a rising plume of bluish-gray smoke.
"The smoke is bluish-gray, and the burning momentum is stable. This indicates they are using local Texas mesquite firewood."
Satsuki turned her head and looked at her two bewildered subordinates, her tone light.
"This means that their beef brisket has been low-temperature slow-smoked for at least twelve hours. The texture is at its best when it comes out of the oven now."
Taking advantage of their momentary daze, Satsuki tilted her head back and drained the remaining Coca-Cola in the glass bottle.
The cold carbonated liquid slid down her throat, dispelling some of the evening heat of the Texas plains.
"Frank."
Satsuki's voice rang out in the wind, pulling Frank's thoughts back from beef brisket to reality.
"Next, you will be fully responsible for interfacing with Texas politicians. Bind their interests to ours as much as possible."
"The rhythm of closing out option positions can be left to the quantitative team to control. The general direction has been set, so there's no need to confirm execution-level data with me anymore."
She turned her head, her gaze crossing the roof of the pickup truck to look at the butler on the right.
"Fujita. Immediately notify Endo at the Tokyo headquarters."
"The Middle East powder keg has been lit. A surge in crude oil prices is a foregone conclusion. Those Japanese parent companies with heavy assets in the Middle East will soon face the double strangulation of imported inflation and credit cut-offs from the Ministry of Finance. Have Endo use the underlying non-performing semiconductor debts in his hands to fully launch Financial Pressure."
"Additionally, issue orders directly to Dojima Gen in the war zone."
Satsuki's fingers tightened slightly around the glass bottle.
"Begin executing Humanitarian and Commercial Asset Rescue."
After saying it all in one breath, Satsuki let out a long sigh, and the muscles on her face relaxed.
Satsuki jumped lightly down from the hood of the pickup. Her white casual shoes stepped on the dry sand, kicking up a small cloud of dust.
She pointed her finger at the motel at the end of the road, where thick smoke was billowing from the chimney.
"Work is over."
Satsuki turned around and casually tossed the empty glass bottle into the back bed of the pickup.
Clang.
The thick glass bottle hit the metal floor of the truck bed with a crisp clatter, then rolled twice inside.
"Let's go, let's try some authentic Texas smoked beef brisket."
She walked with her hands in the pockets of her washed jeans, her pace light as she headed toward the barbecue joint with the billowing smoke, facing the dry evening wind of Texas.
Frank and Fujita Tsuyoshi stood where they were.
They glanced at each other.
Then, they each pulled out satellite phones from their suit pockets and briefcases.
The massive multinational capital machine began to operate at full speed with the press of buttons.
Dhahran Airbase, Saudi Arabia.
A heatwave of up to fifty degrees Celsius, carrying yellow sand that filled the sky, lashed frantically against the blast walls and barbed wire fences on the base's perimeter, compressing visibility to the extreme.
On the base's main runway, a massive US C-5 Galaxy heavy military transport aircraft was in the taxiing stage of landing. Four General Electric turbofan engines erupted with a deafening roar, the thrust reversers kicking up the yellow sand on both sides of the runway several meters high.
At the logistics distribution area on the edge of the base.
A dozen military camouflage tents swayed slightly in the strong wind.
Dojima Gen, wearing a sand-colored waterproof softshell tactical jacket, stood in front of a row of heavy Pelican cases printed with the words "S.A. Global Engineering & Rescue."
Behind him, over a hundred special service members were quickly checking the individual equipment and field medical devices inside the cases.
A US Army logistics colonel, clutching a military wireless radio, strode toward Dojima Gen through the sandstorm. The fifty-degree Celsius hot wind at Dhahran Base had covered his combat uniform in yellow sand, and muddy sweat trickled down from his furrowed brow, washing several muddy streaks down his cheeks.
The colonel stopped three steps away from Dojima Gen.
His gaze swept extremely sternly over the fully armed Asian civilian employees. His eyes moved past the bulletproof vests with tactical rails and military-grade communication helmets, showing undisguised rejection and wariness.
"Who is the person in charge here?" the colonel roared, trying to drown out the roar of the distant engines.
Dojima Gen stepped forward.
"I am."
"Listen, contractor," the colonel said harshly, "the forward reconnaissance company of the Iraqi Republican Guard has already appeared on the northern border less than forty kilometers from here."
He raised the radio in his hand and pointed to the north side of the base.
"The main force of the US 82nd Airborne Division is currently setting up emergency defenses ahead. The entire northern area has been designated as a high-tension combat zone. Command has issued a dead order: no civilian armed contractors of unknown origin are allowed to leave the rear safety zone."
The colonel stared intently at Dojima Gen.
"Take your people and your boxes. Retreat immediately to the Riyadh safety zone in the south. Don't get in the way in the combat zone. Once the shooting starts, I don't have extra troops to pull you civilians out."
Dojima Gen listened to the colonel's warning expressionlessly.
He unzipped the waterproof zipper on the inside of his tactical jacket and pulled out a paper document sealed in a transparent folder.
Dojima Gen handed the document to the colonel.
"Colonel."
Dojima Gen responded in cold, hard American English.
"This document is a Department of Defense Level 1 Outsourced Logistics Subcontractor Agreement with Highest Priority Battlefield Rescue Transit Permit attached, fully credit-guaranteed by The Carlyle Group in Washington and jointly issued by the Pentagon."
The colonel's gaze fell on the document. The dark red Department of Defense outsourcing seal was extremely eye-catching in the sandstorm.
"The S.A. Rescue Team has received emergency distress signals from several Japanese multinational corporations," Dojima Gen's voice pierced through the wind and sand. "Their core oil refineries and some senior employees are currently stranded in the northern conflict zone."
He looked at the colonel's furrowed brow.
"This is fully in line with the Pentagon's outsourcing execution regulations regarding protecting high-value commercial facilities from war damage. S.A. has been hired to go to that area to perform international humanitarian evacuation and high-value asset sealing tasks."
Dojima Gen took back the document and zipped up his jacket again.
"I request that you immediately grant passage to my convoy in accordance with the terms of the Department of Defense contract."
The colonel clenched his teeth, the muscles in his jaw bulging slightly.
In this desert that could turn into a meat grinder at any moment, what frontline commanders hated most were these private armed forces that existed outside the chain of command and were not directly subject to military law.
However, faced with a document backed by The Carlyle Group and the Pentagon's seal, plus the banner of international humanitarian rescue that had been raised, if he forcibly detained this team, he would inevitably face breach of contract charges and frantic accountability from Washington politicians.
The colonel stared at Dojima Gen's expressionless face and viciously pulled a tactical pen from his chest pocket.
He snatched the duplicate of the transit permit handed over by Dojima Gen and pressed the paper against a nearby military supply crate.
The pen tip swept roughly across the signature line, signing his name.
"Once you leave this base, your life or death has nothing to do with the United States military."
The colonel slapped the transit permit against Dojima Gen's chest and turned to stride back to the command post.
Dojima Gen took the transit permit.
He turned around to face the special service detachment ready for departure.
He raised his right hand, clad in a tactical glove, and made a gesture in the air.
"Mount up."
The special service members quickly picked up the heavy protective cases.
Heavy bulletproof vehicle doors and truck tailgates opened one after another. Over a hundred fully armed members were quickly broken down into groups and methodically boarded the massive convoy parked in the rear.
The convoy consisted of four Chevrolet Suburbans reinforced with heavy bulletproof steel plates and explosion-proof tires acting as the vanguard and rearguard, tightly protecting eight Oshkosh heavy high-mobility tactical trucks with desert camouflage tarps and roll cages in the middle.
The roar of diesel engines starting up blended together in the distribution area, vibrating the hot air around them.
Dojima Gen sat in the passenger seat of the lead SUV.
The heavy convoy slammed on the gas. The tires rubbed rapidly against the sand, and facing the opposite direction of the US defensive line, they plunged headlong into the yellow sand and fog of war to the north.