Chapter 564 - Blasting
The development of Sanya was powered by steam. From the standard "Type 2" to the "Mozi" series, and even the lightweight "Suichao Type 1"—a copy of American small-scale engines—steam power was ubiquitous. It drove piles, hoisted cargo, and pumped water.
But steam engines eat coal.
Three dedicated colliers shuttled constantly between Lingao and Sanya, yet the stockpiles dwindled. Zhan Wuya, the energy czar, issued a grim warning: even if fertilizer production ceased, Lingao's reserves of lignite and peat would be exhausted in a week.
They needed anthracite. They needed Hongji.
The Planning Council turned its eyes south to Vietnam. The Hongji coal mines were a black gold mine waiting to be tapped. But the geopolitical risks were high.
"Invading Hongji means war with the Northern Trinh," Wu De argued at the State Council. "We cannot open a second front without a major garrison."
"Is the Northern Court really a threat?" a committee member asked. "Hongji is uninhabited wilderness."
"Don't underestimate Vietnam," warned Yu Eshui, the Southeast Asia expert. "Since the Han Dynasty, they have expanded aggressively. Their maxim is: 'What is yours is mine, and what is mine is mine.' The Trinh and Nguyen lords have been fighting a civil war for decades. Their armies are battle-hardened, equipped with European firearms, and trained by Portuguese and Dutch advisors. They are not savages. If we build a stockade, they will attack."
"What about allying with the South against the North?"
"We could," Yu Eshui nodded. "But what do we gain? Vietnamese troops? We don't need them. And we can't secure the mines effectively while fighting a jungle war."
"Peaceful penetration, then," Wu De concluded. "Commerce first. Buy the land, establish a trading post, and mine quietly."
The Leizhou Station was tasked with the job. For now, the "voluptuous beauty" of Vietnam would have to be wooed, not seized.
Pan Da rode his cross-country motorcycle through the Sanya wilderness, a large pack strapped to his back. Inside was professional-grade EOD gear imported from America.
"It's only good for leaving an intact corpse," his old colleagues used to joke.
Pan Da was the Deputy Commander of Construction, specifically in charge of blasting. Zhuo Tianmin knew civil engineering; Pan Da knew how to blow things up.
His workforce was a patchwork: one-third veteran pioneers from the Expeditionary Battalion, the rest crash-trained laborers. To cover all the sites—road building, obstacle clearing, quarrying—Pan Da had to split his qualified personnel into thin, dangerous slivers.
He sped from site to site, putting out fires—metaphorically, and sometimes literally. Safety protocols were a suggestion. Just days ago, a transport boat carrying black powder had vaporized in the bay. Six men gone, just like that.
Black powder was weak and unstable. Pan Da had demanded high explosives. Nitroglycerin (stabilized into dynamite) and Ammonium Nitrate explosives had been shipped in. They were more powerful, but in the humid heat of Sanya, "stable" was a relative term.
A radio message crackled in his helmet. "Misfire at Site 0+1400. Tiandu Road."
Pan Da cursed. A misfire was a bomb waiting for a victim.
He arrived at the site. A small hillock blocked the road alignment.
"What happened?"
"Fuse burned, no bang," the squad leader reported. "I waited fifteen minutes, then pulled the charge." He held up the cylindrical cartridge.
Pan Da exhaled. At least they followed protocol. He examined the charge. Cheap ammonium nitrate. Dampness had likely ruined the sensitivity.
"Good work," Pan Da said. "Don't use this one. Dispose of it later. Continue operations."
The team drilled new holes. Pan Da climbed the slope to supervise. He watched nervously as laborers gathered below to watch the show.
"Get them back!" Pan Da shouted. "Minimum safe distance is—"
A gasp from a soldier nearby cut him off.
Pan Da turned. Time seemed to slow.
A 75-gram explosive cartridge slipped from a pioneer's sweaty fingers. It tumbled through the air, falling toward the rocky ground below.
Pan Da’s mind flashed with every explosion he had ever seen. Ammonium nitrate was shock-sensitive. A drop from this height onto rock?
Dead.
He dove.
It was pure instinct, honed by years of service. He hit the dirt, flattening himself against the earth.
Thud.
No boom.
Pan Da blinked. He looked up. The cartridge lay on the rocks, intact.
But the laborers were rushing forward. Curiosity was a fatal disease.
"Don't touch it!"
Pan Da scrambled to his feet. He lunged, snatched the cartridge from the ground, sprinted three steps to the edge of the embankment, and hurled it toward the Tiandu River with a roar.
He threw himself flat again.
The cartridge spun through the air, a perfect arc.
Splash.
BOOM.
A column of water shot skyward. The shockwave slapped the onlookers into the dirt.
Pan Da lay panting, his heart hammering against his ribs. He checked his limbs. Still attached.
"Everyone okay?" he croaked.
"I'm... I'm good," the squad leader stammered, pale as a ghost.
The laborers were groaning, picking themselves up. They were shaken, bruised, but alive.
Pan Da stood up, dusting off his knees. The soldier who had dropped the charge was trembling, held by two guards.
"Disciplinary action?" the squad leader asked.
Pan Da looked at the terrified kid. "No. He just made a mistake. But no more blasting for him. Put him on shovel duty. And hold a safety briefing tonight. Everyone attends."
(End of Chapter)