Chapter 219: Restless Sky

A Jeep kicked up dust as it sped toward them, coming to a sleek skid stop beside the plane. An officer in a crisp commander's uniform leapt out of the vehicle; he was tall, his features firm, his eyes sharp as knives.

"Senior Officer Dai!" the newcomer hurried forward, saluting Dai Anlan with a standard military salute.

Dai Anlan immediately returned the salute, a smile appearing on his face: "Commander Song! Why did you come in person?"

He was the Commander of the 11th Group Army and also the defense commander of Kunming, Song Xilian. He now oversaw the defense of the entire Myanmar‑Western Yunnan border, the burden on his shoulders as heavy as Mount Tai.

"Radio reports indicated that important personnel and an escort formation had arrived; I must come personally to receive them," Song Xilian's gaze swept over Dai Anlan, then turned to Stilwell stepping down from the plane behind him, and finally settled on Jiang Anguo, a hint of curiosity flashing in his eyes before being quickly replaced by more urgent military concerns.

He pulled Dai Anlan aside, lowered his voice and asked, "Brother Anlan, you came back from the front—tell me frankly, what's the situation in Myanmar? How many troops do we still have at our disposal? Can we still hold northern Myanmar...?"

A barely perceptible tremor tinged his voice. As a commander guarding the nation's gate, he knew better than anyone that if northern Myanmar fell, Western Yunnan would be laid bare under the Japanese Army's iron hooves.

Dai Anlan's expression grew solemn as he nodded, "Commander, rest assured, the Expeditionary Force's main body is pulling back, constructing a defensive line across Myitkyina, Bamo, and Lashu. The Japanese Army currently holds south of Mandalay, temporarily held at bay. Moreover, Taunggyi remains in our hands."

"Taunggyi?" Song Xilian's eyes lit up, "Who is holding it?"

"It's my Independent Regiment," Jiang Anguo stepped forward at the right moment, answering calmly.

Song Xilian gave him a deep look, nodded, and asked no further. He knew it was not the time to probe details.

What he hadn't expected was that the Expeditionary Force's main units were actually all present—a truly good piece of news.

Except for the New 28th Division and the New 22nd Division, the two units had retreated toward India.

Song Xilian, too, could consider himself to have let out a sigh of relief.

Time was pressing, and ground crew, with astonishing efficiency, began refueling and rearming two C‑47s and twelve P‑40s.

Jiang Anguo had taken an extra transport aircraft precisely for such contingencies. He feared that Kunming's supplies might encounter a snag or fuel deliveries be delayed, and his own plane could serve as a backup and cover.

More crucially, he could purchase fuel directly within the system, without relying on ground logistics—his greatest trump card.

Half an hour later, the resupply was complete. Engines roared again, the formation of aircraft screamed upward into the clouds, heading for Chongqing.

After several hours of flight, the cabin was unusually quiet.

Stilwell sat with his eyes closed, recuperating, while Dai Anlan polished his sidearm. Jiang Anguo leaned against the port window, watching the endless mountain range below, his mind rapidly calculating each next move.

As the plane was about to enter Chongqing's airspace, the calm was shattered.

"Attention! Attention! Unidentified aircraft detected ahead, bearing 3 o'clock, closing at high speed!" the escort formation's captain, American pilot William, announced over the radio, his voice tinged with tension.

Jiang Anguo immediately craned his neck outward, seeing on the azure horizon a few distinct tiny black dots. They quickly grew larger, the outlines of wings and fuselages becoming ever clearer.

Those were not Chongqing's aircraft. He knew the I‑15 and I‑16 models inside out. Coming toward them were Japanese Army aviation's Nakajima Ki‑43 "Hayabusa" fighter, and farther off, the silhouettes of larger bombers.

"It's the Japanese Army's land‑based air force!"

Jiang Anguo's heart sank sharply. His supposedly foolproof arrangement had run into the worst case. Yet he had prepared in advance, assigning pilots to escort the whole way; otherwise, whether they could land alive today was uncertain.

His pulse quickened; he had queried the system whether fighter jets could be summoned directly into the sky, and the system replied no, unless Jiang Anguo wanted to toss them out like toys.

Most importantly, he had no additional personnel; all his staffing slots were already filled.

The cabin's atmosphere froze instantly. Stilwell and Dai Anlan turned ashen; through the port window they saw clearly the Hayabusa fighters with blood‑red paint on their wings, like sharks smelling blood, lunging ferociously.

"Aircraft 11 and 12! You escort the two 'Eagle' (C‑47) planes, descend immediately, and look for an alternate airfield or forced‑landing site! The rest of the fighters, follow me!" William's command was decisive and clear, brimming with blood‑lust.

On the ground in Chongqing, the populace also witnessed the heart‑stopping scene. Shrill air‑raid sirens wailed like the howl of death, instantly echoing over the mountain city.

"The Japanese planes are back! Run!"

"Get into the air‑raid shelter! Hurry, get into the shelter!"

The crowd erupted instantly. Years of relentless bombing had accustomed the city's residents to dancing with death. On the streets, families lugged belongings, crying and shouting as they fled toward suburban shelters and dugouts. Fear spread like a plague.

A street vendor selling dan dan noodles, in his panic knocked over his cart; scalding broth and noodles spilled everywhere, yet he didn't look back, simply grabbing his young son and sprinting for his life. His face bore the terror etched into his marrow by repeated torment.

Yet many more people did not run.

It must be admitted, they were bold and liked to join the excitement.

They stood on street corners, sheltering under eaves, heads tilted back, eyes a mix of hatred and anticipation, fixed on the sky. They saw the P‑40 fighters painted with shark mouths, like mythic leviathans descending, confronting the swarm that brought death with their "red ointment."

"It's our plane! It's the Flying Tigers!" a young man shouted excitedly.

In fact it wasn't the Flying Tigers, but the locals, seeing the shark mouths, thought a tiger's jaws were open—that's how the name "Flying Tigers" originated.

"Shoot! Bring it down for me!" a grey‑haired elder swung his fist, a fierce blaze of anger flaring in his murky eyes. Their home had been razed flat in the previous bombing.

William had ten P‑40s on his side; he instantly formed the formation into three attack echelons. "All squads, attention! Execute the 'Wolf Pack' tactic! Break up the Little Devil formations and take out their fighters first!"

"Second squad, roger!"

"Third squad, roger!"

At that moment, a retreat would surely be chased by Japanese fighters, so William, without any hesitation, led the first strike against the Japanese aircraft.

Because his side was outnumbered, the opening blow had to scatter the Japanese formation.

Thus the 33rd formation, using the Wolf Pack tactic—leveraging numerical superiority—concentrated fire to smash one Japanese point, then turned back to hunt the stragglers.

Simultaneously, William's primary mission was to ensure the commander could land safely, even if it meant all of them sacrificing themselves!