Chapter 221: Timely Reinforcements

The Count had no intention of making things too difficult for the tax collector. After all official procedures were completed, Don Basilio, the patrol ship captain, and the other officials all received a gift from Count Fannanuova—Great Tang Princess Liqueur. Not to mention that chartreuse was already a very popular item in Manila, the Chinese porcelain bottle it came in was already quite valuable when sold in Acapulco. The Spaniards disembarked, overjoyed. Weiss also walked satisfactorily into the cabin below deck. He now had powerful support and transportation, and all of it had a legal cover and considerable freedom of action.

He also desperately needed someone to protect his personal safety. Once He Er returned to Manila, his situation would become quite delicate. If that man decided to kill him, his few men would be no match for him, and he couldn’t stay awake 24 hours a day.

As soon as he stepped into the spacious officer’s cabin under the sterncastle deck, Weiss rushed into the officer’s washroom without looking back. The several sets of bathroom fixtures he had ordered were still on their way from Lin’gao. The daily routine of either swimming in the sea or taking a cold shower with a wooden basin constantly brought back unpleasant memories of his time in Macau.

After a refreshing shower in the officer’s washroom’s shower stall and changing into the cotton-linen blend uniform brought by his orderly, Weiss felt every pore in his body relax. The wool-padded pourpoint doublet, the cumbersome pumpkin breeches, the tight half-stockings stuck to his skin with sweat, and the riding boots decorated with gilded spurs—like all those foolish and artificial aristocratic manners and etiquette—all made the transmigrator from three hundred years in the future feel tired and disgusted. He even began to miss the Balkans, the roar of cannons, the grating screech of tank treads, the terrifying rattle of machine guns, the shouts before an attack, the groans of the dying, and the crude, cruel laughter of the survivors after a battle, simply because they were still alive. But that world had bid him farewell. Manila under Spanish rule was filled with the stench of sweat and fish. He longed for the pungent smell of high explosives, the smell of hot steel, and the smell of engine lubricant—a smell that, in this world, belonged only to the industrial empire of Lin’gao, and which he missed more than the perfume on a 17th-century woman’s clothes.

“I didn’t know you could speak Spanish.”

“Professional necessity. You can’t just greet Mexican drug traffickers with a New York accent and let them guess you’re an American law enforcement officer about to send them to prison.” The wig, tricorne hat, and long-tailed coat were all hanging on the wall. Xue Ziliang, in a neatly ironed khaki short-sleeved shirt, looked every bit the part of a US Navy officer.

“Let’s see what gifts I’ve brought for you,” he said, pressing an electric bell and giving an order into the speaking tube.

Standard packing crates were brought in one by one. Several pairs of strong hands placed the heavy boxes silently on the linen carpet of the officer’s conference room.

“How many men did you bring? Like these—” Weiss was very interested in the naturalized citizen soldiers who were temporarily acting as porters. Although they were all wearing sailor’s uniforms, their sturdy builds, highly coordinated movements, combat boots, and the submachine guns slung over their triangular harnesses clearly indicated that they were members of the Special Reconnaissance Team, the Senate’s Green Berets.

“Just these four. Don’t think it’s too few. They are all top-notch guys from the sixth team. If necessary, you can lead them to capture all the fortresses in Manila.” The newly formed Sixth Detachment of the Special Reconnaissance Team focused on waterborne reconnaissance and amphibious infiltration operations, and was regarded as Lin’gao’s version of the SBS. The Navy and Marine Corps, which provided training support, were extremely envious of this force. Shi Zhiqi, in particular, had repeatedly declared his intention to create the Marines’ own SEAL team.

Weiss asked a Special Reconnaissance Team member for a submachine gun to examine it closely. The “Scorpion” salvaged from the Mackerel had been modified beyond recognition by Bai Yu and Li Yiwo. A retractable stock made of steel tubing with a Gutta-percha pad had replaced the original folding stock. A self-made muzzle flash suppressor and compensator made the barrel seem a bit longer. A foregrip protruded from in front of the magazine, with a cylinder attached to it. On closer inspection, it was a laser sight modified from a laser pointer.

“Do these Chinese engineers treat automatic weapons like Lego toys?” Weiss found his own familiar “Scorpion” from the packing crate. Fortunately, it had not yet fallen victim to Li Yiwo’s handiwork. He trusted the original wire folding stock and silencer more.

“They can do more than you can imagine,” Xue Ziliang said. “Those weapon fanatics in the mechanical department are studying how to modify the barrel and drum magazine of the MGV-176 to accommodate the more powerful Parabellum pistol rounds.” Although the .22LR cartridge could already be reloaded with black powder, the MGV-176 submachine gun was not very popular due to its low power. After the initial novelty wore off, the military-minded Elders lost interest. Except for a small number equipped by the Special Reconnaissance Team and used for training, most of them were sleeping in the warehouses at Gaoshanling.

“May the Virgin Mary bless their success,” Weiss replied casually, continuing to inspect the contents of the wooden boxes. C4 explosives packed in waterproof metal boxes, enough to blow a hole in the several-meter-thick stone walls of Fort Santiago. The long-awaited radio and folding antenna, a FAL paratrooper rifle, and M75 grenades.

“Inspect your exclusive weapons, Mr. Bond,” Xue Ziliang said, referring to the strange gadgets in the box: a spy gun disguised as a cane, unfortunately without a silencer. A grenade launcher converted from a Minié rifle barrel, with two ammunition boxes containing over-caliber anti-personnel grenades and incendiary bombs to be used with blank cartridges, with a range of up to 100 meters. Weiss touched the thin iron shell filled with white phosphorus and thickened grease. He felt that firing this thing in actual combat would require some courage.

“I will write the trial report as detailed as possible,” Weiss shrugged. He was more interested in the Esmeralda itself.

Xue Ziliang took out the controlled materials handover form. “Sign it after you’ve checked everything.”

Mr. Rando whistled and took it. “This even lists the bullets, and distinguishes between black powder rounds and original rounds! Do I have to count them one by one?”

“That’s right. The Planning and Development Council doesn’t specifically require you to recover the casings, but you’d better do so whenever possible.”

“God!”

“And the radio,” Xue Ziliang gestured to the radio box. “Be especially careful with the batteries. Also, there’s an explosive device in the box. If you have to abandon the radio, don’t forget to pull the detonator.”

“I think that’s a bit of a waste…”

“You don’t know the Elders very well,” Xue Ziliang said with a slightly ironic smile.

“What about the other goods I requested?”

“They are all in the hold: bathroom fixtures, tableware sets, building materials, food, and wine. And all the various outfits you need to play the part of a nobleman here. To find all these things for you, Li Yan spent several days rummaging through the Planning and Development Council’s warehouses. The Council thinks your lifestyle is too extravagant. Comrade Jiang Shan fought for these for you.”

“007 always stays in the presidential suite on every mission.”

With another piercing ring of the electric bell, an officer in a snow-white 1632-pattern naval summer uniform entered, stood at attention, and saluted. “Captain of the training ship Haiqi, Navy Lieutenant Qian Changshui, reporting for duty. Please give your orders, sir.” Weiss stared at the man before him, thinking that in his high-collared uniform and glittering epaulets, he looked exactly like the short but stern and imposing Japanese naval officers in World War II movies. He didn’t know that this naval lieutenant, who bore a striking resemblance to Mitsuo Fuchida, had been a pirate chief under Liu Xiang just a few years ago and had only joined their side after being captured in the attack on Bopu.

“Captain,” Xue Ziliang said, clipping his pistol holster to his belt from a drawer, “please lead Mr. Rando and me on a tour of the warship.”

Two or three hours passed. Weiss felt as if he had already spent a whole day on the yacht. He had studied the various rigging and mechanically assisted sail-hoisting devices on deck, and had gone below to inspect the various cabins. Whenever a sailor saw the group and stopped his work to salute, the former mercenary would immediately wave his hand to stop him. He liked to walk around with his hands behind his back, silently observing the crew at their work.

“What was originally installed on this rack?” the former mercenary asked with difficulty in Mandarin Chinese. He pointed to the bulwark, which was filled with bundled hammocks, with a steel-framed pivot mount installed on top. There was one on each side, much thicker and stronger than the universal mount welded onto the Mackerel for the M24D.

“A machine cannon, sir,” Captain Qian Changshui replied in a solemn yet measured tone.

“A machine cannon?” Weiss thought he heard the familiar thumping of a Bushmaster chain gun. He also remembered the Yugoslav-made 20mm autocannon that had struck fear into the hearts of mercenaries. How was that possible?

“A hand-cranked machine gun, similar to a Gatling gun,” Xue Ziliang said, making a cranking motion with his hand. “It’s currently stored in the forward hold below, so as not to frighten our Spanish friends.”

Although all the wastewater from the ship was discharged through a main pipe laid in the middle of the keel, the forward hold at the bottom of the ship was still filled with a foul, putrid smell.

“This is it.” After the waterproof cover was removed, Weiss almost thought the Australians had stolen a collection from some Civil War museum before they transmigrated. The five barrels gleamed with a bluish-black luster under the gas lamp. He grabbed the handle and cranked it. The mechanism was well-oiled and moved smoothly. The barrels rotated without any resistance.

“How fast can it fire?”

“Nearly a hundred rounds per minute, provided your arm is strong enough,” Xue Ziliang gestured. “That’s the theoretical speed. This thing was developed based on the Hotchkiss revolving cannon. Compared to the historical prototype, the caliber has been reduced from 37mm to 32mm, and the barrel has been lengthened to 25 calibers.”