You are ordered to support the War of Resistance against Japan; China enters Level 1 combat readines

"Shen, I think we need to have a serious talk!"

"Mr. Shen, we can discuss this price further!"

"Shen, the German Empire needs this technology!"

"Mr. Shen, the Soviet Union can be exchanged for anything!"

Shen Wang raised his hands and pressed them down, wearing the standard "honest businessman" smile on his face.

"No rush. Everyone, please contact the authorities back home first. This is a big matter; we need to report it to our superiors, right?"

The word "report" was like a bucket of cold water poured over everyone's heads, bringing them to their senses at the same time.

Yes, the technology to mass-produce ten tons of penicillin per year is beyond the authority of any one of them.

White's authorized limit was $200 million, and Morgan Jr.'s family funds were only $300 million. Sir George's special funds for the Department of Commerce were even less than White's. Von Speer's military procurement budget was quite large, but it was for buying tanks and artillery, not pharmaceutical technology.

Everyone realized that the main players in today's negotiations were no longer them, but the big shots behind them.

For the entire afternoon, radio waves over the city never stopped.

Representatives from various countries locked themselves in their guesthouse rooms, repeating the same set of numbers into radio microphones in their respective languages:

Ten tons, annual production, mass production technology, penicillin.

……

Washington, D.C., United States of America, 2:17 a.m.

When the door to the president's bedroom on the second floor of the White House was knocked, the lame president had just fallen asleep less than an hour earlier.

His personal secretary stood outside the door, his hand trembling as he clutched a confidential telegram urgently transferred from the State Council.

He worked at the State Council for twelve years and handled thousands of diplomatic telegrams, but none of them made him feel as if history was being rewritten in his hands as they did today.

"Mr. President, urgent telegram from the Far East. At the World Expo in Zhicheng, that Mr. Shen has the technology for mass production of penicillin! Annual production—"

The secretary paused, as if confirming that she hadn't misread the number.

"Ten tons!"

There was a moment of silence in the room. Then the president's voice came from behind the door: "Help me up! Immediately summon Secretary Stimson, General Marshall, and Dr. Corcoran to the Oval Office. A meeting will be held in ten minutes."

Ten minutes later, the lights in the Oval Office came on.

When the lame president was wheeled into the room in his wheelchair, Secretary of War Stimson, Army Chief of Staff Marshall, and the president's science advisor Cochrane were already gathered around the map table.

Everyone held a copy of the telegram in their hand, and everyone wore the same expression.

General Marshall spoke first, never mincing words: "Mr. President, if this number is true, it means that every wounded soldier who falls has a greater than 90% chance of getting back up and returning to the front lines!"

"We're not buying a drug, we're buying an army that can never be defeated."

Dr. Kokoron took off his glasses, wiped the lenses, and put them back on, but his gaze remained fixed on the number on the telegram.

He was the president's most trusted scientific advisor and had witnessed countless amazing breakthroughs in cutting-edge technology, but he still couldn't comprehend this number.

"Mr. President, I must remind you that the total annual penicillin production of all pharmaceutical companies in the United States is currently less than one billion units, less than one kilogram!"

"Pfizer and Merck are working together to tackle mass production technology, and their chief scientist's latest report to me says that it will take at least five more years to reach kilogram-level mass production."

"But this Eastern businessman jumped straight to the ton level! Sir, this is beyond our current scientific understanding."

"Gentlemen."

The lame president pushed up his gold-rimmed glasses on the bridge of his nose with two fingers, and the eyes behind the lenses, which always looked tired, were now surprisingly bright.

"I don't care where he got his technology from, nor do I care why an Eastern businessman is smarter than all our scientists combined."

"I only care about one thing: how to bring this technology back to the United States."

He turned to Secretary Stimson and said in an unquestionable tone, "Tell White that his negotiating cap is off. Whatever price Mr. Shen asks for, agree to it."

"The Treasury will handle the money issues, Fort Knox will handle the gold issues, and the Justice Department will draft a solution overnight to address the legal issues of technology transfer."

Then he looked at General Marshall, his tone softening slightly: "General, you understand better than I do the significance of penicillin for morale."

"A soldier who knows he won't die from his injury and a soldier who knows he'll most likely die from his injury are two completely different combat forces."

"I'd pay any price for this promise!"

……

The headquarters of the Wolf's Lair in East Prussia, the Third German Reich.

When the adjutant knocked on the door to the bearded man's bedroom, his hands were shaking more than the White House secretary's.

He wasn't unfamiliar with the Führer's anger; it was precisely because he had witnessed it so many times that he knew how dangerous it was to wake the Führer in the middle of the night.

But the call from Berlin said the telegram had to be delivered to the Führer immediately, without delay.

"Fa Xiu San Da! My Führer!"

He lowered his voice, trying to make his tone sound calm.

"Urgent telegram from Berlin! At the Far Eastern World's Fair, that Eastern businessman has presented the technology for mass production of penicillin, with an annual output of... ten tons!"

There was a rustling sound from the bed, and then the light came on.

The man with the small mustache sat on the edge of the bed in his pajamas, his hair a little messy, but his eyes had regained that characteristic, unsettling sharpness.

He took the telegram and read it from beginning to end. Then he read it again.

Then he stood up and paced around the room three times, the hem of his robe fluttering with each hurried step.

When he stopped, the expression on his face was not anger or shock, but an almost fanatical excitement.

This is something he has been waiting for.

The casualty figures on the Eastern Front were the heaviest weight on his heart, not because he cared about the lives of his soldiers, but because he knew that every fallen soldier was an irreparable loss of manpower for the empire.

If there were a drug that could bring wounded soldiers back to the front lines, that drug would be the lifeblood of the Empire's continued war effort.

"Tell von Speer, I don't care what the cost, bring that technology back to Germany!"

……

The British Empire, London, 10 Downing Street.

The prime minister was listening to reports from the North African campaign in the underground wartime cabinet meeting room when his secretary pushed the door open and he didn't even look up.

He didn't look away from the map until his secretary placed the telegram in front of him.

After reading the telegram, the Prime Minister remained silent for a moment, then removed the cigar from his lips and spoke in a calm tone rarely heard by his staff, uttering a sentence that silenced the entire room:

"Tell Sir George that I don't care what the cost, even if it means getting a medal from the King, I will get that thing back."

"Soldiers of the British Empire should not die from infected wounds."