Author: La Rive Gauche

Translator: Jenny Lu

Editor: Adrian S. Mei

 

 

Chapter 1

 

October 9, 2015. Just another afternoon on the East China Sea, 288 nautical miles from Zhoushan Naval Base. Heavy swells rolled beneath an overcast sky. Naval aviators gathered on the flight deck, watching a grey speck race towards them from the east—a third-generation J-15 fighter locating the carrier, descending steadily.

 

Zhou Qichen held his breath as he brought the fighter down. Three hundred metres above the deck, his heartbeat hammered against his eardrums, cutting through the roar of wind and engine noise.

 

Carrier aircraft touch down at over 300 kilometres per hour on a runway barely 300 metres long—less than a tenth of a land-based strip. The landing zone itself spans mere dozens of metres: less than a second to execute touchdown, cable engagement, and deceleration. Unlike commercial pilots, who typically reduce power when landing, naval aviators maintain high power throughout their approach. If their hook misses the arresting wire, they immediately power up for a bolter. Only the tailhook snagging steel arresting cables can stop the aircraft on deck. This is why carrier landings are called “dancing on a razor’s edge.” Zhou had performed this dance thousands of times. To be precise, 5,860 times.

 

Locating the carrier, orbiting the carrier. First turn, second turn.

 

Guided by the carrier’s electronic landing aids, he worked the J-15 degree by degree into alignment with the optical landing system. Monstrous waves rolled beneath them, wake turbulence bucking the aircraft unpredictably while the carrier itself pitched and rolled in the heavy seas. He’d landed in similar conditions before, though—that wasn’t what had his nerves on edge. The real reason cut deeper: this was his 5,861st carrier landing and his final approach in a J-15.

 

That familiar voice crackled through his headset: “Line up, crosswind, wind direction 280. Having trouble with the lights, wave off.”

 

The Landing Signal Officer guided carrier pilots through alignment and touchdown. New pilots got constant chatter, every correction spelled out in detail. After eight years of carrier operations, Zhou earned the economy of expertise: one crisp instruction before wheels met steel. The deteriorating sea state and gusting crosswinds explained today’s added wind call.

 

“I’ll be fine.”

 

His fighter closed on carrier Zhiyuan’s deck, near enough to pick out three figures in white vests stationed on the LSO platform aft of the port side. The lead officer wore the standard cap, headset, and dark glasses. Every motion from here forward marked a farewell. Last radio call, last grip on the stick. 

 

He pushed the throttle forward. The J-15’s wing swept dangerously close to the LSO’s shoulder.

 

Watch the ball, centre up, hold the angle. Gear down, hook down.

 

One hundred metres. Fifty. Thirty. Ten.

 

A deafening roar erupted. The deck shuddered violently as the J-15’s tailhook caught wire number two, steel striking steel in a shower of sparks. The fighter decelerated hard and stopped within seconds. Scattered applause broke out from the deck crew, including two LSOs from the platform.

 

When the day’s operations ended and Zhou disembarked, several young pilots sought him out for a chat.

 

“Brutal conditions today, sir. Outstanding flying,” one said, offering him a cigarette. The newcomers still struggled with their sea legs and hadn’t earned flight time yet. They seized every chance to build rapport with veterans like Zhou.

 

He had always been popular and wasn’t in any rush, so he lingered to chat. Mid-conversation, he looked up to see Bai Ziyu descending from the platform, walking over to join them.

 

“First successful trap today—four aviators before you had to wave off,” Bai called out with a smile, still approaching. Bai was Zhou’s LSO, who served as every carrier pilot’s second pair of eyes.

 

Zhou noticed Bai eyeing his cigarette and recognised the craving. He took a final drag and handed it over. “Roll was manageable. That pitch made wire engagement tricky, though.”

The young pilot nodded.

 

Zhou turned to Bai. “Can I speak with you privately?”

 

Once they were alone, Zhou said, “I’m leaving Monday.”

 

Bai looked puzzled. “Family visit? Leave came through fast.”

 

Zhou held his gaze. “Not leave.”

 

“What then?”

 

“I’m separating from service. Today was the last time you guided me in.” Zhou delivered each word deliberately. He’d waited six months to say this, yet now the words came easier than expected.

 

Bai said nothing. Behind his sunglasses, his expression remained unreadable—though Zhou suspected it would be even without them. That was Bai Ziyu. They should have been close friends, at least Zhou had thought so. But lately, Bai had become impossible to read.

 

“Thanks for having my back for eight years.” Zhou looked at him one last time, then walked away.

 

Bai made that cigarette last half an hour.

Chapter 2

 

Zhou wasn’t the sort to stop you in your tracks. Even the young men who’d fallen completely under his spell would admit that much. He was pleasant enough to look at, with thick eyebrows above round eyes that seemed ordinary until he smiled—then his charm was infectious. But his appeal had never really been about his face.

 

He was an extrovert who knew how to have a good time, with friends everywhere and influence to match. From Hainan Airlines to foreign carriers, even air traffic control—in just over a year at Daxing, he’d become a familiar face throughout the industry.

 

Now Zhou sat outside Starbucks in the airport’s bustling star-shaped terminal, nursing his coffee. Within minutes, a handful of acquaintances had stopped to chat. He’d transferred from military to civil aviation—Naval Aviation to Hainan Airlines. Friends joked that he’d simply swapped one Hai Hang for another, both abbreviated the same way in Chinese, destined to spend his life with aviation companies named after the sea. Three years flying commercial, three stripes on his shoulders marking him as first officer. His record might not seem impressive, but his network could stretch from one end of the terminal to the other.

 

Today, however, he had no patience for small talk. He was waiting for someone. Fifteen minutes had dragged by, and Zhou was beginning to wonder if he’d mixed up the time. He pulled out his phone to check the roster Lang Feng had sent earlier. No—definitely the right time. Restless, he wandered over to the departure board: Berlin Brandenburg to Beijing Daxing, flight KLM 533, gate G8. Twenty minutes delayed, as the screen confirmed.

 

With time to kill, he collected his flight case, changed clothes in the crew rest area, then positioned himself at G8 to wait for Lang’s arrival.

 

Their meeting had been pure chance. At Fang Hao’s birthday party a few weeks back, Zhou sensed the moment was right—the atmosphere perfect—and pulled Lang into the guest bedroom. But Lang had his own boundaries. In the end, he’d allowed only a kiss and some brief contact, nothing more. After that, Zhou stepped back, content to follow Lang’s lead.

 

Lang then took him to what was supposedly Beijing’s finest Italian restaurant—their first proper date. Zhou rarely let his date pay, yet he’d found himself allowing Lang to pick up the bill. All part of the courtship dance: he’d promised to return the favour within a fortnight, Chinese cuisine this time. One invitation had led to another, bringing them to today’s meeting.

 

Five minutes later, he watched the sky-blue A330-300 taxi into position and connect to the jet bridge. Even through the terminal glass and cockpit windscreen, Zhou could see the vibrant energy in Lang’s eyes.

 

Lang flew wide-body Airbus aircraft for KLM Royal Dutch Airlines. Captains in their twenties on wide-bodies were rare enough, but Asian pilots at KLM rarer still. With such credentials, Lang had earned quite a reputation at Daxing, particularly since he was openly gay, always sporting the rainbow-striped lanyard KLM issued in support of LGBTQ+ rights.

 

When Lang first emerged from the jet bridge, he missed Zhou entirely. Long-haul flights always carried relief crews, and he was deep in conversation with several first officers—his Asian features striking amongst his blonde and brown-haired colleagues.

 

Zhou waved from across the gate area. One of Lang’s colleagues spotted him first, calling out “Evan” to Lang before murmuring something in Dutch and gesturing over. Only then did Lang look over. He waved back openly before bidding farewell to the other KLM pilots.

 

“Caught in today’s inbound flow control?” Lang asked the moment he reached him. Taking in Zhou’s changed clothes, he corrected himself: “You’ve been waiting ages, haven’t you?”

 

“Not really,” Zhou replied. “Gave me time to admire your aircraft.”

 

Lang followed his gaze back to the A330-300, still parked at G8 while ground crews refuelled and serviced it. A fresh flight crew had already boarded. In commercial aviation, aircraft never rest—only people do.

 

“A330-300, bought new last year. Ever flown one?” Lang knew Zhou operated the A320 and A321 series on medium and short-haul routes.

 

Zhou had only observed the wide-body A330 during his observer period and flown it in the simulator, but never actually operated one. Airbus pilots qualified on both the A330 and A320 series were rare, especially among pilots under thirty.

 

“No. How does it compare to the A200 series?”

 

“Much the same handling, really.” Lang cracked a wry smile. “Still blow tyres just as readily.”

Lang had been promoted to captain in September. His first takeoff from Daxing in the left seat ended with a tyre burst and emergency return—the incident that brought them together. After that drama, an offhand comment at Lu Yan’s dinner party—“I’d like to get to know Lang better”—caught Fang Hao’s attention, prompting him to play matchmaker. The man who used to hurry past Zhou in the terminal now sat directly across from the table, still dressed in his flight uniform.

 

Zhou had promised to return the dinner invitation, choosing 1979, Beijing’s most prestigious Peking duck restaurant. Lang grew up with Shanghainese food and didn’t know much about authentic Beijing cuisine, making this the perfect choice. Zhou himself rarely visited such establishments—perhaps once yearly, with bills invariably exceeding four digits. But with Lang as his date, even 1979 felt inadequate.

 

The moment they stepped inside, Zhou became hyperaware of every environmental flaw: conversations too loud at neighbouring tables, cigarette smoke too heavy near the entrance, the faintest stain on the tablecloth. Details he’d never notice when dining alone now demanded his attention.

 

Lang noticed none of these imperfections. He commented approvingly on the pleasant atmosphere before poring over the menu, occasionally asking Zhou to help with challenging Chinese characters. His spoken Mandarin was excellent—he’d attended weekend Chinese school and spoke it at home—but without formal education, reading remained difficult.

 

After they’d ordered, Zhou brought up the earlier incident. “By the way, did they determine what caused the tyre failure?”

 

“Ground crew error,” Lang replied. “Insufficient tyre pressure—they hadn’t topped it up properly. Our flight crew actually received a commendation for appropriate handling. Really, Beijing ATC deserved the most credit, though the company can’t exactly award bonuses to external controllers.”

 

Zhou nodded in agreement. As always, their conversation kept circling back to aviation.

 

“Airbus makes great planes, but I still prefer smaller aircraft. With Airbus, you’re more of a systems manager than a pilot.” He looked at Zhou. “What other aircraft can you fly?”

 

“Well...” Zhou began. “Currently just the A320 and A321. Our company’s bought over twenty neos—I expect I’ll start flying those soon.”

 

“I meant other types,” Lang clarified. “Like Cessna—I fly the 150. I should take you flying in Europe sometime.”

 

Zhou realised he meant private aviation. He couldn’t fly the Cessna 150, but his experience went far beyond private aircraft. He glanced down, then said matter-of-factly, “Oh, I can also fly the J-15.”

 

Lang’s chopsticks clattered to the table. “Military aviation? Air Force?” He wasn’t familiar with Chinese military structure.

 

“Navy. Carrier aircraft,” Zhou replied.

 

Lang appraised him from head to toe, making even self-confident Zhou feel self-conscious. The career puzzle suddenly clicked into place—Zhou was two or three years older, yet still a first officer.

 

Lang had assumed Zhou joined aviation after studying a different field at university, but even then the timeline didn’t quite fit. Courtesy and unfamiliarity with Chinese systems had prevented him from asking directly. Now it all made sense: Zhou had only transferred to civil aviation three years ago.

 

“What made you leave the Navy?”

 

“Your work ID,” Zhou said simply. “May I?”

 

Lang blinked, unsure what that had to do with his question, but pulled out his ID anyway and handed it over.

 

Zhou ignored the ID itself, examining the rainbow lanyard with its unmistakable “PRIDE” lettering. Lang needed no further explanation. The answer was always, essentially, for freedom.

 

Zhou hadn’t planned to discuss any of this. It belonged to the past, after all. He’d successfully avoided the topic in previous encounters. But Lang had asked, and faced with someone so genuinely open, he saw no reason to hide anything. Of course, he had no idea his offhand request had just made a perfect trap—tailhook to heart.