classifiedscript Chapter 290 - 146: The Dictator
Chapter 290 - 146: The Dictator
He was going to use Pittsburgh’s newly beating heart to pump blood and reawaken the entire dying body.
He was playing a much larger game.
「Two weeks later. Monongahela River Valley.」
A heavy-duty crawler crane slowly hoisted a twenty-meter-long I-beam, suspending it in mid-air. Then, guided by a series of whistles and signal flags, the beam was lowered precisely onto its designated base.
"CLANG!"
The dull impact made the very ground beneath their feet tremble.
Dust billowed into the air.
Leo, wearing a bright orange reflective vest and a white hard hat, stood on a command platform at the edge of the construction site.
Ethan stood beside him. Even on a construction site, the chief of staff was trying to maintain the decorum of a Washington elite, constantly brushing dust from his clothes.
"They’re here," Ethan said, pointing toward the site’s entrance.
Leo looked up.
Through the swirling dust, he saw a convoy of black vehicles driving up the newly laid temporary road.
It was a fleet of five full-size Chevrolet SUVs.
These types of vehicles were standard for visiting government officials.
The convoy came to a halt below the command platform.
The car doors opened.
A group of middle-aged men in dark suits, overcoats, and leather shoes stepped out.
These were the mayors of seven major declining industrial cities from Western and Central Pennsylvania.
They were the other survivors of the Rust Belt.
Or rather, the other strugglers.
The man at the very front was powerfully built with a full head of silver hair. Despite his age, he still maintained the upright posture of a soldier.
Ron Smith.
The Mayor of Erie City.
He was a traditional Republican—conservative and stubborn, representing the white, blue-collar workers from the Lake Erie Shoreline whose families had worked in the machine tool factories and shipyards for generations.
His city was experiencing its coldest winter yet. Its last major machine tool factory had just announced layoffs the previous month.
Following behind him was a portly man with gold-rimmed glasses who looked like a college professor or an accountant.
Joe Byers.
The Mayor of Scranton.
He was a typical moderate Republican—cautious and meticulous. He was skilled at navigating the various departments in the state capital of Harrisburg, begging like a pauper for a pitiful budget for his city.
The other mayors each had their own distinct personalities, but they all wore the same expression on their faces:
confusion, wariness, and a trace of unconcealable jealousy.
This kind of gathering was strange.
According to political protocol in Pennsylvania, this kind of inter-city meeting of mayors should have been convened by the governor or a leader from the State Assembly in a conference room in Harrisburg.
Everyone would sit in a red-carpeted room, drink Evian Water, and discuss regional cooperation agreements that would never actually be implemented.
But today, the invitation had been sent by a young mayor who had been in office for less than six months.
And the venue was a noisy, dirty, and dangerous construction site.
In the world of politics, this was called "presumption."
Leo Wallace had no administrative authority to order around these mayors, who were his peers.
Legally speaking, they were under no obligation to attend. They could have simply thrown the invitation in the trash and laughed at the young man’s audacity.
But they came anyway.
The reason was simple: self-interest.
Erie’s steel mills were working overtime to produce I-beams for Pittsburgh, and Scranton’s cement trucks were heading to the South District construction site in a steady stream.
Their fiscal revenues, their cities’ employment rates—right now, they were all latched onto the five-hundred-million-US-Dollar artery that was Pittsburgh.
They knew full well that this five hundred million US Dollars would one day run dry.
But for now, since they were taking the money, they had to show some respect.
That, and their curiosity about the "Pittsburgh Miracle."
They all wanted to see for themselves what this young man, who was rising against the tide in the Rust Belt, was really up to.
And so, they went with the flow. This tacit approval, in effect, allowed Leo to position himself as a regional leader.
Leo handed the blueprints to Ethan, strode down from the command platform, and went straight to greet them.
"Welcome, gentlemen."
Leo’s voice was loud as he extended a hand to the visitors.
"Welcome to the Pittsburgh Inland Port."
Ron Smith stopped. He glanced at Leo’s grimy hand, hesitated for a moment, but took it anyway.
He scanned the bustling construction site, taking in the dozens of cranes and the workers swarming below like ants.
Finally, his gaze landed on Leo’s face.
"Mayor Wallace."
Smith’s voice was cold and hard.
"Did you call us all the way from hundreds of miles away to this godforsaken place just so we could look at this?"
Smith gestured at the crane hoisting a steel beam behind him.
"Are you trying to show off your good luck? Or did you want us to see with our own eyes how you’re spending the five hundred million US Dollars you scammed out of Washington?"
"If this is about showing off, I think I’ve seen enough. Erie has construction sites, too. They may not be this big, but we’ve seen cranes before."
A few of the Republican mayors standing nearby murmured in agreement.
Joe Byers pushed up his glasses and tried to smooth things over.
"Ron, don’t be like that. I’m sure Leo just wanted to share his experience." Byers turned to Leo. "However, Mr. Mayor, it is quite noisy here. Perhaps we could find a quieter place to sit and talk? City Hall, for instance?"