Chapter 275: Get Ready
Hundreds of kilometers away from Yichang, in Wuta County, Shanxi, where the chill had not yet dissipated.
Unlike the humid warmth of Guizhou in Hubei, the morning here still carried a trace of northern chill.
Hundreds of meters away from the Shanxi Militia headquarters, inside an ordinary civilian house that looked utterly unremarkable from the outside, the light was dim, and fine dust floated in the air.
A captain in a crisp military uniform stood solemnly, reporting the situation to the major behind the desk.
The major behind the desk was Wei Jin, the head of the newly established “Military Intelligence Department” of the Shanxi Militia.
He did not look at the captain in front of him, but instead kept his head down, slowly and methodically wiping the parts of a completely disassembled Mauser pistol with a white cloth, his movements meticulous, as if polishing a work of art.
“…The target is using fiat currency for transactions.”
The captain’s voice was very low, but every word was crystal clear, “This is completely different from the silver dollars, military scrip commonly used by our militia officers and soldiers, and the habits of the local people in Wuta County. This is a very obvious suspicious point.”
Wei Jin’s wiping motions did not pause in the slightest.
The captain continued reporting: “Also… the owner of this breakfast shop came from out of town just half a year ago, and his file says he’s a refugee.
Although all his behavior and mannerisms are exactly like those of an ordinary boss, there’s one thing that doesn’t add up. He came alone, with no family whatsoever, and hasn’t hired any helpers.
But strangely, according to our investigation of the grain shop, the amount of grain and coal he’s been buying during this period is enough for twenty adult strong men…”
At this point, the captain stopped and waited for instructions.
Wei Jin finally put down the parts and cloth in his hand. He raised his head, and in those eyes hidden under the shadow of his cap brim, a glint of icy cold light flashed.
“Intensify surveillance.” His voice was not loud, but it carried an undeniable tone of command.
He stood up, walked to the detailed map of Wuta County hanging on the wall, and his gaze fell on a small point circled in red—the exact location of that breakfast shop.
“This rat was able to survive our last city-wide purge, which is proof enough of its cunning.”
Wei Jin’s finger lightly tapped the map, “And their increased contact during this period further proves that it’s definitely planning some big move soon…”
He turned around, his gaze sharp as a knife edge fixed on the captain.
“So… send the most reliable people, twenty-four-hour shifts, and keep a death grip on watching him! Report to me immediately if there’s any unusual activity!”
“Yes!”
The captain snapped to attention sharply, gave a standard military salute, then turned and strode out, the heels of his leather boots making a crisp clack on the floor.
The door was gently closed, and the room fell silent once more, leaving only Wei Jin alone…
……
Night fell over Wuta County.
Unlike the tense atmosphere at the front lines, this rear base of the Shanxi Militia appeared peaceful and orderly.
There were two crucial airports in the county: Jiuqu River Airport and Jinsha Ridge Airport, home bases respectively for Su Yaoyang’s heavily invested Thunderbolt Flight Squadron and Pirate Flight Squadron.
Tonight, with no flight missions, the officers’ club was bustling with activity.
The air was thick with the mingled scents of rich whiskey, cigars, and men’s sweat, while an old phonograph played rousing jazz music.
Doolittle, One-Eyed Jack, Tom, and a large group of American mercenary pilots were gathered around the long bar and scattered tables, drinking, boasting, and playing cards, with laughter and curses rising one after another.
They were war dogs attracted by Su Yaoyang’s generous bounties, a band of daredevils who would risk their necks for money, dueling the Japanese at 10,000 meters in the sky.
Amid this group of hormone-fueled men, a few striking figures stood out particularly.
They were Elizabeth, Anna, Margaret, Catherine, and others from the small medical team similarly hired at high salaries.
At this moment, they had shed their bloodstained, medicinal-smelling white coats and changed into casual clothes—simple dresses and blouses. But in the eyes of these rugged pilots, every inch of their skin and every smile exuded fatal allure.
Anna was giggling at the jokes of a bearded pilot, her ample bosom heaving dramatically with her laughter, her bare calves below the skirt hem gleaming snow-white under the lights.
The more reserved Catherine, holding a glass of juice, listened somewhat shyly as One-Eyed Jack boasted about how he had turned a Japanese Type 97 heavy bomber into an airborne fireball with his cannon.
Just as the drinking reached its midpoint and the atmosphere was at its peak.
James Doolittle, squadron leader of the Thunderbolt Flight Squadron and former U.S. Army Air Corps major, picked up the silver teaspoon used for scooping sugar cubes from the table and gently tapped his whiskey glass.
“Ding…”
A clear, pleasant ring pierced through the noisy jazz and chatter, echoing in the hall.
The once-noisy hall fell instantly silent, as if paused. All eyes, from the tipsy pilots to the intrigued nurses, turned uniformly to Doolittle.
Doolittle set down his glass, scanned his group of unruly subordinates, and a smile appeared on his face.
“Ladies and gentlemen… please quiet down for a moment…”
He cleared his throat and said in English with a heavy Texas accent: “Everyone, I know this past month has been tough on all of you.
To keep those Japanese flies in Shanxi’s skies pinned to the ground, you’ve put in tremendous effort.”
He paused, his tone growing more sincere: “Repetitive patrols, deadly dogfights, and training those rookie trainees who can barely take off—I know it’s worn you out body and soul.
But there’s no choice; this is what we do. We’re here to risk our lives, not vacation.”
A wave of good-natured laughter filled the hall.
Doolittle raised his glass, his smile broadening: “But no worries! Gentlemen, ladies! The hard days are about to end!
Because…”
He deliberately drew out the word, “our boss, the most generous boss of all, is coming back tomorrow! Back with a glorious victory!”
No sooner had the words left his mouth!
“Oh…”
“Whoop…”
The entire hall erupted in deafening cheers and piercing whistles!
One-Eyed Jack excitedly slammed his fist on the table, making the glasses clink.
Tom jumped up outright, hugged Anna beside him, and planted a hard kiss on her flushed cheek, drawing a flurry of playful punches from her.
Hearing the news of the “boss” returning, these Americans were all fired up, their eyes gleaming with greedy, burning light.
They knew better than anyone that with Su Yaoyang’s generosity, returning from a victory meant bonuses would rain down like snowflakes!
They had come from across the ocean to this unfamiliar land, risking their necks against the Japanese, all for this—for that damned, sweet commission!
Watching the mercenaries below the stage, their eyes flashing dollar signs and excited like a herd of bulls in rut, along with the nurses flushed with the infectious atmosphere, Doolittle’s smile deepened, though a commanding sharpness entered his eyes.
He raised his hand again, gesturing downward for quiet.
“But…”
He deliberately prolonged the word, cooling the just-reignited fervor a bit.
“Don’t celebrate too soon! Our boss is generous, sure.” He scanned the room, his gaze sweeping every excited face, “but he’s also extremely demanding!”
“If we don’t do our jobs properly, forget bonuses…” Doolittle grinned, flashing white teeth, his tone full of gleeful mockery, “If he doesn’t kick your lazy asses into bloom, that’ll be him showing mercy!”
“Hahahahahaha…”
No expected discontent or complaints came; instead, there was even heartier, more genuine laughter than before.
This laughter lacked the prior frenzy and greed, replaced by a tacit mutual understanding.
One-Eyed Jack laughed so hard he spilled his whiskey.
Tom, who had just kissed Anna, laughed while exaggeratedly rubbing his own butt, as if already kicked.
They all knew Doolittle spoke the truth, of course.
Their boss was godlike in generosity with pay, but devilishly picky during inspections.
No sloppiness or laziness escaped his sharp eyes. It was this mix of carrot and stick that made these unruly war dogs both adore and fear him.
“Alright, stop laughing!”
Doolittle put on a stern face, though his eyes betrayed amusement.
He set down his glass, hands on hips, like a nagging foreman.
“When the boss returns, he’ll inspect the airports and check the troops first thing! So you lot, get combat readiness squared away! P-47s must be fully fueled and armed, ready to fly anytime! Ground crew, all maintenance logs spotless!”
His finger jabbed the air, as if naming each one.
“And the flight school! Get those rookies’ training progress and eval scores sorted! Don’t let the boss see reports of hopeless cases! I don’t want to wipe your asses then…”
Doolittle rattled on about everything from hangar cleanliness to pilots’ personal grooming, sparing no detail.
The point was simple: make everything shipshape, or no one would have a good time when the boss returned.
