Chapter 486: Tractors and Agricultural Technical School

The gunpowder smoke hadn't cleared yet, and the morning wind over the red‑soil plateau carried a whiff of burnt char.

Qian Weiguo stood with his hands behind his back, pacing around the still‑smoking T-62 Tank, occasionally kicking the tracks, his face full of disdain, as if picking over a soon‑to‑be‑scrapped cart at a junk market.

"These Soviet welders' skill really gets worse each generation," Qian Weiguo shook his head, pointing at the torn‑off turret ring, "it's just a big, clumsy, black lump—wastes fuel and serves no real purpose."

Not far away, a few men in "blue work clothes" were dragging the captured Soviet tank crews out of the vehicles. Those Soviet soldiers, their faces dusty and gray, had lost their former swagger; watching the surrounding laborers brandishing iron shovels with eyes fiercer than wolves, their calves cramped.

Manuro, eyes reddened, rushed forward, the Gold-Plated Desert Eagle already chambered, its barrel pressed against a Soviet lieutenant's forehead.

"Don't move," Lu Qingshan said, sitting on the jeep's hood, holding a half‑cooked corn cob, calling out to him.

"Mr. Lu! What are we keeping them for? Those bastards almost blew us all sky‑high yesterday!" Manuro gritted his teeth, his fingers trembling on the trigger.

"Killing them would be wasteful," Lu Qingshan chewed a bite of corn, pointing at the few grounded tanks, "Can you repair these iron hulks? Can you drive them? Or will the clueless troops under you drive them?"

Manuro was stunned.

"These are ready‑made tractor driver instructors, and they're free," Lu Qingshan tossed the corn cob aside, "Old Money, watch the people. Don't let them starve, but don't let them overeat either. Have them tidy up the few still‑functional tanks, saw off the gun barrels, and weld a large shovel bucket onto the front."

"Weld a shovel bucket?" Manuro's eyes nearly popped out, "That's a tank!"

"Here, it's a bulldozer," Lu Qingshan brushed the grit off his hand, "We still have to clear land for farming; we can't do without heavy machinery."

Luanda, Soviet Advisory Group Command.

General Ivanov stared at the battle‑damage report on the table, looking ten years older.

The entire army was annihilated.

What broke him most wasn't the defeat, but how they lost. Soldiers who fled back from the front babbled, saying the enemy used a "flying iron pipe" to blow the tanks to scrap, and claimed they weren't an army but a crew of construction workers fresh off the job.

"This is humiliation! It's the greatest insult to the Soviet Steel Torrent!" Ivanov slammed the ashtray against the wall.

What made him spit blood was that the so‑called "Star Han Group Security Department" had just issued a globally‑circulated statement.

Su Mingyuan, holding the drafted script, stood in the mining‑area broadcast room and read aloud with clear, resonant diction:

"... Yesterday, our agricultural development demonstration zone on the Angola border was maliciously rammed by unidentified armed personnel operating heavy illegal mining vehicles (i. e., T-62 Tank). At the same time, several illegal aircraft (i. e., Mi-24 Helicopter) conducted low‑altitude harassment, severely disrupting our normal crop pollination work. To protect company property and employee safety, our security personnel were forced to take lawful self‑defense measures, rendering the aforementioned illegal machines harmless..."

Ivanov listened to the interpreter's rendition, clutching his chest, nearly losing his breath.

Illegal mining vehicles? Interfering with pollination?

Goddamn interference with pollination!

In the mining area, Manuro was completely humbled.

He watched the tanks, now ripped to pieces, and the Soviet advisors who usually strutted before him, now crouching honestly on the ground, being scolded by a few Huaxia uncles like children, even beginning to learn how to dig pits with a cross pickaxe.

"Mr. Lu," Manuro approached Lu Qingshan, handing over the gold‑plated pistol that symbolized authority with both hands, his torso bent at a ninety‑degree angle, "The army under my Anyun command will henceforth be under your command. One word from you, and my men become your soldiers."

He was genuinely frightened. These Eastern folks were too uncanny—turning farming into tank production; who could stand against that?

Lu Qingshan didn't take the gun; he simply pushed the man's hand back.

"What do I need your army for? Feeding, drinking, and paying wages—it's a loss‑making business," Lu Qingshan said evenly, "Manuro, we're Partners, not warlords. The army remains yours; I only want the security rights over this one mu and three fen of land."

"But..."

"There's nothing but 'but'." Lu Qingshan pointed at the captives, "These people, and this scrap metal, I'm not taking from you for free. In a couple of days I'll have someone contact the Soviet side, trading these people and junk for something useful in return."

"What for? Money?" Manuro asked.

"Money's worthless," Lu Qingshan shook his head, "We trade for heavy construction machinery, for oil‑drilling equipment, for cement and rebar. With those, you can build your own skyscrapers in Luanda."

As he spoke, dust billowed in the distance.

The familiar white jeep rolled in again.

Smith this time wore no sunglasses; as he stepped out, he even stumbled slightly. He stared at the neatly arranged tank wreckage, then glanced at Qian Weiguo, who was directing Soviet captives to dig a latrine; his hand that removed the sunglasses trembled.

He had originally thought today's visit was to collect the dead for Lu Qingshan and to acquire the mining rights here.

Instead, the place not only avoided becoming ruins, it became even livelier.

"Mr. Smith, here to deliver money again?" Lu Qingjun crossed his arms at the doorway, a sly grin on his face.

Smith ignored him, walking straight to Lu Qingshan, his Adam's apple struggling as he said, "Mr. Lu... it seems I underestimated the East's mysterious power."

"Not mysterious, just skillful hands," Lu Qingshan ushered Smith into the tent.

On the table lay a blood‑stained leather notebook, seized from Ivanov's command vehicle.

Su Mingyuan was flipping through it nearby; when Smith entered, he smiled and closed the book.

"This is the Soviet army's latest communication codebook, plus their list of covert agents in South Africa," Lu Qingshan pointed at the book, "Smith, your Lanli Headquarters should be very interested in this, right?"

Smith's eyes instantly widened, his breathing quickening. With this, the US's intelligence war in Africa could be completely turned around!

"Name your price," Smith said hoarsely.

"No money," Lu Qingshan poured himself a cup of tea, "I want the road."

"The road?"

"Lift the blockade on all Xinghan Group shipping in Africa. Also, I want the US Government to formally recognize that all our commercial activities in Angola are protected by international law," Lu Qingshan stared at Smith, "And I don't want any more 'humanitarian aid trucks' showing up around my mining area."

Smith remained silent for a long while. It was a huge deal, but he had no choice.

"Deal," Smith said through clenched teeth, "but I need to take the book away for verification first."

"Be my guest," Lu Qingshan tossed the book over casually, as if discarding a scrap of paper.

Smith left with the book, his back hurried, lacking the arrogance he had upon arrival.

Three days later.

The outer mining area truly opened into thousands of mu of flat land.

Those T-62 Tanks had been altered beyond recognition—turrets removed, a massive shovel bucket welded to the front, a plow attached at the rear, and they rumbled across the red earth at the slowest speed of their lives.

In the driver's seat, the once‑arrogant Soviet ace pilot—now tearful—carefully modulated the throttle amid the muttering of "Old Money foreman," fearing he might crush the freshly raised ridge.

"See?" Lu Qingshan pointed at the bustling site, saying to Manuro, "A rifle can conquer the world, but only a hoe can safeguard it. Tell your troops not to spend all day thinking about robbery; learn how to plant potatoes. With a full belly, the heart won't panic."

Manuro watched the scene, nodding as if half‑understanding, feeling that the silhouette of this Eastern man before him was taller than the tanks themselves.

At that moment, Su Mingyuan approached, holding a freshly translated telegram, his expression hurried.

"Director Lu, urgent telegram from the Capital City."

Lu Qing Shan took the telegram; on it was only a line of text handwritten by Old Chen:

"Guests have arrived at home, return quickly. Someone is envious."

Lu Qing Shan looked east, folded the telegram neatly, and slipped it into his close pocket.

"It seems our old friend in Europe, the Rothschild family, can no longer sit still."

He turned around, patted the red earth on his body, and a cold glint flashed in his eyes.

"Pack up, go home."