Chapter 307: Sweet Port Turbulence — Special Ops Equipment
"How did the fire start earlier?" Chang Shide asked Ma Sanqiang again.
"Reporting to the owner: some of the boys were careless with candles. We've caused you worry," Ma Sanqiang replied with practiced deference.
"Be more careful in the future. Clean up the scene."
"Yes, sir." Ma Sanqiang turned and bellowed across the yard. "Everyone watch the fire carefully from now on! Don't let it happen again!"
"How badly is the child hurt?"
"It's bad." Ma Sanqiang's face creased with genuine concern. "We've already sent someone to fetch a doctor."
"Go to the accounting room and draw twenty taels of silver for expenses. Hire a proper physician." Chang Shide turned and walked away without waiting for a response.
"Thank you, Owner!" Ma Sanqiang called after him, his voice echoing through the courtyard.
Liao Daxing hurried to catch up, falling into step beside him and lowering his voice. "Owner, you must think thrice about this matter. This kind of thing can't be covered up. Zhao Jijiao's lot are not men to trifle with. The moment they realize they've suffered a loss, they'll come looking for trouble. Dealing with a lawsuit afterward will be messy business."
"Mm." Chang Shide offered no explanation.
"Men like them aren't afraid of beatings or death—even the yamen can't do anything about them. But their talent for causing trouble is unmatched. Why forge this grudge?"
"Forge a grudge?" Chang Shide allowed himself a cryptic smile. "That won't happen. There will be no grudge to forge." With that, he continued walking toward the inner courtyard.
That was forbidden territory; no one except the owners' most trusted confidants could enter. Liao Daxing sighed, abandoning his pursuit, and hurried off to discuss countermeasures with his cousin Liao Diahua.
Chang Shide stood alone in the courtyard for a moment, breathing in the sugary, slightly acrid air of the refinery. A moment later, one of Beiwei's indigenous operatives approached silently, materializing from the shadows.
"Chief Bei asks: now that you've interrogated the situation out of him, what do you intend to do? Send him back to Lingao, or—"
"Dispose of him immediately," Chang Shide said. "I'm heading over now."
It was April outside Xuwen County, and the polluted air discharged from factory chimneys—carrying the sweet scent of sugarcane—pervaded the streets beyond the city walls. Behind those high brick barriers, machinery roared ceaselessly through the night.
This place had once been vast wasteland and open farmland, with nothing but a dirt "official road" winding past the South Gate. But since the South China factory had been built here, everything had changed. A flood of migrant workers had moved in, joined by an endless stream of cane farmers coming daily to sell their harvest. The area had flourished almost overnight. At first, there were only simple straw sheds selling tea and dry rations. As business improved, merchants sensed opportunity and began buying land and building proper shops. One after another they opened, until a small district had taken shape outside the South Gate.
The cane farmers had changed their selling location, and with them went the flow of silver. The merchants on Hai'an Street found their business wasn't what it used to be.
A night watchman carrying a paper lantern walked his lonely patrol through a narrow alley.
"The weather is dry, beware of fire—"
The clatter of his wooden clapper faded with his voice into the distance.
"The watchman's gone. All clear!" From the darkness, several figures emerged—from street corners, ditches, behind vegetable garden fences—materializing like phantoms.
They moved with fluid precision, vaulting from their hiding spots. Each wore a black hood and tight-fitting black clothes cut in a short, narrow-sleeved style. Strange bundles rode on their backs, and in their hands they carried short, thick implements raised to their shoulders, level with their eyes. They assumed peculiar stances—some kneeling, some prone—forming a tight circular formation.
"Clear!"
"Kee-lear!"
"Kuh-lee-er!"
"Klee-ar!"
The whispered confirmations came in accents ranging from the southern coast to the northern plains.
The team leader produced a strange object, pressing it over his eyes to scan the street intersection. The opposite side of the device glowed with an eerie red luminescence.
"No heat signatures in the patrol zone. All clear."
"Move out!"
Faster than words could describe, the leader sprang forward, crossed the street in two or three bounding strides, and scanned left and right beneath the high walls of the factory compound. He meowed—three long, one short—then began searching along the wall. Two others followed close behind, positioning themselves beneath the wall to observe while signaling to the alley opposite.
Seconds later, figures filed from the alley and converged on their position.
The leader raised his hand and began a silent pantomime—waving left, then right, forming an octopus shape, then a chopping motion. The surrounding men watched his hands intently, nodding at each gesture. Finally, he waved downward. Everyone rose and split into three groups.
One group carrying heavy backpacks sprinted toward a small door at the base of the wall. Another scattered to establish a perimeter watch. The third threw grappling hooks that bit into the top of the wall. The leader scaled it in two swift movements. Porcelain shards embedded in the mortar crowned the wall's crest, but these were useless against him. He crouched atop the wall and surveyed the compound below. Confirming neither guards nor dogs patrolled the courtyard, he signaled the all-clear.
The rest vaulted over in quick succession and swiftly opened a small door in the wall to admit their comrades. The leader checked his watch and nodded with satisfaction. Just as they prepared to advance deeper into the compound, two high-powered flashlights blazed to life simultaneously.
"Alright, drop your weapons!" The voice came from beneath the eaves of a building fronting the courtyard.
"You're too slow." The leader lowered the steel crossbow in his hand. "I'm already inside the courtyard—"
"We knew you were coming the moment you broke from the street intersection." Beiwei switched off his flashlight and stepped from the shadows. "'Clear' could have been shouted a bit louder."
The leader showed no embarrassment whatsoever, brazenly replying, "Training the team, you know. Building some modern awareness."
"Formalism kills people," Beiwei said flatly. "Come inside."
The visitor was Chen Sigen, dressed in standard Special Reconnaissance Team gear. Tall and powerfully built, with a back like a tiger and a waist like a bear, he was the very image of a warrior. In his previous life, he had been a Doctor of Nutrition and a fitness coach. During his years in what he called "the decadent United States," he had become an avid firearms enthusiast and dedicated practitioner of mixed martial arts. His expertise had earned him a position as a military instructor, and his lifelong worship of special forces had led him to constantly pester Xue Ziliang and Beiwei about "special tactics." He trained relentlessly with the team, and through extraordinary physical fitness and a solid foundation in shooting and fighting, he had managed to earn himself the half-baked title of "Special Forces Soldier"—though Beiwei never acknowledged the Transmigration Group possessed any such thing. He preferred the humbler designation: "Reconnaissance Soldier."
This time, Chen Sigen had brought ten soldiers to reinforce Beiwei. The Executive Committee had concluded that Beiwei's three or four men were insufficient for the Leizhou operation. The South China factory now held substantial quantities of both sugar and silver; should any situation arise requiring forceful resolution, the hastily organized local militia would be useless.
These soldiers included Special Reconnaissance Team cadets and handpicked soldiers on rotation from various units—the most elite indigenous troops they possessed.
"Let the soldiers shower and rest." Beiwei surveyed the group, noting the dirt and salt stains coating their uniforms. "Tell Wen Qing to have the kitchen prepare them something to eat."
"How did you get here?" Chang Shide asked.
"By boat," Chen Sigen said casually. "After dark, we found a desolate stretch of coast and did an armed swim—about a hundred meters to shore. Then we marched roughly ten kilometers through the darkness to reach this compound. Carrying full gear, no road, pitch black—I'd say the results aren't bad, wouldn't you?"
Beiwei could only offer a rueful smile. Full darkness fell after seven in the evening, and it was now nearly eleven. Taking almost four hours to march ten kilometers was hardly impressive, even accounting for night movement through rough terrain.
"Of course, the pace was a bit slow," Chen Sigen conceded. "But we also brought a non-combatant."
As if on cue, a black-clad figure stumbled in, panting heavily. It was Xu Yingjie from the Industrial and Energy Committee. Running through wilderness in complete darkness was a first for him, and for security reasons he had carried the case containing the classified equipment himself. It hadn't felt like much at first, but by the end it had become dead weight.
Both men went to wash up before returning to Beiwei's command post. Beiwei lit another candle and summoned Chen Tianxiong. Chang Shide dispatched A-Luo to fetch provisions, and when Chen Sigen and Xu Yingjie saw the spread of simple food, they fell upon it ravenously.
"What's the situation?" Chen Sigen asked between mouthfuls.
"We'll move very soon. You arrived just in time—I was worried Beiwei didn't have enough men."
"Ten was all we could spare," Chen Sigen said. "But Xu Yingjie brought you plenty of new equipment."
"Oh? What have you got for us?"
"Old Xu!" Chen Sigen called out. "Show everyone your treasures!"
Xu Yingjie grinned. "Forget my treasures—have a look at this." He opened two rattan suitcases stowed beneath the table.
"This is the latest emergency equipment kit designed by the Weaponry Group of the Industrial and Energy Committee." His eyes gleamed with professional pride. "Chen Tianxiong, you've read The Deer and the Cauldron, right? You know Duke Wei's legendary three-piece survival kit?"
"The Invulnerable Silkworm Vest, the dagger that slices iron like mud, and the Sand-Blasting Shadow-Shooter?" Chen Tianxiong nodded. "If you don't count Shuang'er... Except for the exotic hidden weapons, I've already assembled a set for myself. Don't tell me the Industrial Committee has managed to develop stab-proof vests?"
Xu Yingjie extracted an eighteen-centimeter tube from the case. "Since you've already got protection, I won't bother introducing the chainmail. This is the sleeve arrow developed by the Weaponry Group—surely you've heard of it. It holds six steel needles internally, can penetrate two millimeters of iron plate at ten meters, and is gunpowder-powered. Remarkably quiet."
"Gunpowder-powered—do you have to light it with a fuse?"
"There's a small revolving igniter. One press fires one shot. There is a delay after pressing—roughly two seconds..."
"No cocking? No recoil?"
"Of course not—otherwise it would just be a pistol, wouldn't it?" Xu Yingjie laughed. "The Weaponry Group developed this weapon specifically to produce special operations equipment using minimal modern industrial requirements."
Chen Tianxiong's interest was piqued. He turned the device over in his hands, examining it from every angle. "Where's the casing?"
Chang Shide spoke up. "Think of a Roman candle. Ammunition is loaded sequentially in the tube, separated by clay dividers."
"Old Chang, you already know about this?"
"It was Wang Ruixiang's idea, wasn't it? He talked about it everywhere back in Lingao. Everyone in the New Army has heard."
"Isn't that basically an iron-tube fire lance?" Chen Tianxiong said skeptically. "If I put this in my sleeve, I'd be afraid of blowing my arm off."
"It won't explode. The safety margin is remarkably high. According to our tests, the success rate is 87.53 percent!" Xu Yingjie added, somewhat less reassuringly, "And even if it does misfire, it'll only scorch some skin..."
"Alright, alright, enough sales pitch. I definitely won't be using this thing." Chen Tianxiong's refusal was categorical.
Beiwei couldn't resist interjecting. "Even if you people refuse to make Derringers, couldn't you at least manufacture some flintlock pistols? What exactly is this supposed to be?"
Xu Yingjie took no offense. He produced another bag and poured out several oval balls the size of pigeon eggs, each wrapped in differently colored paper. "White is smoke. Yellow is sulfur. Blue is tear gas. And red is the most dangerous—a small high-explosive grenade, exclusive to Intelligence and Special Reconnaissance teams. The yield is relatively modest, but it's far more practical than the No. 1, 2, and 3 grenades the New Army carries. To use, tear away the outer wrapping and light the black portion with an open flame. Five-second delay." He paused. "One drawback: these must be kept absolutely dry. The packaging must remain intact. So—" He produced a bamboo tube. "—this is a dedicated storage container. Each tube holds three, sealed with wax at the lid gaps."
"Reminds me of ninja equipment," Chen Tianxiong observed. "Though the lighting mechanism is cumbersome. Still, better than nothing."
"The real killer weapon is right here." Xu Yingjie withdrew a small rattan box from his pack and opened it with exaggerated care. Inside lay two porcelain bottles nestled in rice straw.
"Molotov cocktails." He lifted one gently, a note of pride creeping into his voice. "My own formulation. The primary component is extracted from coal tar—similar to gasoline. It also contains your factory's contribution: sugar." Sugar had always been a common ingredient in incendiary recipes.
The porcelain bottle was tightly stoppered and sealed with wax.
"I've added white phosphorus to this incendiary. It ignites on impact—no need to light a wick beforehand. But be extremely careful during transport. If it breaks, it's a catastrophe." He let the warning hang in the air.
Finally, he produced an object shaped like a wine bottle and held it aloft. "This is an epoch-making product—the ancestor of the RPG: a handheld shotgun cannon. Hardwood construction, thirty-meter range, produces a kill zone of five meters radius. Similar to a modern shotgun effect. Single-use. This is a brand-new concept from the Weaponry Group! Impressive, isn't it?"
"Japanese ninjas have a weapon called a 'hand cannon'—the handheld ōzutsu. It's essentially the same thing."
"Is that so?" Xu Yingjie shrugged. "Well, we'll just exterminate the ninjas later."
"Is the structural strength sufficient?"
Xu Yingjie nodded confidently. "You can rest assured. It's rated for exactly one shot."
Besides these items, there were a dozen pyrotechnic signal devices and illumination rockets. Though small, they would prove extremely useful. Examining these innovations, Chen Tianxiong marveled at his colleagues' ingenuity while recognizing what they truly represented: Lingao's industrial capabilities had ascended to another level entirely. Many of these devices required sophisticated chemical products. The Industrial and Energy Committee had clearly been hard at work. Engineers, he reflected, were indeed pragmatic men.
(End of Chapter)