Chapter 47: New Beginning

"Captain, the beacon tower's been lit!" Mei Wan called from her lookout position.

Beiwei looked up. A bonfire blazed atop the tower, and in the dim predawn sky, a column of thick smoke climbed straight toward the clouds. They had anticipated this, but disappointment still flickered through him—it would have been far better to neutralize the lookout post silently. His proposal for a covert approach had been vetoed by Xi Yazhou. Special operations required too much preparation time, and the transmigrators needed to land quickly and establish their foothold before word spread. The Qiongzhou Strait had served as a major maritime thoroughfare and fishing ground since ancient times. Once the sun climbed fully above the horizon, a fleet this advanced couldn't hide from anyone. Whether they took out the beacon tower or not, the difference amounted to an hour or two at most.

"Ignore it," Beiwei ordered. "Continue sounding. Getting the ships into harbor—that's what matters."

Still, tension ran through the crew. While recording depth readings, Mei Wan quietly asked him, "Will Ming troops come as reinforcements?" It was the stuff of countless movies and novels: once the beacon was lit, forces would converge from all directions.

"They won't." In truth, Beiwei wasn't entirely certain. Yu Eshui had assured them solemnly that Lingao town had no garrison, that the beacon served only as an early warning. Though Beiwei didn't fear any small Ming military unit or local force, less bloodshed was always preferable.

The boat pressed forward, sounding depths and dropping navigation markers to chart the channel. The tide was rising, waves pushing into the river mouth. With almost no need to paddle, the current carried them to the dock below the beacon tower. A cluster of low tile-roofed buildings huddled at the tower's base, a flagpole standing by the entrance—this had to be the Bopu Patrol Office mentioned in their intelligence reports.

The entrance stood deserted. On the tall flagpole, a lantern marked "Patrol Office" still hung unextinguished.

Beiwei raised his hand. "Fix bayonets! Recon squad, target that building. First, second, third squads—with me!" He thumbed off his safety and was first to leap from the boat onto the dock.

They executed the assault by the book, but the first Ming government office the transmigrators occupied turned out to be empty. The bed mats in the side rooms still held residual warmth. In the kitchen, a pot of water sat on the stove, fire crackling beneath it. The occupants had fled mere minutes before.

The patrol office's purpose was inspection and warning—there was no reason for its staff to fight desperately against fierce pirates. They knew the terrain; they could vanish and return after the bandits departed. Pirates never stayed long, and the patrol office held nothing but tables, chairs, and kitchen utensils. Pirates knew there was nothing worth taking here, so they rarely bothered entering at all.

But this particular group of twenty-first-century transmigrators not only searched every corner and examined everything with fascination—to them, these mundane objects were genuine antiques—they also intended to stay. Buildings backing onto the beacon tower on the coastal high ground, plus a dock: here was a ready-made landing command post.

Beiwei dispatched one squad up the beacon tower to search, extinguish the fire, and stand guard. Another squad took positions on the patrol office roof to cover the surroundings. Then he reported via walkie-talkie to the flagship: landing successful, Bopu Patrol Office occupied, no casualties.

Report complete, he summoned two squad members. "Return to the boat. Deploy smoke markers along the channel to guide the following ships into harbor."

In the Fengcheng's superstructure, those who had been watching the smoke column with clenched jaws finally relaxed. Bopu Port—Lingao's gateway—lay open to the transmigrators.

Ma Qianzhu suppressed his excitement and said to Meng De with affected calm, "Begin."

The order rippled out to every vessel. On each ship, the same command echoed: "Weigh anchor!"

Two fishing boats led the way; two more brought up the rear. The Fengcheng and the self-propelled barge sailed abreast while the North American Branch's sailboat unfurled its white canvas. The fleet churned white wake as it sailed majestically toward the harbor. Behind them, a red sun burst above the horizon, painting the sky crimson and scattering gold across the South China Sea. For the first time, the dawn of the New World shone upon the transmigrators. Those on deck rose involuntarily, hearts swelling with emotion.

I am witnessing history. I am also making it.

The feeling intoxicated them. Someone began singing "Ode to the Motherland":

The five-starred red flag flutters in the wind, How bright the songs of victory; Singing of our dear motherland, From now on toward prosperity and strength...

First one voice, then many, then everyone. The singing rose loud and clear, soaring to the heavens, resounding through the New World.

"Sound the whistle!" the Executive Committee ordered as they approached the harbor.

"WHOOOOO—" The steam whistle bellowed—a trumpet from another timespace's civilization, heralding the arrival of a new era.

Though everyone ached to set foot in the New World, for now they had to remain aboard until dock construction was complete. Professional engineers and unskilled laborers—the latter organized into five-person teams—moved in batches onto small boats and ferried ashore.

The engineers' first priority was establishing a port area as a staging base for pushing inland. As a seaport, Bopu's geography left much to be desired. The bay had a ten-meter-deep channel, and Red Stone Island plus the silted sandbars served as natural breakwaters, but the shelter wasn't all-weather—the northwest lay almost completely exposed. Northwest winds would create heavy swells. The transmigrators couldn't use it as a permanent base; annual typhoon-driven storm surges also made it unsuitable for settlement.

Modern Bopu Port occupied the bay's southern end, where the water ran deepest. The engineers selected the same spot for landing and cargo staging. Normally, such a port required breakwater construction, various docks and piers, unloading machinery, and extensive warehousing. For the transmigrators, all of that remained pure fantasy.

Using landing craft for ship-to-shore transport was possible but painfully slow. Manually building piers would take forever and demand specialized equipment. So before crossing, Yan Quezhi and several engineers had agreed on the simplest solution: floating docks.

Modern floating docks were mostly used for small-craft passenger embarkation, rarely for cargo. But anyone with military-history knowledge knew the Normandy landings had relied on floating docks extensively—the famous "Mulberries"—enabling the Allies to land one hundred thousand tons of supplies and fifty thousand vehicles without capturing a port. Though a subsequent storm had battered the floating docks and quickly rendered them unusable, their effectiveness had been proven beyond doubt.

The transmigrators couldn't match Normandy's scale—their floating docks didn't even have breakwaters—nor did they need that magnitude. They simply needed to transfer personnel and materials ashore quickly. Their floating docks used sealed two-hundred-liter drums arranged in rows, connected with angle iron into modular units. Connection points had scrap tires hung as bumpers, and corrugated steel sheets welded on top. According to the Engineering Group's calculations, each unit could support forty tons of buoyancy—more than sufficient for ordinary vehicles, machinery, and materials.

The drawback was connection difficulty. Standard military pontoon bridges had specialized bolts for precise joining. These drum docks, though fitted with angle-iron frames and pre-welded connection ears, had unpredictable tolerances.

The fishing boats towed floating-dock units into the bay one after another. Without military high-powered motorboats, only the small craft from the Fengcheng—limited in power—could push and pull the units roughly into position. The Fengcheng had anchored a full one hundred fifty meters from shore. They had enough units, but assembly proved far harder than anyone had imagined. Wave motion made bolt alignment nearly impossible. The engineers had no experience with this work, and in the chaos, people focused so intently on their tasks that they tumbled overboard. Fortunately, all wore life vests and carried whistles; the Landing Command had organized strong swimmers in rowboats to patrol and rescue. The Engineering Department managed not to become the first group with casualties.

The grapnel anchors installed during pontoon construction proved decisive. Four small grapnels per unit significantly reduced the pitching. By late morning, a one-hundred-fifty-meter-long, eight-meter-wide floating pier had taken shape—though the units still occasionally showed ankle-crushing gaps in the waves, accompanied by terrifying straining sounds.

Executive Committee members watched from the Fengcheng as the transmigrators' first project reached completion. Hearts brimming, Ma Qianzhu announced, "I propose naming this pier 'Project One'! A monument should be erected here, to be recorded forever in the crossing nation's history!"

"A monument is fine," Wen Desi replied. "But we'll need to replace this with permanent facilities before next year's typhoon season. If a typhoon carries it away, we'll be out all those drums and steel."

Ma Qianzhu was about to respond when a foreign woman popped onto the bridge, camera clicking away. Everyone froze for a moment before remembering—this was Ding Ding's Western girlfriend, Panpan. Ding Ding followed close behind, recorder in hand, asking Ma Qianzhu for his feelings about the landing. The restless journalist had already recruited some people who knew printing and was preparing to publish the transmigrators' first newspaper. He'd even allocated shares and given his future publication an unimaginative name: The Lingao Times.

"No particular feelings." Ma Qianzhu wore an uncooperative expression. His heart was actually surging—he simply disliked interviews. He'd rather write his memoirs quietly later than have a recording device thrust in his face.

"Director Wen?" Ding Ding pivoted immediately. "Please share your thoughts."

Panpan turned and snapped a burst of photos at Wen Desi.

"A historic day," Wen Desi said.

(End of Chapter)