Chapter 22: There Will Be No Pension

The "Barents Sea Scalpel" is the ultimate romance in the heart of every pilot.

Just imagine: in certain situations, opening fire constitutes an international dispute, but a mid-air collision is merely an "accident." If a pilot with nerves of steel and masterful skill were to fly a plane at speeds exceeding a thousand kilometers per hour, slice a gash into the enemy's aircraft, and send it spiraling to its doom, there would be no evidence left, and no way for the enemy to seek revenge.

This thrill of using superior skill to bully an opponent to death is enough to make even an onlooker uncontrollably wild with excitement.

"Ooh-ooh-ooh!"
"Uraa—"
"The boss is amazing—"

Well, one could not say the performance of the Racia pilots in this air battle was commendable; it was simply reckless beyond measure. Relying on the speed and sturdy build of their aircraft, this Beria flying squadron managed an absurd kill-to-loss ratio of 6 to 27. Of the six who were shot down, four successfully parachuted to safety.

Since this was their own theater of operations, the steppes were crawling with Mongo Rangers under the command of the Principality of Beria. Zhang Shan had offered a hefty bounty of five hundred rubles to any squad that could recover a pilot, which amounted to several dozen rubles per person. For the Mongo people, whose income in the Empire was among the lowest during peacetime, this was an absolute fortune.

Prokofiev led his flight heading north and soon spotted the airfield. As the world's first aircraft with retractable landing gear, the process required no fewer than forty-four steps; make one mistake, and it would jam. Even so, at this point in time, it was worth it—other planes with fixed landing gear were simply not as fast as the I-16s.

At the airfield, Zhang Shan watched these "fat birds," or "ice cream cones," landing in a bicycle-like posture at speeds not much slower than their flight speed, and the corners of his eyes couldn't help but twitch.

Whose plane has such an ugly landing posture?
Oh, it’s mine. Never mind then.

There was no helping it; the design of the "ice cream cone" caused the center of gravity to shift toward the middle, or even too far forward. Over-braking would cause the plane to perform a front roll like a dog tripping over its own face...

When Prokofiev landed and saw the grand formation near the runway, he was clearly startled, for he spotted the royal standard. Once he brought his plane to a halt and jumped down, he hurriedly asked the ground crew, "Which big shot has arrived?"

"More than just a big shot—His Highness the Third Prince is here."
"Ah? Prince Andrei, the one who secured so much weaponry and military pay for the entire army?"
"Who else could it be? He’s the only prince in the Grand Duke's family who can venture out."

Prokofiev dared not be negligent. He and his subordinate, Lieutenant Kurdyumov, and the others trotted over to salute Zhang Shan.

"At ease. It looks like you’ve had another successful haul, Prokofiev?" Zhang Shan said with a smile.
"Of course! Four planes! Three of them I shot down solo!"

The method for calculating "ace" status varies across the world. The most widely accepted is the Alica method: five kills make an ace. However, Asgard often counts a collaborative kill by two pilots as one kill for each. In Racia, a solo kill counts as one, while collaborative kills are split among the participants. Thus, one occasionally sees counts like 0.3 or 0.5, representing kills shared by three aircraft.

"3.5 kills in a single sortie—impressive, our ace!" Including his previous record, Prokofiev had 11.6 kills; he was an ace in every sense of the word.
"This is all for your glory, Your Highness!" Prokofiev’s emotional intelligence was not too low.

"Very well, Mr. Ace, can you tell me about the pain points of the aircraft? Or rather, the flaws you hope to see improved?"
"Hm?" Hearing a technical question, Prokofiev became animated and began to pour out his grievances, complaining about how cumbersome the landing gear was and how weak the machine gun firepower felt.

The landing gear issue was not one that could be solved overnight. Zhang Shan led the pilots to a truck and personally pulled back the canvas.

Just one look, and Prokofiev was drooling. When it comes to weaponry, caliber is justice. Bigger is beautiful! Thicker is better!

Presented before them were two thick, metallic monsters and a row of barrels. While the four ShKAS machine guns currently on their planes might seem powerful, they were effectively 7.62mm toy guns; often, several bursts wouldn't even penetrate the enemy's fuselage.

He swallowed hard. "Your Highness, my report only asked for a switch to 12.7mm machine guns."
Zhang Shan smiled. "Two machine guns plus two autocannons—isn't it better to get it all done in one go?"

Historically, the I-16 was indeed upgraded to that caliber of Berezin machine gun before finally receiving the 20mm ShVAK autocannon. Zhang Shan had stopped pretending and brought out the ultimate answer directly.

He wasn't just going to equip these "ice cream cones" with large-caliber machine guns; he was also installing autocannons to satisfy the need for ground attack. This bold move left the pilots drooling.

Prokofiev hesitated slightly. "A mid-field refit... is that possible?"
"I’ve consulted the lead designers. They intended to do this all along, but the funding hadn't been approved yet. I’ve simply accelerated the process. As for these..." Zhang Shan gestured to the large barrels, "These are the true prototypes—lethal weapons for ace pilots."

Prokofiev swallowed again, both excited and nervous. With Zhang Shan’s modifications, the I-16 could no longer be called just "sufficiently armed"; it was armed with absolute martial vigor.

Having settled the aircraft issue, Zhang Shan headed to the base of the Eighth Beria Division, which was set to replace the previous garrison guarding Red Tower City. He had a major task prepared for the Eighth Division.

The wooden gates of the camp opened. The Racia soldiers, gathered in small groups, watched the luxurious motorcade entering the gates with complex expressions. Whether it was the gilded ornaments on the hoods of the cars or the brightly colored flags, everything drew looks of envy and skepticism from the men.

"Our Prince is sending us to throw our lives away!"
"Don't talk nonsense; this Prince has already provided for us."
"True, at least he treats us like people, not like cattle to be sent to the slaughterhouse."
"Those Yamato people are the ones who aren't human; they want to slaughter every man among us and take every woman."

The hole dug by the former Emperor, Ivan XVI, was too deep. Even though life had slightly improved after the new Emperor, Constantine XVIII, took the throne, it had merely shifted from "starving to death" back to the "half-dead" state that existed before the last Great War.

The entire Empire was in this sorry state, and the Grand Duchy of Beria was no exception. Even after Andrei took charge and quickly implemented a series of countermeasures, while the public thought it was decent, it was still a long way from being "good."

Soon, the assembly whistle blew. The soldiers gathered nervously, forming a reasonably neat line. Zhang Shan stood tall on the reviewing platform and spoke directly into the loudspeaker: "I am Andrei Beriasky! What I am about to announce is this—you will be sent to the near-suicidal death trap of Red Tower City, and for this mission, your families will receive no pension..."