Dogs and Monkeys (8)
"Ah, so you're all still alive!"
"It's been a long time, Elder!"
"What a relief! What a relief indeed!"
This was Choi Jae-hyung — the man who had supported An Jung-geun's righteous cause and bankrolled the independence army in the Russian Primorsky Krai. The tears he shed streamed down his face and fell endlessly to the floor.
"Ever since the news came that Jung-geun had died at the hands of the Japanese devils, your whereabouts were completely unknown. I feared some misfortune had befallen you as well!"
"Haha, as you can see, Jo Do-seon and I are both perfectly fine."
"What on earth happened that you had to vanish without a trace for years on end?"
"Well... it's rather a long story."
"Then come inside first — it's cold out here. We'll talk inside."
"Of course, Teacher."
Jo Do-seon, Woo Deok-sun, and Choi Jae-hyung. The three men made their way into the palatial drawing room of Choi Jae-hyung's residence and sank into plush armchairs.
"Will you have coffee? Or perhaps tea?"
"Anything is fine."
"Same for me."
"Coffee it is, then."
Before long, three cups of coffee and a plate of traditional sweets were laid out, and after the men had savored their treats, the conversation finally began in earnest.
"So — you two are currently taking shelter under that warlord in Fengtian?"
"That's correct."
"Well done. After Ito died, the Japanese devils went red-eyed, ransacking every corner they could find. Anywhere else, and things might have ended badly for you."
Choi Jae-hyung said with a broad smile.
"Now that their eyes have moved on, I take it you've come back to rejoin us?"
"Ah, well. About that..."
Jo Do-seon and Woo Deok-sun exchanged a glance.
"We've come today to deliver a proposal, Teacher."
"A proposal? Who is proposing?"
"It comes from Chief of Staff Lee Tae-oh, who commands Do-seon's and my unit."
"Don't tell me... you've gone and attached yourselves to that Zhang Zuolin?"
"Chief of Staff Lee Tae-oh wants independence for Korea."
Choi Jae-hyung, who had been stirring his coffee, froze mid-motion.
"Is that true?"
"Yes."
"Could he, by any chance, be a Korean like us?"
"We suspect so, but we can't be certain. He's never said it outright."
"Then how can you believe such a claim?"
"We're told he made a pact with Eung-chil."
"With An Jung-geun? ...What possible connection could those two have had, to make a pact? That, too, could be a lie."
"Chief of Staff Lee staked his life against the Japanese army — drew his gun and fired — just to save the two of us. If there weren't something in his heart, some Korean identity or attachment to the peninsula, could he really have done that?"
"...Hmm."
It was a reasonable argument, so instead of pressing further, Choi Jae-hyung changed the subject.
"So what exactly is this proposal this Lee Tae-oh fellow is bringing?"
"There's a merchant in Fengtian by the name of Zhang Ziyun. He suggests that you, Teacher, go into partnership with him and take over military procurement contracts for the Fengtian 27th Division."
"Military procurement, eh."
Choi Jae-hyung leaned back in his chair and thought for a while. One of the biggest ventures that had ever built his fortune had been supplying the Russian garrison forces in Siberia, so ideas came flooding to his mind on their own.
"...But partner with this Zhang Ziyun fellow?"
"If your company alone were to monopolize the contracts, the Japanese devils would notice. It seems the idea is to use the Zhang Ziyun trading house — the one that's been handling procurement all along — as the public front, to throw off any pursuit."
"You've thought this through carefully, haven't you."
His deliberation did not last long. Hong Beom-do's unit alone had nearly a thousand soldiers to feed and clothe — every extra coin earned was a coin they needed.
"Tell this Lee Tae-oh that I accept."
"Yes, sir!"
Jo Do-seon and Woo Deok-sun beamed.
"...Ah. And there's one more thing — just talk circulating among the powerful these days."
"What kind of talk, sir?"
"Since it seems you'll be staying in that Fengtian of yours, I thought you ought to hear it. I can't vouch for how much truth there is in it, but better safe than sorry."
"Understood."
"The rumor is that Yuan Shikai may move against the Kuomintang men in Beijing — Sun Yat-sen's people."
"...Kuomintang officials in Beijing now, you mean..."
"Prime Minister Song Jiaoren. And Minister of Education Cai Yuanpei."
Woo Deok-sun said with an awkward laugh.
"Aw, come on. Even so, surely nobody would kill a prime minister?"
"In times of chaos, whose life is ever precious? Regardless — be careful."
France. Suresnes, a western suburb of Paris.
"So this is the aircraft your company has been building."
"...That's correct. The Blériot XI."
Louis Blériot, president of Blériot Aéronautique, was stuck to the side of an Oriental man who had appeared out of nowhere like an impromptu tour guide.
"Who is that Oriental man, that the president clings to him and bows and scrapes like that?"
"Right? Does he think he's the Emperor of China or something?"
Putting a company president — the head of a firm with a market capitalization of three million dollars — to work as a tour guide? This was the same boss who had told a visiting Italian general and an Ottoman Turkish general, with magnificent nerve, that if they kept making demands he simply wouldn't sell.
"Well, you see — he's apparently one of our company's early investors."
"An early investor?"
"I hear he put in three thousand dollars two years ago."
"Huh? No — wait — then how much does he actually own now?"
"No idea. Hence the president groveling like that."
Louis Blériot himself was in his own private agony.
"How does it operate?"
"It uses a seven-cylinder rotary engine producing fifty horsepower. And—"
"I see. And those wires are what support the wings, yes?"
"Yes, that's right."
Ordinary investors, upon seeing an aircraft, ask how much they could sell it for. They do not interrogate the specifications like a customs examiner, and they certainly do not peer at the machine with such careful attention, the way this Oriental man did.
"Why is the cockpit built like this? No — you mean you have to pull the wires by hand directly?"
"Well, you see—"
It was as if he'd been transformed into a graduate student defending his thesis.
After a full circuit of the factory, Blériot escorted his precious investor into the drawing room. If that man decided to dump his shares right now, Blériot Aéronautique could find itself dragged into a control dispute. Not at this precious moment. Absolutely not!
"What's wrong with the current situation?"
"...As you can see, the Blériot XI is a monoplane. And there's a chance Britain is about to issue a 'ban on monoplanes.'"
"Ah, I see."
"Of course, we sell over a hundred of them worldwide every year, so even if Britain bans them, it won't be a crushing blow. But being locked out of a market with real potential stings quite a bit."
"Why would Britain ban monoplanes?"
"The accidents are... rather frequent."
Just thinking about it gave him a headache. As he rubbed his aching, throbbing eyes, the Oriental man rested his chin on his hand for a moment, considering, then spoke.
"So the wings snapping off in midair is a frequent problem, I take it?"
"What???"
No — how on earth did he know that?
"The design is quite aerodynamically odd, you see. Flown the way it is, headwinds will hammer the joints until they take damage, and then the wing will simply tear off and fly away."
"Do — do you know a solution!?"
"Let's start by doing something about those wires."
"The wires?"
"Hooking wires to the wing and twisting the whole thing to change direction — isn't that far too crude? The more moving parts you have, the more things go wrong."
This was territory that even the professors of mechanical engineering invited from the Sorbonne had failed to properly touch. That was how early the aviation industry was — an age with nothing at all to reference.
"Try reducing the number of moving parts as far as possible. The answer might present itself."
Just who was this man, sipping his coffee with such utter composure?
Blériot was a businessman, but he was also an engineer. He could tell perfectly well whether the words coming out of that Oriental man's mouth were sound — or the posturing of someone bluffing about things he didn't understand.
"Could — could you explain in more detail?"
"That's all for today."
"...I beg your pardon?"
"I'm tired. I'll tell you the rest tomorrow."
"No, you can't! Please!"
It had been over a year since the Blériot XI first flew. Which meant he had been unable to build a better aircraft for a whole year. A whole year of feeling like he was blocked by an invisible wall.
He hurriedly dug into his coat pocket for his wallet. In his flustered fumbling, the wallet dropped to the floor.
"Ah — d-damn it. Just — just a moment! I'll write you a check for a hundred francs right now! Just ten more minutes of talk, I beg you!"
"No-can-do. See you tomorrow then. Adiós."
And with that, the Oriental man called Theodore Lee rose coolly and left.
A week had passed.
Blériot, eyes bloodshot, stood in front of the drawing room again today, pacing in a small circle.
"S-sir? Lieutenant Colonel Theodore Lee isn't due to arrive for another hour yet. Why not rest your eyes a little?"
"No, no, no need. If I don't get these notes finished now, who knows when they'll evaporate! I could lose this inspiration, this passion, forever!"
"E-even so, you're going to collapse at this rate."
"I can sleep when I'm dead!"
His secretary, watching him with mounting worry, took a step back and shook her head. He was in bad shape. In the end, she grabbed one of the employees and issued orders.
"Listen — go fetch Lieutenant Colonel Theodore Lee, and quickly. If the boss dies, we're all out of a job. Understood?"
"Yes, ma'am."
A modest hotel perched atop a low hill on the outskirts of Suresnes. The employee, vaulting the stairs two and three at a time, came to a stop before one of the rooms and knocked.
"Colonel! Colonel! Are you there!?"
— Ah, yes. Who is it?
"An employee of Blériot Aéronautique! Could you possibly come a little early today?"
— Hm. I haven't even washed up yet.
"That's quite all right! Even a minute sooner—"
— Fine. I understand.
"Ohh! You've come! My hero!"
"You haven't slept, have you? You pulled an all-nighter again last night."
"Heh heh heh — how could I possibly sleep, I'm too excited! The more I think, the more ideas come bubbling up!"
You're going to die at this rate, you know.
And if you die, my stock goes down the toilet!
Live. That's an order.
As everyone kept saying, the aviation technology of this era was still at a toddler's first steps. Even that Blériot XI, supposedly selling hundreds a year — looking at it, you honestly couldn't tell whether it was Leonardo da Vinci's fevered doodles brought to life or an actual flying machine.
From the perspective of a former sparrow — a former Air Force cadet, that is — all it took was doling out a pinch of the basic mechanics they'd taught us at the academy, and I could run circles around the average engineer of this age.
Besides, aerodynamics — the very field an aircraft depends on — is an empirical discipline, one built on data you can only obtain by running experiments yourself. My future knowledge was in no danger of being overtaken anytime soon.
And so, after about a week, Blériot had begun to worship me like some kind of messiah. The way things stood, if I started selling jeweled bracelets, the man would buy every one I pulled out of my pocket. ...Were there any germanium bracelets around yet? If nobody else was selling, would it be all right for me to get in first?
At any rate, once the Great War began and air combat kicked off, Blériot would surely sing my name far and wide. Even if the brass grumbled, 'Must we really use the Yellow Monkey?' — Blériot would go berserk defending me.
"So? So what happens if we install the aileron?"
Hm. I suppose it was about time I started looking for a way to slip out of here. Any later, and I had a feeling I'd wake up one day with sleeping powder dissolved in my drinking water, kidnapped and held captive.
Just then, someone came running and flung open the door of the room we were in.
"Colonel! Colonel!"
"Ohh! If it isn't my trusted aide, Guo Songling!"
God, I was counting on you!
Running all the way from Paris to here at exactly the right moment — truly, we are sworn brothers. We're on the same wavelength.
I put on an expression of profound regret and reluctance.
"Ah, what a shame — just when Blériot and I were in the middle of such a sincere, man-to-man conversation... So. What matter could possibly bring you rushing to me like this?"
"Prime Minister Song Jiaoren of the Kuomintang is dead."
"...What?"
"Assassinated. They say an assassin shot the prime minister with a pistol as he was on his way to board a train."
Hey. Hey, hey. Wait — hold on a second. This is WWE, right? Not UFC?
"We should leave the officials here for now and hurry back home, sir."
"Damn it all. Blériot — my apologies, but I'm afraid I have to go."
"Ah... ahh... of — of course. There's nothing to be — done, is there."
Throwing the coat I'd left draped over my chair roughly over my shoulders, I said:
"Song-ah, hail a taxi. Right now."
"Already done. Let's move."
"Good."
Stepping out of the Blériot works, a chill wind grazed the bridge of my nose.
Damn it. And here I thought I had at least until 1914.
"Wire Fengtian."
"What shall it say, sir?"
"'Do not, under any circumstances, leave the garrison for the two weeks I am away. No matter what happens.'"
"Understood."
"And contact Chalons — tell them to load the promised shells and the twelve artillery pieces onto a fast ship and send them out immediately."
"Yes, sir!"
It was still the romantic age, before laws like indoor smoking bans existed.
I lit a cigarette in the back seat of the taxi and watched the plane trees flick past beside us.
Unbelievable.
What a fucked-up world.
