Chapter 524: Burning Sky

"The state will provide free vocational training," Wu Wenyuan glanced at his watch, "This press conference ends here. Detailed implementation rules will be released over the next three days. Thank you all."

He briskly left the podium, flashbulbs chasing his silhouette until he vanished behind the side door.

The reporters began packing their equipment, and the hall filled with noisy chatter.

"Do you believe his words?" a young reporter asked the senior colleague beside him.

The veteran reporter lit a cigarette, took a deep drag: "How much you believe is irrelevant. What matters is that from today, this country is different."

"How is it different?"

"The smell of war," the old reporter said, looking out the window where soldiers were already patrolling the street, "Many things you never see in peacetime are now surfacing. Just wait and see."

Huo Er De Sa Air Force Base, 10 a. m.

Twelve BF-109 fighters lined up in two rows on the runway, their silvery‑gray fuselages reflecting the desert sun. These single‑wing fighters are the latest product of Lanfang Aviation Industry, equipped with a Daimler‑Benz DB601 liquid‑cooled engine capable of a top speed of 570 km/h, and each wing mounts two 7.92 mm machine guns.

Yet at this moment, the cockpits of these aerial killers were occupied by rookie trainees with less than fifty flight hours.

"Third Squadron, prepare for takeoff!"

The command from the control tower was broadcast over the radio to each pilot's headset. Lin Huaimin stood before the observation window on the tower's top level, telescope in hand, his expression as grim as a sky before a storm.

"General, do you really intend to send them all up?" Colonel Zhao Zhiqiang, the training supervisor standing nearby, asked cautiously, "These trainees have only just completed the basic subjects; they haven't mastered emergency takeoffs and formation flying yet…"

"There's no time," Lin Huaimin put down the telescope, "The order is to double the number of pilots within six months. Under a normal training syllabus that would take two years. We can only… compress the process."

"But the accident rate will skyrocket," Zhao Zhiqiang whispered, "Last week two aircraft crashed, three trainees died. If this continues…"

"I know the risk," Lin Huaimin cut him off, turning to face his old subordinate, "Old Zhao, do you think I enjoy this? Watching those youngsters not yet twenty turn into a ball of fire in the desert because of insufficient training?"

He walked to the training progress board on the wall, his finger sweeping over row after row of names.

"But the reality is, if war breaks out—whether against Yingguo or anyone else—we need pilots who can fight in the sky, not flowers cultivated in a greenhouse. We'd rather lose twenty percent in training than eighty percent in actual combat."

On the runway beneath the tower, the first BF-109 began its roll. The engine's roar could be heard even through the double‑glazed glass. The aircraft accelerated, its tail lifted, the nose wheel left the ground… but at the critical moment of takeoff, the pilot apparently pulled the stick too early, the plane surged upward sharply and then stalled.

"Dammit!" Lin Huaimin slammed his fist onto the windowsill.

The aircraft shook like a falling leaf, its altitude plummeting. The pilot frantically pushed the stick, trying to recover the stall, but there was insufficient height. With three hundred meters left before the runway's end, the tail struck the ground, followed by the entire fuselage, which slid dozens of meters before rolling over, kicking up a huge cloud of dust.

Rescue and fire trucks raced forward with sirens blaring. The control tower fell into dead silence.

"Third Squadron, hold your takeoff," Lin Huaimin said into the microphone, his voice calm though his hand gripping the mic trembled slightly, "Tower commander, go check on the pilot's condition."

A brief silence came over the radio, then the commander's voice: "Copy. Rescue team report… the pilot is still alive but severely wounded, rescue underway."

Lin Huaimin closed his eyes, inhaled deeply. When he opened them, his expression had returned to its usual coldness.

"Second Squadron, prepare. Takeoff in fifteen minutes."

"General!" Zhao Zhiqiang could no longer hold back, "Should we first suspend today's high‑intensity training? Let the instructors reassess the trainees' condition…"

"Continue," Lin Huaimin's voice left no room for doubt, "Tell the instructors, if anyone makes this elementary mistake during takeoff, send them to ground crew to service aircraft for life. Also, as of today, the fuel‑quota restriction is lifted. I want each trainee to fly at least four hours per day."

"Four hours?! That means…"

"It means we'll burn through a third of the nation's aviation fuel reserves. I know," Lin Huaimin turned to face him, "But do you know, Old Zhao? In real air combat, a pilot averages no more than twenty flight hours. If we don't fly more now, train more, crash more, then once we hit the battlefield it's a death sentence." (World War II data)

He walked to the radio console and picked up another microphone.

"All instructors, attention, this is Lin Huaimin. Effective today, the training syllabus is nullified. The new rules are simple: only those who can take off and land in complex weather may learn formation; only those who master formation may learn combat; only those who defeat the instructor in simulated engagements may graduate. There is only one standard—usable in wartime."

He paused, letting each word sink in.

"I don't care what methods you use, I don't care how high the attrition rate is, I don't care how many planes you crash. In six months, I want three hundred pilots who can land a fighter on an aircraft carrier, endure anti‑aircraft fire, and survive a dogfight. Those who can't achieve this may submit their resignation now."

The radio was silent. After a few seconds, a faint "Copy" came through.

Lin Huaimin set down the microphone and looked out the window again. The Second Squadron's aircraft were undergoing pre‑takeoff checks, ground crew bustling around them. Farther away in the hangar, a new B‑17 bomber was being assembled, its massive four‑engine airframe crawling on the ground like a metallic beast.

"General," Zhao Zhiqiang walked to his side, his voice soft, "Do you really think… we'll go to war? With Meilika? With Yingguo?"

Lin Huaimin did not answer immediately. He recalled the core meeting a week earlier, when Chen Feng had said: "…showing resolve is itself a form of diplomacy."

"I'm not sure," he finally said, "but I'm certain that if one day enemy aircraft appear over Dubai, our pilots must be able to meet them. To achieve that, every minute now is precious."

He patted his old subordinate's shoulder.

"Get back to work, Old Zhao. Tell the kids that when they complain about how hard the training is, they should remember—the hardships now are so they can come home alive in the future."