Chapter 223: The Man Called He Er

Subsequently discovered clues gradually painted a clearer picture. Evaristo had collaborated with an al-Qaeda peripheral organization. These bombs were to be smuggled into Japan and reassembled for attacks on the US embassy and military bases. But young Okamoto was not caught, nor did he flee back to Brazil as the police had expected. A year and a half later, intelligence agencies found him in a training camp in southern Lebanon. Over the next few years, he appeared sporadically in Palestine and Syria. The last time the Americans had knowledge of young Okamoto’s whereabouts was in Iraq in 2007, where he narrowly escaped a US military raid on an underground weapons factory of a Shiite militia.

The torrential rain, like a curtain, beat down on the tents and bamboo hats with a dense patter. The conscripted native laborers shouted and scrambled to find shelter in the military camp. They were not allowed to enter the Spanish soldiers’ tents, so they gathered under the trees with a few banana leaves on their heads as makeshift cover, letting the downpour soak them through.

Besides these wretched souls, there was another person standing outside the tents, wearing a Chinese-style bamboo hat. His entire body was wrapped in a black monk’s robe made of coarse woolen cloth. This was a good protective measure in the mosquito-infested tropical jungle, and in the rainy season, this rough woolen fabric was also effective at repelling water. Only by getting close could one see an oriental face under the deliberately lowered brim of the hat.

Evaristo Okamoto had grown accustomed to being alone outdoors to calm his excessive excitement. The various tedious religious rituals his stepmother had instilled in him from a young age were very useful for his current disguise as a fanatic. Even the lingering traces of faith from his childhood began to occupy his mind in a twisted form. Escaping from Iraq, fleeing in a panic, boarding a smuggler’s ship, and then the Philadelphia Experiment-like journey through time—everything was as sudden and unexpected as this downpour. When the dying Okamoto was washed ashore on the Pratas Reef, he miraculously survived. After enduring more than two months of drinking rainwater and eating shellfish and raw fish, he was rescued by a Portuguese merchant ship bound for Malacca. He had inherited two things from his stepmother: the Catholic faith and the Portuguese language. They saved him. Thus, the terrorist Evaristo Okamoto, after transforming into the arms smuggling group member He Er, transformed again. He became Paul Takayama, a Japanese Christian exiled for his faith.

Perhaps God had suddenly taken pity on this fake believer after that. Paul Takayama was originally unknown in Manila until he rose to fame for defeating the Achenese army, which was besieging Malacca again, with his rockets. When some Jesuits, out of jealousy, publicly questioned his origins, he, as he claimed, followed in the footsteps of his great kinsman, Takayama Ukon, and came to Manila. He had achieved initial success in gaining the trust of the Spanish colonial government and the church.

In another two days, the army would return to Manila, and Paul Takayama’s prestige would surely rise to a new level. This was an out-and-out triumphant victory. The colonial army had easily wiped out hundreds of thousands of Ilocanos in their expedition from Lingayen and the Agno River Valley to the Cordillera mountains, turning the villages built by the fierce descendants of Chinese pirates into a wasteland, and occupying the fertile Baguio Valley with surprisingly few casualties. The new cannons and rockets invented by Paul Takayama deserved the main credit, although he would certainly face the wave of praise with his renowned modesty. But his achievements and name would surely be reported again by the Governor to the Council of the Indies, and even presented to King Philip IV. Some said he might even be ennobled for it.

A bride of illegitimate noble birth was already waiting for him in Manila, but He Er was not interested in any of this. What were these things compared to the title of liberator of humanity? If it weren’t for the fact that it could effectively consolidate his position in Manila and allow him to gain sufficient official support, he wouldn’t have bothered.

As long as he could get enough support, Paul Takayama could organize an expeditionary force of Spaniards and Japanese volunteers to liberate Japan from the ignorant and barbaric rule of the Tokugawa shogunate, just as Evaristo Okamoto had been dedicated to liberating Japan from the oppression of American imperialism before he transmigrated. The difference was that back then, he could only hope to sacrifice himself for his ideals. But in this time and space, he seemed to see the laurels of the liberator of Japan and the throne of its ruler beckoning to him.

The tropical downpour came and went quickly. The rain stopped, the clouds dispersed, and the sun shone on the wet ground. Paul Takayama suppressed his excitement and turned to enter the tent. He didn’t notice that on the northern horizon, a small dark cloud was gathering and slowly drifting closer.

The villa near Lin’gao Cape Park theoretically belonged to the General Office, but it was most frequently used by the Foreign Intelligence Bureau. Jiang Shan always scheduled the joint intelligence work meetings in this old residence of Wu De. The villa’s walls were guarded by sentries, ensuring security and secrecy. Opening the windows revealed the beach of Lin’gao Cape, which was much more comfortable than the stuffy, sealed conference room of the Political Security Bureau. Even when the blinds were closed for the projector, a fresh sea breeze still filtered in, dispelling the heat in the room.

“Let’s look at this one,” the slide projector showed a photo from a victory parade. The howitzer cast under Paul’s supervision, which was said to have played a decisive role, was placed on a float in the parade. The distance was extremely close. It was probably taken by Weiss Rando, who had hidden his camera in the folds of his cloak. Jiang Shan was not very knowledgeable about old-fashioned artillery. After searching his memory, he thought the cannon looked like a hybrid of the 90mm bronze mortar and the Dahlgren gun he had seen in the Yushukan museum in Tokyo years ago.

“Unfortunately, the legendary Paul Takayama did not appear in the victory parade. It is said that he declined to attend for health reasons. All of Manila is praising his indifference to honor,” Xue Ziliang continued to report on his reconnaissance results in the Philippines. A new photo was projected onto the screen.

“At least three new gun positions have been added to the Santiago bastion, all of them 24-pounder converted rifled cannons made from old bronze cannons.” The photo was enlarged bit by bit, and he circled details with the white rattan pointer in his hand, drawing the attendees’ attention to them: the elevation screw under the breech, the wooden-clad iron slide rails with pivots laid on the platform floor, and the four-wheeled gun carriage tightly attached to the lower frame composed of triangular trusses.

He’s got a bit of a CIA vibe, Jiang Shan thought to himself. But sending field agents to infiltrate enemy camps to take these intelligence photos, and then sending the photos back on disguised commuter boats… it’s slow, inefficient, and unsafe. His thoughts flew to a future Foreign Intelligence Bureau conference room, with real-time reconnaissance images from satellites scrolling across a large screen, and aerial photos from drones showing every detail. The Foreign Intelligence Bureau’s U2 Blackbirds and Global Hawks would form the most efficient surveillance network in the world. I’ll have to talk to Zhan Wuya later. The aviation industry should be started as soon as possible. Before we have planes, we should try to get the remote-controlled model aircraft from the Ministry of Resources. We can start building up the drone force. I also need to ask Lin Hanlong. Aerial reconnaissance can’t do without high-precision lenses and cameras…

“…The fortress works discovered on the northern edge of the Cavite peninsula are completely different. There are no bastions. Four circular coastal batteries, connected by communication trenches, with a trench for infantry extending outwards, please note the breastwork constructed here… This fortress is directly opposite the San Felipe fortress on the southern peninsula. If they are all equipped with long-range rifled cannons, they can effectively blockade Cavite Bay.”

By the time Jiang Shan realized he had been daydreaming, Xue Ziliang’s report was nearing its end. Jiang Shan secretly regretted it. Letting his mind wander had become a habit lately. It seemed only by doing so could he temporarily suppress a certain undercurrent of lust in his heart. He forced himself to sit up straight and listen intently.

“…Finally, there is the San Antonio fortress south of Malate Bay. The Spanish call it a fortress, but it was originally just a wooden barracks with a simple small round fort. Recently, they have started large-scale construction here. From the ongoing foundation work, it is a small bastion. It may be equipped with fifteen to twenty cannons. The observation post set up by the intelligence station can fully monitor the progress of the battery construction, and it is only two kilometers away…”

“In other words, that arrogant American gun runner who doesn’t know who he is has placed our intelligence station right under the enemy’s guns,” Wang Ruixiang interjected. As a former member of the Maritime Forces Department and the First Weapons Design Group, and having participated in the field work of Operation Engine, he had always had strong opinions about the Manila operation.

“There is no such threat at present,” Xue Ziliang said, somewhat annoyed at being interrupted. “The newly discovered fortress gun mounts are all placed on semi-circular tracks, with a directional firing arc of no more than 180°. The two batteries under construction can only bombard the sea and cannot be aimed at the village and port of Malate to the northeast.”

“Alright, that Japanese bastard has come up with so many genius gun platforms and mounts. What can he put on them? Rifle every single Spanish cannon? Not to mention, just equipping each of those miscellaneous cannons with enough new ammunition for each caliber would be enough to kill a genius.”

“The Japanese devil is even using expanding driving bands. Not bad, advanced enough. It has the legacy of his ancestors’ Type 89 grenade discharger and his godfather’s chemical mortar. But the driving bands are made of copper, which will drive the price up, and it requires precision machining. He’s not afraid of working himself to death, but the Spanish governor has to worry about being bankrupted by him.”