Chapter 1422 - Timely Reinforcements
The Count did not intend to make things too difficult for the customs officer. After completing all the official formalities, Don Basilio, the patrol ship captain, and the other officials all received gifts from the Count of Fananovoua—Princess Datang sweet wine. Never mind that rhubarb liqueur was already a highly prized commodity in Manila; the Chinese porcelain bottles alone would fetch a handsome price if shipped to Acapulco.
The Spaniards departed the ship in high spirits. Vince, also satisfied, walked into the cabin below deck. Now he had powerful support forces and transportation, and all of it had acquired legitimate cover and considerable freedom of action.
He also urgently needed people to protect his personal safety. Once Hale returned to Manila, his position would become quite delicate. If that man decided to kill him, the few men under his command would be no match, and he could not stay awake twenty-four hours a day.
The moment he stepped into the spacious captain's cabin below the quarterdeck, Vince headed straight into the officers' washroom without looking back. The bathrooms and fixtures he had ordered were still on their way from Lingao. The life of either swimming in the sea or rinsing off with a wooden basin continually stirred up unpleasant memories of his time in Macao.
After a refreshing shower in the officers' washroom, he changed into the cotton-linen blend uniform the orderly had brought. Vince felt every pore in his body relax.
The wool-stuffed pourpoint jacket, the cumbersome pumpkin trousers, the stockings stuck to his skin with sweat, and the boots with their gilded spur decorations—all these, like the foolish, affected aristocratic manners and etiquette, made the transmigrator from three hundred years in the future feel exhausted and disgusted.
He even began to miss the Balkans: the roar of guns, the teeth-grinding screech of tank treads, the blood-chilling rattle of machine guns; the shouts before an attack, the groans of the dying, and the crude, savage laughter of survivors after a battle because they were still alive. But that world had bid him farewell forever. The stench of sweat and fish that pervaded Spanish-ruled Manila made him miss the pungent smell of high explosives, the hot scent of steel, and the smell of engine lubricant—in this world, scents that belonged only to the Lingao industrial empire—far more nostalgic than the perfume on seventeenth-century women's clothes.
"I didn't know you could speak Spanish."
"Professional necessity. I couldn't very well greet Mexican drug traffickers with a New York accent and tip them off that I was an American law enforcement officer about to send them to prison."
The wig was off, hanging on the wall along with the tricorn hat and long coat. Xue Ziliang, in a neatly pressed khaki short-sleeved shirt, looked every bit the American Navy type.
"Let's see what gifts I've brought you." He pressed the electric bell and issued orders into the speaking tube.
Standard packing crates were carried in one by one. Several pairs of strong hands silently set the heavy crates on the linen carpet of the officers' wardroom.
"How many people did you bring? Like these—"
Vince was very interested in the naturalized soldiers temporarily serving as porters. Although all wore sailors' uniforms, their sturdy builds, highly coordinated movements, and the combat boots on their feet and submachine guns hanging from three-point slings made it unmistakably clear they were Special Reconnaissance Team members—the Council of Elders' green berets.
"Just these four. Don't think it's too few—they're all top-notch from Sixth Squad. If necessary, you could take them and capture all of Manila's fortresses."
The Special Reconnaissance Team's newly formed Sixth Squad specialized in maritime reconnaissance and amphibious infiltration—considered Lingao's version of the SBS. Both the Navy and the Marine Corps, which provided training support, were desperately jealous of this force. Shi Zhiqi in particular had repeatedly said he would create the Marines' own SEAL team.
Vince asked a Special Reconnaissance Team member for a submachine gun and examined it closely. The "Scorpion" salvaged from the Mackerel had been modified beyond recognition in the hands of Bai Yu and Li Yiwo. The original folding stock had been replaced by a telescopic stock made of steel tubing with ancient Gopota rubber padding. A homemade muzzle flash hider and compensator made the barrel look somewhat longer. In front of the magazine, another foregrip protruded, connected to a cylindrical tube—on closer inspection, it turned out to be a target designator converted from a laser pointer.
"Do these Chinese engineers treat automatic weapons like Lego toys?"
Vince found his own familiar "Scorpion" in the packing crates. Fortunately, it had not yet suffered at the hands of Li Yiwo. He trusted the original wire folding shoulder stock and suppressor more.
"They're more capable than you can imagine," said Xue Ziliang. "The weapon maniacs in the Mechanics Division are working on modifying the barrel and drum of the MGV-176 to accommodate more powerful Parabellum pistol ammunition."
Although .22 LR cartridges could already be reloaded with black powder, the MGV-176 submachine gun was not very popular due to its low power. After the novelty wore off, the Elders in the military department lost interest. Apart from small quantities issued to the Special Reconnaissance Team and used for training, most were sleeping in warehouses at Gaoshan Ridge.
"May the Holy Virgin Mary bless their success."
Vince replied offhandedly while continuing to examine the supplies in the wooden crates. C4 explosives packed in waterproof metal boxes—enough, by his estimate, to blast through one side of Fort Santiago's stone walls, which were several meters thick. The radio and folding antenna he had long awaited; FAL paratrooper rifles; M75 hand grenades.
"Check your signature weapons, Mr. Bond."
Xue Ziliang was referring to the odd-shaped items in the crate: a spy gun disguised as a walking stick—unfortunately, it could not be silenced; a grenade launcher converted from a Minié rifle barrel, with two ammunition boxes containing over-caliber antipersonnel grenades and incendiary bombs for use with blank cartridges—range up to 100 meters. Vince fingered the thin iron shell filled with white phosphorus and thickened grease and thought that firing this thing in actual combat would require some courage.
"I'll make the field-test report as detailed as possible." Vince shrugged. He said he was more interested in the Esmeralda herself.
Xue Ziliang produced a controlled-materiel transfer form: "Sign it after you've finished the inventory."
Mr. Lando whistled and took it: "This even lists ammunition, with distinctions between black-powder rounds and original rounds! Do I have to count them one by one?"
"That's right. The Planning Institute doesn't specifically require you to collect the brass, but you'd better do so whenever possible."
"God!"
"And the radio." Xue Ziliang indicated the crate containing the radio. "Be especially careful with the batteries. There's also an explosive charge in the crate. If you have to abandon the radio, don't forget to trigger the charge."
"I think that's a bit wasteful..."
"You don't know the Elders well enough." Xue Ziliang wore a slightly mocking smile.
"What about the other goods I requested?"
"All in the lower hold: bathroom fixtures, tableware sets, building materials, food and wine... and all the trappings you need to play the lord's part here. Li Yan spent several days rummaging through the Planning Institute warehouses to put all this together for you. The Planning Institute thinks you're living too extravagantly. Comrade Jiang fought to get these for you."
"007 always stays in the presidential suite on every mission."
With the shrill sound of the electric bell again, an officer in a spotless white Type 32 summer Navy uniform walked in, stood at attention, and saluted.
"Training Ship Haiqi Captain: Navy Lieutenant Qian Changshui, reporting for duty. Awaiting orders, sir."
Vince stared wide-eyed at the man before him, thinking that in his standing-collar uniform with gleaming gold epaulettes, he looked just like those short but majestically imposing Japanese naval officers from World War II movies. He did not know that this Navy lieutenant, who bore a striking resemblance to Fuchida Mitsuo, had been a pirate captain under Liu Xiang's command only a few years ago, captured in the attack on Bopu and subsequently joining the cause.
"Captain," Xue Ziliang said, taking a pistol holster from a drawer and hanging it on his belt, "please take Mr. Lando and me on a tour of the ship."
Two or three hours passed. Vince felt as if he had already spent an entire day aboard the yacht. On deck, he studied the various rigging and mechanically-assisted sail-raising devices; then he went below deck to inspect the various cabins. Whenever a sailor saw the group and set aside his work to salute, the former mercenary immediately waved him off. He preferred to stand with his hands behind his back, silently observing the crew at their work.
"What was originally mounted on this rack?"
The former mercenary asked laboriously in Mandarin Chinese. He pointed to the gunwale, where hammock bundles were now stuffed; above it were pivot brackets supported by steel frames, installed on both sides—far sturdier than the universal mounts welded onto the Mackerel for the M240.
"Autocannons, sir," Captain Qian Changshui answered in a solemn yet measured tone.
"Autocannons?"
Vince seemed to hear the familiar thump of the Bushmaster chain gun. He also thought of the Yugoslav-made 20mm cannons that made mercenaries blanch at their mention. How was that possible?
"Hand-cranked autocannons, like a Gatling gun." Xue Ziliang made a crank-turning gesture. "Right now they're stored in the forward hold below, so as not to frighten our Spanish friends."
Although all the ship's wastewater was discharged through the main pipe running along the keel, the forward hold at the bottom still reeked of a foul, putrid odor.
"This is it."
After the waterproof tarpaulin was lifted, Vince almost thought the Australians had stolen exhibits from some Civil War museum before transmigrating. Five barrels gleamed bluish-black in the gas lamp light. He grabbed the handle and gave it a spin. The mechanism was oiled and very smooth; the barrels rotated with no resistance at all.
"How fast can it fire?"
"Nearly a hundred rounds per minute, provided your arm is strong enough." Xue Ziliang gestured. "That's the theoretical rate. This thing was developed based on the Hotchkiss hand-cranked revolving cannon. Compared to the historical prototype, the caliber has been reduced from 37mm to 30mm, and the barrel length increased to 25 calibers."