217: Chapter 217 Still acting as a spy like this?

He wiped his gloves three times. Not one more, not one less.

Yamada Ichiro folded his gloves neatly and put them into the right pocket of his tactical backpack.

He zipped it shut. The teeth meshed with a faint sound.

He glanced at the digital clock on the bedside table. 04:55.

The alarm was set for 05:00, but he didn't need it.

Get up. Fold the quilt. Brush teeth. Wash face. Change into sportswear. Tie shoelaces.

Left foot first, then right foot. Double-knot the laces, then tuck the ends into the tongue.

05:08. He went out.

The morning in Kadena was humid and sultry. There was a breeze coming from the runway, and the air was filled with the smell of aviation kerosene.

Most of the base was busy with preparations for the President's inspection. The playground was empty.

Yamada Ichiro started running laps. Pace: 4:15. Cadence: 180. Breathing rhythm: inhale for three steps, exhale for two.

By the fourth lap, he noticed someone in his peripheral vision.

A floral shirt. Sweatpants. A pair of flat-soled sneakers completely unsuitable for running.

Zhang Nan. That Chinese spy.

Yamada Ichiro never bothered to learn about the idlers on the base. But some people didn't need learning about. His walking posture had the word "amateur" written all over it.

Zhang Nan was jogging around the playground. His pace was probably around seven minutes per kilometer. No, maybe eight. Because he had bent over and gasped for breath twice in less than half a lap.

Yamada overtook him from behind. Hearing footsteps, Zhang Nan looked up and waved.

"Yo! You're running too?"

Yamada nodded once without stopping.

Zhang Nan chased after him for two steps.

"You're that pilot from the Sakura Country, right? Yamada? I heard you fly the F-35 really well."

Yamada nodded again.

Zhang Nan kept rambling behind him.

"Let me tell you, I really wanted to be a pilot when I was younger. I used to fold paper airplanes when I was a kid, made over a hundred of them. Only later did I realize that paper airplanes and real airplanes aren't the same thing."

Yamada didn't respond. He accelerated to widen the distance. Behind him came the sound of Zhang Nan panting.

"Why run so fast... it's not like you're taking off on the runway..."

Yamada kept running. On the fifth lap, he saw Zhang Nan stopped under the pull-up bar by the side of the playground, hands on his knees, waist bent very low.

On the sixth lap, Zhang Nan was squatting on the ground, tying his shoelaces. He struggled for a long time. He tied a dead knot.

On the seventh lap, Zhang Nan sat by the edge of the playground, taking out his phone to take pictures here and there. The runway. The hangar. The transport plane parked in the distance. And a logistics vehicle that had just driven out from the side gate.

Yamada swept a glance at him and withdrew his attention. He had been on the base for a week, and this was his first time appearing on the playground. It was obvious he had been notified about meeting the President and was making a last-minute effort to put on a show.

Running in flat-soled sneakers. Taking photos while running. Gasping for air after running three hundred meters. If someone like this could accomplish big things, the security guards at Kadena could join Special Forces.

Yamada Ichiro dropped his pace to 3:50 and finished the last three laps.

10:00 AM. Hangar No. 1. Nine fighter jets were neatly arranged. Three F-22s. Three F-35Bs. Three F-18s. Twenty-seven pilots stood in three rows.

Yamada stood at the far left of the F-35 formation, holding his helmet, back perfectly straight. Beside him was his partner, Miyuki. 26 years old. 1.62 meters tall. Slender. Her short hair was tied back.

Miyuki turned her head and spoke in a low voice in Japanese.

"Yamada-kun, for the simulation training later, do you want to fly in the front or the back?"

Yamada didn't turn his head.

"Front." One word.

Miyuki lowered her voice further.

"We can coordinate the pass interval. The regulation is fifteen meters, but I'm used to leaving twenty. What about you?"

"Fifteen." Two words. One more than usual.

Miyuki paused for two seconds and stopped talking.

The Caucasian captain from the F-22 formation next to them leaned over.

"Hey, Yamada, that low-altitude turn data of yours yesterday was pretty impressive. Want to exchange some tips?"

Yamada nodded. And that was it. The captain waited for three seconds, didn't get any follow-up, and could only turn back.

The Black lieutenant in the front row glanced back and muttered to the person next to him.

"Is this guy a mute?"

The person next to him chuckled. "Not a mute, just aloof. Aren't all Japanese people like that?"

Miyuki heard it and glanced at Yamada again. There was no change on Yamada's face.

These people. Standing in front of multi-billion-dollar fighter jets in their flight suits, chatting about nothing but nonsense. Exchanging tips during training intervals? If you have the skill, pull the G-force over eight before talking. Small talk and greetings? A pilot's mouth should be reserved for the radio.

The first round of simulation training began. The three formations entered the runway one by one.

Yamada sat in the F-35 cockpit and closed the canopy. The world went quiet. Engine ignition. Thrust increased. The runway retreated. He pulled the stick. The F-35 lifted off.

Altitude: 300 meters. Speed: 600 km/h. Passing. Formation interval: 15 meters. Not a meter more. Not a meter less. The flight data was so perfect it was flawless. Every movement was devoid of any excess.

2:37 PM. Air Force One appeared at the end of the Kadena runway.

Yamada stood by the window in the third-floor corridor of the main building. This wasn't in the welcoming area, but the angle was good enough.

The white fuselage of the Boeing 747 descended. Flaps deployed. Main wheels touched the ground. Deceleration. The entire sequence of actions was so standard it was boring.

The red carpet had already been laid on the front apron. Two rows of people stood neatly. Some in military uniforms. Some in civilian clothes. And there was a floral shirt. Zhang Nan. He was arranged in the back of the second row, with a few civilian staff standing next to him.

The collar of the floral shirt was buttoned to the very top, and his body was stiff and straight.

The cabin door opened. Blonde hair. Dark suit. Red tie. President Trump came down the stairs, his strides long, his chin held high. Secret Service agents moved along on both sides.

He walked to the first row and started shaking hands. The first person. Handshake, pat on the shoulder, move on. The second person. Handshake, nod, move on. The third person. Handshake, said something, move on. The pace was very fast. No more than five seconds per person.

Reached the second row. Faster. Three seconds each. Two seconds each. Then. He arrived in front of Zhang Nan. He stopped. President Trump's hand did not let go.

Yamada saw it clearly from the third floor. That blonde man was staring at Zhang Nan's face and said something.

Zhang Nan's reaction was. Nod. Nod again. Continued to nod. His mouth opened, then closed. Then nodded again. Yamada watching from the third floor felt his own neck getting uncomfortable. Are you a trained spy, or an automatic nodding machine?

President Trump said two more things. Zhang Nan finally spoke. Judging by his lip movements, it was only two or three words, most likely "thank you" or "okay." After speaking, he started nodding again. President Trump patted his shoulder and moved on.

The whole process took about fifteen seconds. Three times longer than the others.

Zhang Nan stood where he was, his shoulders slumping. A patch on the back of his floral shirt was wet.

Yamada stepped back from the window. He lowered Zhang Nan's rating in his mind another notch. Getting this nervous just meeting a President. If he really had to use Li Li's face and stand in front of Jiang Rumu in the future, he probably wouldn't even be able to finish a sentence. Is this the level of someone Kadena spent millions training? Whatever. It had nothing to do with him.

Yamada turned and left the window. His flight mission was in an hour and a half. He was used to being half an hour early.

Dorm room. Yamada zipped up his flight suit. The Anti-G suit was tightened. He held his helmet in his hand. Gloves. Left hand first. Right hand later. He flexed his fingers twice. The fit was fine. He picked up his helmet and pushed open the door.

The corridor was empty. Everyone in the entire dormitory building was in the direction of the front apron. The sound of the President's speech came from the loudspeakers; even separated by two buildings, the trailing sounds could still be heard.

Yamada walked towards the hangar. When passing the corner of Building B, his footsteps slowed by half a beat. Twelve meters ahead. At the end of the corridor. A figure. A floral shirt. Zhang Nan.

Yamada stopped. At this time. In this location. Zhang Nan should be at the front apron listening to the speech. All personnel to be received were not allowed to leave early. But he was here. And he wasn't just passing by normally. He was looking around.

Zhang Nan looked to the left first. Then looked to the right. Then he walked quickly to a door and poked his head in to look. After looking, he stepped back. He gestured with both hands in front of him. Then, he pulled his right hand back to his chest. The movement was very small. But Yamada saw it. That wasn't nervousness. It was excitement. The excitement of having discovered something.

Yamada stood in the shadows of the corner, without making a sound. Zhang Nan walked a few more steps forward. He turned into the left passage. Yamada had walked that passage before. The interrogation area. The direction where Snowden was being held. Usually, there were military police guarding it. Today, with the President's arrival, the military police had all been transferred to the front apron and the perimeter of the main building. There was no one in the corridor. Only Zhang Nan.

He stood before an interrogation room door. He bent down. Leaned close to the observation window on the door. He pressed his head against it.

Yamada stood fifteen meters away, helmet tucked under his arm. His flight mission was in an hour and a half. Right now, he should be going to the hangar to warm up. But the person in front of him, a Chinese spy who was learning to imitate Li Li. During the President's inspection. He had left the designated area without authorization. He appeared in the interrogation area alone. And he was pressing against the interrogation room door looking inside.

Yamada Ichiro switched his helmet to his left hand. His right hand hung at his side. He took the first step. His soles stepped on the non-slip rubber floor without a sound. Zhang Nan was still pressed against the door. He hadn't noticed.

The distance shortened to ten meters. Eight meters. Five meters. Yamada raised his right hand and directly gripped the back of Zhang Nan's neck. Zhang Nan jolted up. He turned his head violently, the collar of his floral shirt pulled askew. His face was full of "I was just looking, I didn't do anything." Yamada looked down at him. He didn't say a word. And he didn't let go. Zhang Nan's neck was still in his palm. The meaning was very clear. You had better have an explanation.