Entertainment: Starting as a Succubus, Taking Hollywood by Storm

An hour and a half later,

the storm had passed.

Martin held "Her Majesty Queen Amidala" for a moment of tenderness.

Afterward, the two engaged in a languid conversation.

"Nat, how do you feel about this role?"

Natalie shook her head. "This opportunity is one I need, but the role itself... Actually, it's not just this role. None of the characters in Lucas's films have much presence."

"Not even the Skywalker role?"

"Right, not even the Skywalker role. I don't mean to offend Director Lucas, but his movies' dialogue and plots are too weak to truly bring out the characters. After watching the films, what people remember are the dazzling effects and battle scenes—not the actors."

Martin chuckled. Natalie wasn't wrong. George Lucas's ability to write dialogue had long been criticized. As the media often scorned: bland, hollow, and utterly uninspiring—nearly impossible to commend.

"By the way, it seems like Iraq is about to go to war again," Martin said, steering the conversation elsewhere.

"I heard they claim there are weapons of mass destruction?" Natalie also knew about the news.

Or rather, President Bush hadn't bothered to hide it. He was dead set on war.

It was Bush's old playbook: when approval ratings dropped, he stirred up foreign conflict to divert public attention. And with the 2004 election approaching, he needed to give his competitors a reason to back off.

Martin laughed, his tone dripping with sarcasm. "Weapons of mass destruction? Ha! If AK-47s count, then sure. Bush is backed by oil conglomerates and arms dealers. Starting a war in the Middle East serves their interests. Bush is just a middleman, a tool of war."

Natalie, recalling Bush's recent rhetoric, voiced her concern. "President Bush has been targeting your Sertan Oil Field lately, accusing you of acquiring it through improper means. He seems increasingly hostile toward you."

Martin burst out laughing. "He's not wrong. My improper means? That would be him! I'm guessing the Texas oil groups are giving him grief over the Sertan field, and he's taking it out on me."

"But with the poor performance in Afghanistan and strong anti-war sentiment at home, why would Bush still push for war?"

The girl's view couldn't yet grasp the deeper layers behind the war, leaving her puzzled.

Martin didn't explain. Instead, he used "actions" to shift the topic.

Martin spent three more days in Sydney with Natalie.

During this time, he met Francis Ford Coppola, Robert De Niro, Elijah Wood, Dean Devlin, and Liam Neeson.

Some had come to visit the set, others to make cameo appearances, a testament to George Lucas's extensive network.

Three days later, Martin boarded a plane to the UAE.

From the helicopter, Martin looked down at the massive offshore drilling platform.

The platform resembled an overweight figure with a wide upper body and thin lower legs, supported by slender columns that plunged into the ocean.

The upper steel structure, with its crisscrossing beams, resembled a deflated belly, its folds piled together.

A tugboat towed the platform toward a designated location in the open sea.

In the helicopter, David Scott provided a briefing.

"This is our second exploration site. Offshore fields are different from onshore ones. Single-well operations aren't cost-effective. Directional drilling at 7,500 meters can cost about $5 million per well. Offshore platforms start at $10 million, and daily operating costs are nearly $100,000."

"How long does it typically take for an oil field to start producing?" Martin asked a layman's question.

David Scott patiently explained. "It's hard to say. Acquiring an oil field depends on capital and expertise. Whether it yields oil is a matter of luck. Preliminary exploration only confirms the likelihood of oil in the area, but determining the exact depth and location requires drilling tests."

"This field is exceptional. We've already found an oil-bearing layer. We're just one step away from production."

David Scott looked relaxed. The Sertan field was the best-performing site he'd encountered in his career.

In a luxurious Abu Dhabi apartment,

after an intense bout,

Princess Haya lay gasping in Martin's arms, basking in his warmth.

"Your oil field is likely to produce. Don't worry. In the UAE, there's never been a case of an exploration with such promising signs failing to yield oil."

Martin smiled. "I'm not worried. I'm not under any financial pressure right now. I came here just to see you."

"Hmph, liar!"

Princess Haya pouted, playfully biting him.

But her smile betrayed her. Clearly, the Arab princess was pleased by Martin's sweet words.

After a week of indulgence in Abu Dhabi, Martin returned to the sea.

This time, he wasn't merely hopeful—he was thrilled.

From a thousand meters away, the plane's passengers could already see a gray-black fountain shooting skyward.

Beneath the geyser of oil, dozens of workers, their bodies coated in black, were shouting and running around.

"Haha, it's flowing! Truly a moment to celebrate," Martin laughed heartily.

The successful production at the Sertan Oil Field marked the arrival of a massive new cash flow for him.

Beside him, David Scott was overwhelmed with emotion.

Clutching the helicopter railing, his eyes welled up with tears.

The Sertan field's success validated his efforts and meant a substantial bonus—enough to upgrade his family's home.

Every bit of effort and patience had paid off...

"What's the production rate?" Martin asked.

"Fifty thousand barrels per day—per single well!" David Scott, already informed, couldn't contain his excitement as he shouted.

Even in the Middle East, 10,000 barrels per day was common, 30,000 barrels rare, but 50,000 barrels? That was an extraordinary superfield.

This equated to a daily output of 9,000 tons, comparable to 2,000 wells in China's Shengli Oil Field combined.

Converted to revenue, 50,000 barrels meant $7.3 million per day—over $2.66 billion annually.

"F***! It's liquid gold, no doubt about it!"

Even Martin, usually indifferent to money, couldn't suppress his excitement at the figures.

At that moment, Martin's phone rang. It was Princess Haya.

Clearly, she too was eager to know the oil field's status.

"I heard your field is producing. What's the daily output?"

"Fifty thousand barrels."

"How much? Fifty thousand... barrels? Really fifty thousand barrels?"

Even the well-informed Princess Haya was stunned. This implied reserves exceeding 2 billion barrels!

"Yes, fifty thousand. Per well!"

[GodOfReader: That means he earn $84 per second on oil.]