Chapter 1352 - Rewards

With many people crammed into a small ship and the allure of a feast, the queue naturally grew somewhat chaotic. Everyone pushed toward the front—with a one-pot stew, it was essentially first-come, first-served. The later you arrived, the less you got, and if you were unlucky enough to reach the bottom of the pot, only dregs remained.

"Line up one by one, no pushing! There's enough for everyone!" The portly cook banged on the pot rim while shouting to maintain order. "Any bastard who doesn't queue properly gets only radishes and no meat."

Though the cook held merely the rank of a quartermaster sergeant, he was the most "powerful" person on the ship. Even the executive officer serving as quartermaster spoke to him politely. At his bellow, the line immediately improved.

"Fu Ji, distribute the rations!" The cook pointed with his ladle. "Don't mess up! This is a special allocation! Shisan, you hand out the mess tins!"

At the doorway, soldiers received their special allocation from Fu Ji: fifty grams of rum, a withered apple, and a few fruit candies. Night-shift personnel had their rum delayed until after their shift, but they could collect an extra item called an "energy bar"—something only duty personnel could eat. Supposedly it had red bean filling; the sweet fragrance always made Mao Shisan secretly swallow his saliva.

Fu Ji held a measuring cup—exactly fifty grams per pour—drawing rum from the barrel and pouring it into each soldier's tin cup, accompanied by the reminder: "No drinking alcohol on duty."

The soldiers pocketed their apples and candies immediately. They wouldn't drink the rum until they'd received their meal. The mess tins, stacked high from the steaming cabinet, were taken one per person, and Mao Shisan added a few salt-pickled dried plums to each lid. These had antibacterial, sterilizing, and detoxifying effects, and could regulate the digestive system. The citric acid and malic acid they contained could invigorate metabolism and circulation, strengthen liver and kidney function, expel lactic acid and other wastes from the body, and eliminate fatigue. They had already been designated as a priority item for promotion in Lingao. Not only were they widely distributed throughout the Army and Navy, but workers in factories were also strongly encouraged to consume them.

The soldiers murmured to each other that the mission was complete and they'd soon be heading home, all while balancing their mess tins and craning their necks toward the window.

The cook's ladle plunged deep into the pot, scooped up a heaping portion of stew, and poured it into the mess tin. Because it was a mixed stew, he stirred before each scoop and ladled from the bottom—lest the soldiers suspect they'd been shortchanged. The Soldiers' Committees were most sensitive about food issues.

Soldiers who received their rations found spots to eat and drink—the open deck was too cold, so they settled in the crew quarters. Each man also received a small portion of fried peanuts as a drinking snack. Those who enjoyed their drink began the finger-guessing game. Oscar the cat scampered into the quarters, meowing excitedly, weaving between legs in search of bones. The ship was filled with lively commotion.

The orderlies in the small galley were frantically busy; even the cook, who normally never touched the officers' meals, was helping out. Perhaps because they were overwhelmed, the usually haughty orderly serving Chief Xue Weini gestured imperiously: "You—come carry this."

Mao Shisan shuffled over meekly and was shocked at what he saw: what was the Chief eating? A piece of beef with the bone still attached, not fully seared and still oozing bloody juices; beside it sat a few lonely stalks of some vegetable he couldn't name, also raw; plus fried potato strips. Mao Shisan knew those weren't fresh either—they'd been fried earlier and stored in a vat, refried when needed. Wasn't that leftovers? And in the red soup were several bone-in chunks. Mao Shisan immediately recognized them—wasn't that oxtail? You attendants serve the god-like Chief this? Mao Shisan felt tears welling up. If his furious gaze were a sword, the attendant's back would already be riddled with wounds. He wanted to swing the tray and smash it over this wretch's head, but he didn't dare.

The cook brought over a lid to cover the dish: "Quick, follow along and deliver it!"

The Haitian's officers' mess was tiny, accommodating only twelve diners. The mess also served as the ship's combat command center and meeting room.

The Navy was a service where even farting had etiquette, and the distinction between officers and enlisted was most pronounced. The Haitian was small, so they couldn't put on airs while at sea. At Duozhi Island they could manage a little, and today was a full formal occasion. The table was draped with a snowy-white tablecloth, set with a complete place setting, even including a porcelain vase—though in Liaodong in March there were no flowers, so it sat empty.

The orderlies had all changed into pressed uniforms, standing ramrod straight, white napkins draped over their arms.

Seated at the table alongside several transmigrators were the ship's naturalized officers, all in neatly pressed uniforms, sitting with impeccable posture. The transmigrators dressed more casually; Xue Ziliang even had his shirt wide open.

Since the dinner was to welcome Huang Hua, he occupied the guest of honor's seat. At the moment he was boasting about how he had projected an aura of domination before Hong Taiji when he noticed Mao Shisan entering in his old, rankless uniform. He couldn't help but pause: "Who's this?"

"A roadside casualty we rescued when surveying Lüshun. He was recovering in a cabin for several days, so you never saw him," Xue Ziliang said casually. "When we get back to Lingao, we'll put him ashore."

A thud sounded as Mao Shisan dropped to his knees, kowtowing frantically: "Chief, please don't make me leave the ship! I'm willing to be the Chief's ox and horse for life after life, just please don't make me leave the ship!"

The orderly, face flushed with embarrassment, kicked and tried to pull up the puddle of jelly that was Mao Shisan. Huang Hua waved the orderly off: "He's a local from Liaodong, isn't he? Weini, how about handing him over to me?"

"No way. The External Intelligence Bureau already mandated that all dispatched agents must undergo purification and training."

"Trained agents have a different bearing that observant locals can easily identify. Besides, I don't necessarily want him as an agent."

"Fine, but even so he'll have to go through procedures at the Jeju Island Reception and Assignment Center."

Mao Shisan, now sunk in terror, hadn't heard a word of the transmigrators' conversation. He had been completely consumed by the fear of waking from a dream. Before, he had always felt that life on the Haitian was a dream, afraid that when he woke he would be back in that drafty little hovel. Now he suddenly realized that life aboard ship was reality, and life ashore was the dream—the most terrible nightmare.

Dazed, Mao Shisan was dragged out, and the officers' mess began their meal. Apart from Xue Ziliang, who alone enjoyed a steak set, the others ate Chinese food served Western-style: individual portions.

Huang Hua had stir-fried beef with rice noodles. The meat from the old draft ox was tough; fortunately, the cook had baking soda—a cheat item—which processed it to at least be edible. It was garnished with some shipboard-grown mung bean sprouts and fresh garlic greens.

"What on earth is that you're eating?" He eyed the highly suspicious, raw-looking thing on Xue Ziliang's plate.

"Steak. T-bone."

"I know it's steak, but what doneness is that? I'd say definitely not three—one, if even that..."

Xue Ziliang laughed:

"Ten seconds per side on the grill. That's the only way to truly savor the tenderness of beef. Three is already overdone."

He cut in with his knife, and a stream of blood flowed out as if the cow that provided the meat had just been stabbed. Chief Xue frowned slightly: cut too hastily.

He then grabbed the barbecue sauce jar and scooped out a generous dollop, smearing the reddish-brown sauce liberally over the meat, as if the cow had fallen in its own blood, mixed with mud, and been smeared again. Satisfied, Xue Ziliang forked up the slice of meat. The pale flesh, coated in reddish-brown sauce, rose slowly past the dense chest hair visible through Chief Xue's open shirt, heading for his large mouth, finally disappearing between teeth and tongue—his lips mercifully closed, sparing the audience from witnessing the meat's tragic final moment.

Chief Huang, observing all this while eating, nimbly averted his gaze, suppressing the urge to retch while trying not to appear too rude.

Still, the beef was clearly too tough. Even with double treatment from mallet and baking soda, Xue Ziliang's jaw worked back and forth many times before he swallowed.

"This cow was truly venerable," Wang Ruixiang remarked, taking a bite of his oyster-sauce beef slices and unable to resist complaining.

They ate while chatting. The naturalized officers knew their place; once they had eaten enough, they excused themselves and left the table. Everyone understood that the chiefs were about to discuss confidential matters.

Once the naturalized officers and orderlies had all withdrawn, Huang Hua produced a small notebook and began discussing the specifics and results of his Shenyang trip. This was not only a "briefing" but also had the nature of an informal report. The three-person group aboard the Haitian would use this to compile an official report.

"Is it really necessary to establish a trading post in Shenyang?" Though establishing a post had been part of the original plan, Xue Ziliang couldn't help raising a question. He was looking at this purely from a military perspective. Once a trading post was set up in Shenyang, the Special Reconnaissance Team would inevitably have to devise security and evacuation plans. For the increasingly overburdened Special Recon Command, this was another burden. If Huang Hua himself were stationed there, the responsibility would become especially heavy.

"With a trading post, we can monitor Tartar movements at all times. In the future, it could serve as a forward base." Huang Hua continued, "After this visit, I've come to appreciate just how economically desperate the Later Jin is. They're absolutely impoverished. Once trade begins, they'll do everything they can to break through the passes and invade to obtain more trade goods—pinning down the Ming. Not only do we benefit, but even those peasant rebel armies gain an advantage. With the Ming fighting on two fronts in the north, they simply won't have the bandwidth to care what we're doing in Guangdong."

"What I mean is, if a transmigrator is stationed permanently at the trading post, the danger is too great." Xue Ziliang grabbed some fries and chomped on them. "What if the barbarians' brains short-circuit?"