178: Chapter 178 Everything is ready except for the east wind

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Fu Haoran discovered that he had encountered another difficult problem: there were no pilots.

Static displays did not require pilots, but the flight demonstration at the air show was the main event; to put it bluntly, this was the "seller's showcase."

Fu Haoran knew very well that he was not a behemoth like Lockheed Martin, and without military endorsement, he had to rely on performance to prove himself.

Not to mention that once subsequent foreign trade orders were signed, the client's first requirement would be pilot training.

From delivery to achieving combat capability, a fifth-generation fighter required at least two to three years, and that was assuming there was a mature team of instructors to provide hands-on training.

Without pilots and without instructors, the F-22 fighters in the hangar were no different from ornaments.

"General Manager Fu, training a qualified pilot capable of flying an F-22 takes at least four to five years, and top-tier flight instructors are even rarer. In less than a month, it is simply impossible to find them." Li Jianguo's tone was filled with helplessness.

"If we can't find them domestically, we'll look abroad." Fu Haoran leaned back in his chair, his tone flat. "You should know what the situation is like over in the America Air Force right now."

Li Jianguo was stunned for a moment, his face instantly tightening: "General Manager Fu, I already checked the bottom line on this before; there is simply no way forward."

"Currently, the US military's own shortage of fighter pilots is stable at 1,150 people; for every three to four squadrons, one cannot even fly. The military keeps a tight grip on active-duty pilots. If a fifth-generation fighter pilot wants to retire, they must apply two years in advance, go through layers of approval, and may even be locked in with forced extended service, revocation of flight licenses, or huge breach-of-contract penalties. We simply can't touch them."

He paused, his tone growing heavier: "Even those who manage to endure until retirement are signed away at sky-high prices by civil aviation giants like Delta and United Airlines the moment they take off their uniforms. They offer annual salaries of 400,000 to 600,000 USD, along with lifetime benefits; we simply can't compete with that."

"More importantly, civil aviation pilots who fly fixed routes simply cannot perform fifth-generation fighter aerobatics, nor can they be instructors. The technical barrier is a chasm; it's useless to poach them."

Fu Haoran leaned back in his chair, feeling a bit of a headache.

However, he had already anticipated everything Li Jianguo said.

The larger the US military pilot shortage, the tighter the lockdown on active-duty talent, and the crazier the scramble for people by civil aviation. Trying to poach from these two pools was akin to pulling teeth from a tiger's mouth. Not only was the cost ridiculously high, but it would also directly alert the Pentagon, which was completely inconsistent with his style of making a fortune in silence.

"Who said anything about poaching from active duty and civil aviation?" Fu Haoran tapped his fingertip on the US military combat readiness report on the table.

"What the US military lacks are young, active-duty pilots who can go to the battlefield, be deployed globally, and are obedient—not the aces they've thrown away like trash."

He picked up the encrypted communicator and dialed Jimmy's number: "Jimmy, get me a complete list. Give it to me within 24 hours, and lock onto three types of people."

"The first type: fighter pilots who were forcibly discharged from the America Air Force in the last ten years due to injury or disability. Focus on screening for F-22 models, those with combat experience, and those with instructor resumes. Even if they have missing limbs, nerve damage, or cannot pass civil aviation physicals, as long as their flight skills are solid, don't miss a single one."

"The second type: pilots who were retaliated against and discharged for reporting sexual harassment, opposing military falsification, or refusing illegal orders. Give priority to those with fifth-generation fighter flight experience; mark those rejected by civil aviation due to negative records."

"The third type: old instructors between 55 and 65 years old who retired from the Nellis Weapons School, or first-generation test pilots for the F-22 project who were forced into retirement by civil aviation due to age, possessing skills but having nowhere to apply them."

"Archive all their injury status, reasons for retirement, current family situation, and income levels. The more detailed, the better."

"Boss, these are people that neither the US military nor civil aviation wants. We're picking them up?" Jimmy was a bit worried.

"It's not picking them up; it's giving these aces abandoned by the system a chance to fly into the blue sky again." Fu Haoran hung up the communicator and turned to look at the stunned Li Jianguo.

Fu Haoran knew very well that poaching was a short-term solution. In the long run, he needed to train his own pilots.

And the best personnel were none other than the mortal soldiers from the Warhammer World.

The problem was that the Warhammer World also didn't have enough time for training.

Fortunately, there was a solution to this problem.

"It seems necessary to have Father Karen use Servo-skulls and cogitator arrays to instill knowledge into reserve pilots via brain-computer interfaces, and then accumulate thousands of hours of flight time in simulators."

"But tactical judgment, on-the-spot adaptability, and aerial combat—these muscle memories and battlefield instincts must be honed by combat instructors."

"These old US military veterans we poach will be their exclusive instructors."

Fu Haoran did not explain to Li Jianguo, but the latter had already realized what Fu Haoran was going to do.

There would always be some pilots who were unwelcome, or people who were not having an easy time after retirement.

More importantly, these people held grudges against the US military system and had an extreme desire to fly fighter jets again. Not only were they poachable, but they would also be deeply grateful to Fu Haoran, and their loyalty would be far beyond that of active-duty pilots poached with high salaries.

In a bungalow in the suburbs of San Antonio, Texas.

Eric Davis sat in his wheelchair, looking at the air force base runway outside the window, his fingertips gripping his flight helmet tightly.

He was 39 years old this year, a former America Air Force F-22 fighter pilot with 2,800 flight hours. He was one of the last batch of F-22 pilots, had participated in airstrike missions in Syria, had served as an F-22 squadron flight instructor, and was one of the few top aces in the US military capable of flying high-G post-stall maneuvers.

During a training accident three years ago, the F-22 he was piloting encountered engine failure. When he ejected, the seat exploded, completely shattering his left leg below the knee and causing permanent damage to his lumbar nerves.

The military forced him to retire on the grounds of "permanent loss of flight capability," giving him only a meager disability allowance.

He had tried applying to be a civil aviation pilot, but the FAA's Class 1 medical standards directly shut out this veteran with a left-leg amputation and lumbar nerve damage.

The ace who once dominated the skies was now trapped in a wheelchair, watching his former comrades take off, without even a chance to touch a control stick.

Mortgage, his daughter's college tuition, and rehabilitation costs weighed on him like mountains, having long crossed the "execution line" of the American middle class, leaving him on the verge of falling into the abyss at any moment.

Just then, his private phone rang; it was an unfamiliar encrypted number.

The voice on the other end of the line was polite and firm: "Major Davis, I am Jimmy, the recruitment director of DYB Warhammer Military Industry."

"We understand your brilliant resume on the F-22, and we also know your current situation. We would like to invite you to join us as Chief Tactical Instructor, responsible for air show flight demonstrations and pilot training."

"The base salary is 1 million USD per year, with all income received after tax. However, for tax avoidance purposes, we will deposit most of the salary into your overseas account."

Davis scoffed, his voice filled with desperate self-mockery: "You're looking for a cripple with a left-leg amputation who can't even walk to fly a fifth-generation fighter? Are you looking for a gimmick to grab attention, or are you just messing with me?"

"Major, we not only offer you a high salary, but we can also help you stand up again and fly into the sky again." Jimmy's tone had not a hint of joking.

"We have top-tier bionic mechanical prosthetic technology that can perfectly repair your limb damage, and can even use neural interfaces to make your control precision exceed your peak period."

"What we lack is not planes, but aces who can truly master the F-22."

Davis was stunned for a full half-minute, then asked in disbelief: "You... can you really let me fly again?"

"No matter how much I say, it's not as good as seeing it for yourself. Your plane ticket has already been booked."

Three days later, Davis arrived at the DYB factory.

When he saw row upon row of brand-new F-22 fighters parked in the hangar, he simply couldn't believe his eyes.

As a former ace pilot, he knew better than anyone that the F-22 production line had long been shut down, but now, brand-new fighters were parked right in front of him.

"You must be Major Davis. I am the founder of DYB. It's a pleasure to meet you."

Fu Haoran extended his hand, and Davis subconsciously shook it.

"We can talk about touring the aircraft later. Right now, we need to perform an onboarding rehabilitation surgery on you."

"If everything goes smoothly, you can fly the plane in a little while." For some reason, Davis did not have the slightest doubt.

He thought it would be an extremely complex surgery.

However, it was not medical personnel who arrived, but Father Karen and several Adeptus Mechanicus technicians.

They installed a set of silver-gray exoskeleton devices on Davis's legs, the knee joints gleaming with a dark golden metallic luster.

"What is this?" Davis couldn't help but ask.

"Servo-bionic prosthetics, directly interfacing with your lumbar spinal nerve port." Father Karen's optical ocular flashed with a stream of data, his tone as calm as if he were reading a pharmaceutical instruction manual.

"It can precisely capture your movement intentions, with a motor response latency of no more than 0.01 seconds."

"Flesh is weak, machines are eternal. What you have lost, the Machine God will help you retrieve. Try to stand up."

"What kind of joke is this? How could I possibly stand—" Before Davis could finish, he found that he was already standing.

Although he still couldn't feel his lower body, the moment he had the thought, his feet would execute it.

He tried running, tried jumping, and his legs executed them perfectly.

Except for the lack of sensation, everything was perfect.

"You—how did you do this?!" Davis was so excited he was somewhat incoherent.

Father Karen's mechanical tentacles gently tapped the prosthetic joints: "This system can also assist you in withstanding high G-loads; even with permanent lumbar spine damage, you can withstand post-stall maneuvers at 9 Gs."

"Your control precision from your peak period will only be higher now."

Davis looked at his new legs, was silent for a long time, then whispered: "Thank God."

"Mr. Davis, it is not God you need to thank." Father Karen's optical ocular flashed, "We only recognize one truth: Flesh is weak, machines are eternal."

"What you gain implies what you must pay."

Father Karen handed him a contract: "We give you the chance to fly in the blue skies again; you only need to pay one thing: your flight skills and tactical experience."

"Train our pilots well, and fly the airshow demonstrations well."

Davis looked at the numbers on the contract: a one-million-dollar annual salary, an overseas tax-free account, lifetime maintenance for the bionic prosthetics, full medical coverage for his family—without the slightest hesitation, he signed his name.

At this moment, he no longer felt lost about the future, only the burning passion and determination of holding the control stick once again.

The next day, Davis sat in the F-22 simulator.

The moment the control stick was in his hand and his bionic prosthetics precisely pressed the rudder, he felt as if he had returned to the skies over Syria.

That ace pilot who once dominated the skies had returned.

Along with Davis, more than a dozen other pilots who had been abandoned by both the US military and the civil aviation sector also signed the contract.

There was Katherine Walker, a former instructor at the Nellis Weapons School, who was forced into retirement after reporting sexual harassment; civil aviation rejected her due to a "negative record," her mortgage payments stopped, she nearly lost the nursing home for her paralyzed mother, and she had long since crossed the line of being cut down from the middle class.

There was Richard Potter, a 62-year-old first-generation F-22 test pilot, who was forced into retirement by civil aviation due to his age; with over ten thousand hours of flight experience but nowhere to use it, he became the director of simulator training and the flight system.

There was Kimberly, a Gulf War veteran and former US military C-130 pilot, who was forced to retire due to sexual harassment and encountered a glass ceiling for women in civil aviation, eventually becoming the flight team's dispatch supervisor, responsible for formulating the entire airshow flight plan.

They had all been deeply hurt by the US military system and rejected by the rules of civil aviation; ultimately, here with Fu Haoran, they not only received the respect and remuneration they deserved but also rediscovered the aviation career they had fought for their entire lives.

Li Jianguo stood by, from his initial astonishment to being completely stunned when watching Davis sit in the simulator and perfectly execute a Cobra maneuver.

He had been in aviation his whole life and had never thought it could be played this way.

A disabled ace pilot thrown away like trash by the US military was pulled back to his peak by Fu Haoran using a set of black technology, and was even stronger than before.

A pilot that the US military needed 15 years to cultivate could be mass-produced by his own boss in just three weeks.

At this moment, he finally understood completely: what Fu Haoran wanted to do was never to replicate the F-22, but to build an aviation industry and talent cultivation system that completely crushes the West.

In the medical training pods of the Planetary Fortress, another batch of pilots from the Hive City walked out of the operating room.

They had a uniform characteristic: a silver neural interface embedded in the back of their necks.

Father Karen reported to Fu Haoran: "Sir, this system has a two-layer architecture."

"The outer layer is the neural control link for the bionic prosthetics, replacing damaged nerves and driving the mechanical limbs; this is the layer Major Davis is using."

"The inner layer is the brain-computer interface knowledge infusion array, which can directly imprint flight data into neurons."

"Both share the neural interface protocol, but their functions are different: one repairs the body, the other infuses skills."

On the holographic screen beside them, all the flight data, tactical maneuvers, emergency response procedures, and even muscle memory and battlefield instincts in extreme air combat environments of ace pilots like Davis and Katherine were all dismantled into data packets and directly infused into the depths of the soldiers' cerebral cortex through the neural interface in the back of their necks.

The operation manuals and emergency procedures that traditional pilots need years to memorize could be engraved into their brains in just six hours.

After 72 hours of neural adaptation training, they could complete basic takeoffs and landings, formation flying, and ground attacks in the simulator.

"However, knowledge infusion can only solve procedural memory; tactical judgment, spatial awareness, and on-the-spot adaptability must be arranged through immersive simulated air combat training, and taught hands-on by those ace instructors."

Father Karen paused, a hint of fanaticism flashing in one of his mechanical prosthetic eyes.

"But the true strength of this system lies not only in mass-producing new pilots but also in enabling disabled veteran pilots to take to the skies again, and even reducing the physical burden of high G-loads through the brain-computer auxiliary system."

"The control precision of the bionic prosthetics has already exceeded that of original limbs in certain metrics."

Fu Haoran nodded.

The US military spent thirty years ruining its own pilot training system, crying about a shortage of over a thousand people while throwing away top-tier aces like trash, and getting stuck in a fifteen-year training cycle.

But his system compressed the cycle to three weeks, while simultaneously solving the reuse of disabled pilots and the rapid filling of pilot shortages.

These two are precisely the core pain points that give the US military the biggest headache.

"Input all the flight data and combat tactics of all instructors into the Servo-skull database, and continuously update and iterate."

"This neural adaptation system needs to be modularized in the future, so that even pilots from foreign trade customers can quickly complete conversion training through this system."

"We are not just selling planes; we are selling a complete flight system that can rapidly form combat capability."

"Cultivating pilots who can fly in three weeks, and forming combat capability in three months—this is our dimensionality-reduction strike on the global military trade market."

Having solved the core issue of pilots, Fu Haoran closed Father Karen's surgical report on the holographic screen and picked up another document: the berth dispatch order for the Pathfinder.

In order to show off the effect a little, Fu Haoran found a ready-made ship from his spoils of war, ensuring that his entrance would be stunning.

However, there was one small problem: he didn't have enough crew.

Fu Haoran looked at the converted "freighter" at the dock and fell into a dilemma.

For the impact of this airshow, he had long prepared a giant ship kept in reserve, named the Da Fu, taken from the Da Fu ships that were the main vessels of Zheng He's voyages to the Western Ocean in the Ming Dynasty, which both fit the implication of ocean voyages and hinted at the massive scale of this giant ship.

But right now, he lacked a professional crew capable of handling this ship.

Fu Haoran called Jimmy's number again: "Jimmy, pull up another list for me."

"Lock onto aircraft carrier captains, amphibious assault ship Commanders, carrier-based aircraft dispatchers, and catapult system engineers who have been forced into retirement from the America Navy over the past ten years. The more people, the better."

Jimmy on the other end of the phone was stunned: "Boss? What do you want these people for? We only have one converted roll-on/roll-off freighter; why do you need aircraft carrier Commanders?"

"If you tell people that, won't they think you're crazy?"

Fu Haoran stood in front of the floor-to-ceiling window of his office, looking in the direction of the port, a smile that only he understood curling at the corners of his mouth: "Crazy or not, once they arrive and see the ship with their own eyes, they will understand everything."