Chapter Twenty-Four: The Grand Scheme to Make Money

Helplessly pondering a way out of his current predicament, he slowly began to recall whether, decades later, there might be any aviation-related ventures that were quick to turn a profit and required low technical expertise. But he was clearly indulging in wishful thinking. The aviation industry, after all, was known for its high investment, high technical barriers, and high output—a trifecta that left little room for quick-money projects.

Rack his brains as he might, Yang Hui could not find the quality project he hoped for. At this point, he had no choice but to consider other lines of work. Drawing upon his memories and what he had observed along the way, he began to analyze the advantages of Base 011, hoping to come up with a targeted solution.

As part of the “Third Front” construction, 011 was remote—utterly remote. Its infrastructure was backward. The base and the local government had barely any communication; it was an independent kingdom, even more so than the giant state-owned enterprises. Inside the base, there was virtually no interaction with the outside world. Of course, there were some benefits to this. Confidentiality could be maintained to the utmost; management was direct, and orders essentially traveled straight to the top. But none of this was of any real help to his plans for making money.

After much deliberation, he realized that the only assets of the base were a batch of workers whose skills, though decent, were caught between generations, and a set of outdated machines that, while lagging behind international standards, were still passable by domestic measures. The direct railway lines connecting the various factory zones were the only arteries that offered rapid access to the outside. And, naturally, the greatest advantage was the low cost of labor.

Ultimately, the plan to profit from military goods was a nonstarter. The only remaining route was to develop civilian products, though this path was hardly any easier. In the years to come, the campaign to convert military production to civilian use would be all the rage, but looking back at the products that came out of it was laughable. There was a bit of everything, but all shared common flaws: low technical content, unstable quality, and, most importantly, few found any real market success. It was clear that state-owned enterprises simply could not compete with the rapidly emerging private companies in the light industry sector. In the end, the only option was to return to the old path: heavy industry, high investment, and high output. This was the very foundation of state-owned enterprises and their grip on the economic lifelines of the nation.

So, everything circled back to the beginning. Back to his old trade in the aviation industry. But even thinking about the civil aviation sector was enough to sour his mood. Even decades later, the country’s efforts at developing large civil aircraft had shown little sign of real progress. Civil aviation was even harder than military aviation—market, safety, economics, and so on. Not a single aspect seemed favorable.

Yet, in later years, there did seem to emerge an industry that was low-cost and quick to profit. Before Yang Hui’s rebirth, there were already signs of it booming. Yes, civilian drones were rapidly becoming a hot industry, and the leading company in the field had already established itself as an industry giant.

Decades later, private companies could achieve, with a determined push, what military-industrial enterprises could only dream of accomplishing. Just think of the legions of aerial photographers and it was easy to see how thriving the industry was. At last, Yang Hui had found his project: low investment, quick returns. He could use it to make money and then subsidize military R&D, revitalizing the aviation industry. The thought alone was enough to excite him.

But reality was not so simple. The seemingly straightforward technology of the future, even with great effort now, would quickly run into problems, forcing Yang Hui to seek another path.

After all, Yang Hui had not yet fully grasped the entire scope of the civilian drone industry when he reported for duty. The true core of drone technology lay in systems and processors, as well as in compact airborne equipment.

Elated, Yang Hui was about to get started, mulling over the size and aerodynamic configuration of the drone. Yet reality gave him no time; an announcement from up top came down at once.

Soon, word spread down the corridor that all departments were to hold a meeting. The combustion chamber project team was no exception. Wuda Bo quickly stood up and gathered the only two other members of the department for the meeting.

“Hurry up, both of you should come along and listen. The higher-ups’ decision is probably in. Soon we’ll have work to do.”

Wu Hongjun, silent, put down his work and stood up, looking as though he would join them. Sitting and sketching, Yang Hui also heard the announcement but did not rise; he knew it was unnecessary for the whole department to attend—someone could just relay the news later. He continued writing and drawing without looking up.

Still, he said, “You two go ahead, there’s no need for me. Just let me know what happens afterward.”

“That won’t do. This is a major event today; the higher-ups are concluding on the incident. Everyone must attend. No reason for you to skip out now—besides, you might learn a lot from the fault analysis,” Wuda Bo explained, seeing that Yang Hui was reluctant.

Wu Hongjun, usually quiet, finally spoke up as well: “He’s right. There’s a lot to learn from these meetings, especially for new university graduates. There will be many practical issues discussed.”

With both of them insisting, Yang Hui could not refuse. After a moment’s thought, he set down his pen and stood up. “Alright, let’s go. I should listen in, after all.”

Along the way, men and women from every department emerged. Yang Hui finally realized that the Second Institute was not so sparsely populated after all, though its demographics were quite distinctive: most were middle-aged or elderly, in their forties or fifties. Although they all seemed healthy enough, he worried that the hidden dangers would erupt in just a few years—an acute shortage of talent was the real problem.

Watching the long procession of researchers heading toward the auditorium, Yang Hui was filled with anxiety.

“Hey, this comrade looks unfamiliar—newly transferred in, I suppose?” A middle-aged man, chatting merrily with Wuda Bo, suddenly noticed the new face and asked him about Yang Hui.

Hearing the inquiry, Wuda Bo introduced him: “That’s right. He’s one of the six new university graduates assigned from above this year—this one’s from Northwestern Polytechnical University.”

Now understanding Yang Hui’s background, the middle-aged man’s whole expression brightened with unconcealed delight.

Before he could say anything, Wuda Bo interjected, “Don’t even think about poaching him—he’s already been assigned to our department.” He laughed, as if he had anticipated all this.

People around them watched the exchange, clearly amused by this recurring joke. Of course, the one being teased was not Yang Hui or Wuda Bo, but the middle-aged man’s eagerness for talent.

The middle-aged man himself seemed broad-minded, merely laughing and shaking his head. Then he said to Wuda Bo, “You’ve outmaneuvered me again. You know the institute is short-staffed, but my department is even worse off, and yet you introduced the newcomer to me only to snatch him away yourself. Truly, I’ve chosen my friends unwisely.”

At this, laughter spread through the corridor. In the otherwise monotonous research institute, these two always brought cheer. Without them, life would simply go on, but such moments of joy were always fleeting.

Yang Hui soon broke the laughter. “Hello, esteemed colleagues. My name is Yang Hui, and as you’ve heard, I’m a recent graduate. I’ve come here to work and to learn from all of you. I hope you’ll guide me and offer your advice in the future.” This was the perfect chance to introduce himself to everyone, the best way to become acquainted with those he would be working with.

The middle-aged man responded first, laughing heartily. “It’s been a long time since we had university graduates join us—you are the first batch in ages. I’m sure you all have a bright future. Let me introduce myself: I’m Tian Zhuang, one of the last university graduates to come aboard before you. So, we are two people bridging the generations.” His words drew another round of laughter, revealing a sense of humor, even a touch of self-mockery.

Taking the opportunity, others introduced themselves in a friendly manner: “My name is XX from the XX department. Let’s keep in touch.”

Smiling, they entered the auditorium and each found a seat. The hall was large enough to accommodate almost everyone—nearly all the institute’s research staff had arrived, and there was enough room for all. Row upon row of connected solid wood chairs gleamed with a well-maintained polish.

Before long, the leaders took their seats: members of the accident investigation team, the institute’s party committee, Director Bai, and several others filed in. The auditorium gradually quieted down.

The usual master of ceremonies introduced the leaders and stated the purpose of the meeting—routine formalities that could not be skipped. The main thing was that everyone in the hall had to pretend to listen attentively, a spectacle both comical and familiar.

At last, the real business began. Director Bai stood up and announced, “Everyone, today we are here to report on this major accident. Our expert team, together with personnel from the aircraft factory and military representatives, will analyze the causes of the incident for you. Afterward, I will arrange for each department to re-examine their designs.”