World War: Battleship Arms Dealers

"What is he doing?" Chen Feng asked, holding up his binoculars, a sense of foreboding rising in his heart.

At 800 meters, the plane suddenly shook violently.

"Engine malfunction!" a sharp-eyed student shouted.

The plane began to descend, not gently, but at an angle. Lin Guodong was clearly struggling to control it; the plane pitched up and down, like a leaf falling in a storm.

"Force him to land! Force him to land!" Zhao Tianxiang shouted, waving the red flag frantically.

But the altitude dropped too quickly. Three hundred meters, two hundred meters, one hundred meters...

The plane tried to level off, but it wasn't far enough. It crashed into the sand outside the runway at a very small angle, its nose plunging into a dune, its fuselage tumbling, its wings breaking off, and debris flying dozens of meters away.

A deathly silence.

Then, everyone rushed to the crash site.

Chen Feng ran in the lead. On the sand, the plane wreckage was still smoking—not from fire, but from the heat of the engine evaporating the moisture in the sand. The cockpit was deformed, and Lin Guodong was trapped inside, motionless.

"Stretcher! Quickly!"

"Caution! There may be a fuel leak!"

"Fire extinguisher! Get the fire extinguisher!"

People were in a frantic rush. Ten minutes later, Lin Guodong was carried out. His flight helmet was shattered, his face was covered in blood, and there was a terrible dent in his chest—from the deformed control stick.

The medic rushed over to check, and a few seconds later, he looked up, his face pale, and shook his head.

"She's not...she's not breathing."

Everyone froze at the edge of the track. Zhou Afu dropped his water bottle, spilling water everywhere. Ali knelt down and began to pray softly. Several female trainees were already crying.

Chen Feng stood there, looking at Lin Guodong's young face. Just yesterday, this man had asked a question in class about why airplanes need to use the rudder when turning. This young man was only nineteen years old; he had parents and a younger sister.

He slowly squatted down and gently closed Lin Guodong's eyes.

"Everyone, stop crowding around." Chen Feng's voice was unusually calm. "Uncle Wang, arrange for people to clean up the scene. Master Ma, take the technical team to examine the wreckage and find out the cause of the accident. Teacher Zhao, notify all trainees to assemble in the conference room in one hour."

"Commander-in-Chief..." Uncle Wang wanted to say something.

"Execute the command."

An hour later, in the base's conference room.

Thirty-six trainees sat upright—originally there were thirty-seven. Lin Guodong's seat was empty. The engineers sat in the back rows, each with a somber expression on their face.

Chen Feng stood in front of the podium, not looking at anyone, but at the flight principle diagram on the blackboard that had not yet been erased.

"The preliminary investigation results of the accident are in," he said, his voice still eerily calm. "The direct cause: an engine cylinder ruptured, causing a sudden drop in power. The pilot attempted an emergency landing, but was too low on altitude and malfunctioned in attitude control."

He turned around to face the crowd.

"Indirect causes: First, inadequate routine inspections failed to detect the minute crack in the cylinder. Second, the pilot lacked experience and handled the emergency situation improperly. Third, the commander failed to provide clear instructions in a timely manner."

The meeting room was so quiet you could hear someone breathing.

"The root cause," Chen Feng paused, "is me. I was too hasty, forcing you to fly at high altitudes and challenge your limits without sufficient experience and adequate safety measures. I thought that rigorous training and strict requirements would prevent accidents, but I was wrong."

He took a deep breath.

"Lin Guodong, a Penang Chinese, is nineteen years old. His father runs a rubber plantation, his mother is a teacher, and his younger sister is thirteen. He came to Lanfang because he believes it can give him a future. He signed up for the selection because he wants to fly."

Chen Feng picked up a notebook from the podium—it was Lin Guodong's study notes, with neat handwriting and clear charts.

"This is his learning summary he wrote last night. The last sentence is: 'Today I flew 300 meters, and I'm still a little scared. But Teacher Zhao said that if you're afraid, you have to face it. Tomorrow, I'm going to fly 500 meters.'"

The notebook was gently placed on the table.

"He didn't make it to 500 meters. He crashed at 800 meters due to engine failure. He died."

Several trainees began to wipe away tears.

"I know that many people are thinking: Is it worth it? Is it worth risking your life to learn to fly a plane? Should we stop? Should we admit that this is too dangerous and we can't afford to do it?"

Chen Feng's gaze swept over every face.

"Let me tell you a story. Three years ago, when we were building our first submarine, the U-1 took on water and sank during sea trials, drowning six crew members. At the time, some people asked: Was it worth it? Should we abandon the submarine?"

He walked to the window and looked at the wreckage being cleared from the runway outside.

"I said at the time: If we give up because people have died, then those people died in vain. If we dare not move forward because we are afraid of death, then we will always be following in others' footsteps and eating their leftovers."

He turned around and walked back to the podium.

"I still stand by what I said today. Lin Guodong is dead, that's a fact. We are sad, we blame ourselves, we are in pain, and that's all right. But if we stop because of this, then his death will have been in vain."

Chen Feng placed his hands on the podium and leaned forward.

"Training is suspended for three days from now on. During these three days, you have three things to do: First, write a letter to Lin Guodong's family—in your own name, saying what you want to say. Second, relearn the flight manual and safety procedures; everyone must pass the test, and those who fail will not be allowed to fly again. Third, think it through: those who are afraid of dying can quit. Those who stay must be prepared that you might be next."

He straightened up.

"Three days later, training continued. But the rules changed: two-person system. No solo flights were allowed without an instructor. Flight altitude was limited to below 300 meters. Each flight required a check-up. If you couldn't do that, don't fly."

"Dismissed."

The trainees silently rose and left. No one spoke; only the sound of footsteps could be heard.

After everyone had left, Chen Feng sat down and covered his face with his hands. Uncle Wang came in and handed him a glass of water.

"Young Master, the Lin family's compensation..."

"Three times the highest standard," Chen Feng's voice came through his fingers. "His parents' retirement, his sister's education—the state will cover all of that. Also… write a letter to his family in my name. Just say… just say I'm sorry."

"It's not your fault..."

"It's my fault." Chen Feng raised his head, his eyes bloodshot. "I knew perfectly well how high the accident rate was in early aviation, I knew perfectly well how rudimentary our conditions were, but I still... I still clung to a gamble."

Uncle Wang paused for a moment, then changed the subject: "Master Ma's side has the results of the inspection. The cylinder crack in the engine is a defect that existed during the casting process. The one the French sold us might be a defective product."

Chen Feng's eyes turned cold: "Are you sure?"

"Confirmed. Master Ma has pieced the fragments together. The crack extends from the inside out, indicating that there are impurities inside the material."