Chapter 1367: Chapter 659: The Fate of the Realm, Long Divided Must Unite

The Minister of Internal Affairs opened his mouth: “Prime Minister, live ammunition authorization might…”

“Might let them know who’s the master here!”

The Prime Minister suddenly slammed the table, splashing coffee over the cup’s edge, “From the barracks attack to now, our soldiers are bleeding, journalists are being shot down from the sky, and London’s stock market is still falling! If we keep retreating, the whole of Ireland will ignite, followed by Scotland, and then Wales!”

He walked to the map and jabbed his finger heavily at Belfast’s position: “Surround this city for me, search every house for weapons, arrest all those involved in the riot, whether they are old people or children! I want them to understand the consequences of challenging the British Empire!”

“Prime Minister.”

Sir Davidson, the Minister of Defense, suddenly stood up, pulling out a yellow report from a folder, his finger trembling over the numbers, “The deployment of the Third Parachute Brigade requires C-17 transport planes, just the fuel and ammunition supply… we’ve already overspent by 12% of the military budget for this quarter.”

The Prime Minister’s motion abruptly froze.

No money?

Damn it, the Old Buddha has no money?

“The Persian Gulf fleet rotation you approved last month hasn’t been settled, the maintenance cost of the new destroyers has exceeded the budget, and the renovation of the barracks for the troops stationed in Germany…”

Davidson’s voice grew lower, “The Treasury Department’s briefing just said, if we initiate another large-scale military operation, this year’s defense budget will directly breach the red line, possibly affecting next year’s equipment procurement plan.”

A deathly silence fell over the meeting room, only the ticking of the clock on the wall piercingly loud.

The Prime Minister slowly turned around, his lips trembling, “Say that again?”

“The military budget… really isn’t enough, sir.”

Davidson avoided his gaze, staring at his own shoes, “The Army’s ammunition stock might not even support a moderate-sized street battle, if we need to suppress the whole of Belfast, we might need to borrow equipment urgently from France or the United States, but that would take at least three days—”

“Three days?”

The Prime Minister suddenly laughed, anger stabbing at his liver, “By the time they send the equipment over, the people of Belfast might have already reached Liverpool!”

He grabbed the phone on the table, the cord pulled taut: “Get me the Treasury Department! I don’t care what method they use, even if they have to melt down Buckingham Palace’s silverware, gather the necessary military funds for suppression! Tell them, this is not a request, it’s an order!”

Whatever was said on the other end made the Prime Minister’s face darken inch by inch, before he finally slammed the phone down hard.

He walked to the window, looking out at the perpetually gloomy sky, his silhouette appearing particularly solitary in the dim light.

He spoke softly, as if muttering to himself, “Why are some people still not clear, now is not the time to be stingy with money.”

The Prime Minister stood at the window, his fingers unconsciously rubbing the cold glass, London outside shrouded under a leaden gray cloud, like a faded oil painting.

The tough stance he had earlier in the meeting room was like a thin layer of ice, now being gradually shattered by the frustration surging within his chest.

He pulled out his phone, the familiar names in his contact list at this moment seemed like thorns—Barclays Bank’s chairman, the Rothschild family inheritor, the oligarchs of London Financial City.

There was a time when these people had to rely on the whims of Downing Street, but now, he had to lower his stature as Prime Minister, to beg them for a “loan.”

“Connect me to James Wilson.” he said gravely into the phone.

Wilson was the most powerful financial tycoon in London Financial City, controlling over half of the United Kingdom’s private capital.

The moment the call connected, the distant sound of a golf club striking, accompanied by leisurely laughter: “Your Excellency the Prime Minister? Calling at this time, surely not to invite me for afternoon tea at Downing Street?”

The Prime Minister took a deep breath, suppressing the bitterness in his throat: “Wilson, you’ve seen the situation in Belfast, the military needs funds, immediately, right now.”

The laughter abruptly ceased, replaced by a deliberately slow speech, carrying a hint of arrogance: “Funds? Prime Minister, you know the current market conditions, the yield on UK bonds has already risen by three points, the interbank lending rates have broken through the warning line.”

“I am not discussing market conditions with you!”

The Prime Minister’s voice suddenly rose, then quickly lowered, “I need fifty million British Pounds, to be in the account within a week. In return, the government can relax the North Sea oil field’s extraction permits, or… put part of the London Underground’s operational rights up for tender.”

There was a moment’s silence on the other end, the crisp sound of ice cubes clinking against the glass was heard: “The North Sea oil fields? That’s been a piece of meat eyed by the Labour Party for ten years, as for the Underground operational rights, Prime Minister, you’re using national assets as collateral.”

Wilson’s tone carried a hint of amusement, “Let me think about it, how about I give you a response by tomorrow morning? After all, my advisors need to assess the risks.”

“Tomorrow morning?” the Prime Minister gritted his teeth, “By the time your assessment is out, the riots in Belfast could have spread to Edinburgh!”

“I can’t help with that,” Wilson’s voice floated lightly, like a feather pressing on the Prime Minister’s heart, “Capital never pays for impulsiveness, Your Excellency, especially in a country that needs to borrow money for troop supplies.”

The busy tone of a disconnected call stabbed like a needle into his ears.

The Prime Minister suddenly smashed the phone onto the sofa, the leather making a dull thud.

He recalled the painting in his grandfather’s study—the 1918 Royal Navy Fleet passing through the Gibraltar Strait, cannons like a forest, flags billowing.

Back then the United Kingdom never needed to borrow money from anyone, because the entire world endorsed its British Pounds, but now, funding for a home-stationed parachute brigade needed to be mortgaged with oil fields and the underground rail.

When nightfall came, the Prime Minister’s private email received seven “loan intention statements.”

Barclays Bank was willing to provide thirty million, but required a five-year franchise of Manchester Airport as collateral, a Qatari consortium offered to inject capital, on the condition of participating in the follow-up development of infrastructure venues, even a Wall Street hedge fund sent an email, suggesting “liquidity support,” the price being part of the UK power grid’s equity.

“Sign.” The Prime Minister spat the word at the Chancellor of the Exchequer, his eyes bloodshot, “Agree to all conditions, as long as the money arrives in three days.”

He didn’t notice, two of the statements came from offshore companies registered in the Cayman Islands.

One called “Silver Wing Capital,” the other “Equatorial Trade,” the actual controllers of both companies, at this moment were sitting in a top-floor apartment in Mexico City, watching real-time stock prices of London Financial City through floor-to-ceiling windows.

“The fish is on the hook.” Manuel Garcia raised a glass of tequila, with the salt grains on the glass rim shimmering in the light, his grandfather was a guerrilla leader during the Mexican Revolution, and he became a financial hunter trained by Wall Street.

After Victor came to power, there was a worldwide call for the Mexican diaspora to return home and build their homeland, never underestimate the Old Mexicans, they can slay on Wall Street or compete with Chinese people in dishwashing, truly a match for anyone.

The secretary Sofia opened an encrypted email, the screen displayed the list of evaluated UK assets: “Downing Street is eager to use money, the review process is very loose, through ‘Silver Wing’ we secured 20% of the container terminal’s equity at Liverpool Port, used ‘Equator’ to buy bonds from three Scottish whisky distilleries, bits and pieces that nobody would notice.”

Garcia laughed, his fingertips tapping the glass of tequila, the salt grains on its rim sparkling under the light, his grandfather once a guerrilla leader in the time of the Mexican Revolution, “In the era of Victor, the whole world calls for Mexican people to return home, and never underestimate old Mexico, they can fight on Wall Street and equally contest Chinese people when underestimating them.”

“Next target is the Welsh coal mines and Cornwall’s tin mines, old industrial base, the government is worrying about the lack of contractors, what we have to do is gradually remove their skirts and let them shiver in the cold wind.”

Garcia swirled his glass, the amber liquid reflecting London’s lights, “The British care most about preserving appearances, like Victorian ladies, even if they have torn petticoats, now they are the scraps, but when the UK’s economy spirals out of control like the streets of Belfast, the skirts will be the levers to pry open their ribs.”

Sofia pulled up another document: “The next targets are the Welsh coal mines and Cornwall’s tin mines, an old industrial base, the government is worried about no takers.”

Garcia swirled his glass, the amber liquor reflecting London’s lights, “British people care most about preserving appearances, like Victorian ladies with torn petticoat outward skirts, our job is to gradually strip their skirt supports, leaving them shivering in the cold wind.”

Suddenly, fireworks blossomed over Mexico City, illuminating the outline of the distant volcano. Garcia raised his tequila glass in a distant toast toward the Atlantic Ocean: “To the decline of the British Empire.”

…..