Siheyuan (traditional courtyard house): Starting with the Korean War, returning home to take charge

The car bumped along in the Gobi Desert for three days.

The window wasn't closed properly, and the wind blew in through the cracks, the sand stinging his face. He Yuzhu squinted out—the yellowish-brown had turned grayish-white, and the grayish-white had become a deathly stillness. Occasionally, a few clumps of camel thorn lay on the sand, long since withered and dead. When the wind blew, the dry branches crackled and snapped like bones breaking.

The air was so dry it could suck all the moisture out of a person's nasal cavity. He licked his lips, which were cracked and blood seeped out, but the wind dried them quickly.

The driver, a young soldier, remained silent the entire way. Each time they passed a checkpoint, he would stop the vehicle and hand over his identification with both hands. The sentry would take it, glance at the identification, then at the people in the vehicle, then at the back seat, and then back at the identification. He looked very slowly, as if trying to etch the words into his mind.

We passed seven such checkpoints.

At the first checkpoint, the sentry merely glanced at his identification. At the third checkpoint, the sentry made him get out of the vehicle and searched him. At the fifth checkpoint, militiamen with wolfhounds circled the vehicle three times. At the seventh checkpoint, a soldier examined his identification for a full three minutes, then stared at his face for another three minutes.

The soldier put down his identification, stood at attention, and saluted.

"Hey, the base is just ahead."

He Yuzhu nodded. He knew those seven checkpoints weren't just checking people; they were also telling him—once you go in, you won't get out. If things don't go smoothly, nobody will leave.

The base was quieter than the last time I visited.

The tents and dugouts were still there, but fewer people were there. Most of them had gone into the final assembly workshop—a huge military tent, about half the size of a football field. The canvas flapped and rustled in the wind, and the metal frame swayed slightly.

He Yuzhu was led to the front of a bungalow. Two sentries stood at the door, their bayonets gleaming coldly in the sunlight.

A man in military uniform was waiting for him.

"Where is the director? Old Qian is inside."

He Yuzhu pushed the door open and went in.

The room was brightly lit, the kind of incandescent bulb that offered no warmth. Several people were huddled around a long table, studying blueprints. Old Qian stood at the front, a pencil in his hand. He was thinner than before, his cheekbones protruding, his eyes sunken, and his work clothes hung loosely on him, like they were on a hanger.

He looked up when he heard the door open.

"Xiao He, you're here."

He walked over and took He Yuzhu's hand. The hand was so thin it was just skin and bones, but he gripped it tightly.

"Your computer was a huge help. It calculated all the data."

He Yuzhu looked at that thin face and those bloodshot eyes.

"It's because you guys use it well."

Old Qian smiled. The smile was brief, gone in a flash.

"Come on, let me show you around."

The final assembly workshop was very quiet.

The silence wasn't that no one was talking; rather, everyone was talking, but in hushed tones. It was like a mass in a church, or a vigil in a funeral parlor. Workers were hunched over workbenches tightening screws, technicians were squatting on the ground checking data, and someone was on a ladder adjusting instruments. The clanging of tools echoed through the enormous tent.

Inside the innermost part was a large metal shell.

Miss Qiu.

He Yuzhu stood there, looking at the behemoth. Its silvery-white shell was round and bulging, several meters tall. Scaffolding surrounded it, and workers climbed up and down, loading the parts one by one. The lights shone on the metal surface, reflecting a dull, muted light.

He recalled the Battle of Chosin Reservoir that year. While lying in the snow waiting for the bugle call to charge, his comrades beside him, their faces blue with cold, kept muttering, "If only we had an atomic bomb too."

That comrade-in-arms didn't come back.

Mr. Qian stood beside him, also looking at the big guy.

"It's been three years."

His voice was very low, almost like he was talking to himself.

He Yuzhu didn't say anything.

Mr. Qian continued.

"From theory to design, from design to manufacturing, from manufacturing to assembly. Three years."

He paused.

"Seven people have left in these three years."

He Yuzhu clenched his fists tightly inside his sleeves.

He looked at the metal shell. Inside the shell were not only nuclear materials, but also the people who had fallen during those three years.

The core components were kept separately in a small tent.

Four soldiers stood guard, their guns cocked. Old Qian led He Yuzhu inside. There was only a table inside, and on the table was a metal sphere. It was about half a meter in diameter, its surface polished to a high shine, reflecting a person's image.

He Yuzhu stood there, looking at the ball.

His face was reflected in the metal sphere—his cheekbones protruded, his eye sockets were sunken, making him look like a stranger.

"This is the most crucial part," said Mr. Qian, standing beside him. "Once it's installed, it will make a sound."

He Yuzhu didn't say anything.

He looked at the ball and thought of his comrade who never returned from Changjin Lake, the tunnels overturned by artillery shells at Shangganling, and the soldier who fell beside him on that rainy night in Jincheng.

Those people had been waiting for this day.

Something went wrong during the inspection.

It's not "if something happens," it's "something has happened."

A young technician walked over with calipers, his steps slower than usual. He stopped in front of Mr. Qian, handed him the part, and left his hand hanging in mid-air without retracting it.

"Old Qian."

He only called out once, and didn't continue.

Old Qian took the parts and examined them under the light. He then picked up the blueprints and compared them. He looked at them very slowly, the blueprints trembling slightly in his hands—was it his hands shaking, or the wind outside the tent?

The tent suddenly fell silent. So quiet that you could hear the crackling of the candle wick popping and your own heartbeat.

Mr. Qian put the parts down. His movements were very light, as if he were afraid of disturbing something.

"How much difference?"

His voice wasn't loud, but in the quiet tent where you could hear someone breathing, every word struck with conviction.

The technician swallowed hard. Everyone could see his Adam's apple bob.

"0:01..."

He paused for a moment.

"Millimeter".

Someone gasped in shock.

Old Qian didn't speak. He lowered his head, staring at the part for a long time. So long that everyone thought he wouldn't say anything more, that's when he finally raised his head.

"Reprocessing".

The technician was taken aback.

"Mr. Qian, it takes five days to process this part..."

"Three days."

Mr. Qian's voice was not loud, but every word seemed to be nailed into wood.

The technician opened his mouth, as if to say something, but didn't. He looked at Old Qian's gaunt face, his bloodshot eyes, and his empty work clothes.

"Yes."

He took the parts, turned around, and ran away.

He Yuzhu stood there, looking at Old Qian.

Mr. Qian didn't look at him; he just stared at the blueprint.

"Xiao He, this matter cannot go wrong."

He Yuzhu nodded.

"I know."

That night, He Yuzhu lay on his bed in the dugout, listening to the wind outside.

The wind howled loudly, like someone was crying.

He remembered that part, that 0.01 millimeter, and what Mr. Qian had said about "three days".

Three days later, it either rings or it doesn't.

There will be no second chance.

The voice in my head rang.

[Hidden Mission: Premature Explosion of the Atomic Bomb]

Mission objective: Ensure the successful detonation of the atomic bomb.

[Mission Reward: 100,000,000 points]

He closed the interface.

The wind is still blowing outside.

He remembered his own face reflected in the metal sphere, his comrade who never returned from Changjin Lake, and what Qian Lao had said: "Seven people have left."

Those people are all waiting.

He closed his eyes.

Let's wait.