Chapter 143: Manhattan Project 4

Chen Feng turned to the others again, addressing each concrete problem one by one: how to make the landing gear? how to connect the control system? how to install the instrument panel? how to seal the fuel tank?

The problems came one after another, each giving a headache.

Meanwhile, in another row of brick houses, the cultural class was also proceeding painfully.

Thirty‑seven trainees sat in the shabby classroom, facing the formulas and diagrams on the blackboard, most with a bewildered expression.

Zhao Tianxiang was lecturing basic physics: "…so the Bernoulli principle tells us that where a fluid's speed is greater, the pressure is lower. The upper surface of an aircraft wing is more curved, so the air flows faster and pressure is lower; the lower surface is flatter, so the air flows slower and pressure is higher. The pressure difference between the two surfaces generates lift…."

In the audience, Zhou Afu struggled to take notes, but his pen couldn't keep up with his thoughts. Beside him, the Arab youngster Ali (full name too long to count) muttered something in Arabic, which Zhao Tianxiang heard.

"Ali, what did you say?"

Ali stood up and, in halting Chinese, said: "Teacher, I don't understand. Air… you can't see it, you can't touch it, so how do we know where it flows fast and where it flows slow?"

Zhao Tianxiang opened his mouth, unsure how to explain. He was accustomed to mathematical derivations and experimental data, but this kind of intuitive, sensory understanding he didn't know how to teach.

Chen Feng happened to walk in and heard the question.

"Ali, have you ever ridden a horse?" he asked.

"I have."

"When a horse runs and the wind hits your face, does it feel like pressure?"

"Yes."

"If you hold your palm upright, like a blade cutting the wind, the air flows around both sides and the pressure on your hand is low. If you turn your palm sideways, like a fan facing the wind, the air hits the hand and the pressure is high. Right?"

Ali thought for a moment and nodded.

"Wings work the same way," Chen Feng said, drawing a simple airfoil on the blackboard. "Only the wind isn't coming from ahead; the aircraft moves forward and slams into the air. But the principle is identical: when air meets the wing, part goes over the top, part goes underneath. The top path is curved, so it moves quickly; the bottom path is flat, so it moves steadily. The fast‑moving part 'doesn't bother' to press down on the wing; the steady part 'has the energy' to press down. The up‑and‑down pressure difference lifts the aircraft."

Although the explanation was not rigorous, the trainees actually understood. Ali's eyes lit up: "I get it! It's like water flowing around a stone!"

"Right, just like water around a stone," Chen Feng exhaled, "Teacher Zhao, please continue."

He left the classroom and heard Zhao Tianxiang's voice continuing the lecture behind him. At least someone was listening.

That evening, Chen Feng gathered the core staff for a meeting.

"Progress report," he said briefly.

Zhao Tianxiang spoke first: "Trainee situation… poor. Of the thirty‑seven, fewer than ten can truly keep up with the curriculum. The rest either have terrible math or understand too slowly. At this rate, after three months maybe only five or six will have mastered the basic theory."

Ma Shifu continued: "On the aircraft side… we tried to build a wing frame according to the airfoil you described. But the carved wood pieces, not a single pair out of ten is identical. Moreover, the weight… is almost twice what the blueprint specifies."

"What about the engine?"

"Three units were patched together into one; the test run lasted half an hour, then it overheated and stopped. We are redesigning the cooling system."

Chen Feng listened and fell silent for a long while.

"Starting tomorrow, we'll adjust the plan," he finally said. "Split the trainees into classes. The fast‑progress group forms a 'Fast Class', with Teacher Zhao focusing on them. The slower group forms a 'Slow Class', starting again from literacy and arithmetic. As for Ma Shifu's side, the wing frames need not be identical; make two sets first, a left wing and a right wing, just enough to attach. The engine… keep modifying it; the goal is to run at full power for an hour."

Wang Wenwu asked, "President, can something rushed out like this actually fly?"

"I don't know," Chen Feng said honestly, "but we have to try. Even if it only lifts three meters, even if it only flies a hundred meters, that's a success."

He looked out the window; the desert night sky was dotted with countless stars.

"We need just one success, no matter how small. Otherwise morale will collapse."

January 15, 1912, 2 p. m.

On the runway of the "Oasis" base, everyone gathered.

On the runway stood a… barely‑callable aircraft. It had a wooden frame, canvas skin, bulky wings, and a crude landing gear. The cockpit was open, and the instrument panel held only three gauges: a tachometer, an oil‑pressure gauge, and an altimeter— the altimeter was a repurposed marine barometer, its accuracy left to heaven.

The aircraft was named "Chuying‑1", the result of two months' effort at the base.

The pilot was Zhao Tianxiang. He didn't volunteer for the risk; there was simply no one else who could fly— the trainees were still learning theory and had no simulator. Zhao Tianxiang had flown gliders in Yingguo, and although he'd never flown a powered aircraft, he at least knew the basic control principles.

"All checks complete?" Chen Feng asked.

Ma Shifu, sweating profusely, said, "We've inspected three times. The engine test run was normal, the control levers are normal, the wing attachment is secure… it's just…"

"Just what?"

"It just feels unstable somewhere," Ma Shifu said honestly. "This thing is too rough, Engineer Chen. I've built machines for twenty years, never made something… this unreliable."

Chen Feng knew that well enough. But he knew even more that if they didn't fly now, everyone's confidence would waver.

"Mr Zhao, what do you think?"

Zhao Tianxiang had already donned his homemade flight suit— essentially a leather jacket with goggles. His complexion was a bit pale, but his gaze was steadfast.

"Fly. If we don't fly, we'll never know where the problem lies."

Chen Feng patted his shoulder. "Safety first. If something feels off, abort immediately. The aircraft can be rebuilt; a person cannot be harmed."

"Understood."

Zhao Tianxiang climbed onto the aircraft and settled into the cockpit. Ground crew fastened his crude safety harness— really just a few leather straps. The engine roared to life with a harsh whine, the propeller began turning, kicking up clouds of sand.

Everyone stepped back, holding their breath.

The aircraft began its roll. The runway was only three hundred meters long, a compacted sand‑soil surface, not even level. The plane bounced forward, gaining speed.

Fifty meters, one hundred meters, one hundred fifty meters…

The nose lifted!

"It's up! It's up!" someone shouted.

The wheels of Chuying‑1 left the ground, barely half a meter, but it truly rose. It wobbled forward like a fledgling taking its first steps.

Chen Feng's heart rose to his throat.

The left wing suddenly shook violently.

"Bad!" Zhao Tianxiang's voice was drowned by the engine's roar.

Immediately, everyone heard an ominous "crack".

The left wing snapped from its root.

The aircraft tilted left like a kite with its line cut, then nosedived. The nose hit first, followed by the cockpit; the canvas tore, the wooden frame fractured, and the engine was flung from the fuselage, rolling a few times on the ground before stopping.

A dead silence.