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

The military train's whistle lingered for a long time in the night. When He Yuzhu returned to the train, his fingers were still covered in rust from the metal. The train entered Beijing, and dawn was approaching. He didn't go home; he went straight to his office.

Old Sun arrived earlier than him. On the table was a brown paper bag, sealed with a fresh red "Top Secret" stamp. Old Sun sat opposite him, a cigarette between his fingers, unlit. He Yuzhu tore open the seal and pulled out the paper inside.

The photos fell out first. They were black and white, blurry, like they'd been taken from a great distance. They showed the outline of a tank, its long gun barrel, its hull larger than a T-62, its low turret, and its steeply angled front. There were also several enlarged close-ups; details were unclear, but the armor's thickness was apparent. He laid the photos out one by one on the table, like arranging cards.

"It was taken by the border guards. They were staking out the training ground across the street for half a month, and they almost got caught." Old Sun finally lit a cigarette, took a puff, and slowly exhaled.

He Yuzhu didn't speak. He picked up the stack of handwritten data; the handwriting was messy, but the numbers were written with force, the back of the paper bulging. Frontal armor: 250 mm, angle 68 degrees. Barrel length: 5.2 meters. Muzzle velocity: 1800 meters per second. He read those pages over and over again.

"Are you sure?" He put down the paper.

Old Sun stubbed out his cigarette and lit another. "Confirmed. Our people said the gun barrel is half a meter longer than the T-62's, and the vehicle is also a size larger. There are other sources as well, which match up." He paused, his voice lowering, "The question is, can it penetrate?"

He Yuzhu stood up and walked to the wall. On the map, the Soviet tank factory was in Nizhny Tagil, thousands of kilometers from the border. But those tanks would be driven out of the factory, loaded onto trains, transported to the Far East, and parked at a training ground less than fifty kilometers from the border. The guns were pointed this way. He remembered the T-62s that had been towed back that year; when disassembled, the armor plates were only two hundred millimeters thick. Now they were fifty millimeters thicker, and the angle was greater. The Soviets didn't give up after one defeat.

He turned around. "Notify the factories in Baotou, Shenyang, and Xi'an to send people over. Also, call those research institutes in Beijing."

Old Sun stood up. "When?"

"Tomorrow morning. The sooner the better."

Old Sun left. He Yuzhu stood alone by the window, the big-character posters on the opposite courtyard wall rustling in the wind. He looked at them for a while, then didn't move.

The conference room was full. He Yuzhu stood in front of the blackboard and copied down the following figures: frontal armor 250 mm, angle 68 degrees. Barrel length 5.2 meters. Muzzle velocity of the shell 1800 meters per second. Some people in the room were looking down at their notebooks, some were staring at the blackboard, and some were smoking, smoke drifting under the lights.

Sun Desheng, who came from Baotou, sat in the first row, with an enamel mug beside him, the words on it worn away. He stared at the blackboard for a long time before speaking. "Director He, our missiles can penetrate the T-62 with a frontal penetration of 200 millimeters at a 60-degree angle. Now it's 50 millimeters thicker, and the angle is greater, so the penetration depth needs to be increased by at least 40%."

After he finished speaking, he didn't say anything more, picked up the jar and drank the water.

Zhao Xiuying, who came from Shenyang, sat next to him. She had short hair, a thin face, and spoke quickly. "Just changing the warhead isn't enough. The shaped charge shield also needs to be replaced. Using copper and recalculating the angle will improve the shaped charge effect by ten percent."

Li Dehou, who came from Xi'an, sat in the last row, leaning against the wall, speaking slowly. "What about the explosives? The ones we're using now are too old, not powerful enough. We need to get new ones."

The room was silent for two seconds.

He Yuzhu turned around and looked at Li Dehou. "Change what?"

Li Dehou stubbed out his cigarette. "Rhesin. It's 40% more powerful than what we use now. But the technology is complex and production is dangerous. We've never made it before."

Zhao Xiuying chimed in. "Rhodium? That stuff requires precise processing; it explodes if the temperature isn't controlled properly. Have you ever made it?"

Li Dehou didn't reply, but lowered his head and lit a cigarette.

He Yuzhu stood in front of the blackboard, looking at the people. Sun Desheng stared at the jar without saying a word, Zhao Xiuying frowned, and Li Dehou smoked. No one spoke again. He put down the chalk, turned around, and wrote three words on the blackboard: Black Sogkin.

"I'll figure out the explosives. You guys come up with the plans for the warhead and the shaped charge liner first. We'll discuss it again in a week."

Sun Desheng looked up. "A week?"

He Yuzhu looked at him. "One week."

Sun Desheng didn't ask any more questions.

It was getting dark when the meeting ended. He Yuzhu returned to his office, picked up the phone, and dialed the number for the archives.

"Old Zheng, bring up the 'Rexkin' file. I'll go get it in a bit."

Old Zheng responded.

The door to the archives opened after three keys were turned simultaneously. One of the corridor lights was broken, and the green light from the emergency exit illuminated the water stains on the floor. He Yuzhu walked in and stopped in front of the innermost row of cabinets. He pulled open the cabinet labeled "Materials & Explosives," inside which was a stack of documents wrapped in kraft paper, with the words "RDX Production Technology" written on it in pen, stroke by stroke. He took it out, untied the rope, and turned to the first page.

Molecular formulas, synthetic routes, process flows, safety regulations. The densely packed formulas and diagrams were dizzying to read. He glanced at a few pages, closed the book, and rewrapped it.

Old Zheng stood at the door, waiting for him to come out. "Director He, this thing is dangerous."

He Yuzhu tucked the documents under his arm. "I know."

He walked out of the archives, the door closing behind him and the lock clicking shut. The corridor was quiet, save for the sound of his footsteps.

That evening, He Yuzhu returned home. He Nianhua was hunched over the table doing her homework, the pencil stub scratching on the paper. Qin Huairu was busy at the stove, the spatula clanging against the iron pot. He Yuzhu sat down in a chair, took the list out of the drawer, and turned to the "Materials" page. After the words "Rexogen," he added a line: Technical data retrieved, awaiting trial production.

"Dad, today the teacher taught us how to write the character '坚' (jiān)."

He Yuzhu looked at him. "How do you write the character '坚'?"

He Nianhua put down her pencil and drew on the table with her finger. "A 〣 on the left and an 土 on the right. The teacher said that '坚' means firm and solid, and hard."

He Yuzhu picked him up and placed him on his lap. The child became heavy again, and He Nianhua leaned on his shoulder without saying a word.

"Dad, is our tank sturdy enough?"

He Yuzhu thought for a moment. "That's enough. But the enemy's tanks are stronger. We need to find a way to build even more powerful weapons."

He Nianhua slid off his lap and lay back down on the table to write. Qin Huairu brought the dishes over: a plate of scrambled eggs, a plate of stewed cabbage, and a bowl of soup. He Nianhua climbed onto the stool, picked up a piece of egg, and stuffed it into his mouth.

"Dad, what about even more powerful weapons? Are they capable of penetrating enemy tanks?"

He Yuzhu placed a piece of cabbage on his plate. "Yes."

Qin Huairu sat beside them, watching them without touching her chopsticks. He Yuzhu placed a piece of food on her plate, and she lowered her head to eat slowly.

"That new tank, is it powerful?" She didn't look up.

He Yuzhu hummed in agreement. "Impressive. But we can handle it."

Qin Huairu didn't ask any more questions. She collected the bowls, washed them, and put them back in the cupboard.

That night, He Yuzhu lay on the kang (a heated brick bed), listening to the wind outside. He Nianhua turned over, her small hand resting on his face—warm and soft. He opened his eyes, looking at the ceiling. Moonlight streamed in through the window, bathing the room in a pale light. He gently placed He Nianhua's small hand back under the covers and turned over as well. The document was in his office drawer; the words "Black Sokin" were written on the paper. They needed to find a factory to trial-produce it. Luzhou, Qingyang, and Taiyuan—all three had to work together to get the missile modified before the Soviets could act.