After being separated from my family, I became a darling of the military region thanks to my medical

3:17 a.m.

All the runway lights at the Beicheng Military Region Airport were on.

Two rows of orange-red light strips stretched straight to the horizon, illuminating the entire track and making even the weeds in the concrete joints impossible to hide.

Gu Zheng stood beside the command vehicle below the control tower, his walkie-talkie hissing.

"Reporting to the commander, the warning lines on both sides of the runway have been set up and all non-combat personnel have been evacuated to the west of Hangar No. 3."

"What about the intersection on the east side?"

"Two armored personnel carriers are blocking the lateral line, the 1st Platoon of the 3rd Company of the 761st is in charge, and they are in position."

Gu Zheng pressed the call button.

"Tell the control tower that from now on, this runway will only accept landing instructions for one aircraft at a time, and all other flights will be diverted to the alternate airport."

"Yes."

The voice on the other end of the walkie-talkie was young, speaking quickly, and carrying an undisguised nervousness.

Zhou Hai, who was standing next to him, was wearing a coat.

"Xiao Gu, isn't this a bit too much? You've even brought out armored vehicles. The Soviets might think we're about to start a war."

Gu Zheng didn't turn his head.

"My wife's patient flew in from Moscow."

He glanced at his watch; the luminous hands on the dial pointed to 3:19.

"Every minute that is delayed between the plane landing and the child entering the operating room at the main hospital increases the risk to the child."

"I don't need any surprises."

Zhou Hai opened his mouth, but swallowed the words that were about to come out.

Well, it's a waste of breath to reason with him.

Suddenly, the control tower's announcement came on.

"Report: Radar has acquired the target, bearing northwest, altitude 6,000 meters, descending. The Soviet pilot has established communication with the control tower, call sign Antonov 071, and is expected to enter the landing path in seven minutes."

Gu Zheng opened the door of the command vehicle and stepped on the pedal.

"Attention all units."

His voice wasn't loud on the walkie-talkie, but every word was spoken firmly.

"Once the target is landed, I need an absolute passage from the tarmac to the main gate, where no one is allowed to cross the runway and no vehicle is allowed to occupy the taxiway."

"The medical transport vehicle pulled up to the cabin door within 30 seconds."

"I'll talk to whoever caused the delay in person."

Four or five crisp and efficient replies came from the other end of the walkie-talkie.

Zhou Hai shrank back, silently offering a candle of prayer for the soldiers.

Seven minutes later.

A deep rumble echoed through the night sky over the northern city.

At first, it sounded like distant rumbling thunder rolling in the clouds, then the sound grew louder and closer, making the concrete ground beneath our feet tremble.

At the horizon at the end of the runway, two white landing lights appeared first, followed by a huge black outline emerging from the low clouds.

An124.

The largest strategic transport aircraft of the Soviet Air Force.

The behemoth, with a wingspan exceeding seventy-three meters, pressed down on the night wind and hurtled straight toward the runway with a deafening roar.

The airflow from the four turbofan engines beneath the wings kicked up a layer of gravel and dust from the ground, while the searchlights on either side of the runway cast fan-shaped spots of light on the giant wings.

The moment the tires scraped the track, two plumes of white smoke shot out from under the landing gear.

The sound of the brakes was sharp and piercing.

The plane taxied for nearly 800 meters on the runway before finally slowing down and slowly turning toward the apron.

Before the engine had even completely shut off, a military ambulance painted with a red cross had already pulled up and stopped 30 meters to the right of the nose of the aircraft.

Four people in white coats jumped out of the vehicle, and a stretcher was already unfolded.

The giant cargo door at the tail of the aircraft began to slowly lower.

The hydraulic system emitted a dull creak, and the hatch, like a moving bridge, touched the ground of the tarmac.

The hatch had only been halfway closed when two people rushed out.

The first one was a Soviet military doctor in his thirties. His khaki uniform was unbuttoned, the cuffs were rolled up to his forearms, and sweat was steaming on his face in the minus five degree night wind.

He was holding a transparent, temperature-controlled newborn pod in his arms.

The bulkhead was covered with a dense network of pipes and wires. A portable monitor, about the size of a brick, was taped to the top of the hatch, and a thin, light green line was flashing on the screen.

The second person pushed an ECMO device that was half a person's height, the wheels rolling over the metal panel, making a harsh metallic scraping sound.

The Soviet military doctor spoke Russian quickly and urgently, and his voice was so loud it sounded like he was arguing.

The young translator jogged after him, shouting as he ran.

"He said his blood oxygen level was 62, but it dropped by four points in the past two hours. His kidney function started to deteriorate on the way, and his urine output was less than 0.3 ml per kilogram per hour."

He said the child was dying.

Gu Zheng was already standing next to the ambulance.

He glanced at the baby in the temperature-controlled pod.

It was very small, and its skin color was wrong, bluish-purple.

"Get in the car, let's go."

Two words, with no extra syllables.

The car door slammed shut, the siren blared, and all the lights on the entire runway were left behind as the ambulance sped past.

The distance from the military region airport to the Beicheng Military Region General Hospital is 18 kilometers.

Gu Zheng cleared the road in advance.

At 3:30 a.m., a military jeep was parked at every intersection on the streets of Beicheng, and all the traffic lights were switched to green.

Eight minutes.

The ambulance rushed into the main hospital gate.

The emergency building was brightly lit.

Ye Zhen was already waiting there.

He was dressed neatly in a white coat, his hair was pulled back into a low bun, a stethoscope hung around his neck, and he held an opened syringe in his left hand.

She rushed to the ambulance before it had even come to a complete stop.

As the Soviet military doctor jumped out of the vehicle, he placed the temperature-controlled chamber onto the stretcher.

He was sweating profusely and began to report on the patient's condition in rapid-fire Russian, pulling a crumpled stack of transport medical records from his pocket as he spoke.

Ye Zhen did not take the stack of papers.

She glanced down at the portable monitor on the constant temperature chamber cover.

Heart rate, 188.

Blood oxygen level: 62.

Mean arterial pressure, 27.

She digitized the three numbers in less than a second.

The Soviet military doctor continued speaking Russian.

Ye Zhen looked up and interrupted him directly.

What is the blood perfusion volume on ECMO?

The pure Moscow accent hit the Soviet military doctor's ears, and he visibly froze for a moment.

"120 milliliters per minute."

"Too low."

Ye Zhen turned to look at Liu Jianmin behind her.

"Dopamine hydrochloride, 5 mcg per kilogram per minute, administered via intravenous pump. Simultaneously, adjust the ECMO blood flow to 150 ml per minute and slowly administer sodium bicarbonate at 1 mcequivalent per kilogram to correct acidosis."

Liu Jianmin has already started running.

The Soviet military doctor's expression changed.

He stepped forward, his Russian uttered with obvious skepticism.

"Dr. Ye, our consensus in Moscow is that the perfusion volume should not exceed 120 to avoid bleeding in the newborn's fragile pulmonary vascular bed due to over-perfusion."

The young translator had just opened his mouth to translate when Ye Zhen replied to him in Russian.

"Your consensus applies to normal circulation with intact ventricular septa."

She inserted the stethoscope into the side opening of the thermostat and pressed the probe against the small, bluish-purple chest.

"This child's aorta is transpositioned, and oxygenated and deoxygenated blood are circulating back and forth in the systemic circulation. If you maintain it with the perfusion volume of normal circulation, it is equivalent to starving him."

The Soviet military doctor's lips moved, but he didn't say anything.

Ye Zhen pulled out the stethoscope.

"Has the dopamine arrived yet?"

"We're here." The nurse jogged over, pushing the IV pump.

"Continue, completed in three seconds."

The nurse's hands were trembling.

Ye Zhen reached out and gently pressed her wrist.

"Watch me operate and follow my rhythm."

His voice was calm, as if he were giving routine medical instructions during rounds.

The nurse took a breath and began connecting the tubing.

Thirty seconds later.

The medication was administered via infusion, and the ECMO parameters were adjusted.

Everyone stared at the screen of the portable monitor.

The green waveform jumped twice on the horizontal line with very small amplitude.

Sixty-two.

Sixty-three.

The Soviet military doctor clenched his fist.

Sixty-five.

Sixty-seven.

The numbers bounced up one by one, not fast, but steady like a metronome.

Sixty-eight.

seventy.

The Soviet military doctor's knees buckled, and half of his body leaned against the wall of the corridor.

His Russian came out barely, barely a whisper.

"Three minutes."

He looked down at his hands.

"We struggled to stabilize her blood oxygen levels for so long on the plane, but she managed to get them back in just three minutes."

The young translator stared, forgetting the role he was supposed to be translating.

Ye Zhen was already pushing the stretcher into the emergency room.

"Notify the operating room to prepare for cardiopulmonary bypass in operating room number two. You will be on the operating table in half an hour."

The figure in the white coat disappeared around the corner of the corridor.

The Soviet military doctor stood rooted to the spot, his legs feeling like they were made of lead.

His colleague next to him tugged at his arm.

"Come on, keep up."

He shook his head.

"You go first."

He bent over, rested his hands on his knees, and gasped for breath.

"Let me take a break."

My legs feel a little weak.