71: Chapter 71: Either hang up or feed the fish!

The radio went silent for four seconds.

On the bridge of aircraft carrier 004, the Major General slammed his thermos onto the table.

"Repeat that."

"Ten percent fuel remaining. I used the afterburner the whole way to shake off the pursuers; it burned a bit too fast." Li Li glanced at the fuel gauge, the needle stuck in the red zone. "At current cruising speed and fuel leak rate, I have about twelve minutes of flight time left."

The Major General turned to look at the tactical display screen.

The blip for callsign was moving at a constant speed over the Indian Ocean, and the carrier strike group was three hundred and twenty nautical miles from the coastline in a straight line.

Twelve minutes.

Factoring in deceleration, alignment, and descent—it was impossible to make it.

Unless he turned back right now. And flew toward the aircraft carrier.

"callsign," the Major General tapped his middle finger on the table, "you have two options."

"First, eject. I'll send a helicopter to fish you out. The F/A-18 will sink to the bottom of the ocean, and we'll pretend it never happened—out of sight, out of mind."

"And the second?"

"There is no second. The tail hook on your aircraft is not compatible with our arresting wires, and the success rate of landing—" The Major General turned his head.

The Chief of Staff flipped through the technical manual.

"Theoretically, the geometric parameters of the F/A-18F's tail hook are potentially compatible with our MK7 arresting gear, but it has never been verified in practice. The success rate cannot be evaluated."

"Did you hear that?" The Major General pressed the communication button. "Cannot be evaluated—nobody has tried it, nobody dares to try it, and not even simulation data has been run for it."

In the cockpit, Li Li rotated his left wrist.

Between the ejection seats, the indicator light for the yellow-and-black striped handle was green. He could jump at any time.

Eject, float on the sea, wait for the helicopter. Safe and secure.

But an intact F/A-18F Super Hornet—the two-seater variant, in Israel livery, with a full suite of onboard avionics—just throw it into the Indian Ocean like that?

Seventy million dollars.

Li Li had spent three years carrying bricks on a construction site before transmigrating; if good building materials rotted in the rain, he would feel heartache for a whole month. And this wasn't just building material.

"Chief, I have a second plan."

"Speak."

"Let me land on 001."

The bridge went silent. The Major General didn't make a sound. The Chief of Staff didn't make a sound. The three staff officers nearby all turned their heads.

The radar operator's hands hovered above the keyboard. The communications officer's headset slipped down to his chin.

"You want to land on an aircraft carrier." The Major General repeated it. It wasn't a question.

"Yes. Catch the arresting wire with the tail hook, a standard carrier landing."

"Do you know what a carrier landing is called?"

"'A dance on the tip of a knife.' I've seen the documentary."

"The documentary." The Major General didn't respond to those two words.

"Chief, to take a step back—" Li Li stared at the coordinates of 001 on the HUD, "even if I don't catch the first arresting wire and I run off the deck into the sea, the structural damage to 001 would be manageable. Repairing the deck is easier than salvaging an intact F-18."

"Why not land on 004?"

004. The East's latest generation of electromagnetic catapult aircraft carrier. Flat deck, more advanced arresting system.

"004 is too expensive." Li Li didn't hesitate to answer. "If I mess up and scratch the deck coating, the repair costs for the electromagnetic catapult track—I couldn't pay for it even if I sold myself. 001 has a ski-jump deck; it's sturdy and durable."

On the bridge, the Senior Colonel Chief of Staff's temple throbbed twice.

"Chief, I strongly suggest rejecting this." The Chief of Staff stepped forward. "This person is a civilian, an amateur from a variety show, and this is his first time flying a military aircraft—"

"Chief of Staff." The Major General interrupted him.

"A civilian who stole an F-18 from a US military base." He held up one finger. "Takeoff." A second finger. "Air combat." A third finger. "Soloed two US fighter jets of the same model. Two to zero." He pulled his hand back.

"If you asked our top naval aviators to do this, how many would dare to guarantee success?"

The Chief of Staff's lips moved, but he didn't make a sound.

The Major General turned to the communication console. "callsign." "Here." "I authorize you to land on 001."

Li Li let out half a breath. Just half. He only dared to let out half.

"However—" the Major General enunciated each word. "Deploy all four arresting wires. Firefighting teams in position, medical teams in position, clear the deck, move all carrier-based aircraft. Have the frigates deploy lifeboats on both sides, standing by."

"You can take risks. But my soldiers cannot bear even one percent more risk because of your adventure. Do you understand?"

"Understood."

"Also." "Yes, Chief." "The person in your back seat—Jiang Rumu." The Major General paused. "My granddaughter is her fan. If you crash and get her hurt, my granddaughter will cry until she tears my house down."

Li Li's mouth twitched. "I guarantee to deliver her safe and sound."

The communication switched. The alarm on the deck of 001 blared.

The runway lights switched to carrier landing guidance mode; the centerline lights, edge lights, and the Fresnel Lens Optical Landing System lit up in sequence. Four arresting wires rose from the rear end of the deck, the steel cables pulled taut into a straight line.

Fire trucks rose from the hangar deck, and foam hoses were set up. The medical team stood by with stretchers at the entrance of the island structure. The entire 001 battle group entered a state of maximum alert.

All for a stolen aircraft. An amateur. A female celebrity.

Thirty thousand feet. Li Li descended. Fuel at eight percent.

On the HUD, the location beacon for 001 kept enlarging.

"Li Li." From the back seat. Jiang Rumu's voice was still hoarse.

"Yeah."

"We're landing on an aircraft carrier?"

"Yes."

"Like that—where in the movies a plane slams onto the deck and uses a hook to catch a rope?"

"Something like that. The professional term is arrested landing."

"Have you practiced this?"

"No."

"I knew it." The back seat was silent for three seconds. "But I trust you."

Fuel at six percent. The F/A-18F broke out from the base of the clouds.

The sea surface. The gray silhouette of aircraft carrier 001 appeared ahead and below. The ski-jump ramp was clearly visible, the deck was completely clear of aircraft, and the runway lights flashed in the daylight.

All around, destroyers and frigates were arranged in a circular formation, their bows cutting through the white waves.

Li Li pushed the stick, entering the descent path. He circled in from the port side of 001. Altitude three hundred meters, speed dropped to one hundred and forty knots.

The beam of the Fresnel lens pierced into the cockpit—the "meatball" light in the center, orange. The glide slope was correct.

Landing gear down. Tail hook down. Three green lights. Carrier landing configuration complete.

"001 Landing Signal Officer calling callsign, align with the centerline, maintain glide slope. Wind from the southwest, crosswind eight knots. Deck movement normal. You are cleared to land."

"callsign received."

Meatball centered. Centerline aligned. Glide slope 3.5 degrees. Speed 132 knots.

Fuel at four percent. One chance. There wasn't even enough fuel for a go-around.

Catch the wire, or feed the fish.

He chose the first arresting wire. Not the third—the generally accepted optimal target for carrier pilots, with the largest margin for error.

The first one. Closest to the end of the deck. Less than twenty meters from the stern. The margin for error—near zero.

The Landing Signal Officer's breathing on the radio grew heavier. But he didn't speak. The Major General had approved it.

Five hundred meters. Three hundred meters. The deck exploded into view in the windshield. The light from the runway lights swept across the wings. Two hundred meters.

The sound of waves pierced through the canopy. One hundred meters.

The Landing Signal Officer lunged to the porthole. "Too low! Altitude is too low—!"

Everyone on the deck looked up at the same time. The belly of the F/A-18F skimmed past the edge of the flight deck at the stern. The landing gear was less than two meters from the steel plating. The tail hook swung violently in the airflow.

Looking up from below—it wasn't a landing. It was a crash.

Jiang Rumu gripped the seatbelt buckle tightly in the back seat, her heart rate hitting the peak of her life. The back of that man's head in the front seat was motionless. The control stick in his hands was steady.

The edge of the deck. The tip of the tail hook was distance from the first arresting wire—three meters. Two meters. One meter—