FT long read: The Broker

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“The pretis weapons factory sits in a narrow valley”

on the northern edge of Sarajevo,

pressed against the steep forested slopes that rise behind the Bosnian capital. Inside, Cold War era machines hammer at glowing steel, heated to more than 1,000 degrees Celsius. Factory such as pretis once produced hundreds of thousands

of artillery shells each year for a European land war that never arrived. After the 1990s, many of the Bosnian production lines fell silent. Skilled explosives workers retired and state-owned plants

only survived by exporting modest quantities of ammunition to far away conflicts. Then, in the spring of 2024, a newly formed American company began buying up shares in pretis

“and another Bosnian arms factory, Venus.”

The company, Citco Acquisition, LLC, had no website, no public staff, and no footprint beyond the US post office box. Through a series of discrete trades on the Sarajevo Stock Exchange, Citco became the largest private shareholder

in both factories, second only to the Bosnian government.

The purchase is attracted a little attention, but the few who noticed, wondered, who was behind them, and why an unknown American firm was taking positions in one of the Balkans most sensitive industries.

The trail buried deep in layers of corporate filings led back to Virginia Beach, a US coastal city better known for its boardwalk hotels

“than for its role in the global arms trade.”

The Bosnian acquisitions were part of a new global weapons supply chain, being assembled by a 47-year-old former college baseball hopeful.

X-Marodin Stockbroker and Pentagon contractor

called Will Summer and Dyke. Over the past decade, Washington has built a new architecture for projecting power. Rather than deploy its troops, the US has relied on covert and often privatized supply chains and contractors

to equip proxy forces and partners from Syria to Yemen and Ukraine. That means battles are partly for far away from the front line by a new breed of war entrepreneur who moves the weapons rather than fires them. Shaped by pre-2008 crisis, boiler and finance,

an experienced in covert Pentagon logistics operations. Summer and Dyke had already turned the small company he founded with his parents into a conduit for supplying ammunition to conflicts by Washington preferred distance.

Now in Bosnia, he'd spotted an opportunity to make a leveraged, all in-bet on the modern shape of war. With Russia's invasion of Ukraine, 155 millimeter rounds, heavy, simple, devastating, had suddenly become in summer and Dyke's words.

The hottest commodity on the planet. In the summer of 1999, Summer and Dyke stood on the sidelines of the stadium of the Norfolk tides, a Virginia-Minoleague baseball team, watching the pictures work under the floodlight.

He was 21 then, broad-shouldered and six foot two. His face had the reassuring geometry of the American bullplay. Square-jaw, clean lines, sturdy. Under the brim of his cap, his blue eyes followed each pitch until it snapped into the catch as gloves.

He observed the player's movements intensely, trying to pick up anything that might save his own wavering career. Summer and Dyke had grown up on a naval base in Virginia Beach, dreaming of becoming a pro. Plenty of kids in his area fantasized about the majors,

but as the son of a navy chief, he was more disciplined, the most. He practiced for hours beneath the roar of U.S. Air Force jets, flying sorties overhead. He obsessed over a single pitch, the slider, a ball that deceives the batter by drifting towards the plate,

After high school, Summer and Dyke

“enrolled at Christopher Newport University,”

a small public college in Virginia, and earned a place on his baseball team. Professional scouts were occasionally come to watch him, but his throwing speed was unremarkable, and his record middling. By a senior year, Summer and Dyke knew his chances were fading.

The internship with the tides, he realized, might be his last shot at going pro. During the day, he replaced burnt out bulbs in the scoreboard, or crawled under the bleachers to make repairs. On nights like this, he lingered at the edge of the field,

studying. Summer and Dyke's pitching wasn't fast enough, but he was convinced of his potential. Eventually, he worked up the courage to approach the tides' coach Rick Whates,

a former Major League pitcher, and asked for some advice. Coach Whates is working up a full workout program for me, the young intern, taught a local reporter, and I fully planned to follow it.

But the scouts never came back.

“The following summer, Summer and Dyke found himself”

on the 11th floor of the Dominion Tower in Norfolk, sitting in the offices of Merrill Lynch. Fresh out of college, and with his baseball dreams over, he needed a job. He had an interview at the Wall Street brokerage

whose hard-selling financial advisors were known as the "thundering herd." The Maryland executive asked him, "What are you going to do if you don't get this job?" Well, Summer and Dyke replied, "Smith Barney is right across the hall.

"I'm just going to go work for them "and take every Merrill account I can possibly take." The executive looked at him, just starting tomorrow. It was the year 2000, the height of the dot com bubble. New brokers were expected to make hundreds of cold calls a day.

Work started at 7 a.m. and often ended at midnight.

The attrition ray was so high that nobody bothered to learn a recruits name until they'd lasted at least six months. Summer and Dyke thrived.

“Making 300 calls a day meant learning to be funny”

when needed, charming when possible and relentless always. The goal wasn't to get a yes, so much as a void and no. But the adrenaline of finance couldn't feel the void baseball had left.

One day in 2004, over the dinner bringing phones, Summer and Dyke turned to a colleague and asked, "You really think we can pull this off?" He discovered that a struggling, major league baseball franchise in Montreal was looking for a new home.

His part of Virginia, one of the largest populations centers in the country without a professional team, seemed like a contender. Convincing the league to move the franchise to Virginia Beach was an audacious goal for a 26 year old

with a few years experience and finance. Married by then, and with a baby on the way, Summer and Dyke threw himself into the effort. He said he worked 100 hours weeks, slept 4 hours a night and sent emails at 2 a.m.

and fueled himself with Coca-Cola. He lobbied the mayor's office to count billboards and even painted city manhole covers to look like baseballs in an attempt to build local support. One day, he'd cold-called Peter Angela's,

the famously cranky billionaire owner, the Baltimore Orioles. Somehow, he persuaded the Tycoon Secretary to put him through and pitched him his idea. Angela's, Summer and Dyke told me, was receptive,

but Major League Baseball was not. Not long afterwards, the franchise was awarded to Washington DC. Summer and Dyke's baseball dream had died a second time.

By then, his professional life was also beginning to crack. After a failed attempt to juggle his brokerage job with a startup selling kiosk advertising, state and industry regulators,

accused him of misleading an investor and violating securities rules. Summer and Dyke had taken $50,000 from a local dentist that he'd met playing amateur baseball to fund his startup.

When the business ran into trouble, Summer and Dyke was reduced to selling off the kiosks on Craigslist. The dentist lost his entire investment. Summer and Dyke denied the allegations,

but a Virginia securities regulator, later concluded that his conduct had amounted to quote, "Fraud against an investor." The financial industry regulatory authority, Finra, also find him and suspended his broker's license.

Summer and Dyke had spent his 20s chasing one dream after another, each collapsing faster than the last. Now, in his early 30s, out of finance and running out of prospects, he needed a new dream

Events were beginning to unfold

that would transform his life. By late 2012, Syria had collapsed into a civil war in which President Bashar Al-Assad had used chemical weapons on civilians. The brutality fueled calls for action

for the Obama administration, drained by Iraq and Afghanistan, had little appetite for another direct intervention. The US instead turned to covert action.

“The CIA launched a secret program, Tim Becycamore,”

run out of Jordan to train and arm rebels with the goal of weakening or toppling Assad. In parallel, the US special operations command, so-called, began its own covert effort

to move large quantities of weapons into the country

according to numerous press reports and court documents. But these fighters relied on Soviet era rifles, rocket-propelled grenades and artillery, the US didn't produce. Supplying them meant finding intermediaries who could quietly buy up Eastern European stockpiles

and ship them into Syria without drawing attention. Around the same time, Somerandike was waiting in line in a municipal building in Virginia Beach to file a $35 new business license that would in time put him at the heart of that system.

He'd spend the previous few years helping small police and military equipment firms market their goods overseas,

“a freelancer learning the basics of an esoteric trade.”

Now, he wanted his own company. He molded the name for days, something solid he thought, something that sounded strong. When he slid the form across the counter, the company named Red, Regulus Global.

He signed a lease on a $20,000 square foot warehouse for $7,000 a month and began cold-calling small defense suppliers. His pitch was simple. He would sell whatever surplus inventory they couldn't. He brought his parents out of retirement.

His mother was the administrator, his father handled sales. They probably thought I was back shit crazy, he told me. Regulus's early deals were less than minor. Hoxes of second-hand ballistic glasses, bought cheap and resold. Then, crates of gun holsters, the smell of leather,

lingering in the high echoing warehouse. On weekends, they drove to regional gun shows to sell a few hundred dollars worth of stock at a time. Sometimes, his father resorted selling items on eBay. In winter, the trio had all around portable heaters

that repeatedly blew the breakers. In summer, Samarindike worked in boxer shorts and flip flops.

By the end of the first year, Regulus had crossed $1 million in revenue.

But to go further, Samarindike needed to meet the men who dominate the global arms trade. Expose in London, Paris, and the Gulf were filled with them. Defense Ministry officials impressed fatigue, consultants and dark suits,

standing beside missile mock-ups in glass cases, displaying optics and sniper rifles. Samarindike didn't know them, but years of Maryland cold calling had taught him the strangers were only strangers for the first 30 seconds of a conversation.

He began flying to the global conference centers in hotel suites where arms dealers negotiated under fluorescent lights. He treated every handshake like a lead. At night, he spread catalogs and business cards across his hotel desk,

cross-referencing and annotating them. On a whiteboard, he mapped which factories made which weapons, which governments bought from which suppliers. This business is old school, he said. People want to look you in the eye.

“If you're in someone's office, you can see what matters to them.”

Photos of their kids, their favorite team. When he wasn't flying, he was teaching himself the bureaucracy of war. He read the international traffic in arms regulations, the dense legal code governing U.S. arms exports,

like a religious text. He learned end-user certificates, state department licensing portals, transit rules, customs timing. He studied all with the same intensity he once brought to the Norfolk Tides sidelines.

Reguluses contract slowly grew. Night vision goggles, printers, tactical uniforms. Each deal puts some rindike closer to the core of the market, the listics. He learned which depots in Eastern Europe still held cold or stockpiles

on which intermediaries were trustworthy. The amount of stuff made during the cold war is beyond comprehension some rindike said. You could go into the hills of Bulgaria and find storage facility after storage facility.

some rindike was learning to source.

“In 2014, the core came from the Pentagon.”

U.S. Special Operations Command, so-called needy contractors who could quickly locate and move Soviet caliber weapons for rebels fighting in Syria. Larger firms were slow. Summer and dikes pitch were speed.

Regulus could deliver in less than 50 days he told them when others required six months. Weeks later, he climbed aboard an illusion, ill 76, a Soviet-built cargo jet roaring on an air strip in Eastern Europe. Through the open ramp, he watched chain-smoking load masters

maneuver crates of weapons into place. In any operation I've ever had, he told me.

I've always been on the first flight.

I want to see the entire operation myself. The steel beneath him vibrated as Eastern Europe dropped away. Somewhere below obscured by clouds was a war that the U.S. wasn't supposed to be fighting. By the time the aircraft touched down,

regulus had crossed an invisible line. Summer and dikes was no longer a small town broker, selling holsters with his father at gun shows. He'd become part of the machinery of modern American war. On June 6, 2015, Francis Norwillow, a 41-year-old American military

contractor with a beard and a baseball cap, stirred on a shooting range in the Bulgarian mountains, holding a rocket-propelled grenade launcher. Next to him, stood several other contractors,

ex-soldiers and navy veterans, sent to Eastern Europe under

a so-com program to train and equip anti-assad fighters. The location and activity are of a sensitive nature, worn to so-com letter, later released in U.S. court filings, describing the Bulgaria contract.

“Work on this effort may reach the top secret level.”

The plan was for the men to familiarize themselves with Soviet-made anti-tank weapons before flying to a Jordanian air force base, where they were trained Syrian rebels to use the same systems. They were not working directly for the U.S. military.

So-com had outsourced the training to a small company called Purple Shovel, which had hired Norwillow. Purple Shovel, in turn, sub-contracted the job of sourcing weapons to regalist global. The arrangement hadn't been smooth sailing.

A few weeks earlier, it became clear that several simulators needed for the training were unavailable in Bulgaria. Summer andike had proposed a work around. He arranged for the contractors to travel to Belarus,

a Russian ally, to practice on the required systems. Belarus was usually off limits for Americans. I had to pull a ninja move to get all this training coordinator, summer andike wrote in an email to executives of the sub-contracting firms in late May.

“It is very, very important that the three guys”

do not mention to anyone Tuesday through Friday in Bulgaria that they were in Belarus. No loose lips, learn the platforms, and off they go. Back in Bulgaria, Norwillow pulled the trigger on the RPG. The grenade detonated instantly,

killing him and sending Schrappner into another contractor nearby. The munition later found to have been manufactured in 1984 was defective. Norwillow's widow sued Purple Shovel, regalist global, and another sub-contractor in US court,

alleging, quote, that they knew the US government rejected those same grenades because they were defective, unstable, and dangerous. The case was later settled. I felt awful about what happened, summer andike said,

adding that he offered help repatriating Norwillow's body, but I had nothing to do with what had gone on. He maintains that regalist was responsible only for supplying equipment, not training or range safety, and that he had not supplied the grenade, the kill, Norwillow.

My job was to deliver equipment. I delivered equipment. The transition from selling surplus holsters helping equip rebels with heavy weapons he would later tell me, was simply another line item, just another skew,

referring to the acronym for a stock-keeping unit. Explosives were just numbers on a spreadsheet. By 2016, regalist was growing quickly,

with more than 15 employees, and roughly $40 million

in annual revenue, according to Summer andike. The company had built a reputation for being able to source and move weapons to difficult places with unusual speed. Summer andike believed that by understanding

and politics shaped conflict, he could anticipate demand

“for armaments before defense ministers asked.”

Everything at the end of the day is economics. War is economics, he told me. His team began predicting what weapons nations needed before they knew themselves. If somebody was telling us, this is what we need.

We were already too late, he said. His relationships with foreign governments deepened, and he avoided making enemies. You work with extreme personalities and big egos, he said. There are borderline psychopaths in this business.

Summer andike continued to travel relentlessly, attending meetings with defense mysteries or monitoring cargo loads on air strips.

He still tried to ride the first transport flight

on each major operation, taking a hammock with him to sleep in the belly of cargo planes. He became increasingly cautious about his own safety, avoiding large hotels, and keeping stays abroad as short as possible.

The pace took a toll, his marriage began to fail. As regalist pursued bigger clients, summer andike found himself supplying US partners, fighting wars, far beyond previous moral boundaries. He traveled to places in the aftermath of mass death,

where the stench of bodies lingered in the air. You know, you pick up smells and stuff, he said.

“Seeing things is one thing, but smells, that's what stays with you.”

By 2017, regalist was brokering deals for the Saudi Ministry of Defense, supplying a war in Yemen that had triggered international outrage for mass civilian casualties. The year before, after more than 140 people were killed

by air strikes targeting a funeral in the Yemeni capital, the White House said that it would urgently review its support for the Saudi campaign. A group of experts, mandated by the UN Human Rights Council, would later conclude that parties to the armed conflict in Yemen

have perpetrated and continued to perpetrate violations and crimes on the international law. But the US brokered weapons kept flowing. Summer andike said that regalist delivered munitions to the Saudi military in this period,

with US personnel on the ground, and always

with the correct permissions from the US State Department.

“I comply with whatever the US government”

allows or asks me to do, he told me. In Syria, the unexpected consequences of the US covert programs were becoming clear. Some of the US backed rebels were accused of executing detainees.

A Pentagon plan that was supposed to feel 15,000 fighters burned through hundreds of millions of dollars, yet only a handful of graduates ever reached the front lines. On the ground, arms and money, led across borders and between factions

and to Salafi Jihadist groups that the US was also trying to kill and towards conflicts that outlasted the programs meant to shape them. Jordanian intelligence officers were accused of selling weapons on the black market.

Bulgarian made rockets and Romanian machine guns to be cured under US contracts later turned up in Islamic state caches. Then, in February 2022, Vladimir Putin launched a full-scale invasion of Ukraine. Officials in Kiev scrambled to find weapons and ammunition

for a war of national survival. What the Ukrainian army needed was exactly the sort of Soviet era armaments, summer and dike, had spent the past decade learning how to source. Within hours, he said he began to receive urgent phone calls

from Ukrainian officials. Weeks after the invasion, summer and dike were standing on the tarmac of an airstrip in eastern Europe in the middle of the night. Watching cranes of weapons being loaded through the nose

of a Ukrainian state-owned Antonov AN124 Grzlan. The load masters shuffled six BM21 trucks, dark green vehicles used to fire grad rockets into position, alongside 152mm howitzers. Once the cargo was chained down,

summer and dike climbed a ladder to a seat in the rear of the aircraft. The endless rows of wooden crates filled with weapons reminded him, he recalled, of the warehouse in Indiana Jones.

Moments later, the aircraft was rolling down the runway towards Poland. They landed around sunrise at rest of airport, around 100 kilometers from the Ukrainian border, guarded like a military base.

Then, summer and dike decided to go into Ukraine himself,

to beat the military curfew, and then on to Kiev the next morning.

“It was a war zone outside the city, he said.”

Warm tanks everywhere you could see, roads ripped up, buildings blown out, destroyed. He laid to travel closer to the front lines to meet Ukrainian soldiers. It was interesting to see how much they cared,

just how passionate they were, he said. You would have some guys that were very well equipped and some guys that were eating their boots and they're just fighting anyway they could.

Summer and dike had always prided himself

and being able to compartmentalize. To never become emotionally invested, he'd sold weapons into brutal conflicts where civilians have been killed and it's smelled death. It was just business.

I'm very much an unemotional person, he told me. But this time he said, probably for the first time in my career, I'm tied emotionally to this. By late 2022, the war in Ukraine

“had entered a phase few in Europe had foreseen.”

Soviet era stockpiles that had languished in ammunition bunkers for decades were suddenly running low, prices surged. Nobody had ever said before that there wasn't stock available summer and dike remembered.

You had the type of conflict that just had such an enormous volume of usage that that was it. Ukraine had pushed Russian forces back from Kiev but its guns were starving. In the capital, someone dike met Alexey Petrov,

then head of Spets TechnoExport, the Ukrainian state-controlled arms export agency. Petrov said that Regulus claimed that could quietly source 155 millimeter shells from countries that would not normally export them to Ukraine

using its contacts in the U.S. state department. For a government running out of ammunition, it was an unusually valuable proposal. The deal Ukraine signed of Regulus, worth as much as $1.7 billion,

“was one of the largest ammunition contracts of the war.”

For summer in dike, it represented a kind of culmination, a cold, cool hustle, the covert flights, the decade spent navigating shadow supply chains was suddenly marshaled towards a single enormous undertaking. But the scale of the contract forced him

to enroll the Regulus never played before.

Brokers could locate ammunition, but they could not manufacture it. To meet Ukraine's demand, Regulus acquired stakes in Pretis and Binass, the two Bosnian plants with cold war machinery.

Around the same time, according to Cypriot corporate records, the company purchased several Gibraltar registered container ships, which are planned to use to ferry tens of thousands of shells from the Balkans to Poland. Summer in dike poured tens of millions of dollars

into production lines, betting that Bosnian's factories could be revived fast enough to keep pace with the war. Then, the deal began to fracture. Earlier this year, Spets TechnoExpo

alleged that Regulus had failed to meet his obligations. Petrov, claimed the agency, had sent $162.6 million in advance payments to secure badly-needed ammunition. Funds, he said that Regulus,

then used to finance his Bosnian acquisitions. They used the money we sent them, he said, to buy new assets. Regulus strongly denies this. The company argues that Ukraine failed to provide

the required 30% prepayment around $500 million, and that it was this shortfall that caused the delays. The disagreement has since moved into international arbitration in London, where Ukraine is seeking to recover what it said was lost.

Inside Regulus, the strain intensified. Summer in dike was traveling constantly, trying to manage the shipments, while keeping the Bosnian production lines on track. There's no sleeping, he said.

A two-hour nap here, a two-hour nap there. I feel, like I've got two fire extinguishers on each side of my head, there are fires every day. In Bosnia, the difficulties mounted. Regulus complained that it had been denied access

to financial reports and audits of pretis. It pushed for the removal of the factory's chief executive, citing quote inefficient management. Deliveries began to slip. Money paid in advance, a peer to vanish inside the plants.

In a letter to the Bosnian government, Regulus warned that the factories were in, quote, "a disastrous state, a precisely the moment

when their output was most critical."

another pressure emerged.

“In the US, Donald Trump re-won the presidency,”

pledging to end the war in Ukraine and drastically reduce American support for Kiev. For summer in dike, the implications were unambiguous. The conflict that had driven Regulus's rapid expansion and underpinned his bets on Bosnia could be curtailed,

even halted by a single policy shift. Over the course of a few months, last year, I met with summer in dike several times, as he explained Regulus's operations and his view of the changing nature of the arms trade.

On one occasion, in Virginia, summer in dike picked me up in a pick-up, coated in black Kevler. In the back was a wooden baseball bat and a pitching glove. He apologized for the smell of pine tar, a sticky substance players used to get a better grip on the bat.

“Up close, he has the same square jaw and broad shoulders”

of the baseball hopeful he was in 1999. His beard was threaded with grey, and the years of long-haul travel had left faint lines around the eyes. We drove through Virginia Beach, passed it Oceana Naval Base where he grew up.

Before taking office for the second time,

Trump claimed on multiple occasions that he would end the Ukraine war in 24 hours. I asked summer in dike, "What would he do if the fighting stopped tomorrow?" Surely that would leave his business and his vast investments in weapons in jeopardy. "I hope the war stops tomorrow," he said.

It certainly needs to. But even if it did stop tomorrow, there would be a multi-year effort just to reinventory things that have been used. In an earlier conversation, he told me that he disliked armed conflict.

Nobody likes war. Quite frankly, I don't even like guns, he shrugged. Look, it would be grey if it was all rainbows and sunshine, peace everywhere, but that's not the world. On another occasion, we met outside Dallas at the site of Union,

a new venture capital backed defense manufacturer, summer in dike recently helped launch his chief executive.

Union aims to be the first company to bring modern, automated manufacturing techniques,

kind used in the high tech and automotive industries, to the production of 155mm artillery shells. Union and Regalists are separate, but have a strategic relationship. Regalists are minority investor and early customer, while Union is designed to be a standalone manufacturer,

using a very different approach from the decades-old machinery in Bosnia. Union is his attempt to find the future of war production. Summer in dike admitted that part of Union's positioning were the response to Silicon Valley's recent expansion into the defense world. He wondered what would happen when the ethos behind autonomous drones

and algorithmic targeting reached the munitions business. Union was his attempt to find out before the field changed. He handed me a rubber mock-up of 155mm round, the type he hoped the factory would be producing. Inside the office, diagrams of the planned production lines hung on the walls.

A team of engineers, several of them former Tesla staff, watched digital simulations of machining steps on large monitors. Outside, in a cavernous industrial space, dozens of workers and hard hats and high visvests were assembling the line. Four cliffs drifted past stacks of steel tubing,

stars and stripes as large as a double-decker bus hung from one wall.

“I think the US government will end up being our biggest customer,”

Summer in dike told me.

Regalists, he said, was on track to post $1 billion in annual revenues next year.

Up from around 50 million before the Ukraine war, is a fulfilled orders for large European government spying shells on Kiev's behalf. The Bosnian operations he added were beginning to stabilize. Over time, the advanced manufacturing techniques being developed in Texas could be exported to the Balkans.

Later, he told me about the championship game his local amateur baseball team had recently won. I pitched the whole game, we won, we went undefeated for the whole season. First time that's ever happened in that league. The moment the game ended, he had to leave for the airport. I got to celebrate for maybe 15 minutes, Summer in dike said.

I'm literally in the parking lot wiping myself down. We landed in Switzerland at 8 a.m. for a meeting at 9.30 a.m. That's a perfect look at what my life seems to be. Baseball, with its churning statistics, batting averages, strikeouts, winds, it once offered Summer in dike the opportunity to quantify himself.

skews, tonnage, contract numbers that had delivered on a field where everything could still be

reduced to a score. Everyone's got competitive juices, he told me. So yeah, sure, that's maybe what drives me.

“On another occasion, he told me, the worst thing I would ever want is that by the time my”

end is here, they would say, "Man, he had potential."

A decade earlier, when he'd first moved from selling holsters to supplying America's 21st

“century covert wars, the weapons would just another skew.”

Bombs were stock codes that could be purchased, financed, shipped. He'd thrive in a system

where the difference between ammunition for Syria, Yemen or Ukraine, was logistical, not moral.

“Now the scale is grown, but the logic is the same. For governments, that makes him useful.”

For the industry, it makes him successful. The wars might change. The customers might change. But the products, they remain just another line item on a spreadsheet. The broker was written by me, Miles Johnson, an edited by Matt Vella. It was produced by Misha Franco-Divale, with mix and sound design by Brean Turner and Sam Jivinco. Cheryl Brumley is the FT's Head of Audio.

And the next couple of young people, who are now in the world of rocket ships, the rocket ship is only a set of planes.