The Rise Of A Billionaire 1943
Chapter 40 - 41 – Havana

Chapter 40: Chapter 41 – Havana

When reporters came knocking, Pierre flatly refused.

"Make a name early," the saying goes— but it’s also true that the first bird out gets shot.

A yellow-skinned foreigner who acquired a white man’s factory without spending a cent?

That was not something many Americans could tolerate.

What if the same "zero-dollar purchase" trick got turned on them?

It would be a nightmare.

Besides, reporters didn’t come looking to praise him— they wanted to do a feature on his "zero-dollar factory grab."

That was just like shining a lantern in an outhouse—lighting up the crap.

So of course, Pierre said no.

Right now, the most important task was producing their new weapon.

How long does it take to manufacture 17 parts?

Four days.

From building jigs to adjusting machinery, within just four days, the factory had produced its first batch of 100 Model 43 "Wulu" submachine guns.

As he held one in his hands, Pierre felt a wave of pride.

Not just because it was his own design— but because this was a product from the future, now made real in this world.

Even if it was just a gun, it was a symbol. A weapon born of a world yet to come.

He raised the SMG, aimed at the target on the far wall, and squeezed the trigger.

Ratatatatatat—!

Rapid shots tore the wooden target into a beehive, while the sandbags behind it barely puffed up dust— almost every round hit its mark.

"Nice. Very nice."

He grinned, admiring the weapon.

"This thing’s definitely better than the Brits’ Sten gun. At the very least..."

He flicked the safety off with his thumb, fired another shot, and laughed,

"...at least it’s not just a pipe bomb on a stick."

Watching his boss’s smug expression,

Karl cautiously reminded him:

"Boss, even the best product is worthless if no one buys it."

And he spoke from experience.

His factory had collapsed not because of quality, but because the products just wouldn’t sell. The memory still hurt.

But before Pierre could respond, a voice cut in.

"Mr. Karl, this weapon will sell."

It was Li Leqin, standing nearby.

"This kind of gun—cheap, reliable, and accurate—no one can say no to it."

He wasn’t the designer, but as the process engineer who’d overseen production, he knew exactly how good it was.

"We’ve compared it to the Thompson, the M3 Grease Gun, and the Sten— this one’s more accurate, more reliable, and the cheapest of them all.

Even the Sten can’t match it."

Of course it couldn’t.

This thing had only 17 parts,

many of which were stamped, not milled.

"You’re absolutely right, Li."

Even Chief Engineer Simpson chimed in.

"I reached out to some old friends at Inland Manufacturing.

They say the frontlines are constantly short on SMGs.

The M3s are basically disposable.

If a better, cheaper replacement shows up, the military will definitely consider it."

Pierre turned back to Karl, smirking.

"You see? The people know what works."

Then he glanced at Li Leqin and asked,

"Where are you from? When did you come to America?"

"Boss, I’m from Jinan, Shandong. I entered Tsinghua in 1934. When the war broke out in 1937, the university moved south, and I went with it. In 1938, I left for the U.S. via French Indochina to continue my studies."

It was a simple answer, but one that spoke volumes.

That entire generation was shaped by war.

And those hardships forged talent.

Looking at Li Leqin and the other Chinese workers at the test site,

Pierre knew exactly what he had to do:

"Give them a platform to shine."

But to do that, he needed capital.

So once again, he played the role of human freight mule, flying out to Havana.

This time, though, someone was waiting.

Outside the airport, beside a sleek vehicle, stood a young woman in a chiffon dress and sunhat— Song Bing, elegant and graceful, her features faintly reminiscent of a certain future Hong Kong film star surnamed Song.

Pierre raised an eyebrow.

"Miss Song? What brings you here?"

"Monsieur Pierre, Welcome to Havana." she replied with a poised smile.

"My father heard you were coming and asked me to pick you up personally.

If you’re willing, we’d love to host you at our home."

"Thank you," Pierre said politely,

"but there’s no need to trouble you."

He preferred his own space— staying in someone else’s house was always inconvenient.

"Please thank your father for his kindness.

I’ve already booked a hotel room, but I appreciate the offer."

Her smile faltered.

Few people ever turned her down.

Still, she recovered quickly.

On the way to the hotel, to break the awkward silence, Song Bing offered, "Monsieur Pierre, thank you again. Thanks to your orders, many Chinese-owned sugar mills have reopened.

I didn’t expect you’d return so soon— or with even more business."

She smiled with genuine warmth.

Compared to her father’s past anxiety, he now spent every day revitalizing production, full of life. That change in him brought her peace too.

"There’s no need to thank me," Pierre replied.

Besides, your father sent 10% more stock than we agreed upon last time.

Such honesty in business is rare and admirable.

But next time, don’t worry about that. Business is business, after all.

We’re in this for the long haul."

His words were calm, even a bit distant.

Song Bing heard it clearly—he was keeping her at arm’s length.

She couldn’t quite understand it.

Was he really not interested?

Or just incredibly focused?

Annoyed, she pursed her lips and decided to stay quiet.

But only a few blocks later, she couldn’t help herself.

"Mr. Pierre... What exactly do you do in the U.S.?

Just trade?"

"Trade is just a side business," he said casually.

"Recently, I acquired a factory in New York."

Her eyes lit up.

"You run a factory too? What does it produce?"

---

Chapter 42 – Never Forget July 7th

"So... it’s just a mechanical parts factory?"

On the way to Karl Metal Company, General Jiang frowned as he flipped through the file in his hands.

"You’re sure this company can handle our order?"

His tone to Song Peilun, seated beside him, was filled with doubt.

Since arriving in the United States the previous year, General Jiang, in charge of China’s Defense Procurement Office, had learned that things were far more complicated than expected.

Though the U.S. had approved aid to China, its own manufacturing capabilities were overstretched.

With priority going to the UK and USSR, there simply wasn’t much left for China.

The Americans had been blunt about it:

"Find your own suppliers. We’ll pay the bill."

But that put General Jiang in an absurd position— he had plenty of U.S. dollars, yet nowhere to spend them.

He had even gone as far as Canada, trying to place an urgent order with Inglis for weapons badly needed back home.

But they too were tied up with British contracts.

As for China?

Get in line.

He understood the dire straits the Defense Procurement Office was in.

"Besides, do we even have other options right now?

Inglis just wired back—they can’t deliver anything until the end of the year.

But our forces back home?

They can’t wait that long."

Wang Fukei, sitting nearby, added,

"And the pistols we were promised were also seized by the British.

Even if they take our order now, there’s no guarantee the goods won’t be confiscated again."

"The damn Brits..."

General Jiang’s fists clenched at the memory.

"Last year, when the Japanese bombed Chongqing repeatedly,

we needed planes more than anything,

and those bastards rerouted our aircraft shipments to North Africa.

Now our weapons orders are getting hijacked too.

Even those prototype pistols—based on the FN1935—we handed them ourselves!"

Indeed, just two weeks ago, Inglis had delivered the first 1,000 pistols,

then the British military had seized the rest.

And those pistols had been made using Chinese-supplied blueprints and samples.

"Exactly," Song Peilun said.

"At least in America, we won’t have to worry about getting cut out by the Brits."

Jiang nodded grimly.

Being undermined from within was bad enough.

Getting scolded by headquarters back home? Even worse.

"But... have they actually ever made guns before?

They’re just a machine shop."

To this, Wang Fukei replied,

"General, we’ve been in the U.S. for over a year now.

We’ve toured dozens of plants.

How many of them were originally weapons factories?

What gives the U.S. its massive output is that civilian factories have converted to military production.

Why can’t they do the same?"

Jiang considered this.

"You’re not wrong...

Let’s hope this trip isn’t a waste of time."

It definitely wasn’t.

The only disappointment was that the company’s rather legendary boss wasn’t present.

According to the manager, Karl, he had gone to Havana for the weekend.

"To another country... just for the weekend?"

Now that was extravagant.

Still, there was no time to dwell on that.

Soon came surprise after surprise.

When they asked whether the company had the capability to manufacture firearms,

Karl simply smiled and invited them out back.

As they neared the factory’s testing range, they heard a burst of gunfire.

"Manager Karl," Jiang asked sharply,

"what’s with the gunfire?"

Karl turned to him and said proudly,

"General, in this war between good and evil, no one can afford to stay on the sidelines—including us.

Our company has developed a new submachine gun, which is now ready for mass production.

Its performance is outstanding—better than the M3 Grease Gun..."

Then he added,

"Not only is it better—it’s cheaper.

Even cheaper than the British Sten."

"What? Cheaper than the Sten?"

Jiang raised an eyebrow.

"But for weapons, price isn’t everything.

Reliability matters most."

"Don’t worry, General," Karl said confidently.

"This one’s shockingly reliable."

What followed was a live-fire demo.

The results were remarkable.

Compared to the Thompson, M3, and Sten, this new weapon showed superior firepower, reliability, and longevity.

In testing, it had fired over 5,000 rounds, with only one malfunction.

The delegation was completely won over.

"How much per unit? Let’s say..."

Jiang paused, doing mental math.

"...we order 50,000 units?"

"$12 per gun."

Karl explained,

"That’s slightly more than the Sten, but if we reach full-scale production—say 500,000 units— I guarantee the price will drop below $10."

$12 was an absolute bargain.

The three men—Jiang, Wang Fukei, and Song Peilun—exchanged glances.

While it was technically more expensive than what the British government paid for Stens, they were never going to get those prices anyway.

Canadian factories still had to turn a profit, after all.

"When can you start delivering?" Jiang asked without hesitation.

"First batch within a month. All 50,000 delivered within two."

Karl was confident.

With only 17 parts per gun—many stamped—they could even finish faster if the workflow smoothed out.

"Then let’s sign the contract immediately."

Jiang didn’t need to think twice.

Back home, they were desperate for weapons.

Waiting on U.S. allocations or British "mercy" wasn’t an option anymore.

After the deal was signed,

Jiang learned the gun didn’t yet have an official designation.

He paused, then suggested:

"Engrave the name onto the receiver:

’Type 77 Submachine Gun – Made in USA.’"

The room fell silent.

"77"—July 7th—the date of the Marco Polo Bridge Incident.

The spark that ignited eight long years of war.

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