========================
“Hmm…”
I stared at the letter for a moment, gathering my thoughts.
After hearing about Rhee Syngman’s “attack,” my father had immediately sent a reply filled with barely restrained anger.
Rhee’s influence within the Korean community had been growing rapidly, but it seemed my father had decided that if things continued like this, that man might try to control me.
I never learned the details of what followed, but at the very least, Rhee’s expansion in San Francisco had been checked.
A man like him would understand that “check” as my real answer.
From here on, even he had no choice but to step back.
If he tried to weaken my father’s influence within the community, it would escalate into open conflict.
The letter I received from him was filled with meaningless phrases.
Regret about a missed opportunity.
Offers of help anytime.
In other words, let us end this here.
I hoped he learned that throwing casual jabs at people could backfire.
But knowing him, if pushed into a corner, he would even drag in President Woodrow Wilson if necessary.
Throwing him to the sharks in the Pacific would have to wait another eight years.
With that settled, I moved on to my next preparation.
“Hey, Eugene.
Hard to see you these days.”
“He’s busy writing love letters every night.”
“That’s not it.
Get lost, kids.”
Idiots.
I could write those in thirty minutes now.
“I’m older, so I can stay, right?”
“You’re mentally a child, so maybe not, ugh!”
Dwight David Eisenhower locked me in a headlock.
That bastard had gotten rougher lately.
Still, he had recovered.
After giving up football, he had shifted toward a coaching role.
Apparently my habit of standing with crossed arms and giving orders during baseball games had inspired him.
“Anyway, let me see what you’ve been writing.”
“…Fine.
Let’s hear the opinion of West Point’s finest.”
I pulled out a stack of papers.
Months of work.
“‘Predictions on Future Warfare and Recommendations for Preparation.’ Fancy title.”
“Focus on the content.”
Eisenhower lay on the bed and began reading.
“Whoa.”
“Let me see.”
“Move.”
Then came chaos.
Bradley, Van Fleet, and Anastacio piled on top of him.
“Get off me!”
“My bed…”
Despite the mess, Eisenhower kept reading.
“Eugene… what is this?”
“A report.”
“No, this isn’t a report.
He was reacting more strongly than expected.
“Germany… France… millions mobilized… Alsace-Lorraine… Russian threat… violation of Belgian neutrality…”
“What the hell is this?
Did you eat something weird?”
“You ate the same thing.”
“We don’t think like this!”
That hurt.
Everything I wrote was logical.
Or rather, it was history.
But to them, it sounded insane.
Would a nation really invade a neutral country?
Would diplomacy really fail?
Would nations truly choose economic collapse?
Yes.
They would.
Eisenhower flipped through the pages rapidly.
I had written everything.
Trench warfare.
Machine guns.
Artillery dominance.
Air superiority.
Communication problems.
The need for new weapons.
Short-range automatic firearms.
Indirect fire support.
Armored vehicles based on tractors.
Everything.
And between those ideas, I had filled the pages with descriptions of men dying in droves.
My original goal had been to impress superiors.
But judging from their reactions, this looked more like a war chant than a proposal.
Finally, they finished reading.
Silence.
“I don’t even know what to say,” said Omar Bradley.
“The logic… makes sense.
If the battlefield becomes like this.”
“But would it really go that far?”
“If it does, Europe would become a graveyard.”
“Politics would stop it before that.”
Maybe.
Or maybe not.
“…This feels wrong,” someone muttered.
They understood the logic.
But accepting it meant losing faith in humanity.
“Have you been thinking about this all along?” James Van Fleet asked.
“…What?
I’m not some bloodthirsty maniac.”
“If people read this, they’d think you’re one of the Four Horsemen.
Don’t submit this.
Your reputation will be destroyed.”
That was harsh. This chapter was taken from g.com without permission.
“Relax.
That’s why I showed you first.”
“So you’re not submitting it?”
“…I made a softer version.”
I pulled out another stack.
“A novel?”
“Exactly.”
Same content.
Different form.
One was a report.
The other was fiction.
“…It’s the same thing, you bastard.”
“No.
This is just a dark story.”
Eisenhower sighed.
“This is better.
It won’t sell, but at least it won’t ruin you.”
“Good.
Then I’ll use both.”
“What?”
“I’ll submit the report.
It’ll probably get buried.
Then I’ll publish the story.”
Of course, not under my name.
My brother would handle that.
After intense persuasion, I delayed submitting the report.
Instead, I refined my approach.
“You want recognition, right?” Anastacio said.
“Exactly.”
“Then do the opposite.”
So I circulated the report among classmates first.
“This is insane.”
“…But it kind of makes sense.”
“Shut up.”
“If you had to charge a trench, how would you do it?”
“…Damn it.”
Soon, it gained a nickname.
The “Armageddon Report.”
It spread among cadets.
Then to seniors.
“The biggest lunatic in West Point history.”
“If even half of this is right, he’s not a lunatic.
He’s Cassandra.”
Eventually, I was summoned.
I submitted the report to the superintendent.
He read it silently.
Then placed it in a drawer.
And waved me away.
That was it.
My preparations at West Point were complete.
Now, all that remained…
Was to wait for the gunshot at Sarajevo.