Chapter Six: Thesis Defense (Part Two)

Upon hearing this, everyone frowned—not because they thought Yang Hui’s ideas were problematic, but because they were dissatisfied with Old Lin’s tendency to over-politicize things. They were all intellectuals and had lived through those turbulent years themselves, so this sort of ideological escalation was deeply resented. Now that the chaos was finally over, how could things be stirred up again like this?

“Hey, Old Lin, you can’t keep raising the stakes like that! We’ve all gone through that era, and you suffered plenty yourself. Don’t make things hard for the young people. Really now…” The director, who had been silent until now, spoke up.

Seeing that the committee director had spoken, Old Lin fell silent. Yet it was clear to everyone that he hadn’t truly let the matter drop; trouble was likely brewing ahead.

“My suggestion has nothing to do with the turmoil of the past. I’m simply speaking to the issue at hand. The research institute and the factory are almost always built together, but they belong to two separate systems and do not interfere with one another. However, to produce high-quality results, the products require close collaboration between scientific research and the factory. Only then can problems be solved quickly!”

Yang Hui hadn’t expected that simply suggesting the integration of research and manufacturing would provoke such a major issue, nearly landing him in serious trouble.

“There is some sense in what you say. Go on, don’t be afraid. Having ideas is good, but whether you can realize them will depend on you in the future,” the director said gravely. Seasoned officials were like this—though he was only a bureaucrat in the education system, he knew the importance of self-preservation and would always distance himself first, no matter the matter at hand.

“The current state of China’s aviation industry is far from optimistic. So, in the future, we must work even harder than other countries. Aviation is a systemic industry. In my view, we should take advantage of the opportunity presented by establishing diplomatic relations with Europe and America to deepen exchanges and learn from their advanced experience. We should pursue cooperation to upgrade and transform some of our aircraft models, and, ideally, learn their methods for developing aircraft.”

In actual history, a few years later, this very plan would begin to be implemented, but delays both domestically and abroad meant the best opportunity was missed, and the lessons were only half-learned. The typical example was Project 82.

“Looking abroad, the aviation industry is a highly profitable sector. Yet, in contrast, our own development of the aviation industry suffers from a lack of funding, which is a very strange phenomenon. I believe we should vigorously develop the arms trade—it is an extremely lucrative industry and could provide most of the funding we need.” As Yang Hui spoke, his previously clenched hands opened and swept to the side, exuding confidence in his suggestion.

“Oh, that’s an excellent idea. In the past, our planes were all given away as free military aid. It’s time we tried this approach ourselves. After all, it’s a win-win method—very good,” the director nodded approvingly.

Seeing that some people supported him, Yang Hui felt reassured and continued to elaborate on his ideas.

“And finally, I must address the most important issue: the matter of aircraft engines. This is currently our greatest challenge—if we do not resolve it, our planes will always suffer from a weak heart.”

At this point, Old Wu finally fixed his gaze on Yang Hui. He knew this was the crux of the matter; everyone had read the thesis and understood a little, but no one had grasped the core issue. It was necessary to discuss it face-to-face with Yang Hui.

“At present, our country’s aircraft engines generally lag behind international standards by about a decade, but this is not the main issue. If it were simply a matter of being behind, we could catch up with enough effort. The real problem is that, domestically, engines are not valued nearly enough—far, far from it. The engine’s place in the aviation industry has not been properly recognized, and that is our greatest crisis.”

Standing on the rostrum, Yang Hui swept his gaze over the assembly and continued, “Until the 1960s, our engines were produced according to Soviet blueprints and ranked among the world’s first tier. Then the gap widened, but even that is not the crux. The problem is that, to this day, we still have not developed a single engine that is truly our own. Why? Because we have not attached enough importance to engines, nor have we given them their rightful place in our aviation industry.”

This stirred up a hornet’s nest—he was openly criticizing the policy directives of the higher authorities. The audience, whether they understood or not, pretended not to. No one dared voice an opinion, and all eyes turned to Old Wu, hoping he would provide some insight.

Old Wu said nothing, continuing to listen as Yang Hui went on. “For historical reasons, each time we introduced a new aircraft, we would pair it with a different engine. This led us to a mistaken belief: that a single aircraft should have a unique engine—a sort of monogamy. This is a highly unusual phenomenon in the world. Abroad, aircraft designers make trade-offs based on engine performance and aircraft requirements. In other words, overseas, the engine comes first, and the design follows. Here, we first set the aircraft specifications, then define the engine requirements, and only after that do we develop the engine alongside the aircraft. But engine development usually lags behind that of the aircraft, so the plane ends up without a suitable engine and is canceled; then, with the plane canceled, the engine has no application and is also scrapped. That is our current situation: the Turbojet-V and the Hong-5, the J-9 and the recently canceled Turbojet-VI—are these not exactly such cases?”

Yang Hui poured out everything on his mind in one breath, bracing himself for the committee’s challenge. After all, he was questioning the correctness of central policy decisions. If no one contradicted him, then there really would be a problem.

As expected, someone immediately raised an objection: “Yang Hui, you’re wrong about the Turbojet-V being canceled. I participated in the Hong-5’s upgrade myself. The Hong-5 was canceled because we had the superior Hong-6 and planned to develop the Hong-7. The central authorities canceled it to focus resources. The Turbojet-V was canceled because its rear-fan structure made it unsuitable for other applications, not for the reasons you give.” This speaker was an insider on the Hong-5 project, and his account won the committee’s approval.

But Old Wu, sitting nearby, seemed to realize something. He knew a great deal about the cancelation of the Turbojet-V. It was indeed scrapped alongside the Hong-5, but saying it lacked application was not accurate—transport aircraft, for example, could use it. Its structure, however, was indeed not mainstream, so that argument held water. As for the Turbojet-VI and the Turbojet-IX, which he was currently overseeing…

“Indeed, both of you are partly correct about the Turbojet-V, so let’s set that aside. But the case of the Turbojet-VI fits exactly the vicious cycle described by Yang Hui. I know a little about that,” Old Wu said sadly. As the founder of the Republic’s aircraft engine industry, how could he not feel a profound sorrow?

After a pause, Old Wu seemed to steel himself and continued, “I fully agree with what Yang Hui just said. In fact, such cases are not limited to just these two engines.”

Now everyone was curious and looked at Old Wu. Yang Hui seemed to understand what Old Wu was about to say, but also sensed there might still be some uncertainty—perhaps some of this was classified information.

Meeting everyone’s gaze, Old Wu revealed a shocking piece of news: “The Turbojet-IX has also been indefinitely halted from domestic production. I know that this is essentially the same as being canceled. The reason they’re not saying it outright is because this engine was domestically produced based on British data, and if they officially cancel it, we’d have to pay damages for breach of contract. Ah! So much was spent bringing it in, and now, when we should be seeing results, there’s no money left. It’s truly tragic…” As he spoke, Old Wu’s eyes filled with tears.

“This young man’s thesis is profoundly insightful—he’s provided a deep analysis of the state of our aircraft engine industry, and I agree with it. The reason I came to listen to this thesis defense was to clear my mind, to hear what the younger generation thinks of our aviation industry. Seeing him, I feel hopeful for the future of Chinese aviation,” Old Wu said, looking at Yang Hui with hope, as if he saw a bright future in him.

The committee was shocked by Old Wu’s words. As aviation professionals working in Xi’an, they were well aware of the Spey engine from Britain, known domestically as the Turbojet-IX, and were stunned to learn that it too had been canceled.

Sensing everyone’s gloom, Yang Hui coughed twice, drawing them out of their sorrow.

“There are still many problems in our engine industry. This isn’t just empty worry. In fact, engine lifespan, reliability, and thrust-to-weight ratio all lag behind foreign standards. This demands our hard work,” Yang Hui concluded, ending his defense on a somber note.

Suddenly, Yang Hui stopped, turned, and spoke to Director Wang, “Director Wang, I’ve decided not to pursue graduate studies. I want to go straight to work after graduation.” He had chosen this moment to reveal his decision.

Director Wang, turning to look at Yang Hui, asked in disbelief, “Are you sure? Didn’t you plan all along to pursue graduate studies?”

“I believe I could keep learning if I stayed in school, but I’d rather learn while working. It’ll be more efficient and more useful to me. I can’t wait any longer.” Meeting Director Wang’s gaze, Yang Hui spoke with unshakable resolve.