Feng Yong's head was buzzing.
Product iterations?
Outdated models?
Sell outdated models to fund research and development of even more impressive new machines?
This... this way of thinking—he'd never heard it from a single general or marshal in any country in Western Europe!
Which of those old empires didn't hide its New Weapons away, terrified that someone else might learn how to make them?
Yet when it came to Zhang Xueming, why were they suddenly cheap cabbages he could toss onto the market?
And from the sound of it, just as his side had equipped itself with the Type 2 Tank, the funding for developing Number Three and Number West had already been neatly arranged.
Looking at Zhang Xueming's young yet deep-set face, Feng Yong suddenly felt that all the things he'd learned abroad—air combat theory, industrial systems—were as simple as a blank sheet of paper in front of his brother.
"Xue Ming... that Type 2 Tank you mentioned—has it already been built?" Feng Yong's voice was a little hoarse. He needed to make sure.
"Of course." Zhang Xueming nodded as if it were only natural. "Otherwise, would I have been so comfortable selling the Number One?"
Feng Yong drew a deep breath, forcing down the storm raging in his heart.
The Northeast was rich in resources. The whole world knew that.
But that its industry was weak was also a consensus shared by the whole world.
Yet from the looks of it, his good brother had already turned that consensus completely on its head!
"I want to see it!" Feng Yong's eyes instantly burned with excitement. "Take me to that Anshan industrial park of yours right now!"
He grabbed Zhang Xueming by the arm, his grip astonishingly strong.
He couldn't wait to see for himself what the industrial giant Zhang Xueming had hidden behind the scenes looked like!
Then he suddenly thought of something, and his gaze turned wary.
"Xue Ming, I'm telling you this upfront." Feng Yong stared at him. "Don't try to pull a fast one on me. You sold the Prussians outdated tanks. You're not going to turn around and fob off some busted biplane on me, are you?"
"I'm telling you, I trained with the Royal Air Force in Ying Country! I can tell a mule from a horse at a glance! If you dare try to pass off some piece of junk that can't fly three hundred kilometers as the real deal, I... I'll never let you hear the end of it!"
Watching Feng Yong's "if you dare cheat me, I'll fight you to the death" stance, Zhang Xueming couldn't help laughing.
"All right, all right, my great aviator Feng." He laughed and slapped Feng Yong's hand away. "Come with me. I guarantee you'll be in for a huge surprise."
Zhang Xueming led Feng Yong and the group of British men, who still carried themselves with an air of superiority, through the headquarters and toward a huge hangar behind it.
The entire hangar was built of Steel and Concrete. Even the pair of Iron Gates stood more than ten meters tall, exuding a stark, imposing industrial presence.
The guards stepped forward and turned the winch together. Amid the grating screech of metal, the heavy gates slowly swung open.
The moment the gap appeared, Feng Yong's breathing stopped.
He saw it.
A flash of cold, metallic silver-gray.
As the gates opened all the way, a Fighter Jet with sleek, elegant lines and an air of power and speed sat quietly in the very center of the hangar.
It had none of the cumbersome struts and wires of a traditional biplane, only a clean, streamlined monoplane design.
Its body was no longer made of fabric and wood. Instead, it gleamed with a cold metallic sheen, each rivet clearly visible beneath the lights, tracing its sturdy contours.
What made Feng Yong's pupils contract the most was its cockpit!
It wasn't a crude open cockpit, but a crystal-clear, fully enclosed bubble canopy!
Th-this was impossible!
Feng Yong rushed forward in three long strides. He reached out and, trembling, stroked the cold metal fuselage, feeling its unmistakable texture.
"Xue Ming... this..." His voice trembled.
"Jian-1 Fighter Jet." Zhang Xueming stepped beside him, his tone calm, yet each word landed like another bombshell.
"An all-metal stressed-skin airframe."
"Powered by a 'Kirin' V-12 liquid-cooled engine made right here at our Fengtian Engine Factory, with a steady output of eight hundred and forty horsepower."
"The weapons system consists of Number West 7.62-millimeter machine guns mounted in the wings."
"Oh, and we've equipped the pilot with a radio, too, so he can communicate with the ground and friendly aircraft."
With every detail Zhang Xueming listed, Feng Yong's eyes widened a little more.
When he heard the word "radio," he looked as if he'd been struck by lightning.
He whipped around and stared hard at Zhang Xueming, his eyes filled with elation and disbelief.
"Really? We really built this ourselves?"
"Radio! A radio installed on a plane! My God! Do you know what this means? It means aerial combat will no longer be a lone wolf's duel! This is a tactical revolution!"
Like a child who'd just received his favorite toy, he circled the plane again and again, muttering to himself, the light in his eyes almost spilling out.
Behind him, the British officers' arrogance had completely vanished.
In its place was deep shock—and... fear.
As members of one of the world's top air forces, they understood better than anyone what kind of terrifying airborne monster the combination of all Zhang Xueming's specifications would produce.