Chapter 444 Antarctic Reconnaissance Report

Yang Xiaobing laid the photos out one by one on the table. His fingers were still frostbitten, and the bandages wrapped around his fingertips made a soft rustling sound as they scraped against the edges of the photos. He Yuzhu didn't urge him. The meeting room was thick with smoke. Old Sun's teacup lid wasn't properly closed. He picked it up and put it down, then picked it up again, the clinking of the porcelain particularly jarring in the silence.

The last photo lay on the table. Yang Xiaobing straightened up and put his left hand into his pocket—He Yuzhu noticed that he put it in his right pocket, as his left hand was probably painful to touch due to frostbite.

"They're not afraid of electromagnetic rifles anymore." Yang Xiaobing's voice was hoarse, like the wind sweeping through the sand in the Gobi Desert. "I observed them in Antarctica for five days. Those people were wearing armor. Not ordinary bulletproof vests, but the kind that's close-fitting and has a metallic sheen. I saw them firing at each other with electromagnetic rifles—I could recognize the sound of those gunshots. The bullets hit their breastplates, leaving only a dent, but the people were completely unharmed."

He Yuzhu picked up a photograph without using a magnifying glass. The figure in the photo was only the size of a fingernail, but the reflection on the chest was definitely different. He didn't say anything, put the photograph down, touched the cigarette pack, and then pushed it away.

Deputy Director Zhao leaned over from the opposite side. "Yang Xiaobing, what makes you think that's an electromagnetic rifle? Maybe it's just routine training?"

Yang Xiaobing turned to look at him, his eyes bloodshot. "Director Zhao, I've been in the special forces for ten years. I've fired every kind of gun—domestic, captured, and available—that I've seen. The sound of that gunfire—the electromagnetic projectile piercing the air—is different from gunpowder; it's like an electric shock, sharp and short. I couldn't hear it from fifteen kilometers away, but I could see that when they fired, there was no muzzle flash, no smoke, and the recoil was so low that the gun barely bounced. Tell me, besides electromagnetic rifles, what other guns are like that?"

Deputy Director Zhao opened his mouth, but didn't say anything.

Old Sun's teacup lid finally stopped moving. "If the electromagnetic rifle doesn't work, what will we use to fight them?"

He Yuzhu stood up and walked to the whiteboard. He picked up a marker, pausing for a moment as the tip touched the whiteboard. He thought of Wang Tiezhu. Yesterday, Sun Xiuying called, saying that Wang Tiezhu's short-term memory had malfunctioned again—not that he forgot, but that he kept feeling like he was still in the ecological chamber, waking up in the middle of the night to ask, "Has Liu Yongqiang watered that wheat?" This lasted for more than ten minutes, then he became clear-headed again. The neurologist said that there might be relapses, but he would eventually recover.

He shook his head and wrote a line on the whiteboard: High-power microwave weapon.

"Electromagnetic rifles are point-kill weapons; they need to hit vital organs. Microwave weapons are area-kill weapons; once a bio-warrior enters the irradiation range, all the electronic devices, drug delivery systems, and nervous systems inside his body will be interfered with." He turned to look at Researcher Wang. "Old Wang, I know what you're going to say. The Soviets tried it, but they couldn't get the power up or the size down. But that was them. We're different."

Researcher Wang took off his glasses and wiped them. "Dean He, what's different?"

"We have high-temperature superconductors, carbon nanotubes, and the Galaxy 6 satellite. Combining these technologies can increase the energy density of microwave sources by an order of magnitude. The volume can be compressed to the size of a shipping container, making it mobile enough to be loaded onto a vehicle." He Yuzhu tossed a marker into the whiteboard tray and returned to his seat. "I'll provide the core technology for this project. You'll handle the engineering."

Researcher Wang's brow furrowed deeply. "Where does the core technology come from?"

He Yuzhu didn't answer. He looked at Yang Xiaobing. "How close were you to them at the closest you ever got?"

Yang Xiaobing was silent for a few seconds. "Fifteen kilometers. I lay there for five days, and the tent almost blew away when the wind was strong. One night the temperature dropped to minus forty degrees Celsius, and my fingers were so frozen that I almost couldn't press the shutter button."

He Yuzhu's gaze fell on Yang Xiaobing's hands. The bandages were thick, but the fingertips were still sticking out, their color purplish. "Don't get so close next time."

Yang Xiaobing neither nodded nor shook his head.

The conference room door opened, and Sun Xiuying peeked in, a hint of hesitation on her face. "Director He, would you like to come and take a look at Wang Tiezhu's matter?"

He Yuzhu stood up, walked to the door, and asked in a low voice, "Feeling dizzy again?"

Sun Xiuying lowered her voice. "He's not confused. He woke up this morning and said he remembered—he didn't forget those four hours, but those memories were suppressed and are now slowly surfacing. He said he remembers hitting Liu Yongqiang, remembers hitting his eyebrow on the corner of the culture rack, and remembers you talking to him. He said he didn't forget, he just didn't want to admit it at the time."

He Yuzhu leaned against the doorframe. "How is he feeling right now?"

"He was very calm. He said he wanted to rejoin the team."

"Let him observe for another week." He Yuzhu returned to the conference room and closed the door.

Deputy Director Zhao was still looking at the photos, his fingers tapping on the table. "Director He, how long do you plan to take to produce a prototype of the high-power microwave weapon?"

"Three months."

"Three months?" Researcher Wang nearly jumped out of his chair. "Dean He, do you know how long it takes to develop a completely new directed energy weapon? The Americans have been working on their microwave weapon for eight years and are still stuck on its size. You think you can produce a prototype in three months?"

He Yuzhu didn't look at him, picked up the red telephone on the table, and dialed the number for the Baotou Arsenal. The phone rang several times, followed by the noisy roar of machine tools, and then a hoarse voice called out, "Who is it—?"

"Sun Maocai, I am He Yuzhu."

"Dean He? Speak louder! It's too noisy in the workshop!" Sun Maocai's voice was almost a shout.

He Yuzhu raised his voice. "Tomorrow, I will send someone to deliver a set of technical documents to your factory. High-power microwave weapon, vehicle-mounted version. Organize your strongest technical team and produce a prototype within three months."

There was a long silence on the other end of the phone, so long that He Yuzhu thought the line had been disconnected. Then Sun Maocai's voice lowered, carrying a fierce edge: "Dean He, we've never done this before. Give us the technical documentation, and we'll follow it. But you need to give us a clear answer—who will be responsible if anything goes wrong?"

"I'll take responsibility."

The phone call ended. The meeting room was as quiet as an icebox.

He Yuzhu sat in his chair, took a cigarette out of his pocket, and lit it. The smoke rose, blurring his face. Old Sun's teacup lid started rattling again, Yang Xiaobing leaned back in his chair with his eyes closed, Deputy Director Zhao looked down at the photos, and Researcher Wang kept twirling his pen.

No one speaks.

He Yuzhu finished his cigarette and stubbed it out in the ashtray. He stood up, walked to the whiteboard, erased the words "High-Power Microwave Weapon," and wrote a new title: Three Months Countdown.

"Week 1: Design. Weeks 2-8: Prototype manufacturing. Weeks 9-12: Integration and testing. After 12 weeks, I want to see the prototype vehicle on the test track."

Deputy Director Zhao closed the photo and stood up. "Director He, the National Defense Science and Technology Commission fully supports this project. But remember, if you don't have enough money, I'll help you coordinate; if you don't have enough people, I'll help you allocate them; but you're responsible for managing the time."

"Three months, not a day more, not a day less."

People gradually left. He Yuzhu was left alone in the conference room. He carefully put away the Antarctic photos one by one—the entrance, the ventilation shafts, the circular bulges on the ice sheet, the flatbed truck carrying the large tanks. Yang Xiaobing had spent five days taking these photos. Fifteen kilometers away, in minus forty degrees Celsius, his fingers almost froze off.

He opened the system space and brought up the exchange interface. High-power microwave weapon, vehicle-mounted, peak power one gigawatt, effective range three kilometers, volume the size of a shipping container. Price: 80 million points. He still had 265 million points remaining.

His finger hovered over the redemption button for a long time. He remembered Qin Huairu's words—"These points are earned with your life." But Wang Tiezhu's memories were slowly returning; Yang Xiaobing's frostbite hadn't healed yet, and the underground factory in Antarctica might be mass-producing second-generation bio-warriors. If he didn't redeem, what would he use to fight?

He pressed it.

A flash of light, and a metal briefcase appeared out of thin air on the table. Opening the briefcase, he found a thick stack of blueprints and document folders. He closed the briefcase, stored it in his system space, picked up the phone on the table, and dialed Qian Zhiyuan's number.

"Director Qian, tomorrow send someone to the Baotou Arsenal to deliver a set of technical documents. You will be in charge of the technical coordination for the high-power microwave weapon."

Qian Zhiyuan took a breath on the other end of the phone. "Dean He, where did this come from?"

"Don't ask questions. Just do it."

After hanging up the phone, He Yuzhu turned off the lights. The conference room fell into darkness, with only the moonlight streaming in from the window, casting a pale white glow on the empty table covered with photos.

He didn't move, sitting in the darkness, going over the photos in his mind again. Three months later, the prototype would be driven to the test site. By then, no matter what the US military had hidden underground in Antarctica, it wouldn't be able to withstand this attack.

Outside the window, the wind on the Gobi Desert had stopped.