World War: Battleship Arms Dealers

"The government will provide free vocational training." Wu Wenyuan glanced at his watch. "This concludes today's press conference. Detailed implementation rules will be released over the next three days. Thank you."

He strode away from the podium, flashes of light following his retreating figure until he disappeared behind the side door.

The reporters began packing up their equipment, and the hall was filled with a noisy murmur.

"Do you believe what he said?" a young reporter asked his older colleague.

The veteran journalist lit a cigarette and took a deep drag: "How much you believe isn't important. What's important is that from today onwards, this country is different."

"Why is it different?"

"The smell of war." The old reporter looked out the window; soldiers were already patrolling the streets. "Many things you don't usually see are about to surface. Just wait and see."

Hurdsa Air Force Base, 10:00 AM.

Twelve BF-109 fighter jets were lined up in two rows on the runway, their silver-gray fuselages reflecting the desert sun. These monoplane fighters were the latest achievement of Lanfang Aviation Industry, equipped with a Daimler-Benz DB 601 liquid-cooled engine, with a top speed of 570 kilometers per hour, and two 7.92 mm machine guns mounted on the wings.

But at this moment, sitting in the cockpits of these aerial killers are rookie trainees with less than fifty hours of flight time.

"Third Squadron, prepare for takeoff!"

The orders from the control tower were transmitted to each pilot's headset via radio. Lin Hwai-min stood at the observation window on the top floor of the control tower, holding binoculars, his face as gloomy as the sky before a storm.

"General, are we really going to send them all?" Colonel Zhao Zhiqiang, the training supervisor standing beside him, asked cautiously. "These trainees have only just completed their basic courses; they haven't even mastered emergency takeoffs and landings or formation flying..."

"There's no time." Lin Hwai-min put down his binoculars. "The order is to double the number of pilots within six months. According to the conventional training syllabus, that would take two years. We can only... compress the process."

"But the accident rate will skyrocket," Zhao Zhiqiang said in a low voice. "Two planes crashed last week, killing three trainees. If this continues..."

"I know the risks," Lin Huaimin interrupted him, turning to face his old subordinate. "Old Zhao, do you think I enjoy this? Watching those young men, not even twenty years old, turn into fireballs in the desert because of insufficient training?"

He walked to the training progress chart on the wall and traced a row of rankings with his finger.

"But the reality is that if war breaks out—whether with the British or anyone else—we need pilots who can take to the skies and fight, not hothouse flowers. We'd rather lose 20 percent in training than 80 percent in actual combat."

On the runway below the control tower, the first BF-109 began its taxiing. The roar of the engines could be heard even through the double-pane windows. The plane accelerated, the tail lifted, the nose wheel lifted off the ground… but at the crucial moment of takeoff, the pilot seemed to pull back on the stick too early, the plane jerked upwards, and then stalled.

"Damn it!" Lin Hwai-min slammed his fist on the windowsill.

The plane swayed like a falling leaf, its altitude dropping rapidly. The pilot desperately pushed the control stick, trying to recover from the stall, but there wasn't enough altitude. Three hundred meters from the end of the runway, the tail touched the ground, followed by the entire fuselage, which slid for several dozen meters before flipping over, kicking up a large cloud of dust.

Rescue vehicles and fire trucks rushed over with sirens blaring. The control tower was deathly silent.

"Third Squadron, abort takeoff," Lin Hwai-min said into the microphone, his voice calm, but his hand holding the microphone trembling slightly. "Tower control, check on the pilots."

There was a brief silence on the radio, followed by the commander's voice: "Roger. Rescue team reports... the pilot is alive, but seriously injured and is being treated."

Lin Hwai-min closed his eyes and took a deep breath. When he opened his eyes, his expression had returned to its usual coldness.

"Second Squadron, prepare for takeoff. We will be taking off in fifteen minutes."

"General!" Zhao Zhiqiang couldn't hold back any longer. "Should we suspend today's high-intensity training and let the instructors reassess the trainees' condition..."

"Continue." Lin Huaimin's voice brooked no argument. "Tell the instructors that if anyone makes this kind of basic mistake during takeoff, they'll be sent to ground crew to clean planes for the rest of their lives. Also, starting today, fuel rations are off. I want each trainee to have at least four hours of flight time every day."

"Four hours?! That means..."

"That means we'll burn through a third of the nation's aviation fuel reserves. I know that." Lin Hwai-min turned to face him. "But do you know what, Lao Zhao? In real air combat, a pilot doesn't survive more than twenty flight hours on average. If we don't fly more, train more, and crash more now, we'll be sending ourselves to our deaths on the battlefield." (World War II data)

He walked to the radio control panel and picked up another microphone.

"Attention all instructors, this is Lin Hwai-min. From today onwards, the training syllabus is invalid. The new rules are simple: only those who can take off and land in complex weather conditions can learn formation flying; only those who can complete formation flying can learn hand-to-hand combat; only those who can defeat the instructors in simulated combat can graduate. There is only one standard—being usable in wartime."

He paused, letting each word sink in.

"I don't care what methods you use, I don't care how high the attrition rate is, I don't care how many planes crash. Six months from now, I need three hundred pilots who can land fighter jets on aircraft carriers, drop bombs under anti-aircraft fire, and survive dogfights. If you can't do that, you can submit your resignation now."

Silence fell over the radio. A few seconds later, sporadic "received" messages came through.

Lin Hwai-min put down the microphone and looked out the window again. The Second Squadron's planes were undergoing pre-flight checks, with ground crew bustling around them. Further away in the hangar, new B-17 bombers were being assembled, their massive fuselages, powered by four engines, lying on the ground like metal behemoths.

"General," Zhao Zhiqiang walked to his side, his voice soft, "Do you really think... there will be a war? With Maryka? With Britain?"

Lin Hwai-min did not answer immediately. He recalled what Chen Feng had said at the core meeting a week earlier: "...demonstrating resolve is itself a form of diplomacy."

"I'm not sure," he finally said, "but what I am sure of is that if one day enemy planes appear over Dubai, our pilots must be able to engage them. And to do that, every minute is precious now."

He patted his old subordinate on the shoulder.

"Go to work, Lao Zhao. Tell the kids that when they complain about how tough the training is, they should think about this: the hardship they endure now is so they can come home alive in the future."