Chapter 1201 - The San Raimundo

Just then, someone brought in a telegram.

Hearing it was from the Feiyun, everyone's spirits lifted. They quickly passed it around.

"...Nongchao capsized, total loss. Feiyun intact. Six sailors and marines dead or missing. Currently establishing camp at northern tip of Samar Island awaiting rescue. Position: East longitude..."

Upon receiving this news, everyone breathed a sigh of relief. Transmigrators were their most precious resource, and times had changed—transmigrator rights were being trumpeted to the heavens. If one actually died, it would inevitably become ammunition for certain political factions in the Senate.

"Losing a 901 gunboat is no small price," Ma Qianzhu said stonily. "Fortunately the spoils are extremely rich."

"I'm sure someone's going to make a big fuss over this." Qian Shuiting felt a mixture of emotions. This operation had been his proposal, and Zhou Weisen was in the squadron, making it closely tied to his own interests. Having just experienced the elation of total victory, now receiving news of a total loss—one gunboat destroyed—felt like riding a rollercoaster. Fortunately Zhou Weisen and his wife were safe.

Chen Haiyang spoke up: "Losing a gunboat is certainly regrettable, but losses are an inevitable possibility in any operation." He stood. "Frankly, with our current technical capabilities, such losses are unavoidable and shouldn't be subject to recrimination. We must firmly oppose this bad practice of making a mountain out of every molehill! If we wanted to completely avoid typhoons, the Navy might as well not go to sea at all during summer and autumn."

He continued with increasing passion: "This piracy operation was inherently risky from the start. If the typhoon had arrived before we caught the Spanish ships, would everyone in the Senate who voted for this operation have to be dragged out for struggle sessions? Throughout history, which maritime nation hasn't been tempered in storms? Everyone's lost plenty of ships in bad weather—it's an unavoidable fate. Nobody wants to see our Senate's navy and merchant fleet become hothouse flowers or pond ducks, right?!"

Chen Haiyang rarely spoke at such length with such emotion—clearly he'd long been fed up with the prevailing "bad practices" and was seizing this opportunity to vent.

Wen Desi added: "I also don't think this matter warrants making a big fuss. We've lost a ship and a few natives, that's all. Ships can be rebuilt; people can be retrained. We're supposed to be doing great things—how can we be so timid, always worrying about our little assets?" He swept his arm. "What I find most disagreeable is certain comrades who, every time something happens, immediately want to hold hearings and set up committees—as if that's their entire purpose for existing."

These words unified the Executive Committee's thinking.

That morning, the relevant units all received telegrams. The Haitian immediately canceled all leave and ordered all hands aboard to prepare for departure. Li Ziping, captain of the Lichun, who'd been on leave in Hong Kong, was also recalled to serve as acting captain.

Beiwei, conducting training exercises on the Kowloon Peninsula, was urgently summoned back to report aboard Li Di's small squadron. By the time Beiwei's team made it back to base and boarded, another day had passed. Li Ziping, anxious to depart, ordered immediate departure. That same day, Captain Lü Yang of the Daishuang received a telegram instructing him to proceed at full speed—there was no need to turn back for rescue.

The Haitian set off southward. By now the typhoon had veered northeast, and riding the northwesterly winds in its wake, they made rapid progress. But obeying the Executive Committee's strict orders to seek shelter whenever winds exceeded Force 6, they were forced to weather a day in the Babuyan Islands.

When they resumed sailing along the route they'd traversed less than a month earlier, a light southeast breeze was blowing once more beneath a blue sky streaked with wisps of cirrus—everything seemed just as before. The Haitian sailed south along the Philippine coast, heading for the location the Feiyun had last reported: the coast west of Samar Island's northern cape.

"Zhou! Lingao's replied!" Mendoza came scrambling down from the Feiyun, waving a slip of paper. "They've sent a ship to pick us up!"

"Wonderful." Zhou Weisen was manning the barbecue grill from the Feiyun, roasting fish and lobster pulled from the coral reef.

These past few days they'd been anxiously awaiting rescue. Life as Robinson Crusoes hadn't been too harsh—it wasn't cold here, and natural resources were abundant. Between their rations, food salvaged from the wreck, seafood from the sea, and coconuts from the trees, they'd not only eaten their fill but enjoyed reasonable variety. Still, after being accustomed to meticulous planning and reliable logistics, these uncertain, anxious days were hard to endure.

To maintain discipline and relieve boredom, the beached sailors and marines continued their regular drills and training. The special reconnaissance team conducted short-range patrols. The reconnaissance yielded little—there were no Spanish outposts in this area, and few indigenous people, just a handful of small fishing villages nearby.

What they did find in abundance were mosquitoes—huge and numerous, making one shudder at the thought of malaria and yellow fever. Fortunately, the camp was near the shore where mosquitoes were scarce. But the frequent tropical downpours were another headache, and the humidity combined with the fierce tropical sun made conditions stifling.

Mendoza often wore nothing but a three-piece bikini and a straw hat as she wandered around camp—the same bikini she'd been wearing when Zhou Weisen had lured her aboard years ago. After three years of use, it had developed several small holes, attracting even more heated stares. Zhou Weisen had to remind her to mind appearances. So Miss Mendoza wove herself a grass skirt from coconut palm leaves.

"Getting back is good, but we'll definitely be dragged into struggle sessions." Lin Chuanqing laughed.

"Can't be helped—we need to account for ourselves somehow." Zhou Weisen was also troubled by this prospect. "Old Lin, I really should have listened to you..."

"Let's not talk about that anymore," Lin Chuanqing said. He was a heavy smoker, but now he didn't have a single cigarette left, so he was reduced to chewing on a twig. "But I do bear responsibility for losing the ship."

"The typhoon was force majeure—how is that your responsibility?"

"Let me put it this way: a 'big ship' like the 901, after encountering a storm, should try to reach open sea wherever possible—otherwise it's too easy to be thrown onto shore or rocks by the waves." Lin Chuanqing paused. "That's exactly what happened to the Nongchao."

"But when a typhoon comes, doesn't everyone tell ships to return to port to shelter?"

"That's a port—what we had here was just an open anchorage." Lin Chuanqing shook his head. "This is called 'saving people, not ships.' For civilian vessels that's absolutely fine, but for a warship—if we're being strict, I could face a court-martial."

"Nonsense—which bastard would dare say a transmigrator's life is worth less than a warship?" Zhou Weisen laughed coldly. "I guarantee just saying that would ensure he'd never live it down in the Senate!"

But Lin Chuanqing was thinking about something else—this peculiar system of transmigrator collective decision-making. If he'd been sole commander, they could have returned in time. There'd have been no need for this ridiculous situation.

Several more days passed like this. Early on July 21st, the lookout spotted a sailing ship proceeding through the strait.

"Contact!" Lin Chuanqing and Zhou Weisen grabbed their binoculars and scrambled up the hastily-constructed observation platform.

Through the binoculars they could clearly see a smaller galleon. The ship had obviously weathered the typhoon too—her deck was a shambles, and she'd lost two of her masts. She was struggling along on a single remaining mast, handling clumsily—though running with the wind, she was making barely two knots.

"The San Raimundo!" Zhou Weisen shouted excitedly.

"How do you know?"

"Who else could it be?" Zhou Weisen said. "Look at her condition—obviously storm-battered. And the timing matches perfectly!"

"Good point. She's flying the Castilian royal standard and riding low in the water! That's her!"

The two men's eyes met, and sparks flew—if they could take the San Raimundo, the negative impact of losing a gunboat would be greatly mitigated.

But how to capture this prize was the problem. They'd lost the 901 gunboat. The Feiyun was fast enough to catch the San Raimundo, certainly, but she lacked heavy weapons and couldn't suppress the enemy. For a boarding action, they'd heard of the tactics pirates commonly used: approach rapidly from astern, then board. But the Feiyun's freeboard was too low for quickly projecting force onto the deck for close-quarters combat. As for deploying chlorine gas—they had offloaded the canister beforehand, but without technical means to deliver it, it was useless.

"Truly frustrating." The two men racked their brains for quite a while but couldn't come up with a solution. Zhou Weisen suggested having Mendoza act as bait, disguising the Feiyun as a shipwreck—another common pirate tactic. But they had nothing for a disguise—the Feiyun looked far too different from contemporary vessels.

And so the San Raimundo crawled past before their very eyes for several hours. Zhou Weisen calculated that she was less than ten nautical miles from their camp—the Feiyun could easily catch up even under sail, let alone with her engine running.

If only we'd brought the anti-tank missile, he thought regretfully. Machine guns alone couldn't seriously damage a galleon like this.

"If only that ship would run aground..."

"Running aground would be the same problem," Lin Chuanqing said. "We'd have to wade out to the ship, and the Spanish could fire down on us at leisure—plus we'd still have to climb the freeboard."

"At least we could launch a night attack."

"A night raid—" Lin Chuanqing scratched his hair. "Actually, at her current speed, she might as well be aground..." His eyes lit up. "Does the special recon team have night-vision gear?"

"A few pairs," Zhou Weisen said, catching on immediately. "Should be enough." He glanced at the sky. "But the weather's too clear—visibility at night on the water won't be bad."

(End of Chapter)