58
“Nǐ niú shǔn fèifèi húndàn, Zhang Ru!” Captain Chen Bo cursed General Zhang Ru. The automatic cockpit voice recorder would pick that up, of course. It was the first words he’d spoken aloud since the message he had dutifully spoken aloud shortly after departing Mainland Chinese airspace.
Not that it mattered any longer.
Silently, he offered a few more words of imprecation, first upon Zhang Ru’s many ancestors—may they roast on a fiery spit and be eaten by weasels—and then upon himself.
Bo bemoaned the day he’d signed up for the PLAAF. The People’s Liberation Army Air Force, as if that was not some great irony that even the Buddha himself could never unravel.
Liberation? Not if it put his life into the hands of a man like Zhang Ru.
Zhang had promised that if Bo would do his bidding,
