Chapter Eighty-Nine: Truly Damn Huge

"Uncle Ford, you mean this is the plane I ordered?" It was not the first time he had sat in a seven-forty-seven, and he had seen it up close more than once before, but when it belonged to him, it still felt unreal.

"Yes, young master. This should be the largest civilian airliner in service." Even Uncle Ford had to admit the thing was enormous, and undeniably imposing.

Though it was already the Christmas holiday, Boeing could only choose this time to make the handover because of the client's needs.

Do not be fooled by how many wealthy Americans there were; very few used a seven-forty-seven as a private jet. To many people, the aircraft was merely large and not especially fast, hardly worth the extravagance.

Only after the arrival of Air Force One did that begin to change. The Carter administration was still using a seven-oh-seven, which was several generations behind.

Many people knew Air Force One only from that film. In truth, the story in the movie was fictional: there was no escape pod, and certainly no parachutes.

If all those things from the movie really existed, the president would not be able to afford to fly it.

More than half of people who have never jumped with a parachute would simply be killed in the fall. A jet flies at what kind of speed? Even if, as in the film, it slowed down, there would still be the wind stream. It was nothing like a propeller plane.

For office workers to jump from a plane was a joke. Navy SEALs might manage it, though one had to admit the screenwriter's imagination was indeed wildly expansive.

Such a film could not be made now. The historical backdrop was different; if you did that, people would think you were a Soviet spy.

There were only a few days left before the Afghan war was over, and the Americans were powerless to stop it; all they could offer was moral support.

What the Soviets had not expected was that Americans, who they thought could no longer fight, were actually even worse. They had managed to make a muddle of a tiny patch of land for ten years.

Mock the Americans for being pampered sons of privilege?

In truth, the Soviets were not much better. If they did not unleash their big weapons, no one feared their ground war.

People in this era actually misunderstood war. They measured war potential by economic strength.

That was not right. For superbosses like the United States and the Soviet Union, the more advanced a country was, the harder it was to defeat, while the more backward a place was, the less likely it was to lose.

Afghanistan was exactly such a case, with no valuable targets at all.

What use was advanced weaponry?

The Americans had thought it would be easy, and yet they still ended up with terrible misfortune.

It was truly baffling what bad luck Afghanistan had been cursed with; it seemed that every great power in history had gone there to teach it a lesson.

When he stepped into the aircraft's interior, a tide of ostentatious wealth hit him in the face. Faced with the glittering cabin, even William White was briefly dazed.

Those rich fools really were extravagant. He truly could not understand it—why did they love gaudy gold so much?

William White believed that if they were not afraid of attracting hatred, they would not even mind turning the plane into solid gold. After all, there would be gold-plated Mercedes in later years.

William White had never flown on a private jet of this class. He had once been on a suite-style three-eighty in the future, and had already found that astonishing.

But after seeing the aircraft's interior, that suite-style arrangement seemed like a cramped hovel by comparison, impossible to place on the same level.

United Continental Airlines had a trustee service, but it had never handled an aircraft of this class. Though they were not short on seven-forty-sevens, no one had ever seen a private jet at this level.

This would be excellent publicity for their company, so the management fee was not outrageously high.

They had reason to believe that it would not be long before this private jet became famous worldwide.

It was no surprise for a desert tycoon to own something like this. He must be either a prince or an emir. Americans would not care about such things; to them, this was practically a state matter.

Private ownership of something like this was no small feat. It was wealth that many people could not earn in a lifetime.

Americans did not mind showing off their money. As long as you had earned it yourself, no one would lecture you.

Why not donate it all?

No one asked such idiotic questions. People could donate as much as they liked; what right did anyone else have to question them?

If you were unconvinced, then donate your own money.

Those who questioned why others did not donate more usually would not donate a single cent themselves, and still had the nerve to talk about embezzlement.

Even if such things did happen, they would not happen often. In any country, the handling of charitable funds was treated with great caution; one misstep could become a scandal of the century.

After inspecting his new toy, the rest of the business would naturally be handled by lawyers.

In America, lawyers, accountants, and dentists were indispensable. If you were deprived of even one of them, your life could easily turn into a complete mess.

The public did not know it yet, but the wealthy class understood perfectly well. Envy, resentment, and hatred were all part of the package.

They had had a miserable couple of years, with their fortunes shrinking day by day. Merely staying alive was something to thank God for.

Seeing William White's wealth trajectory, they could hardly say anything. One film had earned him over a hundred million dollars; what could they do if they were not convinced?

A crowd of overseas capital was also eager to try. The myth of wealth was right before their eyes; they had merely been cheated by others. If they found the right script, they too would rise to the summit of life.

Once the initial excitement passed, none of it seemed to matter anymore. In the end it was only a means of transportation, just a little larger than the rest.

Very well, someone was starting to be pretentious again.

Damn it! It was a lot bigger, all right!

In the span of a single year, William White had truly created too many miracles. He had not only prevented the family fortune from being plundered, but had also given the other side a hard lesson.

The Hunter family was finished now. Not only did they need to add margin, but there also seemed to be a possibility of trading restrictions.

William White had already completed his delivery. His earnings in London had come close to two hundred million, and that alone left him exhilarated.

Fortunately, if those accounts had been in the United States, they would have run into far more trouble.

Everyone was watching the joke now, utterly unable to imagine how the Hunter family would get out of it.

They had underestimated the Hunter family's madness, and they had underestimated the desert tycoon's determination.

After a brief fluctuation, the Hunter family chose to keep inflating the bubble. According to the information they had obtained from the Soviets, the war would break out within a month.

Once the battle began, gold would absolutely go berserk. As a quasi-currency, they did not believe silver would fail to rise.

To William White, they had all gone mad, actually believing the lies he himself had fabricated.

If you wanted to be a successful fraud, you had to make yourself believe without the slightest doubt. There was no question the Hunter family had done that very well; they had completely believed their own lies and were now trapped beyond rescue.

Come on. Silver had risen from just over two dollars, and it had spent a long time in the one-dollar range. Now it was already at thirty. What could be more absurd than that?

Most importantly, gold's rise had been supported by real trading volume. After thorough market cleansing, everyone's cost basis was not low.

But what exactly was going on with silver?

Those so-called trades were nothing but wash trading, a game of moving money from one hand to the other. Retail investors might not understand it, but how could institutions not know? They were merely watching a monkey show.

As for William White's opportunistic strike, the old men could only shake their heads with bitter smiles.

Old Hunter was simply too foolish. At such a critical moment, why create extra trouble?

He deserved to die.