Solving the case: Combining the police dog's olfactory genes at the beginning

While monitoring the attack process, Zhou Xiaobei also used another device to continue tracking the flight path of Luo Fei's plane.

He saw the Gulfstream G650ER's speed drop from Mach 0.85 to Mach 0.75, but its course remained straight toward Lixian County, and its altitude remained at 11,000 meters.

The two F-35s seemed to notice the change in speed and began to cut in front of the Gulfstream more frequently, trying to block the flight path with their fuselages. But Luo Fei remained motionless, his course unchanged, like a satellite flying along a fixed orbit, silent and unstoppable.

Time passed by, second by second.

Luo Fei's action of slowing down did indeed have an effect. The commander of the Japanese Air Self-Defense Force saw the target slowing down and judged that the other party might be hesitating or waiting for some instructions. Therefore, he postponed the final time of issuing the order to shoot down the target by another five minutes.

In the underground command center of the Ministry of Defense building in Chiyoda Ward, Japan, a group of senior military officers sat around a long conference table, with a large screen displaying the real-time flight path of the Gulfstream aircraft and the formation positions of two F-35s.

At the far end of the conference table sat a middle-aged man in a dark gray suit, his hair neatly combed, his face as gloomy as the sky before a storm.

He is Shigeru Tanaka, Japan's Minister of National Defense. He has been sitting in this position since he received the interception report and has not moved for almost an hour.

“The target course has not changed,” a staff officer said, pointing to the data report on the screen. “It is still pointing towards Lixian County.”

We intercepted the live broadcast signal from Daxia. The last thing the pilot said before turning off the broadcast was—"Add a little more fire to Mount Fuji."

A brief silence fell over the conference room.

"Fushiyama?"

Tanaka Shigeru frowned deeply. "Has he gone mad? Flying a plane all by himself to crash into Mount Fuji?"

“Sir,” an intelligence officer sitting on the other side of the table stood up, holding a newly printed emergency report in his hand, his voice visibly trembling, “this is the latest data transferred from the Geological Monitoring Bureau this afternoon.”

Magma pressure inside the Mount Fuji crater has been rising steadily over the past two weeks, reaching its highest level on record. Yesterday, monitoring stations detected sulfur dioxide concentrations at the crater rim that were 300 times the normal level.

This data has been consistently reported to us, but following our previous public relations strategy, we haven't released it to the public.

Tanaka Shigeru's face went from gloomy to ashen.

“You mean,” he said, emphasizing each word as if squeezed out from between his teeth, “that mountain could indeed be detonated?”

The intelligence officer nodded with difficulty. "If a plane fully loaded with aviation fuel were to crash into the lava dome of a volcano at high subsonic speed, the resulting shockwave and heat could very well break the sealed structure of the lava chamber's roof."

Once the magma chamber ruptures, high-pressure magma and volcanic gases will erupt instantly, creating a chain reaction—Commander Tanaka, the 470,000 residents in the surrounding areas of Nashi and Shizuoka prefectures in eastern Honshu may not have enough time to evacuate completely.

The air in the command center seemed to have been sucked out. All the officers were staring at Tanaka Shigeru, whose hands were clenching tighter and tighter on the edge of the table, his knuckles turning white and veins bulging.

“Shoot him down,” Tanaka Shigeru’s voice was low and urgent. “Now, immediately, shoot him down right now.”

The staff officer immediately connected to the command line at Hyakuri Base and loudly repeated Tanaka Shigeru's order into the microphone: "Hyakuri Base, Hyakuri Base, this is the Ministry of Defense command center. Your unit is ordered to immediately shoot down the target. I repeat, shoot down immediately!"

The lead F-35 pilot at Baili Air Base received the order, pressed his right thumb on the missile launch button, and a missile-ready icon immediately popped up on the HUD display.

He took a deep breath, aimed the sights at the Gulfstream's wing, and pressed the launch button.

Then he froze.

A red warning message popped up on the HUD: "Weapon system self-test failure, missile launch procedure has been terminated. Weapon system self-test failure, missile launch procedure has been terminated."

He thought he had pressed the wrong button, so he pressed it again, but the red text on the screen remained. He switched to another missile and pressed it again, but got the same result.

Cold sweat instantly broke out on his forehead. His fingers frantically tapped on the weapon control panel, trying to bypass the system to restart the firing procedure, but each attempt ended with the same self-test failure message.

"Baili Base calling command center," the lead pilot's voice was hoarse and urgent over the radio, "Unable to launch missiles. To repeat, all missile launch procedures are locked by the system, launch is impossible!"

The Ministry of Defense command center was in an uproar.

What do you mean by "unable to launch"?

"What is system lock? Who locked it?!"

"Where's the Logistics Information Center? Connect me to the Long Island Logistics Information Center immediately!"

Tanaka Shigeru sprang up from his chair, braced his hands on the conference table, and leaned forward slightly, like a wild beast cornered against a wall.

"Investigate," he said in a low voice, so low that only the person closest to him could hear him, "find out whether it's a technical malfunction or someone sabotaged it."

In the computer room of the Long Island Logistics Information Center, Xiao Lin, an engineer on the night shift, was dozing off in front of the monitoring console, drool dripping onto the edge of the control panel.

He was completely unaware that while he was asleep, the checksum in the missile authorization module of the thirteen servers had been quietly changed by one byte. After the change, the log file was refreshed, and the traces of the alteration disappeared without a trace, as if nothing had happened.

Meanwhile, on another floor of the Ministry of Defense building, Takijiro Onishi, the director of the Kamikaze Bureau, was sitting alone in his office with a state-of-the-art intelligence terminal in front of him, its screen displaying real-time information gathered from various channels.

Kamikaze is the most secretive intelligence agency in Japan, reporting directly to the Cabinet and possessing operational authority and information networks independent of the Ministry of Defense.

Takijiro Onishi is in his fifties. His hair is shaved very short, and his skin is a sickly grayish-white due to years of staying up late. But his eyes are very bright, as bright as two glass beads soaking in ice water.

When the news of the F-35 missile system being locked on reached him, he did not panic like the officers in the command center.

He simply sat quietly in his chair, his fingers gently stroking his chin, staring at the dense data on the screen for a full two minutes. Then he realized something.

This man from Great Xia named Luo Fei never intended to return alive. He turned off the live stream not because he was afraid of being seen, but because what he was about to do was not suitable for the whole world to watch in real time.

His slowing down wasn't out of hesitation, but rather to buy time—time for a ground team to attack Long Island's logistics system. And all of this ultimately pointed to only one target: the awakening volcano of Mount Fuji.

If the volcano is detonated prematurely, the entire country of cherry blossoms will have nowhere to escape.

The power of the eruption of Mount Fuji was not localized, nor was it a disaster for a particular city or county.

Its last major eruption was in 1707, the fourth year of the Hōei era. The volcanic ash from the eruption covered the entire Kanto Plain, and Edo Castle—today's Tokyo—was pitch black during the day. Pyroclastic flows destroyed dozens of villages, followed by earthquakes and tsunamis. The death toll remains inaccurate to this day.

Now, 317 years later, the pressure and energy accumulation in the magma chamber of Mount Fuji have far exceeded the levels during the Bao Yong eruption.

If this eruption is premature, all cities in eastern Honshu, including Tokyo, will be engulfed by volcanic ash within hours. The economy, politics, and social order of the "Sakura Country" will come to a complete standstill the moment the volcano erupts.

Takijiro Onishi's hands began to tremble. Not from the cold, but from fear.

He had worked in the Kamikaze Bureau for nearly thirty years, handling countless crises, from North Korean missile tests to domestic terrorist attacks. Never before had he felt such a chill creeping up his spine as he did at this moment.

He faced only one enemy—one person, one plane, one plan, to push the lifeline of a nation to the brink of disaster.

His fingers flew across the intelligence terminal, finding an encrypted internal communication line. This line led directly to the royal gardens of the Sakura Kingdom, to the person he was willing to risk his life to protect.

“Receiving you, Your Majesty,” Takijiro Onishi’s voice came through the communication channel, his tone very flat, but with a slight tremor at the end of each word, “Emergency notification from the Kamikaze Bureau, threat level—highest.”

The Royal Garden is located deep within a vast artificial forest in Tokyo's Chiyoda Ward, surrounded by several high walls and layers of security facilities.

In the very center of this man-made forest, which covers several square kilometers, stands a group of traditional-style wooden palaces with blue tiles, white walls, and slightly upturned eaves. The dry landscape garden in the courtyard is bathed in moonlight, creating a tranquil, silvery-white ambiance.

Emperor T was in the bathroom of his bedchamber. The man, in his sixties, had just finished a hot bath and was standing in front of the sink, drying his hands with a towel, wearing a loose bathrobe.

He moved slowly, his face expressionless, just as he always appeared in public—gentle, quiet, and unassuming.

For decades, he lived like this, never expressing any political opinions, never participating in any power struggles, playing a symbolic role in accordance with the post-war constitution, living quietly among the red walls and green tiles of the Imperial Palace, like the most gorgeous yet most insignificant illustration in a forgotten ancient book of this country.

Then there was a knock on the bathroom door. The knocking was very urgent, completely unlike the composure expected of a royal guard.

"Your Majesty," a voice from outside the door said, carrying a barely suppressed but barely concealed panic, "Chief Onishi of the Kamikaze Bureau has issued an urgent report that terrorists are attempting to crash their planes into the crater of Mount Fuji."

The magma pressure inside the Fuji volcano has reached a critical point. If it is detonated, the entire Seoul metropolitan area will be completely engulfed by volcanic ash.

The Ministry of Defense's fighter jet missile systems have been completely paralyzed by an unknown cyberattack, and there is no means to intercept the aircraft for the next thirty minutes.

The pristine white towel slipped from T's fingers and fell silently to the floor. He stood there for two seconds, then turned and took a few steps toward the bathroom door.

When the person outside the door said in a trembling voice, "There is no way to intercept that plane within thirty minutes," T-Emperor had just walked to the door, one hand resting on the door frame.

His bathrobe was half-open, revealing his thin collarbone and two rows of clearly visible ribs.

This nominal national symbol, an old man who had never uttered a single outrageous word in his life, staggered out of the bathroom in an extremely undignified manner. The belt of his half-finished bathrobe dragged across the floor like a white snake. The gentle and calm mask on his face was completely shattered, replaced by a pure, instinctive fear—the most primal reaction of a living person facing annihilation.

Inside the cockpit of the hijacked Gulfstream G650ER, Luo Fei was not fully aware of what was happening in Tokyo and Long Island.

He didn't know the specific progress of the attack from the Red Hacker Alliance, he didn't know how chaotic the high-ranking officials of the Sakura Kingdom were, and he didn't know that Emperor T was standing in the corridor of his bedroom, trembling with fear.

But he didn't need to know those details. He only needed to know one thing—the F-35 hadn't fired yet, which meant Zhou Xiaobei and his team had succeeded.

He reached for the phone on the passenger seat. There was an unread message on the encrypted communication channel of the screen, sent by Zhou Xiaobei two minutes ago. The message contained only four words.

"Mission accomplished."

Luo Fei put down his phone and glanced at the instrument panel. The course was correct, the speed was stable, and the fuel was plentiful—the plane could fly for a long time, but his destination wouldn't be far off.

The red coordinates on the navigation screen were about 160 kilometers away, which should take about ten minutes at the current speed.

Just then, he noticed a tiny notification pop up on the edge of his phone screen.

That was a message from his live streaming platform account—although his live stream was closed, the gift-giving system had left a process running from the last time it was used, and it hadn't completely logged out. The message box displayed only a short line of text.

"User [Red Hacker Chen Yifan] sent out 10 Carnivals."

Luo Fei stared at that line of text for a full five seconds. Then he smiled.

That smile appeared on his scarred and weary face, like a stone thrown into a calm lake, ripples spreading outwards, diluting the gloomy darkness in his eyes.

Ten carnivals.

It's not about the money. The Carnival gift is the most expensive gift on that live streaming platform, each worth three thousand yuan, so ten of them would be thirty thousand yuan.

But Zhou Xiaobei was never one to spend money on things like this. By giving away these ten carnivals, he was simply telling Luo Fei in the most straightforward and unmistakable way—we did it. Everyone in the Red Hacker Alliance did it. (End of Chapter)