Great Power Reclamation

Spring arrived in Beijing unexpectedly. Overnight, all the magnolias along Chang'an Avenue bloomed, white as snow and pink as the sunset, their petals thick and plump, exuding a clumsy liveliness in the sunlight.

There are also several magnolia trees in the courtyard of the Civil Aviation Administration of China. They bloom two days later than the ones on the street, but once they bloom, they are in full bloom. Standing in front of the window of the second-floor office, you can almost reach them with your hand.

Ye Mao stood by the window, looking at the flowers, holding a cup of tea in his hand, which had already gone cold.

He was transferred to the Civil Aviation Administration of China as Executive Deputy Director; the news was announced yesterday afternoon.

When the leaders of the Organization Department spoke with him, he thought he had misheard. He was transferred directly from his original position to the Civil Aviation Administration of China, a leap from new energy to aviation that even he found unreal.

"Comrade Ye Mao, this is not a lateral transfer, but an important appointment."

The leaders of the Organization Department put it very bluntly: "With the successful development of the Tianshan engine, the airworthiness certification of the domestically produced large aircraft has reached its most critical moment."

"The Civil Aviation Administration needs people who understand economics, coordination, and are capable of getting things done. You promoted new energy vehicles in northern Xinjiang, and you pushed the province's new energy vehicle penetration rate from the bottom of the country to the top three. The higher-ups can see this achievement."

Ye Mao paused for a moment. "Boss, I have no experience in aviation."

The leader smiled. "The Tianshan engine was made by your third uncle. The Ye family in Junken City has been making engines for over a decade. You're not going to the Civil Aviation Administration to work on the technology; you're going to work on coordination. Airworthiness certification isn't just a technical issue; it's an economic issue, and a political issue. You're better at coordination than your third uncle."

Ye Mao didn't refuse again. He wasn't one to make excuses. The Ye family didn't have a habit of refusing. When it was time to step up, they stepped up; when it was time to shoulder responsibility, they shouldered it; when it was time to leave, they left. That's what Ye Yuze taught him.

When the news reached Junken City, Ye Yuze was drinking tea under an apricot tree. Yang Geyong, sitting opposite him with a bowl of milk tea, suddenly stopped, put down the bowl, and looked up at Ye Yuze's face.

"Your second son was transferred to the Civil Aviation Administration?"

Ye Yuze's lips curled up slightly. "You're quite well-informed."

Yang Geyong snorted. "Junken City is such a small place, even a fart can travel all the way to the east end of the city. How could I not know about something as big as your son being transferred to the Civil Aviation Administration?"

Ye Yuze picked up his teacup and took a sip. More petals floated back into the cup, but he didn't scoop them out; he swallowed the tea along with the petals.

"This arrangement by the higher authorities is a statement of attitude."

Yang Geyong picked up the milk tea bowl and put it down again. "What kind of attitude is that?"

Ye Yuze looked at the apricot blossoms above his head. The petals swayed gently in the wind, some falling down, some still clinging to the branches.

"Go all out. These four words are not just empty words. They are earned with manpower, money, and time."

"Putting my son in that position is to tell everyone—this is something we will do at all costs. We will not stop until we get the airworthiness certificate, until we get the large aircraft into the sky, and until we break free from those holding us back, one by one."

Yang Geyong remained silent for a long time. Then he picked up the milk tea bowl and took a big gulp. The milk tea was already cold, but he didn't care.

"Old Ye, when do you think the Junken No. 1 will be able to take off?"

Ye Yuze thought for a moment. "It will take at least a year, and at most three years."

"A year? Are you sure?"

Ye Yuze looked at him and smiled. "I'm not sure. But my son works at the Civil Aviation Administration. He's more anxious than I am."

Yang Geyong was taken aback for a moment, then laughed. "You've spent your whole life relying on your son."

Ye Yuze did not refute, because he was indeed using his son—

Ye Feng was in New York, keeping an eye on Wall Street and the FAA; Ye Mao was in Beijing, focusing on airworthiness certificates; and Ye Yuping was in the military reclamation city, overseeing engines. Three sons, three battlefields, three approaches operating simultaneously.

This is not his battle alone, but the battle of three generations of the Ye family. It is the apricot tree planted by his father's generation, the sapling watered by his generation, the branches pruned by his son's generation, and the fruit that his grandson's generation will soon taste.

Beijing, Civil Aviation Administration of China. Ye Mao's office is small, but it's very sunny.

The afternoon sunlight streamed in through the window, falling on the desk, the potted green ivy, and the stack of documents that had just been moved in.

On his first day at the Civil Aviation Administration, there were no meetings, no speeches, and no ceremonies. He sat in his office reading documents, one by one, from morning till afternoon, and from afternoon till almost the end of the workday.

Someone knocked on the door.

"Please come in."

The door opened. A man in his fifties walked in, with gray hair, wearing black-rimmed glasses, and carrying a briefcase.

Old Zhou—the director of the Airworthiness Certification Department. Ye Mao stood up, walked around the desk, and extended his hand.

"Director Zhou, I've heard so much about you."

Old Zhou held his hand, his grip neither too tight nor too loose, for just the right amount of time.

"Director Ye, congratulations."

Ye Mao laughed. "What's there to congratulate me on? I'm just taking on a critical mission."

Old Zhou smiled too. The two sat down on the sofa, with a coffee table between them, on which was a tea set.

Ye Mao picked up the kettle to boil water, washed the cups, added tea leaves, poured in water, and poured out the soup. His movements were neither fast nor slow, just like conducting a titration experiment in a laboratory, unhurried and meticulous.

Old Zhou watched him brew the tea without urging him. Once the tea was ready, Ye Mao placed a cup in front of Old Zhou.

"Director Zhou, what's the progress on the airworthiness certification of the Tianshan engine?"

Old Zhou picked up his teacup and smelled it; the aroma was delightful. "The technical data is fine. The engine itself is fine. The review team spent three days in Junken City and came back to report to me that this was the most solid airworthiness application material they had ever seen."

"From the first ignition to the successful fourth test run, every test, every failure, and every improvement of every prototype was recorded, signed, and attended by all the personnel."

"After more than a decade of working on engines, the people are still here, the machines are still here, and the records are still here—this is rare in the history of global aviation."

Ye Mao held his teacup but didn't drink. "Then where's the problem?"

Old Zhou put down his teacup. "The problem isn't in China. In China, we're the ones in charge. I can sign CAAC certificates anytime."

“But with a CAAC certificate, you can only fly within China. To fly abroad, you need FAA and EASA certificates. And to get FAA and EASA certificates, you can’t have any leverage over others.”

"Our approval standards must be in line with international standards. Only when they are in line can they be considered equivalent. Only when they are considered equivalent will others recognize them. Only when they are recognized can they be exported. This is a logical chain, and every link must be strong."

Ye Mao picked up his teacup, took a sip, put it down, picked up the kettle to refill it, and poured another cup for Lao Zhou.

"Director Zhou, if I told you that the higher-ups have decided to name the first mass-produced domestically made large passenger aircraft 'Junken No. 1', what do you think that means?"

Old Zhou's teacup stopped in mid-air.

Junken No. 1. These four characters were not chosen casually. Junken—Junken City, the root of the Ye family, the birthplace of the Tianshan engine.

Number One—the first one, not the second, not the third, it's the first one.

This means that from the very first aircraft, it must be equipped with its own engine. It's not something that happens after the domestic production rate reaches a certain level; it's something that's installed from the very beginning.

This is a declaration—from today onwards, China's large aircraft will be built with its own heart.

Old Zhou put the teacup back on the table and remained silent for a long time. "This means we have no way out."

Ye Mao nodded. "There is no way out. Nor is there any need for a way out."

It was late at night at the Military Reclamation City Research Institute. Ye Hai hadn't left yet, and neither had Ayiguli.

Two people sat side by side on the steps in front of the test bench, each holding a cup of coffee. The engine behind them lay silent, like a crouching giant.

The lights shone down from above, casting a long shadow on the engine's silver-gray casing, enveloping the two people inside.

Aygul leaned on Ye Hai's shoulder. "Ye Hai, when do you think the Military Reclamation Unit 1 can take off?"

Ye Hai thought for a moment. "It could take a year at the fastest, or three years at the slowest."

"Why do you say the same thing as your uncle?"

"Because what my uncle said is exactly what I wanted to say."

Aygul looked up at him. The light shone down from above, casting a half-bright, half-dark shadow on his face, making the outline of his nose resemble a knife-cut mountain ridge.

"You Ye family members all talk the same way."

Ye Hai looked down at her. "How are they the same?"

Aygul thought for a moment. “Short. As short as a nail. But it’s driven deep.”

Ye Hai didn't speak, but put his arm around her shoulder. The two sat on the steps, the engine behind them, a light overhead. Outside the window was the Gobi Desert, above which rose the snow-capped peaks of the Tianshan Mountains, and above those peaks, a sky full of stars.

The night sky over Junken City is always filled with stars. It's not because the lights aren't bright enough, but because the sky is so low that you feel like you could reach out and touch the lights.

Those lights traveled for tens of thousands, millions, hundreds of millions of years, breaking free from the embrace of countless stars in the vast universe, just to land on this Gobi Desert at this moment.

It landed on Ye Hai and Ayiguli's shoulders, on the silver-gray casing of the Tianshan engine, and on the rusty bronze plaque that read "Military Reclamation Aviation Power Research and Development Center".

Aygul suddenly spoke a sentence in Kazakh, her voice very soft.

Ye Hai didn't understand. "What do you mean?"

Aygul buried her face in his shoulder, her voice muffled. Ye Hai took out his phone from his pocket, opened a translation app, and typed in the letters one by one. The translated Chinese was—

"You are my Tianshan Mountain."

Ye Hai held his phone, not letting Aygul see the screen, but the corner of his mouth curled up slightly.

He put his phone away, reached out and touched Aygul's hair. The red ribbon at the end of her braid slid between his fingers, like a red fish.

The stars are still shining outside the window. Dawn is approaching.

The Wall Street Journal interview was published Monday morning.

The headline was quite bold; it wasn't chosen by the editor, but written by the reporter himself.

Susie Wharton: The most important people in my life are not politicians.

The headline was placed near the bottom of the front page, not the most eye-catching, but enough for anyone who opened the newspaper to see it at a glance.

The accompanying picture is a photo of Ye Feng and Susie sitting side by side in front of a floor-to-ceiling window. The afternoon sun shines in from the side, and their shadows overlap, resembling a mountain.

Susie's campaign team received the news in the early hours of the morning. Mark sent the electronic version of the newspaper to the work group chat, but no one spoke, no one sent an emoji, and no one sent "received".

The group remained silent for over a minute. Mark then sent another message:
"I will accept all interview requests today. Not selectively, but all. I will not refuse any of them."

Forty minutes later, someone replied with a single word – “Damn it.”

Then came the second, the third, and the fourth, lined up in a neat row of exclamation marks, like rows of camel thorns on the Gobi Desert—short, inconspicuous, but painful when they prick your palm.

Susie began her first interview at 7 a.m. CNN's studio is in Washington, D.C., not far from her campaign office, about a 15-minute drive.

When she arrived, it was just dawn, and the glass curtain walls of the office buildings on K Street reflected the pale golden morning light. The presenter was a Black woman in her forties. She and Susie had known each other for years and had a good personal relationship, but the moment she sat down in the studio chair and that red light came on, their personal relationship vanished.

Her first question went straight to the point: "Congressman Wharton, we've seen the Wall Street Journal interview. You said Ye Feng is the most important person in your life. But you didn't say whether he's your lover."

Susie didn't hesitate; her voice was as steady as she was. "He is."

"How long have you been together?"

"Nearly thirty years."

A moment of silence fell over the studio. The producer said something through his headset in the control room, but the host ignored him.

"Will our voters feel that your personal relationship with a Chinese-American billionaire will affect your independence as President of the United States?"

Susie looked at the camera. "No. Because what's independent isn't my wallet, it's my judgment. Over the past decade, the Wharton Family Foundation has donated hundreds of millions of dollars to global public health, and not a single penny has come from the Brothers Group or the Warriors Group."

“That money came from the Wharton family trust—the estate I inherited. It was left to me by my grandfather.”

She paused for a moment. “I spend my own money, do what I believe is right, and vote for candidates I believe in. That’s independence. Much more independent than those politicians who take lobbyist money and speak for the corporation.”

After the program aired, online comments exploded. Some cheered – "Finally, someone dares to speak the truth!"

"A 30-year relationship without hiding anything, that's true character," "Wharton Congressman 202X."

But the criticisms were equally sharp – "Third-party candidates have no chance of winning anyway, what's the point of creating this kind of buzz to grab attention?"

"What kind of independence is it for an American president to be entangled with a Chinese-American capitalist?"

In his campaign office, Mark was monitoring public opinion in real time. Dozens of windows on the screen simultaneously displayed data from various social media platforms—

Positive, negative, neutral, six-grid, nine-grid, emoji.

His coffee cup was empty, and his ashtray was full. Not because he was nervous, but because he knew what that number meant.

Fifteen percent—the number of times Susie Walton's name has been mentioned across the internet has increased nearly twentyfold in the past few hours.

He stubbed out the cigarette he'd only taken two puffs of, picked up his phone, and sent Ye Feng a message:
"Public opinion is shifting. It's not because people believe Susie, but because people are tired of those who dare not speak the truth."

"She dares to speak out, believe it or not, everyone will want to take a second look at her. The more they take a second look, the more they'll listen to her. The more she says, the more people will believe her. The more people believe her, the higher her approval rating will go. It's a domino effect, and the first one has already fallen."

Ye Feng did not reply to the message. He was in his office in the Manhattan headquarters building, with the Wall Street Journal spread out in front of him.

In the photo, his and Susie's shadows overlapped, sunlight falling on his shoulders and covering hers. He stared at it for a long time, then picked up his phone and dialed a number.

“Susie, I saw the report.”

"How are they? How are the photos?"

"Row."

"Just one word?"

Ye Feng thought for a moment. "Two words. Very good."

Susie laughed out loud on the other end. After laughing, she was silent for a moment, then spoke again in a much softer voice. "Ye Feng, are you scared?"

Ye Feng closed the newspaper, leaned back in his chair, and looked out at the Manhattan skyline.

The glass curtain wall reflected the afternoon sun, and the Statue of Liberty in the distance stood as a small dot at the mouth of the Hudson River.

"Not afraid."

"why?"

"Because this isn't the first time I've been in the spotlight."

Susie did not respond.

"Susie, how long do you think this war will last?"

Susie thought for a moment. "Fight until they don't want to fight anymore."

When do they not want to fight?

"When they realize they can't win."

Ye Feng held his phone to his ear without speaking. He had heard those words before; Yang Geyong had said them casually in the study of the Ye family's old house in Junken City, while sitting under the apricot tree, drinking milk tea and playing chess with Ye Yuze.

The Ye family speaks the same language. Susie Walton isn't a member of the Ye family, but she speaks the language of the Ye family. Not because she's imitating, but because she's on the same side as the Ye family.

Spring in Beijing is almost over. Magnolias bloom and fade quickly, going from a tree full of blossoms to a carpet of petals in just a few days.

Ye Mao stood by the window of the Civil Aviation Administration's office, looking down at the magnolia trees below. A thick layer of petals had fallen, white and fluffy, like a light snowfall.

The cleaners were sweeping with large brooms, sweeping the soil into piles, which were then filled into black plastic bags. It's unclear where they were going to take them.

He thought of spring in the northern frontier. In the military reclamation city, there were no magnolias, only apricot blossoms.

Apricot blossoms are not as flamboyant as magnolias. Their petals are small and thin, pinkish-white, and they bloom on the gray Gobi Desert, easily missed if you don't look closely.

But apricot blossoms are more fragrant than magnolias. It's not the kind of overpowering fragrance that makes you dizzy, but rather the kind of subtle, sweet scent that suddenly wafts into your nose when you casually walk under the tree and a breeze blows by.

You stop to smell it carefully, and it's gone. Then you give up and continue walking, and it's back. That's how apricot blossoms are—they don't compete or fight, but you can't forget them.

The knocking interrupted Ye Mao's thoughts.

"Come in."

Old Zhou pushed open the door and came in, holding a document in his hand. His expression was neither happy nor unhappy, like a surgeon who had just completed a major operation. The operation was successful, but he was too tired to be happy.

"Director Ye, the review report is out."

Ye Mao turned around. "How is it?"

Old Zhou placed the document on his desk and opened it. His gaze swept across the data page and stopped at the conclusion that had been written, revised, and rewritten many times.

"The Tianshan engine has passed all type approvals. The CAAC airworthiness certificate can be issued now."

Ye Mao looked at him without saying anything.

"Director Zhou, thank you for your hard work."

Old Zhou shook his head. "It's not hard work. It's what I should do."

Ye Mao pressed his fingers on the document, his fingertips tracing the gold-embossed words on the cover: "Tianshan Engine Model Qualification Approval Report".

"Director Zhou, when can the test flight of Junken No. 1 be started?"

Old Zhou thought for a moment. "At the fastest, three months. The test pilot has already been chosen; it's the same Mr. Li we talked about last time. He's been flying for decades and has a wealth of experience."

"The flight test outline has also been finalized. In accordance with international standards, not a single subject will be omitted. Ground test, taxiing test, maiden flight, envelope expansion, performance test, avionics test, noise test, icing test, high-altitude test, high and low temperature test—it will take about two years to complete all the subjects."

"Two years." Ye Mao chewed the number in his mouth for a moment, then swallowed it.

"Two years is a reasonable wait. The Tianshan engine took more than a decade to develop, so two more years won't make a difference. The large aircraft project has been in development for more than a decade, so two more years won't make a difference."

China's large passenger aircraft program has been underway for so many years, from the cancellation of the Y-10 project to now; a couple more years won't make a difference. But we can't wait any longer. If we wait any longer, those who are waiting to fly on China's own aircraft will be too old.

Old Zhou paused for a moment.

"Director Ye, I have a suggestion."

"explain."

"The maiden flight ceremony of Junken No. 1 was held in Junken City. Not in Pudong, not in Yanliang, but in Junken City. At the foot of Tianshan Mountain, on the Gobi Desert. It will fly from where the engine was made."

Ye Mao looked at him and smiled. "Director Zhou, I will submit your suggestion. Whether it is approved or not is not up to me."

Old Zhou nodded, turned and left. He stopped at the door but didn't look back.

"Director Ye, I've been to the Military Reclamation City. The wind on the Gobi Desert is stronger than in Beijing. But the sky there is bluer than in Beijing. The engine was built there, the test flight was completed there, and the maiden flight was also there. The people and the world there are connected."

He left. The door closed. Ye Mao stood alone by the window, looking at the sky outside. The sky over Beijing was overcast, but sunlight peeked through the clouds, shining on the magnolia trees and the black garbage bags being pushed by the sanitation worker.

He locked the document in the safe, left the office, and someone greeted him in the hallway. He nodded, smiled, and replied with a "hello," like a machine that had been programmed.

Upon arriving at the underground parking lot, he opened the car door and got into the driver's seat. Instead of starting the car immediately, he took out his phone and sent a message to Ye Yuze:
"Dad, the airworthiness certificate has been approved. Junken No. 1 will have its test flight in three months."

The reply came quickly, not with text, but with a photo. The photo showed an apricot tree, its branches covered in pink and white blossoms that shimmered in the sunlight.

Under the tree was a stone table and two stone chairs. On the table were a cup of tea and a bowl of milk tea. The tea was steaming, the milk tea was steaming, and sunlight filtered through the branches, casting small patches of golden light on the rims of the cup and bowl.

Ye Mao stared at the photo in the dark underground parking garage, sitting in the driver's seat with the engine off. He looked at it for a long time, then put his phone away, started the car, and drove out of the parking lot.

In the same afternoon in Junken City, Ye Yuze placed his phone on the stone table and picked up his teacup. Yang Geyong sat opposite him, holding a bowl of milk tea.

"Approved?"

"Approved."

Yang Geyong nodded and lowered his head to drink his milk tea. The milk tea was still hot, scalding his mouth. He took a slurp, touched his lower lip with his upper lip, and made a "smack" sound.

"Old Ye, are you going to the maiden flight of the Junken No. 1?"

"Go. What about you?"

"Go. I'll crawl if I have to."

Ye Yuze looked at him. Yang Geyong's face was half-lit and half-shadowed in the light and shadow of the apricot blossoms, his wrinkles deep and shallow, like ravines on the Gobi Desert.

"Old Yang, your leg—"

"My leg is fine. I can walk."

Ye Yuze didn't reply. He picked up his teacup, and more petals floated into it. He didn't scoop them up, but swallowed the tea along with the petals. It was slightly astringent, with a hint of sweetness.

The apricot blossoms swayed gently in the wind. Some petals fell, while others remained clinging to the branches.

Those that are holding on will also fall in a few days. But it's okay if they fall, they'll bloom again next year.

It will bloom again the year after next. And the year after that. As long as the tree, the roots, the soil, the water, and the sunlight remain, it will continue to bloom. The wind blows in the military reclamation city, and the snow on the Tianshan Mountains melts.

The airport runway is finished. It's very long, stretching from one end of the Gobi Desert to the other, ending at the Tianshan Mountains. Planes take off from there, facing the Tianshan Mountains, and ascend. (End of Chapter)