Chapter 11: The Hijacking
The suspicious vessel was a large fishing boat, common in these waters, displacing perhaps eighty or ninety tons by Australian reckoning. It flew no fishing permit flag, marking it clearly as an illegal poacher.
The boat was anchored near a sandbar in the middle of the sea, seemingly hauling in some sort of catch. Zhao Zhulong ordered the patrol boat to approach, preparing to board, inspect, and impound it. This was a common occurrence on patrol; they ran into it once or twice every time they went out.
According to regulations, any boat refusing to pay the fishing tax was to be seized and escorted to Hong Kong for processing. A first offense meant the confiscation of their entire catch. A second time, and the boat itself would be forfeit.
Fishermen had always been an oppressed, exploited, and discriminated-against class, but that didn’t make them saints or lambs to the slaughter. In the lawless world of the sea, knives and fists did the talking. The fiercely independent fishermen were naturally unwilling to hand over a fifth of their hard-earned catch. In the beginning, the Coast Guard’s efforts to enforce the fishing tax in the Pearl River Delta had met with considerable resistance. Clashes were a regular part of every patrol, and deaths and sinkings were not uncommon. There had even been incidents of fishermen banding together for armed resistance, but these were always crushed without mercy.
Through a combination of carrot and stick policies from Hong Kong—establishing official fish markets with fair trade, providing low-interest microloans, and organizing fishermen’s associations—the authorities had gradually won the hearts and minds of the local fishing communities. The tax system was now firmly established.
Though poaching and tax evasion hadn’t been completely eradicated, such incidents were becoming rarer. As for armed resistance, under the fearsome reputation of the Australians’ thunderous methods, it hadn’t been seen for a long time. Consequently, Zhao Zhulong did not follow standard procedure and order his vessel to general quarters.
“Prepare for inspection!” he shouted. The patrol boat began to lower its sail. A sailor with a booming voice picked up a tin megaphone and hailed the other boat, rotating between Cantonese, Hakka, and Hokkien.
Several sailors readied grappling hooks. Another climbed to the firing position behind the bridge and aimed the “typewriter” at the fishing boat.
On the fishing boat’s deck were only a few fishermen in ragged clothes. At the sight of the patrol boat, they panicked. Some ran about in confusion, while others rushed to raise their stone anchor. But when they heard the shout, “…hands on your heads, get down!” and saw the black muzzle of the “square cannon” swing towards them, they all dropped to the deck in a heap, hands clasped behind their heads.
For Zhao Zhulong and his crew, this was business as usual. Even without firearms, the fishermen were no match for systematically trained sailors in a one-on-one fight.
The grappling hooks caught, and the two boats drew alongside each other, though not too close. The boarding party used a special gangplank to cross to the fishing boat’s deck. Zhao Zhulong lost interest in watching. What followed was routine: the captain of the fishing boat would come out, pleading for mercy. There would be a tedious exchange, perhaps a stern refusal of a bribe. Zhao Zhulong had once coveted those red envelopes—a few of them would have been a nice supplement to his savings. But he knew the elders had eyes and ears everywhere. Nothing could be hidden from them. Besides, every six months, part of the crew was rotated out and replaced with new recruits. He, the captain, might even be transferred to another boat. There was never a chance to build up a loyal clique, let alone win over the entire crew.
Bored, Zhao Zhulong watched the tedious, repetitive drama unfold: the fishing boat captain bowing and scraping, the boarding party shouting orders. Suddenly, a crowd of seven or eight men, women, and children, old and young, poured out from the deck. They fell to their knees, weeping, wailing, and grabbing at the sailors’ legs, some kowtowing on the deck. The scene descended into a chaotic mess.
These Tanka people, they just wouldn’t pay their taxes honestly. Zhao Zhulong took out a snuffbox and sniffed a pinch. Though he was a fisherman himself, he was not of Tanka descent and looked down on them as “lowly people.” The Navy, with its many Tanka officers and sailors, strictly forbade such discrimination and had even conducted extensive re-education campaigns. But the sentiment had never truly been erased among the non-Tanka personnel; it had merely gone unspoken.
While the sailors’ attention was drawn to the inspection on the port side, several wooden wine barrels quietly surfaced on the starboard side. The lookout on that side stared, his eyes wide with curiosity, wondering what they were.
In that instant, short crossbow bolts shot out from the barrels. With a few muffled cries, the lookouts were hit and fell into the sea. The sailor leaning against the starboard typewriter, craning his neck to watch, was also shot down. Almost simultaneously, the “fishermen” who had been groveling at the sailors’ feet sprang into action. In a flash, they dragged the boarding party to the deck. Knives rose and fell, and the sailors’ lives were ended.
Zhao Zhulong reacted quickly. He drew his pistol and had just shouted, “Watch out—” when a section of the fishing boat’s sterncastle bulwark crashed down. A thick cloud of white smoke erupted, followed by a thunderous roar that echoed across the sea and sky.
A hail of iron nails and shot swept across the patrol boat’s deck. Screams of agony filled the air. Zhao Zhulong’s bridge took the brunt of the blast. His head was turned into a bloody ruin by several pieces of shot. None of the other sailors on the bridge escaped. Blood flowed in rivers, and even the typewriter was riddled with seven or eight holes.
“Get them!”
With a savage cry, dozens of pirates swarmed up from below the fishing boat’s deck, instantly climbing aboard the patrol boat, which had lost the cover of its machine gun. From the water, several heads emerged from beneath the barrels, and men clambered up the starboard side. The battle was brief and brutal. Most of the sailors on deck had been killed or wounded in the initial cannon blast. The patrol boat had completely lost its ability to fight back.
The patrol boat had a small crew, relying entirely on its firepower to suppress enemies and “potential enemies.” Now, that sudden blast had instantly neutralized its advantage. In less than ten minutes, the vessel fell into the hands of the pirates. The sailors were either killed on the spot or captured and summarily executed.
Though the pirates’ appearance and dress were indistinguishable from those of the local fishermen, their movements were clean and coordinated. This was not the work of a disorderly gang of fisherman-pirates.
After the fighting had completely ceased, a burly man emerged from below the deck of the fishing boat. He was dressed no differently from the other pirates, who stood around, panting and clutching their weapons. But as he appeared, the pirates quickly cleared a path for him. He strode casually across the deck, stepping over bodies and through pools of blood, and made his way to the stern. He climbed the blood-slick ladder to the bridge, glanced at the cannon-damaged typewriter, and gave it a spin. After observing the black iron contraption for a moment, he removed the ammunition drum and examined it carefully. A cold smile touched the corner of his mouth.
The pirate leader said nothing, directing everything with hand signals. His men moved quickly, weighting the bodies with cannonballs and tossing them into the sea. Some repaired the damaged rigging, while others cleaned the deck. Within fifteen minutes, the patrol boat was restored to a state of readiness.
The fishing boat was scuttled, and the pirates boarded the patrol boat. Harbor Patrol 64 raised its sails and, catching the wind, sailed swiftly towards the open sea.
Four hours later, news of Harbor Patrol 64’s disappearance reached the Admiralty in Lingao. A single-masted patrol boat had vanished during a routine patrol in the Pearl River Delta. There had been no storms in the area at the time. A search by other patrol boats had found no trace of the missing vessel, so it was impossible to determine if it had sunk after hitting a reef. Admiral Le Lin suspected mutiny or hijacking. He had expanded the search area, but so far, there were no results.
The Admiralty immediately went into high alert. This wasn’t the first time they had lost a patrol boat; accidents and combat losses had happened before. But for a boat to vanish without a trace—this was a first. Chen Haiyang ordered all ships in or heading to Hong Kong to raise their alert level. A warning was sent out to all vessels: a single-masted patrol boat was currently unaccounted for.
“A pity Hong Kong doesn’t have an 8154. If we sent one out, we’d surely find it,” Chen Haiyang mused. He thought it was unlikely the boat had sunk. It was almost certainly a case of mutiny or hijacking. The motive was unclear. But even if the crew had mutinied, it couldn’t have been spontaneous. They must have been incited by someone.
If they were incited, then this incident was highly unusual. Chen Haiyang couldn’t imagine who, under their tight internal security system, could have the ability to incite a crew of over twenty men. An operation of that scale could not have been kept completely secret.
“Pull the weekly internal reports for Harbor Patrol 64 immediately!” Chen Haiyang called the political department of the General Staff. The weekly surveillance reports from the Ten-Man Groups, sent by the Political Security Bureau, were all filed there. Next, he ordered the full roster of Harbor Patrol 64’s crew and their personnel files.
“…And call the Political Security Bureau. Tell them we’re sending over a list. Have them check if these individuals have any other records or reports on file.” Chen Haiyang hung up the phone and paced his office. A sense of unease grew within him. This was probably not a simple mutiny. But a hijacking? He couldn’t imagine anyone being able to hijack a well-trained, experienced, and heavily armed patrol boat. The three typewriters alone should have been enough to deter any boarding attempt.
If someone had truly managed it, then they were the most dangerous enemy we have ever faced. At this thought, Chen Haiyang picked up the phone again and cranked the handle. “This is Chen Haiyang. Don’t go to the Political Security Bureau. I’m going myself. Get the materials ready immediately.”