Courtyard House: I Rely on Time-Space Trade to Build a Nation

Washington, D.C., September 5, 1952.

The emergency meeting room in the basement of the White House was filled with smoke. President Duterte sat at one end of a long table, with two documents in front of him.

The document on the left: "Report of the Far East Air Force on the Loss of Air Superiority in the Korean Peninsula Battlefield"

The document on the right: "Joint Chiefs of Staff Feasibility Assessment on the Use of Tactical Mushroom-like Explosives"

He has already watched it three times.

Secretary of State Acheson spoke first: "Mr. President, the situation is already very clear."

After the Battle of Chongchon River, we completely lost air superiority over the northern part of the peninsula.

The Republic's military now has at least a thousand advanced jet fighters, and can be replenished with 150 more each month.

The Far East Air Force is unable to continue fighting.

Defense Secretary Marshall then spoke:

"Not only that. Their ground forces are equipped with better tanks, man-portable anti-tank weapons, and anti-aircraft missiles than we are."

The Battle of Shangganling lasted for forty-three days, during which we lost 25,000 men and made no progress whatsoever.

Commander Du raised his head.

"So what's your conclusion?"

Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff Bradley stood up and walked to the map on the wall.

"Mr. President, this is our last chance."

He pointed to the peninsula with his finger, then moved north, crossed the Yalu River, and landed in the area of ​​Shenyang, Anshan, and Harbin.

"The entire industrial base of the Republic's army is here. Shenyang Aircraft Factory, Anshan Iron and Steel Plant, Changchun Automobile Plant, Harbin Engine Plant. These factories supply them with 150 aircraft, 300 tanks, and 4,000 trucks every month."

He turned around.

"Conventional bombing is no longer effective. They have anti-aircraft missiles, and our planes dare not fly low. The accuracy of high-altitude bombing is such that even after ten years of bombing, we still won't be able to eliminate them all."

Commander Du stared at him.

"So you want to use mushroom eggs?"

Bradley nodded.

"Tactical mushroom shell. Twenty kilotons of yield. No need to bomb cities, just destroy those industrial bases. Paralyze their war potential."

The conference room was deathly silent.

Acheson shook his head: "What about international opinion? What will the Soviets think? What about World War III?"

Marshall said, "If we don't bomb, we can't win the war on the peninsula."

If we can't win, our prestige in this region will be completely ruined.

The debate lasted for three hours.

Finally, Commander Du stood up.

"Prepare. But do not act. Conduct a nuclear strike drill first, and complete all technical preparations. Await my orders."

October 10, Beiping (Beijing).

General Manager Zhou called Zhao Ping'an into his office.

Several aerial photographs were laid out on the table. At Kadena Air Base in Okinawa, eight B-29 bombers were parked on the runway, with distinctly different bombs hanging under their bellies—larger, rounder, and oddly shaped than ordinary bombs.

"Comrade Ping An, take a look at this."

Zhao Pingan picked it up and looked at it for a long time.

"Mushroom-shaped missile mounting training," he said. "They're doing technical preparations."

General Manager Zhou nodded.

"Our intelligence and American newspapers have confirmed it. There is intense debate within President Duterte's government. The military is strongly advocating for the bombing of the industrial base in the Northeast."

He looked at Zhao Ping'an.

"Comrade Ping An, how much longer until we reach Lop Nur?"

Zhao Ping'an remained silent for a few seconds.

"General Manager Zhou, the Americans are too late."

General Manager Zhou (the leader) looked at him.

"Ten days. Ten days at most."

October 3, 1952, Lop Nur.

At five in the morning, the Gobi Desert was still pitch black. Qian Lao stood in the observation post twenty kilometers away from the iron tower, clutching a pocket watch in his hand, the hands ticking away.

Behind him, Elder Guo, Elder Wang, Elder Zhu, and more than a hundred young people drawn from all over the country stood there, and no one spoke.

At six o'clock sharp, the sky began to lighten.

At 6:15, the sun had not yet risen, but the 102-meter-tall iron tower was already clearly outlined by the morning light.

At the top of the Eiffel Tower, the round steel sphere hangs silently.

At 6:20, Mr. Qian picked up the walkie-talkie.

"Everyone to your positions, final check."

A series of reports came through the walkie-talkie:

"Detonation system is functioning normally."

"The measurement system is functioning normally."

"Security system is functioning normally."

"The weather conditions are suitable."

At 6:25, Mr. Qian put down the walkie-talkie.

He turned around and looked at the group of people behind him.

Three years.

From October 1949 to October 1952, a full three years.

More than 1,100 days and nights.

From blueprints to mines, from centrifuges to reactors, from theoretical calculations to detonation tests.

Some collapsed from exhaustion at their posts, some suffered radiation damage, and some never told their families what they were doing.

All of this will come to a conclusion today.

At 6:27, Mr. Qian picked up the walkie-talkie.

"reciprocal."

The countdown from the walkie-talkie echoed across the Gobi Desert.

"Ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, one—"

6:28.

A sun rises on the horizon.

There was no sound. First, there was a white light, so bright it was blinding. Then the white light turned into a fireball, which expanded, rose, and began to churn at its edges, like a blazing cloud.

Below the fireball, shockwaves swept sand and dust in all directions, and the ground tremors could be felt from observation posts dozens of kilometers away.

The sound only reached us when the fireball rose into the air and turned into a mushroom cloud.

It was a deep, continuous roar, like countless trains passing overhead, like the earth roaring.

Old Qian's tears flowed down his cheeks.

Beside him, Old Guo squatted on the ground and wrote four characters in the sand with trembling fingers.

The wind blew and the words scattered.

Those four words were: "It was worth it, it was worth it."

October 4, 1952, Beijing.

Xinhua News Agency released a brief announcement, which consisted of only a little over one hundred words:

"In order to defend against the threat of the United States' imperialist expansion of its war of aggression, the Republic successfully conducted a mushroom-shaped test on October 3, 1952. This was a great achievement of the people of the Republic in resisting aggression and defending peace."

That evening, the whole city was in an uproar.

There were no parades, no celebrations, but everyone who heard the news was laughing, crying, and hugging each other.

Someone moved a radio into the yard and listened to the brief announcement over and over again.

Someone put up red paper on the wall that read, "We have mushroom eggs now too."

In the sea, General Manager Zhou (the leader) stood by the window, listening to the faint cheers in the distance.

He turned around and looked at Zhao Ping'an.

"Comrade Ping An, thank you."

Zhao Pingan shook his head.

"General Manager Zhou, we should thank Mr. Qian and his team. Three years, more than 1,100 days and nights, it wasn't easy."

General Manager Zhou nodded.

"What's next?"

Zhao Ping'an remained silent for a few seconds.

"Now, let the Americans think this through. Are they going to throw that mushroom egg or not?"

October 5, Washington, D.C.

President Duterte was having breakfast when Secretary of State Acheson pushed open the door and came in, holding a telegram.

"Mr. President, the Republic has just released a message."

Commander Dutt took the telegram and glanced at it.

Just one glance.

He put down his fork and the telegram, and leaned back in his chair.

I haven't spoken for a long time.

Acheson waited.

Commander Du finally spoke: "They have them too."

That afternoon, the National Security Committee held an emergency meeting.

There was no argument, no debate. Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff Bradley said only one sentence:

"Mr. President, the mushroom egg strike plan must be canceled."

Commander Du nodded.

"Cancel."

October 6, Tokyo.

Major General Partridge, commander of the U.S. Far East Air Forces, received a telegram containing only one sentence:

"The Mushroom Egg Strike Plan has been cancelled. B-29 bombers have returned to the mainland."

He watched it three times.

Then I walked to the window and looked at the sky outside.

The sky was a clear blue, without a single cloud. In the distance, several F-86s were landing, their landing gear down, slowly approaching the runway.

He suddenly remembered a year ago, when the Far East Air Force still had a thousand aircraft, and could freely enter and exit the area north of the Chongchon River.

Now, only six hundred remain. We dare not go north of the Chongchon River again.

He turned to the staff officer and said:

"Reply to the Joint Chiefs of Staff: Operation Mushroom Egg is cancelled; our unit will continue with conventional operations."

He paused, then added:

"But we can't win anymore."

October 10, 1952, Headquarters of the Chinese People's Volunteer Army.

Commander Peng received a telegram from Zhao Ping'an.

"Lop Nur has been a success. The US's 'mushroom egg' plan has been cancelled. Commander Peng, we can now focus on fighting the war."

Commander Peng looked at it for a long time.

He folded the telegram and put it in his pocket.

Then he stood up and walked to the window.

Outside the window, autumn has arrived on the peninsula.

The distant mountains began to turn yellow, bathed in sunlight, creating a golden hue.

He recalled that winter of 1950.

At that time, he thought, if there were a mushroom egg, would the Americans still dare to be so arrogant?

There is now.

He stood there for a long time.

Then he turned around and walked back to the map.

The war must continue. But now, things are different.