Chapter 4: The Great War and Opportunities
By the summer of 1914, the world had caught fire. The assassination of an Archduke in a provincial city had been the spark, but Arthur knew the great powers of Europe were a forest that had been drying out for decades, just waiting for a flame. As nations draped themselves in flags and sent their sons to the slaughter with songs on their lips, an unnerving calm settled over the Sterling mansion. The initial, spectacular success of the BASF investment had not been a moment of celebration for Arthur, but one of grim confirmation. The first phase of his grand strategy was proceeding precisely on schedule.
Now fourteen years old, Arthur had grown into his role as the house's resident enigma. He was tall for his age and unnaturally lean, with the same placid, watchful eyes that had so unsettled his parents in his infancy. His voice had deepened, losing its childish tenor and settling into a calm, measured tone that made his pronouncements even more impactful. He navigated the world of his adolescence with a chilling precision. He was a ghost in the opulent halls of his home, a silent presence in rooms where his father met with grim-faced men of industry, a mind that operated on a completely different plane from the patriotic fervor and jingoism that swept America.
While other boys his age were following baseball scores and dreaming of adventure, Arthur was orchestrating a silent corporate conquest. The Great War, for him, was not a tragedy to be lamented; it was the greatest economic catalyst in human history, a violent restructuring of the global order. And he intended to be its primary architect.
"Charles," he said, summoning his father to the library command center. The name 'Father' had fallen out of use in their private meetings years ago. It was a relic of a relationship that no longer existed. "The initial capital injection from the BASF venture is insufficient. It was a seed. Now we must plant a forest."
Charles, now fully accustomed to his role as the grand vizier to his son, simply nodded and took a seat. "What is your directive?"
"The nature of warfare is changing," Arthur explained, gesturing to a series of technical journals and engineering schematics laid out on the grand desk. "This will not be a war of cavalry charges and gallant duels. It will be a war of steel, chemicals, and machines. The Sterling Empire will not merely profit from it; we will become its engine."
Over the next two years, as Europe bled, Arthur transformed Sterling Holdings. He saw the future of the conflict with the perfect clarity of hindsight.
His first move was into aviation. At a time when airplanes were considered flimsy novelties for daredevils, Arthur knew they would become the new high ground of the battlefield. He didn't just invest; he created. He directed Charles to establish a new subsidiary, "AeroCorp of America," and began aggressively acquiring struggling inventors, brilliant engineers, and small-time aircraft workshops. He poured capital into designs that the U.S. Army considered too radical, focusing on engine power, structural integrity, and payload capacity. He was building the foundation of a modern air force while the current one was still trying to figure out how to mount a machine gun without shooting off its own propeller.
Next came the sinews of war. He acquired controlling interests in steel mills, steering their production toward specialized alloys he knew would be critical for artillery and naval vessels. He bought shipping lines, understanding that the war would be won not just by soldiers, but by the logistics that supplied them. He invested heavily in domestic chemical plants, preparing them to mass-produce explosives, fertilizers to sustain the home front, and, in a darker, more secretive wing of his enterprise, preparing research into the very poison gases he knew would soon define the horror of trench warfare.
He was building a vertically integrated war machine. Sterling-owned mines would produce the ore, which Sterling-owned mills would turn into steel, which Sterling-owned factories would fashion into shells, which Sterling-owned ships would transport to Europe. At every step, a profit was made, and more importantly, control was consolidated.
His actions did not go unnoticed. While most of American high society was content to host fundraising galas and knit socks for soldiers, the scale and foresight of the Sterling operation attracted a different kind of attention. It brought Silas Blackwood to their door.
Blackwood was a relic from a previous, more rapacious era of capitalism. An old friend of Arthur's grandfather, he was a retired industrialist who had built a railroad empire on ruthless tactics and political corruption. He was a man of immense, quiet influence, with connections that ran into the deepest, darkest corners of Washington D.C. and Wall Street. He was seventy years old, with eyes like chips of obsidian set in a wrinkled, leathery face. He saw the world not as a collection of nations and people, but as a great, brutal game of power, and he had been one of its premier players.
He arrived at the mansion in the winter of 1916, ostensibly for a glass of brandy with Charles. But his true purpose was to inspect the anomaly he had been hearing about in his exclusive circles: the Sterling boy.
He found Arthur in the library, as expected. The teenager was overseeing a large wall map where a team of clerks updated troop movements and supply routes with colored pins based on the latest telegraphs from Europe.
"Quite the operation for a boy your age," Silas rasped, his voice like grinding stones. He dismissed Charles with a wave of his hand. "Leave us. I wish to speak with your heir."
Charles hesitated for a moment before nodding and retreating, closing the doors behind him.
Silas prowled the room, his eyes taking in the stock tickers, the direct telegraph lines, the overflowing shelves of technical and economic texts. He came to a stop before Arthur.
"Your father thinks you're a genius," Silas stated, his gaze sharp and penetrating. "A gift from God. I, however, am not a religious man. I've seen men with a knack for numbers before. They usually end up rich or in prison. But you… you are different. Your move with BASF wasn't a gamble. It was an execution. Your acquisitions since then are not investments; they are a mobilization. You are not betting on this war; you are harnessing it."
Arthur met the old man's gaze without flinching. He recognized Silas for what he was: a fellow predator, albeit one whose time was past. "War is a powerful current, Mr. Blackwood. One can either be swept away by it or learn to sail upon it."
Silas let out a dry, rattling laugh. "Sail upon it? Boy, you are building the damn ship and charting its course. I've been speaking to some old friends in the War Department. They are impressed and terrified by the efficiency of your operations. You are anticipating their needs months, even years, in advance. They want to know who is behind it." He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "So, I ask you. Not as a curious old man, but as a fellow… artist. What is your game?"
This was a pivotal moment. The Great Sage analyzed Blackwood's history, his network, his psychological profile.
«Analysis complete. Silas Blackwood. High-level sociopath. Motivation: Power, legacy, and a fascination with the mechanisms of control. Potential value as an asset: Extremely high. Probability of betrayal: Moderate, but manageable with appropriate leverage.»
Arthur made his decision. He would not reveal his true nature, but he would show the old man a glimpse of the mind at work.
"My game," Arthur replied coolly, "is to win. Not just this war, but the peace that follows. And the war that follows the peace. The world is entering a new century, Mr. Blackwood. An age of chaos, ideology, and technological terror. The old empires are dying. New ones will rise. I intend for the Sterling Empire to be the greatest of them all, a power accountable to no nation and no king."
Silas stared at him for a long, silent minute. The look in his eyes was not one of shock or disbelief. It was one of dawning, profound recognition. He was not looking at a boy genius. He was looking at a peer, a creature of pure, unadulterated ambition, the likes of which he had only seen once or twice in his long, predatory life.
"By God," Silas whispered, a slow, wolfish grin spreading across his face. "You magnificent bastard. Charles has no idea what he's sired." He straightened up, his demeanor changing. The test was over. "You are wasted in this library, boy. An intellect like yours shouldn't be reading about the world; it should be running it. The men I know… they don't care about your age. They care about power and results. You have both. It is time you met them."
That was the beginning of Arthur's true education. Silas Blackwood became his unlikely mentor and guide, a Charon ferrying him across the river into the true underworld of power. He introduced the fifteen-year-old Arthur to senators in smoke-filled backrooms, to generals at the Army and Navy Club, to bankers who decided the fates of nations over private dinners.
To them, Arthur was Blackwood's "protégé," a strange, silent boy who saw the world in numbers and probabilities. They would speak freely in front of him, assuming he was too young or too socially inept to grasp the nuances of their cynical games. But Arthur was listening, and the Great Sage was recording, analyzing every word, every promise, every secret. He was mapping the intricate web of corruption, ambition, and influence that truly governed the country. He learned that power was not in the elected office, but in the unelected hands that pulled the strings. And he began, ever so subtly, to pull some of those strings himself.
When the United States officially entered the war in 1917, Sterling Holdings was perfectly positioned. It became a primary contractor for the American Expeditionary Forces. AeroCorp's planes, once considered experimental, were now the backbone of the nascent U.S. Army Air Service. Sterling Steel provided the armor for the new American tanks, and Sterling Shipping transported a significant percentage of the men and material to France. The family fortune grew to obscene, almost unimaginable levels.
Arthur's inner sanctum was now his map room. One entire wing of the mansion had been converted. The walls were covered with vast, detailed maps of the Western Front, the Eastern Front, and the political geography of the entire world. Here, he spent most of his nights, not sleeping, but gaming out the future with the Great Sage.
Sage, run a simulation on the outcome of the German Spring Offensive, incorporating their use of new stormtrooper tactics against the exhausted British and French lines, he would command.
«Simulating… High probability of initial breakthrough. However, analysis of German logistical capabilities indicates the offensive is unsustainable. They will outrun their supply lines within six weeks. The advance will stall, their morale will break, and the subsequent Allied counter-offensive, bolstered by fresh American troops and materiel, will be decisive. Projected end of hostilities: late autumn, 1918.»
He didn't just simulate battles. He simulated the peace.
Model the political outcome of an Allied victory. Key variables: Wilson's idealism, French desire for revenge, British pragmatism, and the underlying financial exhaustion of all European belligerents.
«Simulation complete. Outcome: The Treaty of Versailles. It will be a punitive peace. Germany will be crippled by war reparations, its territories stripped, its military dismantled. The treaty will create deep-seated resentment and economic instability. It will not be a foundation for lasting peace. Instead, it will be the primary catalyst for a second, more destructive global conflict in approximately twenty years.»
Arthur looked at the results, his expression grimly satisfied. It all aligned with his own memories of the 20th century. His path forward was clear. While the world celebrated the end of one war, he would be preparing for the next.
In November 1918, as the bells of New York's churches rang out to celebrate the armistice, Silas Blackwood found Arthur in the map room. The old man was holding two glasses and a bottle of expensive French brandy.
"A toast," Silas declared, pouring two generous measures. "To us. To the victors."
Arthur ignored the glass. He was staring at the map of Europe, where his clerks were already redrawing the borders, erasing the old empires.
"Look at them," Silas said, gesturing vaguely toward the window, from which the faint sounds of celebration could be heard. "They celebrate peace. They mourn the dead. Ten million of them. A tragedy on a scale the world has never seen." He took a sip of his brandy. "A necessary tragedy, perhaps. But a tragedy nonetheless."
Arthur finally turned from the map to look at the old man. His eyes were cold, devoid of any sentiment.
"You call it a tragedy, Silas," Arthur said, his voice quiet but resonant in the cavernous room. "You see the ashes, the bones, the tears. Your perspective is limited. You are still thinking like a human."
He walked over to the map, his hand tracing the new, fractured borders of Central Europe.
"War is not a tragedy. It is a tool. It is the most powerful agent of change humanity has ever devised. War is a great, roaring fire. It burns away the old, the rotten, the decadent, the inefficient. It clears the forest of its dead wood, leaving behind cleared, fertile ground."
He looked at Blackwood, a flicker of something almost like pity in his eyes.
"The masses, the politicians, even men like you—you see the burning. You fear the flames and weep for what was lost. I see the potential of the soil. The opportunity to plant something new. Something stronger. Something designed from the foundation up, without the flaws of the old world."
He turned back to the map, his gaze sweeping across the globe. "Ten million dead is not a tragedy. It is a down payment. The cost of clearing the board for a new game. This war was just the preliminary round. The next one will be even grander. And I will be ready for it. I will not be a mere profiteer. I will be a guiding hand, ensuring the chaos serves a greater purpose."
He finally looked at Silas, whose cynical, knowing grin had vanished, replaced by a look of profound, chilling awe.
"My purpose."
Silas Blackwood, the man who had cheated and swindled his way to the top of a ruthless world, felt a genuine shiver of fear. He finally understood. He thought he was mentoring a new player. He was wrong. He was merely a pawn in the service of the man who intended to own the entire game. And the game was only just beginning.