Chapter 12: Lamay Island
Chen Haiyang descended upon the Political Security Bureau in person. Wu Mu himself came out to greet him. Chen Haiyang cut straight to the chase, demanding to see all secret materials the bureau held on the crew of the missing vessel.
“No problem. I’ll take you to the archives immediately,” Wu Mu readily agreed. “Director Zhao has already given me instructions.”
“I know,” Chen Haiyang said curtly. “I’ve already had a preliminary look at the Ten-Man Group reports. Nothing suspicious. I can only hope you have something more valuable here.”
“This is your pass for the archives.” Wu Mu handed him a special permit. In addition to the usual name and rank, a line of small print read: “Single use only, valid on day of issue.”
Wu Mu led Chen Haiyang into a guarded courtyard. Inside stood several tall, warehouse-like brick buildings with high foundations.
Unlike other departments, which loved their greenery, this courtyard was devoid of any plant life. The ground was paved with stone. The high walls were topped with a dense layer of broken glass.
A stone staircase led to the ground-floor entrance of the archives. A guardhouse was set into the entryway, where two guards with blue collar tabs meticulously checked Wu Mu’s and Chen Haiyang’s credentials before logging their entry time in a register.
The archive room was dim. For a moment, Chen Haiyang could see almost nothing. It took a few seconds for his eyes to adjust. The air smelled of old paper and dust. In the light filtering down from the high clerestory windows, he could make out rows of shelves and cabinets. Piles, stacks, and bundles of documents and files were everywhere.
Near the entrance, a female archivist in uniform was at a desk. Wu Mu exchanged a few words with her, and she immediately disappeared behind a mountain of shelves and cabinets.
“She’s gone to get the index cards,” Wu Mu explained. “We should sit for a bit. This won’t be quick.”
About fifteen minutes later, the archivist returned with a cardboard box.
“It’s all here, Chief.”
“You can go. We’ll take our time,” Wu Mu said.
He opened the box. It was filled with thin paper folders. The secret files of all twenty-three men aboard Harbor Patrol 64, from Captain Zhao Zhulong down to the lowest third-class seaman, were all here.
Their personnel files were at the Admiralty, and the Ten-Man Group reports were with the General Staff’s political department. Here were the political assessments the Political Security Bureau had compiled on them, reports on their behavior in the quarantine camps, and other similar materials.
Wu Mu glanced at the list of contents and shook his head. “Nothing explosive. All very ordinary material.”
Chen Haiyang felt a mix of disappointment and relief. He went through the simple files one by one. The men’s backgrounds were all depressingly similar. Cantonese, Fujianese, Tanka, Hakka… fishermen, sailors, farmers…
Most had been pirates at some point, some with large gangs, others with small-time operators. They all had minor blemishes on their records, but nothing in the files suggested any of them were capable of something like this.
Their social connections were complex, but that was unavoidable in the Navy. Many naturalized personnel had a thousand threads connecting them to their old pirate lives. One man knew a subordinate of Zheng Zhilong; another’s relative worked for Liu Xiang. Such things were commonplace. A lead like that was as good as no lead at all.
Chen Haiyang had hoped the Political Security Bureau would have some secret investigation files. It was entirely possible; the bureau had the authority to launch independent investigations into any naturalized citizen deemed “suspicious” without needing the approval of their department.
“What’s your assessment of the situation?” Chen Haiyang asked Wu Mu.
“We can’t draw any conclusions without all the facts,” Wu Mu said cautiously. “But based on what we have now, I believe a mutiny is unlikely. It was probably a hijacking.”
Preventing defections was a constant focus for the Political Security Bureau, especially in the Navy. Naturalized personnel operated all manner of the Senate’s vessels, even serving on ships brought from the old world, like the Type 8154. A defection would mean a significant loss of equipment, with severe consequences.
Chen Haiyang didn’t know the specifics of the Political Security Bureau’s surveillance methods, but he assumed they had their ways. The Ten-Man Group reports had revealed no red flags. To incite a mutiny, one would need to win over at least half the crew, which would require a great deal of prior networking and agitation. The reports from the two Ten-Man Group members on board mentioned no such activity.
Chen Haiyang nodded. If it was a hijacking, the list of suspects was short: Liu Xiang and Zheng Zhilong. The Dutch and the Spanish were possibilities, but very remote ones.
Now, they had to find Harbor Patrol 64. That would reveal the perpetrators and their likely intentions. Leaving the Political Security Bureau, Chen Haiyang climbed into his carriage and told the driver, “To the Foreign Intelligence Bureau!”
That evening, the Foreign Intelligence Bureau sent dispatches to its stations in Leizhou, Guangzhou, and Taiwan, instructing them to notify all coastal agents to be on the lookout for a single-masted patrol boat, either docked or passing through. Any sightings were to be reported to Lingao immediately.
While the various departments in Lingao scrambled to locate the missing vessel, Harbor Patrol 64 was cutting through the waves, its course set for Taiwan.
Harbor Patrol 64 had strayed far from the compass routes used by Chinese ships and even farther from the shipping lanes favored by European vessels. It was a lone ship on a vast, empty sea. The waves were high, constantly washing over the patrol boat’s deck. The flags on the mast and stern had been taken down. The cannon and typewriters were shrouded in canvas covers. The deck was empty save for the essential sailors; not a single extra soul could be seen.
The boat had taken a wide, circuitous route, approaching Kaohsiung from the southwest. But its destination was not the Australian-controlled port. It was headed for Lamay Island—a coral island eighteen nautical miles from Kaohsiung.
That evening, the sun had not yet fully set. The twilight sky was painted with the colors of the afterglow. Darkness was less than half an hour away. Harbor Patrol 64 appeared in the waters off Lamay Island.
With an agility it had never before displayed in its service, the boat, under full sail, skimmed over the white-capped waves towards the mouth of a bay. Any sailor who had navigated these waters knew the danger of such a maneuver. Lamay was a coral island, its edges a treacherous maze of reefs and shoals, a place where a ship could easily run aground. A shipwreck here was a death sentence. The island’s natives were infamous for their savagery; to fall into their hands was certain death. For this reason, though the island had long been known to European sailors and Fujianese fishermen, it remained largely unvisited. It had no products of interest to the Europeans, it lacked a good harbor, and its inhabitants were ferocious. Despite its proximity to Kaohsiung and Tayouan, few ships ever ventured near.
Yet this vessel showed no sign of slowing. The helm was turned to the wind, and the small boat, catching the gust, navigated the winding channel with an incredible steadiness. It moved as if intimately familiar with these waters, utterly unconcerned by the hidden dangers.
At the helm, the captain was wrapped in a waterproof greatcoat of raw wool, its hood pulled over his head.
In a low, calm voice, he issued periodic commands to the sailors, adjusting the angle of the sails to the wind. From time to time, he raised a spyglass, as if searching for something. Just then, a light flickered in the depths of the bay, blinking in a steady rhythm. This was clearly the signal the captain had been waiting for. He immediately gave an order, spun the wheel, and the boat, grazing past shoals and reefs, shot like an arrow towards the light.
Thus, Harbor Patrol 64 dodged the reefs, avoided the shoals, and sailed swiftly into a secluded and desolate bay, surrounded on all sides by green jungle. In an instant, its halyards were loosened, the anchor was cast, and after a final shudder from the cables, the ship came to a stop. At almost the same moment, a native canoe appeared in the bay, paddling rapidly towards the patrol boat.
The canoe came alongside the sloop at its port waist, and several heavily armed, burly men climbed from it onto the deck.
The captain waved a hand and threw the hood back onto his shoulders. His face was fully revealed in the light of the bridge’s lantern—it was the same burly man who had commanded the hijacking. The men who had just boarded bowed to him in unison, with great respect.
Ten minutes later, the canoe departed from the sloop, carrying the man to a temporary wooden jetty at the edge of the bay. The jetty was so heavily veiled by green vines that it was invisible from a distance.
The man was of medium height. He wore a thick, woolen round cap on his head. Beneath his greatcoat, he wore a close-fitting jacket of a European cut, but made of cotton. A leather baldric was slung across his broad chest, from which hung an Arabian scimitar. On his belt were holsters for two pistols. He wore wide linen trousers suitable for work on a ship, their legs tucked into high boots.
The man had a typically East Asian face. A resolute light shone from his stern eyes. He was clean-shaven, with broad shoulders and strong limbs. Black curls fell to his shoulders. He appeared to be between thirty-five and forty, in the prime of his life. His face was tanned dark by the sun, and deep wrinkles already creased his forehead, marking him as a man who had weathered many storms.