Chapter 41: The Ship (Part 1)
Over the past few days, Guo Yi had exhausted himself chasing shadows. The more he uncovered, the less anything made sense.
What should have been a simple two-or-three-day assignment had stretched well beyond that. He'd called his supervisor to request an extension, and from the tone of that conversation, Guo Yi could tell the man suspected him of either meddling in affairs beyond his purview or inventing excuses for a government-funded vacation. But the developments here had grown too intriguing to abandon.
First, there was the steady stream of arrivals. Not many at once, but they came from all over the country—he'd heard dialects from nearly every province. Most were young men, and they weren't the typical migrant workers who staffed this region's labor-intensive factories. Each newcomer arrived burdened with substantial luggage.
Second, his visits to local businesses the company had contacted revealed something extraordinary.
Across the specialized wholesale markets in the area, sales of certain goods had surged over the past three months. His preliminary compilation showed notable increases in foodstuffs, medical supplies and pharmaceuticals, tools, water pumps, electric motors, small power machinery, various grades of high-quality carbon steel and alloy steel, electrolytic copper and other metals, measuring instruments, clothing, shoes, and socks.
When he connected these local purchases to Crossing Company's nationwide procurement activities, the conclusion was obvious: both streams flowed from the same source. They'd apparently split their acquisitions into two channels—ordinary, simple items sourced locally, while technically sophisticated or price-sensitive goods were procured directly from distant manufacturers.
Guo Yi had given up trying to hypothesize what they were planning. He decided to visit the company directly.
A motorcycle taxi carried him out to the base. The training facility looked decades old—mostly buildings from the sixties and seventies. A central office building was somewhat newer but still dated back more than ten years. He saw no signs of new construction by the company, though he knew Crossing Trade had purchased considerable construction equipment. The base gate stood open, and two old men sat in the guardhouse, chatting and smoking. Everything looked perfectly ordinary.
Guo Yi worried that flashing his credentials would alert them, so he climbed a nearby hill and observed through binoculars.
On the parade ground, groups in grass-green training uniforms were running formation drills. His view suddenly froze. He could clearly see several ranks holding short bamboo sticks while someone kept time on a military drum. Though he was too far away to hear, these people were obviously marching to the beat—first expanding into a line, then a column, then suddenly a square. The front row crouched with sticks angled upward while those behind stood with sticks held level. A strange posture indeed.
What were they doing? Guo Yi had been through military training in high school, college, and work orientation. He couldn't recall anything remotely like this in standard formation drills.
He frantically adjusted the focus. The men went through a complete sequence of movements: manipulating the bamboo sticks, reaching to their chests to grab something invisible, bringing it to their mouths as if biting, then fiddling with the stick's top end. The more he watched, the more confused he became. Apart from the sticks, they had nothing in their hands!
"Strange," he muttered. He couldn't decipher these hieroglyphic movements. He panned the binoculars elsewhere and found a group practicing unarmed combat beside a sandpit. The instructor-like figure in the center was obviously field-army trained—Guo Yi's workplace had many former military personnel, and that battle-tempered bearing of a professional soldier was recognizable even at this distance.
He adjusted to maximum magnification. On the dock, iron drums and steel angles were piled high; workers welded something amid showers of sparks. Two small rowboats sat on cradles nearby.
"What on earth is this company up to..."
After wandering around for most of the day, Guo Yi returned to the city, disappointed. He'd gained nothing but deeper puzzlement.
That evening, he left his hotel and drifted through the streets until he found a small eatery where he nursed two beers. Frustration gnawed at him. He'd never doubted his own intelligence. In all his years of work, he'd handled many cases and usually figured things out quickly. But this one still had him lost in fog.
Better just go back, he thought. Holing up here wasn't solving anything—it had already been four days. The investigation couldn't continue indefinitely. From the materials he'd gathered, this company was certainly suspicious, but they hadn't done anything harmful to social stability and unity. Their massive procurement was their own business. Whether it was money laundering or something else, the relevant departments could look into it.
Word of Guo Yi's investigation reached the Executive Committee through Zhong Lishi and several local contacts' social activities. But the fact that this news had leaked so casually showed that no one was taking the matter seriously. Xiao Zishan was worried, however. They'd come this far—practically to the goal line. No one wanted to end up like the men's national football team. After breakfast, he hurried to find Wen Desi.
"I don't think it's anything." Wen Desi considered briefly. "Let him investigate all he wants. We haven't broken any laws. He won't find anything."
"Still, let's hurry. The longer we wait, the more things can go wrong."
"Have all expected arrivals been confirmed?"
"All confirmed. Nineteen more will arrive by Thursday. I've also confirmed those not coming."
"Then we'll hold the general meeting next Friday."
"Are the related proposals ready?"
"The various teams have been discussing and drafting suggestions these past few days. Morale is quite high."
Just then, the office door opened. Wang Luobin walked in, looking travel-worn. Within the Executive Committee, he currently handled project approval, review, and procurement for material preparations—work that kept him constantly on the road. For the past three months, he'd been focused on a single problem: the ship.
During their crossing trade, the transmigrators had discovered that the wormhole's energy gradually dissipated the longer it stayed open. The longer the passage remained active, the more energy it consumed.
Small crossing-trade runs involved at most a few truckloads. But for the main crossing operation, several thousand tons of material had to pass through the wormhole. Using a truck convoy was clearly unfeasible—the crossing time would stretch too long, and they might exhaust the last reserves of energy before finishing.
The only way to pass through the wormhole quickly while transporting such quantities was by ship—the biggest ship possible. The transmigrators' shopping list kept growing. Without a large vessel, there was simply no way to get hundreds of people and thousands of tons of equipment and materials into the seventeenth century in one crossing.
Beyond transport itself, a modern cargo ship was a microcosm of industrial civilization: main and auxiliary engines, high- and low-pressure piping, pumps, cables, electronic communications and observation equipment, desalination systems, a small machine-repair workshop, medical facilities. With a ship, before any land base was built, they'd have a complete modern world. The transmigrators could draw electricity and machine-tool support from this mobile platform. Greatest of all: it could sustain basic modern living conditions for a considerable time, preventing these spoiled twenty-first-century souls from suffering mental breakdowns when thrust into harsh conditions.
And then there was the considerable military utility. A massive iron vessel would inspire awe and terror. Its steel hull feared no cannonballs or incendiary weapons. Even if some brave souls tried to board and fight hand-to-hand, they'd have to climb freeboards towering like city walls.
Without mounting any weapons, ramming at full speed would be enough to terrify any warship of that era. Smaller vessels would sink on impact; larger ones couldn't withstand a steel bow's collision. And escape was impossible—even older ships could easily reach eleven to fourteen knots. Except for certain fast clippers running before favorable winds, most vessels would be helpless victims.
A glorious multi-turret ironclad battleship! With such a ship, wouldn't they be masters of the ocean?
Behind glorious dreams, however, often lurked terrible reality. And reality arrived courtesy of a maritime-university graduate.
That was when Meng De appeared.
Meng De had learned about the chat group only after the second batch of core members had reported in. He'd stumbled upon information on a BBS he frequented: a spacetime portal had actually appeared, and people were secretly gathering comrades to change history in the early Chongzhen era. After confirming the information's authenticity, Meng De resolutely decided to join—dreaming of becoming a true history-changer.
He was the only maritime-university graduate among this group of transmigrators, with actual work experience involving ships.
His education and professional background immediately caught the Executive Committee's attention. Though they suspected his ship-handling skills might be half-baked, no one else among them understood large cargo vessels at all.
The maritime university and wormhole energy—two completely unrelated factors—destined him to have his own chapter in the history of the crossing.
At a specially convened meeting on the ship problem, he was hired as a consultant. For this young man only a few years out of school, it was the first time he'd felt truly valued.
"Director Wen, this isn't going to be easy," Meng De said after hearing the Committee's plan. "The problem is crew. We don't have a crew."
"How many people would we need?"
"For older ships under five thousand tons, usually around forty people. Over ten thousand tons, more than fifty." Meng De spread his hands. "Even newer ships with unmanned engine rooms need over twenty. These are all technical positions—transmigrators can't fill them."
Chinese merchant ships, if not carrying passengers, were generally divided into Deck Department and Engine Department. The Deck Department alone comprised captain, first mate, second mate, third mate, chief radio officer, radio officer, cargo officer, tallyman, bosun, assistant bosun, able seaman, ordinary seaman, chief cook, second cook, third cook, stewards, and more.
The critical Engine Department had chief engineer, first engineer, second engineer, third engineer, electrician, chief mechanic, head fireman, mechanics, assistant mechanics, coppersmith, oilers, firemen, and others.
"If we want to use this ship long-term, even if not fully staffed, we'd need at least half. Especially in the Engine Department."
The Executive Committee members exchanged glances. A ship was this complicated? Damn. Having one maritime professional join them was already lucky—expecting a whole crew of sailors had never crossed their minds.
"What if we're just crossing over?"
"Still very difficult, though we'd need somewhat fewer people." Meng De outlined his suggestion: establish a freight-forwarding office at a port on the Leizhou Peninsula and rent a warehouse. All needed materials would be delivered there for loading. They'd charter a coastal bulk carrier with the destination set as Bopu Port on Hainan. Some transmigrators could disguise themselves as backpackers hitching a ride—common on coastal freighters. The rest would travel ahead on several fishing boats to the rendezvous point. When the ship approached port, the transmigrators would seize control, detain the crew, pilot the ship through the gate, and beach it on Hainan Island.
"The Qiongzhou Strait is very narrow. I believe my ship-handling ability is up to it. For engine and basic deck crew, I suggest the Committee send some people to train—but this ship basically won't be usable afterward."
(End of Chapter)