At that moment, Simon entered and whispered something to Francis. His eye twitched, and he clenched his teeth. "Is this true?"
"Yes," Simon nodded. "The army's entire stock of Holt 60 tractors was purchased from Charles' factory—1,000 units at 2,500 francs each."
Francis remained outwardly composed, but inside, he was devastated, lacking even the courage to calculate his losses.
"Sir," Simon ventured, "we still have a chance. If military demand is this high, we could rehire the workers and resume production. We could build 500 units per month..."
Francis gave a slight shake of his head. Simon might be a good manager, but he was far from a savvy businessman.
"The army's demand has already been largely met by these tractors," Francis sighed. "Going forward, Charles's 'Holt 75' remains our real competitor. And given a choice, who do you think the military would favor?"
Simon had no response. Even a fool would know to choose the more powerful and faster Holt 75.
It was clear—Francis had effectively been pushed out of the tractor industry by Charles. It was almost unimaginable: Francis, a veteran in the business with a massive factory and a reputation as a shrewd businessman, had been thoroughly outmatched by a young upstart with just over a month in the industry.
Now, Francis's only options were to sell off his factory's surplus facilities and assembly lines, retaining just enough to focus on tank production. But who would buy outdated Holt 60 assembly lines? Perhaps only Charles' factory would even consider it, repurposing some for Holt 75 production.
If Francis wanted to sell, he would have to approach Charles—or else abandon the lines entirely.
The thought was bitter, and Francis's face grew even darker. How much would Charles offer? Fifty thousand francs? Less?
Francis decided to consult Grevi and Armand first. Perhaps they might buy it, or know someone who would.
Yet as his car neared the factory gates, a squad of French soldiers stopped them. Simon, who was driving, turned to explain, "They set up the checkpoint early this morning. Said they were here to secure the tank production area."
"Sir, your identification, please," a lieutenant demanded, standing sternly in front of the car.
After examining Francis's ID, the officer eyed the file bag beside him and asked, "What's in there?"
"None of your business," Francis replied impatiently. He was carrying schematics for a new tank design to discuss improvements with Grevi and Armand.
"Actually, it is my business, sir," the lieutenant replied coldly. "We're here not only to ensure your safety but to protect national security secrets as well."
With no other choice, Francis handed over the file. The lieutenant opened the bag, glanced at the schematics, and immediately grew cautious. Fixing his gaze on Francis, he asked, "What is this?"
"A tank design," Francis answered. "I'm taking it for revisions—"
"Sorry, sir," the lieutenant interrupted, handing back the schematics. "You cannot take these off-site. If you insist, you'll need to register it in advance, specifying the documents' contents, the destination, and purpose. And we'll send someone to accompany you."
Already in a foul mood, Francis snapped. "Lieutenant, I just make tanks and sell them to you. You have no right to interfere with my freedom—"
But he trailed off as the lieutenant straightened, hand resting on his gun, while the guards in front of the car lowered their rifles.
The lieutenant's tone became stern, with a hint of command. "Apologies, sir. Indeed, you only sell us tanks. But we pay for them, and we go into battle, risking our lives. If the enemy were to learn of these tanks' weaknesses, our soldiers would die by the dozens. Do you still insist this is a matter of your 'freedom'?"
There was even a glint of menace in the lieutenant's eyes. Begrudgingly, Francis ordered Simon to turn back and leave the schematics at the villa. This time, the lieutenant conducted a full body search, explaining, "I have reason to suspect you might be hiding the schematics on your person. After all, it's just a piece of paper."
Gritting his teeth, Francis remained silent, knowing it was futile to argue. Tʜe source of this ᴄontent ɪs ɴovᴇl(F)ɪre.ɴet
Arriving at the Bleder estate, Francis's first words were, "Can you do something about the guards at my gate? They're like annoying flies—they nearly killed me over a design!"
Armand looked puzzled. "Guards? What guards?"
Grevi, who had visited Charles' factory and was more familiar with the situation, was warming his hands by the fire. Calmly, he asked, "Who do you think those guards are there for?"
"For whom?" Francis couldn't grasp the implication. "Aren't they government guards?"
"They're Gallieni's men, Francis," Grevi chuckled. "They're there to protect Charles."
In a flash, everything clicked. Charles, again. It was all Charles. It reminded Francis of the issue with his son Pierre's conscription. It was Charles's doing.
The realization stung. For a moment, he was tempted to confront Charles immediately. But Grevi didn't care about these grievances. Taking off his gloves and tossing them onto a nearby table, he stood before the fire, musing aloud.
"Gentlemen, we have a problem. Charles isn't our only competitor."
Francis, startled, looked at Grevi in disbelief. Who else could be producing tanks?
Grevi then revealed the answer. "Schneider, gentlemen! They've secured the backing of Joffre and the Automotive Technical Service (ATS) to develop a new model."
The entire room was in an uproar.
Schneider was a long-established French defense contractor, manufacturing artillery and naval vessels with considerable funding, technical expertise, and production capacity. Joffre was the French Army's chief commander, and ATS managed all military vehicle production.
Together, they formed an alliance no one could challenge.
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