Chapter 50: Port Construction (Part 3)

At last.

Dong Shiye gazed at the barren beach less than three hundred meters away—the clusters of green trees, the warm autumn morning sun settling comfortably on his shoulders. Damn it all, I've finally made it to ancient times. But even as the thought formed, another followed on its heels: Wait—why exactly did I want to come here?

The question flickered through his mind before someone shoved him from behind. The deck was pure chaos, packed shoulder to shoulder with bodies. There was a dock, sure—but this wasn't the Shiliupu Passenger Terminal with its comfortable covered gangways and handrails. All they had were vertical metal ladders and large cargo nets. As a former president of his university's military-enthusiast club, Xiao Dong's mind immediately conjured images from Normandy—American GIs climbing down these same nets into landing craft, bound to liberate Europe and, incidentally, charm the local girls. Looking at photographs, it hadn't seemed like much. But standing on the heaving deck and peering over the side was another matter entirely. Several stories below, the faintly blue sea churned against the floating dock and bobbing rowboats. Two glances and his head was spinning, his legs trembling.

The floating dock lacked sufficient surface area, so many people had to transfer ashore via the ship's rowboats. Bodies clambered down cargo nets into the small boats while a constant stream of strange-shaped packages descended on ropes from the deck above. "Don't panic—watch the boat!" "Stop boarding, you're going to sink it!" The shouts never ceased. Everyone shared the same desperate thought: get ashore, plant their feet on solid ground, and begin carving out their own era.

Then came the first accident. A heavyset man passing luggage lost his footing, cracked his head against the gunwale, and tumbled into the sea. The deck and water below erupted simultaneously: "Xi Yazhou fell in!" "Save him!"

Through the chaos, the PA system kept blaring: "C0071, C0077, C0081... logging assignment!"

C0081? That was his group. Dong Shiye checked his armband.

"That's us." The speaker was a dark-skinned, muscular man with an entrenching tool strapped to his pack, lounging against the bulkhead. "I'm Liu Zheng..."

Names were exchanged. Same group assignment—comrades in a single trench from here on out.

"Logging?" The word felt foreign in Dong Shiye's mouth. Though he considered himself an outdoor enthusiast, had pored over plant identification guides, and chopped his share of firewood, he'd never actually held a proper logging axe.

"Never done it either." Liu Zheng's smile was bitter. "Holy fucking shit! I clearly listed my specialty as wilderness exploration! Since when does logging count as wilderness exploration?"

"We don't even have tools!"

"Tools won't be the problem—they'll have those ready. The real issue is that logging is skilled, dangerous work. Anyone here actually done this professionally?"

The groups gathered nearby all wore the same grim expression. Obviously not.

They'd only just fished Military Group chief Xi Yazhou out of the water and sent him to the ship's infirmary when another bottleneck emerged—this one entirely man-made.

Earlier that morning, Meng De had steered the ship into the harbor with considerable luck and dropped twin anchors at the deep-water berth the recon team had marked. This single act transformed him from "half-baked" in the Committee's eyes to "capable," and he'd become Landing Commander Ma Qianzhu's chief consultant. The entire fleet's unloading operation now fell under his command—fitting, since he'd organized the loading and understood that cargo-ship unloading was highly technical work. A ten-thousand-ton general cargo ship carrying five thousand tons, using ship or shore cranes at a well-equipped port, could typically unload two to five hundred tons per hatch daily, emptying completely in four to six working days.

Knowing the transmigrators lacked practical experience and couldn't match professional longshoremen in either strength or skill, Meng De had spared no expense on packaging during loading. All miscellaneous cargo had been pre-unitized into group loads.

"Group loads" typically meant containers, but due to the Fengcheng's size constraints and their destination's complete lack of professional unloading equipment, they'd brought few actual containers. Instead, they relied on cargo pallets, net bags, and bulk bags to consolidate loose items. It lacked the advantages of containerization, but it greatly facilitated handling.

The Fengcheng carried four derrick sets and eight cargo winches rated at three, five, and ten tons, plus one sixty-ton heavy-lift crane. Most cargo posed no problem. Operating the winches, however, was skilled work in itself. Fortunately, three months of sailor training meant the crew had at least observed the process, even if they'd never done it themselves. They got the winches working—slowly, clumsily, with repeated swinging that terrified the transmigrators queuing on deck. Everyone dodged away from the derricks, creating fresh chaos. No matter how many times Du Wen exhorted them over the PA about "revolutionary heroism" and "fearing neither death nor hardship," it had no effect.

After roughly ten minutes of struggling, the first cargo pallet finally hung suspended in the air before touching down on the floating dock. Despite their frayed nerves, the transmigrators couldn't hold back—cheers erupted all around.

Less than fifteen minutes after the applause died down, everyone aboard stood dumbfounded. The crane operators had focused so single-mindedly on lowering cargo that they'd filled every inch of dock space beneath the derricks in moments. The people queuing to disembark had nowhere to go. Worse still, someone had forgotten to lower the three-ton and ten-ton Dongfanghong forklifts still lashed to the deck. Without them, the landed pallets—each weighing over a ton—couldn't be pushed or lifted by the workers below.

Now things truly got lively. Meng De sprinted across the deck in every direction, sweat pouring down his face. The Committee mentally demoted him back to "half-baked."

Ma Qianzhu thought fast: bring the landing craft around, lower the forklifts onto it, ferry them ashore, then drive back around to the floating dock. This roundabout solution finally cleared the cargo backup caused by the sequencing errors.

The unloading department redesigned their traffic routes, painting directional arrows on the pier to ensure one vehicle could come while another departed, dramatically improving efficiency. This arrangement operated like Chinese roadways—with complete disregard for pedestrian rights. No one dared compete for space with forklifts on that narrow, swaying pontoon pier. The situation grew even more intense when a dozen diesel-powered mini farm trucks—the rugged export models bound for Vietnam—joined the chaos, running back and forth all day. They showcased their legendary durability and outstanding overloading capacity, bouncing across the rolling pontoon and grinding over the pebbled beach without complaint. Those who drove farm trucks on the beach during those early days would later receive special permission to embroider a badge on their uniform sleeves: "Farm Truck Assault Commendation."

Dong Shiye followed the crowd, climbing shakily down the cargo net, transferring to a rowboat, and finally setting foot on solid ground. He stood dizzy for a moment before following the others to the registration point, where he checked in, deposited his pack, scanned his ID card, and received one logging axe. The thing was big and heavy; he had no idea how to hold it properly, so he just shouldered it like a dwarf heading off to the mines.

The groups assigned to logging all looked equally lost. The issued tools were wildly varied—two-man saws, logging axes, ship's fire axes—everything imaginable except someone who actually knew how to use them.

Just then, a burly figure emerged from the registration point. He wore black military wading boots and carried a large duffel in one hand and a massive axe in the other, striding toward them with impressive authority.

"Brothers," he bellowed, "I'm Wu Kuangming, Timber Group leader. Everyone follow me."

After landing, the Committee had dispatched a second-wave resource-survey team of Military and forestry personnel to scout the estuary region. Their conclusion was discouraging: timber resources here were extremely scarce. Some tall trees grew along the coast, but they served as windbreaks and erosion control—this natural forest couldn't be touched. Farther upriver along the Wenlan, mature tree stands were equally rare. Small mixed woods dotted the landscape but yielded nothing usable—good only for firewood and pole shelters.

Eventually, they decided to fell trees within the mangrove forests at the river mouth. The mangroves along the estuary and bay were quite dense, with complete vegetation ranging from shrubs to small trees to large arbors. Particularly promising were the stands of ten-meter-plus Bruguiera gymnorrhiza—sea-lotus trees—growing at the estuary's edge near the beach. They were relatively easier to harvest, so the first logging site was established there.

"Relatively easier" still meant wading into semi-swampy mangrove flats. Small sandbars crisscrossed the murky water, covered with tangled mangrove species, their branches interlocking overhead and releasing a moldy, organic stench. Everyone felt slightly daunted.

Wu Kuangming had several crates of tall rubber boots brought over and ordered everyone to change.

"We're heading in to log shortly. Everyone stay alert." He surveyed the group with a warning look. "Do NOT venture deep into the forest—there are no paths. Fall into a tidal channel and start yelling for help, and we won't even know where to find you."

He led them wading into the mangroves and stopped beside a sea-lotus tree, axe in hand. "Trees are valuable—anyone who's played Age of Empires knows that. You only play StarCraft and Red Alert? Then why are you even here? Jump in the sea and swim back." A few nervous laughs. "When felling: swing the axe at an angle. First stroke down from above, then up from below. When the tree starts to fall, always shout a warning! While you're cutting, keep listening for other people's calls. Don't let a tree crush you—if it cracks your skull and kills you outright, that's one thing. But if you damage your spine and end up paralyzed, congratulations: you'll earn the New World's first disability certificate." He jerked his thumb toward the shore. "I'm going to get ropes now. Then I'll teach everyone how to drag logs."

Wu Kuangming walked to the Planning Committee's supply point to requisition a bundle of rope and some hooks for the forest. The Building Group was already waiting impatiently at the cutting site, desperate for fresh lumber.

"When will there be timber?" The speaker was called Zhuo Tianmin, a man in his thirties, fair-skinned and pleasant-looking—clearly someone who'd been supporting a household back home. He didn't look much like a construction foreman.

"What's the rush? We haven't even gathered enough log rollers to get the containers ashore yet. You think this is Age of Empires—click the mouse, swing an axe, and get plus-ten wood?"

"Should be plus-twelve wood," someone called out. "You just researched Rope Tech." The logging crew laughed together.

"I've got plus-one-hundred Wood tech." Like a magician producing a rabbit, Wu Kuangming pulled a high-powered chainsaw from his duffel—the kind that would've made Texas Chainsaw Massacre proud. He tugged the cord heroically, and amid the roar of the motor and billowing blue smoke, he advanced on a large tree with a wicked grin.

He swung hard.

(End of Chapter)