Working as a police officer in Mexico-Chapter 1722 - 773: Are You Willing to Invest Again?

Brigadier General Alister Fitzroy has locked himself in his office for over twenty-four hours.

The coffee stain on the carpet has dried, leaving an unsightly mark.

Everything on the desk that could be smashed is now in pieces, including his beloved Victorian brass globe, which is now tilted in the corner, with a broken axis and a large dent in the Europe section.

The British still can't control their temper.

The guards outside the door have changed shifts three times, each time hearing the curses coming from inside.

"Polish bastard...hillbilly...traitor..."

The adjutant brought food and water for the third time, but they remained untouched, blocked outside the door.

"Officer, the telegram from London..."

"Get out!"

The adjutant backed away.

He knew that any message from London at this moment, whether comforting or rebuking, would only add fuel to the fire.

The actions of the Polish, like a precise slap in the face, were aimed at all countries that pride themselves as "NATO core," especially the United Kingdom, which sees itself as the "natural leader" of the Coalition Forces.

What Fitzroy could not bear the most was his inability to retaliate.

Direct military conflict?

The Polish "Lightning" Brigade still firmly controls nearly eighty kilometers of the front line in Indiana, an essential part of the Coalition Forces' defense system.

Touching them would be self-destruction and immediately lead to complete division and even infighting within NATO.

Political pressure? Warsaw on that side has clearly weighed the pros and cons. The joint statement with Mexico was carefully worded, staying within the "economic recovery framework," making it impossible to accuse them of "betrayal." Besides, the UK itself has demarcated a "concession" in Louisville, the French are mining in Tennessee, and the Germans are setting standards; who is cleaner than whom?

Fitzroy staggered to the broken military mirror on the wall. The person in the mirror had bloodshot eyes, messy hair, a wrinkled uniform, and whiskey splashes from the previous day on his collar.

He stared at the mirror, suddenly laughing, his laughter hoarse and unpleasant.

"Fools...we're all fools...still think we're playing 19th-century colonial games...dividing territories, carving spheres of influence...but the shotgun is in their hands..."

He recalled the scornful look in the eyes of the Polish envoy Marcinski in the Annaburg Manor, after being humiliated by Major Macauli under his command.

"Well..." Fitzroy muttered to himself, tidying his collar, trying to regain some of his usual demeanor, "Since the table has already been overturned, let's see who can pick up the most gold in the ruins."

He opened the door and said to the anxious adjutant outside, "Send a reply to London: suggest our capital and diplomatic channels adopt a more flexible intervention strategy, not bound by the traditional ally framework. Also, strengthen informal coordination with French and German counterparts to avoid unnecessary competition."

The adjutant quickly took notes, somewhat astonished at the officer who seemed to suddenly become "clear-headed" and even "detached."

Fitzroy walked to the window, looking at the gloomy sky outside.

He added, "Notify the intelligence service to focus on monitoring all communications, material flow, and personnel exchanges of the Polish troops and their rear Warsaw."

He had a premonition that the Polish would not be the last.

On the same day, in Georgetown, Northwest Washington D.C., in an inconspicuous brick townhouse basement.

It was soundproofed with a mix of old books and cigar scent lingering in the air.

The only light source came from the heavy green lampshade lamp on the desk, illuminating the thin document in the center.

The document had no title at the top, only a line of handwritten numeric code.

You couldn't see any electronic devices!

The man sitting behind the desk was in his fifties, with thinning hair, wearing reading glasses, dressed in a well-ironed but outdated suit.

His name was Richard Heller, assisting the Deputy Secretary for Nuclear Material Control at the United States Department of Energy.

In this era of near government paralysis and fragmented institutions, his position theoretically still held a tiny bit of power, or rather, he managed the ledgers of a few "legacy" warehouses not yet touched by the flames of war and not entirely controlled by the Freedom Alliance or the State Warlords.

Sitting opposite him was a man around forty who claimed to be "Carlson," dressed appropriately, smiling warmly, with a Midwest accent. He was a Facilitator, connecting clients seeking "special goods" in chaotic times.

"Mr. Heller, my clients are very interested in some...cooperation in inventory management aspects."

"Mr. Carlson, this 'certain raw materials rich but technically limited countries...'" Heller lifted his eyes, his gaze sharp but weary behind the glasses, "this description is quite broad."

Carlson smiled, the smile just right.

"Of course, clients always want to maintain a level of privacy. But we can be clear that they possess sufficient natural resources, like certain special ores, but have encountered technical bottlenecks and external procurement restrictions in concentration, shaping, and... 'miniaturization' and 'vehicle-ization' aspects. They believe the United States once had unparalleled...experience accumulation and physical references."

Heller's back was covered in a layer of cold sweat.

He understood.

What the other party wanted!

"That's impossible."

Heller's voice was dry but unexpectedly did not immediately stand up to send the visitor away, "This touches on the most sensitive aspects of international security and nuclear non-proliferation frameworks, even in the current situation, these are untouchable red lines. This would completely alter the regional and even global power balance, triggering unpredictable chain reactions."