American Evil God, starting with the American rebel leader raising poisonous insects.

Chapter 126 How can someone not even know arithmetic!

Bremerton Naval Base, Washington State.

Pier No. 3, Dry Dock No. 7.

A ship was moored in the dock.

The ship is 152 meters long and has the hull number CG-52.

Ship name: Bunker Hill.

The fifth Ticonderoga-class cruiser, launched in 1985.

It is currently in the mid-term service extension and modification phase and is scheduled to return to service next year.

The bottom of the dry dock was covered with scaffolding.

On the right side of the middle of the hull, near the waterline, a steel plate with an area of about three square meters has been cut off.

The cut edges are rusty.

The steel plate is 25 millimeters thick.

The new steel plate has been hoisted into place, but it has not yet been welded.

Tom Franklin stood on the third level of the scaffolding, holding an electric wrench.

He was wearing a dark blue overall, with oil stains on the cuffs and chest.

The name TOM is embroidered on the left chest of the work uniform.

On his right arm is a faded badge with an anchor and gear design, and below it is a line of small print: Naval Shipyard, 1978.

He is seventy-nine years old this year.

I took off my protective goggles and wiped the sweat from my forehead with my sleeve.

Then slowly climb down the scaffolding.

His steps were steady, but his movements were noticeably slow.

After landing, he walked toward a temporary office by the dock.

The office was converted from a shipping container, and the door was labeled "Project Commander".

Push the door open and go inside.

The indoor area is approximately ten square meters.

One folding table, two computers, and three chairs.

A line drawing of the Bunker Hill hangs on the wall, its edges yellowed.

There was a person sitting behind the table.

Colonel Epson Eisenhower, 52 years old, project leader.

He is looking at documents on his tablet.

look up.

"Tom."

Tom pulled up a chair and sat down.

The electric wrench was placed on the table, making a metallic clanging sound.

"Sir, is it really impossible to recruit anyone?"

His voice was a little hoarse.

Epson put down the tablet.

"Didn't they just hire three last week?"

"Those three."

Tom paused for a moment.

"Today I had them tighten the mounting bolts of the Mk-45 naval gun. The standard procedure is to first manually pre-tighten them, then use a torque wrench to tighten them to the specified value in three stages. I demonstrated it twice."

"and then?"

"The first person, on the third tightening, the wrench wasn't properly calibrated, and the torque exceeded the limit by 30%. The bolt threads were damaged."

"The second one?"

"Instead of tightening it in three stages, I screwed it all the way in one go. The base deformed slightly."

"The third one?"

He asked me what "torque" meant.

After Tom finished speaking, he looked at Epson.

There was something weary in his eyes.

Epson was silent for a few seconds.

"Where's that young man? The one you personally mentored, Marcus?"

"Marcus Jensen."

Tom took a notebook out of his work clothes pocket and opened it.

The notebook was hard-covered, with yellowed pages and curled edges.

The paper was covered with formulas, sketches, and numbers written in pencil.

"Last week I taught him how to calculate the cutting allowance for steel plates."

"The formula is very simple: the actual cutting length equals the design length plus the thermal expansion compensation minus the weld shrinkage."

"I wrote it three times."

He turned to a certain page and pushed it to Epson to look at.

The page contains handwritten formulas with illustrations next to them.

"I asked him to calculate the compensation amount for a steel plate that is six meters long and twenty millimeters thick at a welding temperature of 150 degrees Celsius."

"The material is HY-80 steel. I know its coefficient of thermal expansion; I've already given it to him."

"How much did he calculate?"

"It's zero! He can't even use a calculator!"

Old Tom had a smile on his face.

"This isn't stupidity. This is—complete lack of basic skills. They can't do addition, subtraction, multiplication, or division; they can't convert units; they can't read blueprints; they can't remember the names of tools. What's wrong with young people these days?"

Why are they all two-headed ogre mages?

He didn't finish speaking.

Epson opened the drawer, took out a bottle of water, and pushed it over.

Tom unscrewed the cap and took a sip.

"I am seventy-nine years old, sir."

"I helped design this ship 33 years ago."

He pointed out the window.

"Now it needs to have its lifespan extended, its steel plates replaced, and its electronic systems upgraded."

"But I'm the only one left who can fix it. The other old guys in the group have either retired or passed away. And these new recruits—"

He shook his head.

"I can't take technology to the grave. But if things continue like this, I'll have no choice but to take it with me."

Epson stood up and walked to the window.

Looking at the ships in the dry dock.

The rust on the hull appears reddish-brown in the sunlight.

Several workers were moving slowly on the scaffolding, stopping occasionally as if discussing something.

Have you seen the Johns Hopkins University demonstration?

he asks.

"I saw the news. Is AI really that advanced now? That's amazing, sir. Are you perhaps thinking of—"

Tom stared at the tablet.

"Sir, we're repairing a warship. It's a military secret."

As someone from the Golden Age, although he still had the brains to understand that Noah's AI was a good thing, it was clear that he couldn't understand the current situation of the Heavenly Soldiers. "I know."

"How can we allow an external computer system to access these things?"

"It's not an external system."

"Like Johns Hopkins University, we can also create an internal, closed system. The data won't leave the base, and the servers will be located in a secure data center."

Tom didn't say anything.

He looked out the window.

The entire dry dock can be seen from the second-floor windows.

The USS Bunker Hill is still in dock, with scaffolding erected in the middle of the ship, making it look like a rusty steel mountain.

"This thing—can it really teach you how to repair ships?"

He asked, his tone devoid of doubt or expectation, simply a pure question.

"have no idea."

Epson is honest.

"But the Logistics Command briefing mentioned a few figures:"

"Over the past five years, unplanned ship berthing time due to maintenance delays at naval bases has increased by a cumulative 40 percent."

"You know the main reason."

O'Neill's underhanded tactics wiped out the already small number of talented people.

"Next week we're going to the Port of Seattle to pick up a new batch of electronic spare parts."

"Seattle happens to be where Noah AI's company is located, and I've already scheduled a demonstration."

"What are you demonstrating?"

"They demonstrated their industrial maintenance support system. They said it can provide customized training for specific equipment types—for example, the gas turbines of warships."

Tom tapped his fingers lightly on his knee.

This is his habitual action when he is thinking.

"How long will the training take?"

"They said that with a complete repair manual, historical fault records, and drawings, plus the assistance of experienced engineers to annotate them, the basic version could be launched in two weeks."

"Two weeks."

"right."

"What about our port sonar? Wait two weeks?"

"No. Shout, I'll fix it."

Epson stood up and walked to the window.

"I'll go down to the cabin with you. Two people, two days should be enough."

Tom also stood up.

"Sir, the last time you went down to the engine room was five years ago."

"I know."

"It's very hot inside. It's very noisy. In some places you have to crawl."

"I know."

Tom watched Epson's retreating figure.