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

Zhao Dayong's call didn't come until the evening of the third day.

He Yuzhu was standing by the window. The streetlamp in the yard was not yet lit, and the sky was hazy, as if covered with a layer of dirty cotton. There was a crackling sound from the receiver first, and then Zhao Dayong spoke, his voice hoarse, as if there was a wad of cotton stuffed in his throat.

"Chief He, the tanks have been brought back. Flatbed truck, covered with tarpaulin, nothing went wrong on the way."

He Yuzhu held the microphone, not in a hurry to speak. He heard someone shouting work chants on the other end, from afar, and the clanging sound of metal clashing against metal.

"Where are we?"

"Outside the city. The convoy is waiting; we'll enter the city tonight."

He Yuzhu glanced out the window. It was getting dark, and the edges of the large-character posters on the courtyard wall were curling up, rustling in the wind. He remained silent for a few seconds.

"Eight o'clock tonight, back door. I'll be waiting."

"OK."

The call ended. He Yuzhu was still standing by the window, the receiver clutched in his hand, not putting it down. The dial tone was particularly jarring in the quiet office. He slowly put the receiver down, turned and walked to the wall, reaching out to touch the map that had been hanging there for half a year. He had circled the location of Zhenbao Island several times with a red pen; the paper was worn rough.

That T-62 is currently parked somewhere outside the city, covered with a tarpaulin, waiting to enter the city.

He Yuzhu left the office early at 7:30 p.m.

One of the corridor lights was broken, and the green light from the emergency exit illuminated the ground. He stepped on it, casting a long shadow. He reached the stairwell, paused, took the gloves out of his pocket, and slowly put them on.

Yang Xiaobing was squatting by the wall behind the back door, a cigarette dangling from his mouth, unlit. Seeing He Yuzhu come out, he stood up and tucked the cigarette behind his ear.

"Commander, the vehicle hasn't arrived yet."

He Yuzhu nodded and stood at the alley entrance. The streetlights cast a dim yellow glow, illuminating the broken bricks and rotten vegetable leaves in the narrow alley. He put his hands in his pockets and waited.

Old Lu walked over from the other end of the alley, his hands behind his back, his pace neither fast nor slow.

"Commander, we've also stationed people at the other end of the alley. Report any movement immediately."

He Yuzhu hummed in agreement. The three of them stood in the alley, none of them speaking. A cool breeze blew in from the alley entrance. He Yuzhu pulled his collar up further.

At a little past eight o'clock, the sound of a car came from the alley entrance. It wasn't the light, sputtering sound of an ordinary truck; it was the muffled groan of a heavy-duty vehicle struggling on the road. He Yuzhu raised his flashlight and swung it twice.

Headlights shone blindingly from the alleyway. The first vehicle was a flatbed truck, its canvas covering it completely, bulging and revealing a large machine underneath. Two jeeps followed behind, their headlights illuminating a corner of the canvas billowing in the wind, revealing a dark green sheet of metal.

The flatbed truck slowly drove to the back gate of the research institute, and the driver turned off the engine. Zhao Dayong jumped off the first jeep; his leg was slightly lame, and he walked with a swaying gait. His face was tanned dark red, his lips were chapped with several cuts, and there were dark circles under his eyes.

"Hehe, the goods have arrived."

He Yuzhu didn't reply. He walked to the back of the flatbed truck and reached out to lift a corner of the canvas. The turret was exposed, leaning to one side, with a crack in the weld, revealing the instrument panel inside, and a piece of glass was broken. He touched the edge of the bullet hole; the rolled-up sheet metal cut his hand, but he didn't pull back, just pressed it there, feeling the coolness of the remaining metal.

"Unload the truck."

The crane's motor was loud in the night. The steel cables were taut, creaking and groaning, and the T-62 slowly rose, swayed in the air for a moment, and landed steadily on the ground with a loud thud, causing the ground to tremble.

Ma Yuejin ran out of the courtyard, wrench in hand, oil smeared on his face, reflecting the light under the streetlights. He stood beside the tank, motionless. After several seconds, he squatted down, touched the tracks, then stood up again, looking up at the gun barrel.

He circled the tank once, twice, three times. On the fourth lap, he stopped, reached out and tapped the armor plate; a dull thud.

"Director, was this thing made by the Soviets?"

He Yuzhu did not answer.

Ma Yuejin walked around again, squatted down to look at the chassis, and then stood up to look at the engine compartment cover behind the turret.

"Demolish it," He Yuzhu said.

All the lights in the workshop were on, blindingly bright. The T-62 tank was parked in the center, its gun barrel pointing diagonally at the ceiling, its tracks leaving two shallow marks on the ground. Several workers gathered around it, some with crowbars, some with wrenches, and some with flashlights, circling it.

Ma Yuejin climbed into the engine compartment, gripped the bolt with a wrench, gritted his teeth, and strained until his face turned red. The bolt was rusted and wouldn't budge, so he switched to a larger wrench and tried again. The bolt came loose with a creak, and he almost fell off the vehicle, grabbing the turret handle to steady himself.

"Oh shit."

He threw the screw on the ground and moved on to the next one.

Old Zheng, a worker, squatted beside the turret, shining his flashlight on the weld that had been breached. He reached out to touch it, then withdrew his hand.

"Dean, was this hole caused by our missiles?"

He Yuzhu walked over, squatted down, and touched it as well. The bullet hole wasn't big, but the edges were curled up and blackened.

"Yes."

Old Zheng didn't say anything more and lowered his head to continue reading.

It took almost an hour to remove the engine hood. Ma Yuejin jumped off the truck, his head covered in sweat, the back of his work clothes soaked. He lay down on the engine, shining a flashlight on the dense network of pipes, and examined them for a long time.

He Yuzhu stood to the side, waiting.

Ma Yuejin turned off his flashlight, stood up, and stared at the gray-black engine without looking at He Yuzhu, as if he were talking to it.

"Dean, this thing... five hundred and eighty horses."

After he finished speaking, he swallowed.

"Ours, 1,500."

The workshop was silent for a few seconds. Someone stopped what they were doing and looked over. Old Zheng stood up, propping himself up with the crowbar on the ground, and didn't say a word.

He Yuzhu squatted down and touched the nameplate on the engine. It was in Russian, which he couldn't understand. But he recognized the numbers: 5 8 0, engraved on the metal sheet, recessed, and cold to the touch.

"What about the armor?"

Ma Yuejin walked to the front of the turret, squatted down, and measured it with calipers.

"Two hundred from the front. One hundred and fifty from the side."

He stood up and handed the calipers to He Yuzhu.

"It's thicker than ours, but the material is inferior. It's much less durable."

He Yuzhu took the calipers and measured it himself. The number was correct.

"artillery?"

Ma Yuejin walked to the front of the cannon barrel and touched the muzzle with his hand.

"115 mm. Rifled. The accuracy is decent, but the range is not as good as our smoothbore cannons."

He paused.

"Our smoothbore cannon can penetrate a T-62 at 1,500 meters. This thing, it can barely penetrate our tanks at 1,000 meters."

He Yuzhu handed the calipers back to him and walked to the pile of dismantled parts. The turret lay askew on the ground, its instrument panel wiring a dense, tangled mess. He squatted down, picked up a piece of armor fragment, its edges curled up and blackened. He held it in his hand for a long time.

Ma Yuejin stood behind him without saying a word.

After a while, He Yuzhu stood up and handed the fragments to Ma Yuejin.

"Write a report. List all the data. Engine, armor, artillery, suspension, transmission. Write it down one by one, and make sure it's clear."

Ma Yuejin took the fragment and nodded.

"Let the higher-ups see that this is all the Soviet stuff is made of."

After speaking, He Yuzhu turned around and walked out of the workshop. The corridor was dark, except for the green light from the emergency exit. He took a few steps, stopped, and looked back. Light from the workshop leaked through the cracks in the door, casting a long, bright line on the floor.

He heard Ma Yuejin shout from inside.

"Someone, take this thing completely apart! Leave not a single part behind!"

The voice in my head rang.

[Hidden Mission: Military Industry Network Cleanup Completed]

[Mission Reward: 100,000,000 points]

He Yuzhu didn't stop. He pushed open the office door, sat down at the desk, and didn't turn on the light. The moon peeked out from behind the clouds and shone on the courtyard wall, casting patches of shadows from the big-character posters on the ground.

He took off the gloves and placed them on the table.

He fumbled in the dark to take out the list from the drawer and turned to the page on tanks. By the moonlight, he wrote on the last line: "T-62 dismantled; armor, power, and cannon are all inferior to domestically produced ones."

After finishing writing, put the list back and lock the drawer.

He stood up and walked to the window. The lights were still on in the workshop, and a clanging sound came from there, intermittently.

The report will be sent up tomorrow. Those figures will bring some people a sigh of relief, while others will lose sleep.

Soviet tanks were nothing special.

But He Yuzhu knew they wouldn't just build this one type. What would the next one be?

He stood there for a long time until the lights on the other side of the workshop went out before turning around and going home.