Building a Conglomerate in Another World

The morning after the devastating air raid on Bogotá was eerily quiet. Smoke hung heavy over the city, blotting out the rising sun. The once-bustling capital of Gran Colombia now resembled a war-torn battlefield. Streets were littered with rubble and debris, the remains of government buildings lay in ruins, and the acrid smell of burning wood and steel filled the air. Survivors wandered aimlessly, their faces streaked with soot and tears, their expressions a mixture of disbelief and fear.

In the presidential palace—or what was left of it—President Mariano Velásquez stood in what had once been his office. Now, the walls were scorched black, the windows blown out, and the grand desk splintered into fragments. Velásquez, his face pale but his eyes burning with fury, turned to his gathered cabinet and military advisors. The group was smaller than usual; several key officials had perished in the bombing, their absence a glaring reminder of the attack's toll.

Velásquez's voice was low and cold, cutting through the heavy silence. "What… were those things?"

General Rodrigo Ibarra, his uniform stained with soot and his arm in a hastily applied sling, stepped forward. His face was lined with exhaustion, but his tone was firm. "Mr. President, our intelligence is still gathering details, but from what we've pieced together… they were flying machines. Bombers. Unlike anything we've ever seen."

Velásquez slammed his hand onto the remains of the desk, his anger finally breaking through. "Flying steel. Machines that rained fire and death upon our city. How could we not have known about this? How could our intelligence have failed so spectacularly?"

Felipe Ortega, the foreign minister, cleared his throat nervously. "Mr. President, Amerathia's technological advancements have always been a closely guarded secret. It appears they have taken their partnership with Hesh Industries to unprecedented heights. These bombers… they are a new weapon of war. One we were unprepared for."

Velásquez's gaze bore into Ortega, his voice dripping with venom. "Unprepared? Is that supposed to excuse this disaster? Our capital is in ruins! Our people are terrified! And Amerathia thinks they can get away with this?"

Ortega hesitated, then replied cautiously, "We must act carefully, Mr. President. Amerathia has clearly demonstrated its technological superiority. If we retaliate recklessly, we may provoke further attacks."

Velásquez clenched his fists, his knuckles white. "And if we do nothing, they'll see us as weak. This is not just about Bogotá—this is about the survival of Gran Colombia. We cannot allow Amerathia to dictate the terms of this war."

General Ibarra stepped forward again, his expression grim. "Mr. President, our current military capabilities are no match for those bombers. Our anti-air defenses are outdated, and we lack the resources to develop countermeasures quickly. We must secure support from our allies. Spain, France, even Britain—if we can rally them to our side, we might stand a chance."

Velásquez's anger simmered, but he nodded slowly. "You're right. We cannot fight this war alone. Ortega, send urgent messages to our ambassadors in Europe. Emphasize the Amerathian aggression and the destruction of our capital. Make them see that this is not just our fight, but a battle against imperialist tyranny."

"Yes, Mr. President," Ortega said, bowing slightly before leaving the room.

Velásquez turned back to Ibarra. "And you, General. Begin reorganizing our forces. I want every available unit mobilized and our defenses strengthened. If Amerathia dares to attack us again, they will find us ready."

Ibarra saluted, his injured arm making the movement stiff. "It will be done, Mr. President."

***

As Velásquez's government scrambled to respond, the people of Bogotá struggled to cope with the aftermath. Hospitals were overwhelmed with the injured, their halls echoing with the cries of the wounded. Volunteers worked tirelessly to clear rubble and provide aid, their faces grim with determination.

Among the survivors was a young boy, no older than ten, who clutched a tattered doll as he sat on the steps of what had once been his home. His wide, tear-filled eyes stared at the sky, as if expecting the flying machines to return at any moment.

An older woman approached him, placing a comforting hand on his shoulder. "They won't come back, niño," she said softly, though her own voice trembled. "Not today."

But deep down, the people of Bogotá knew the truth. Amerathia had proven its might, and the war was far from over.

Back in the Amerathian capital, President Theodore Clay reviewed the reports of the air raid with a sense of grim satisfaction. The mission had been a success. Bogotá was in chaos, its government reeling, and Amerathia had sent a clear message: their technological superiority was unmatched.

As Clay addressed his cabinet, his tone was resolute. "This war will not drag on," he declared. "Gran Colombia now knows what they're up against. If they have any sense, they'll back down."

Eleanor Moore, the Secretary of State, leaned forward, her expression cautious. "And if they don't, Mr. President? What's our next move?"

Clay's gaze was steely. "Then we continue to strike. This isn't just about Panama—it's about securing our place as a global power. We cannot afford to show weakness."

Jonathan Graves nodded in agreement. "The bombers are ready for additional missions, sir. If Gran Colombia refuses to surrender, we'll cripple them piece by piece."

Clay turned to his military advisors. "Begin preparations for a follow-up strike. Target their supply lines, their military infrastructure. If they want war, we'll give them war."
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As his advisors dispersed to carry out his orders, Clay remained seated, his mind racing. He knew the risks of escalation, but he also knew the stakes. This was no longer just about the Panama Canal—it was about the future of Amerathian dominance.

And he was determined to ensure that future, no matter the cost.

As the Amerathian war machine roared into motion, preparations for the next wave of strikes unfolded with cold efficiency. In Gran Colombia, Velásquez convened his generals, desperate to devise a strategy to counter the "flying steel" that had decimated his capital.