China
Guangxi
Unmarked Location
The southern office of the Qingbao Ju had a veranda. A large open paved porch with arranged tables and umbrellas. The scene looked like one from a restaurant of a cafe in the city. And very much like those, the agents and bureaucrats of the office took their lunch there in the shade and the southern sun. Above them the brutal concrete edifice and slatted windows bore over them, with only the slightest breaking for ancient flare. An arching canopy of ceramic tiles swept out over a part of the dining deck. In its shade a man and a woman tended a bar counter, serving up fresh noodles in the off-hour.
From the deck, the wild vistas of forested valleys and mountains opened up to the agents. Easily, the bland and brooding edifice of the southern office could be excused under pretenses like that to some new resort. Stripping itself down to be unnoticed, devoid of attraction itself, so that in the context and environment it itself lived in, everything else was all the more beautiful and attractive. And not to be conspicuous and low cost.
Enveloped in the distant haze the rolling green mountains of Guangxi's interior rolled on. Many of which sprouted and thrust suddenly upwards to steep and jagged granite pillars crowned with foliage of their own. The lower valleys would be often carved by shallow streams and rivulets making their out to the Xinjiang River or any of its tributaries.
Arban, and Huang Du, reacclimatizing back to their normal post sat at one of the lunch tables. Bowls of noodles and pork in front of them. Both of them solemnly ate, noiselessly as they read intelligence briefs. The normal fare, appeals to assistance from local police departments in their district, an unsolved murder or two, a rape. Or the continuing flow of refugees and migrants avoiding the spread conflict in Vietnam to the south. Ever since identifying the Filipino cargo ship headed out of the Vietnamese waters, the two agents had been sidelined from major operations. They were in waiting.
The isolation of their meal was disturbed when someone helped themselves down to a seat with them. Looking up they were startled to find the office's second in command with them. Huang Du began to stand up, until she stopped both he and Arban. “No need to start a scene, this isn't official duty.” she said.
Su Shan, a small bodied seemingly unaccustomed looking figure for the service was in her middle age. A veteran of the civil war, where it was rumored she had posed as a prostitute and house worker to gain access to Republican officers. She perpetually looked tired, the wrinkles under her eyes outlining sullen woeful bags. Her graying hair was wrapped up in a bun behind her head.
“OK then,” Huang Du said, settling back into his seat, “What's the treat for today.”
“I figured I would let you know the two of you did good work. You didn't hear from me, and you won't tell anyone else. But I got information from on high that the Central Office is looking into an expansion of the intelligence gathering mission. I don't know the hypothesis behind it, but from what we're being told they're looking to branch out into foreign offices.”
“Foreign offices then, what are they saying?” Arban asked.
Su Shan shrugged, “Singapore, Manila, Saigon, Hanoi, Hai Phong. The information you two got in the field was enough to begin the pursuit of solid leads. Which means to me that the Central Office is willing to press action into legislation, or being it before Politburo in the coming weeks. It'll probably be one or the other that'll grant the approval. I'm giving you forewarning that when the order is sent out for agents, I'm willing to put down either of you to serve in the new foreign offices and to manage the informants abroad.”
Arban and Huang Du were flabbergasted. Crossing his arms on the table, Arban leaned over, “This really hasn't been anything we've done.” he said.
“Not to the extent that we used to during the war.” Su Song said, solemnly, “But you two have been working something similar, albeit perhaps not the most discreet way. Collecting and interviewing war refugees, interrogating captives from across the border. All you will end up having to change is the willingness of your new informants is all, you'll be working from within foreign systems. Not ours.”
“This is all we need to know?” asked Huang du.
Su Song nodded, “I hope you two have a good rest of the day.” and rose, leaving as quietly as she had come.
With her gone, Arban and Huang Du were once again two. They looked over at each other. Closing their case work Du made the remark, “I suppose we should change priorities.”
“We probably should. We're going into the archives after this?” Arban asked.
“Going to have to. Learn Filipino, or Vietnamese.” Huang Du added, “Don't think you can learn a language that fast, can you?”
“Not before the next Politburo session.” Arban confirmed.
“Good, neither can I. Don't need to feel inadequate.” Huang Du commented. Arban laughed.
Shanghai
Cars rolled down the Bund, as did trolley cars. The rumble of their engines, tempered by the decades of isolation as well as decades of personal care intermingling with the soft bell chimes of clicking wheels on inlaid track and ringing from the cabin. The later afternoon sun was beginning to push and stretch the shadows of the buildings along the Bund, many of which for one reason or another had been rebuilt as they were. The Monument of the International Martyrs, a memorial erected over a monument to the men who had died in Europe; but had been destroyed in the Civil War stretched long and thin over the wide bricked pedestrian walk way and quay, out into the swirling milky waters of the Huangpu River.
Pedestrians, families and individual workers on their way home from work, or to the theater or restaurants after a day of work filled the waterfront. Competing with the sound of traffic the sounds of chatter and foot steps filled the air as gulls flew over head and the partly cloudy skies brought threats of rain and thunder. Leaning against the iron railing the man looked out over the water, gazing out over the Huangpu to the far side where warehouses and shipyards stood sleeping. Here and there the little riverside villages and communes that made up the easternmost township of Shanghai shown in the little afternoon sun, with little boats docked out front.
It was going to be a warm evening. The air was fresh with the smell and life of the river. The man leaned off of the railing and sliding his hands into his pockets began to walk slowly along the river. He was Chu Chang, a new student to the cultural scene being tenderly grown in the bossom of the new Shanghai and a student and resident of the communes across the river. There among the musician and artist collectives they dreamed of the new spirit and future of China. Across the water they looked over at the old heart of Shanghai with its heritage of colonial occupation and war, but also its rising from the ashes like a phoenix. Where some places had been reconstructed as they were, it was against a backdrop of radical re-imagining orchestrated by he and his people.
The Monument to the International Martyr, a towering pillar of humanity wrought in bright white stone and patinaed copper represented one of their first imaginings. An assembly of abstract figures, ambiguous in their depiction reaching up to support one another with sinewy arms to hold aloft a single figure clasping a flag pole, a great red flag flying out over them as large as the sky and a fiery evening sun red. It changed color throughout the day, or at least the white marble did. From orange in the morning, to a fierce red in the setting flame of the evening; to a somber gray-blue when a stormed threatened. It was muted now.
Chu Chang, a young twenty-three year old was a musician. Handsome and lean, he was a sure-win for the popular music out of Shanghai. Though early in his career, he had not nourished a popular image yet. Even though as he walked along the Bund a song came on featuring him singing, a cover of one of the old Revolutionary marching songs. Its low smooth voice wallowed out from the municipal speakers like an American styled crooner. If it ever broke out of Shanghai was up to question, but for now it brought a smile to his face, his thin lips pushed his boyish cheeks out, his chest filling with pride. He could hear and identify each of the backing vocals in this largely acapella take, Song Wu, Shi Sing-Huang, Song Cho.
Chu boarded the ferry, the terminal a small building and short dock. Accompanied by crowds of others, he packed himself inconspicuously in with gangs of farmers headed across the river, with mothers and their children, and workers on their way home. The deck echoed with excitement and calm chatter as the motor of the small ferry boat fired up and they plied their way across the wide Huangpu. Behind them the center of the city was pushed further away. Its multitudes of futuristic buildings rising out over the historic waterfront of the Bund.
The deck of the ferry boat road low, it was not a very large boat, its deck covered and dressed in a blue canopy over head. Leaning against the railing Chang could feel the cool spray of the river water against his face, smell it. He looked into the rippling waves and there broken by the water he could see him. His reflection. The narrow face, round chinned Chu Chang. His eyes, narrow set and evenly balanced. His brows smooth and thin. His face lit up in a small as he smiled down at himself and ran his fingers back through his oily black hair. He allowed himself to admire his youthfulness, his cleanliness as he crossed the river. He looked up when they were half way across and watched the warehouses and the docks of the opposite side draw nearer.
The Bund side of the river, Chang always thought was cleaner, more aesthetically appealing in its water front, with its high brick and paved river side, elevated high up over the river. In contrast, the far side was much more utilitarian, felt lower, and with the ground butting against the river with field stone and iron supports far less cosmopolitan and far more industrial and crude. The far side was a mess of wooden docks, at times seeming unused, or underused, or never used. Here and there along the Pudong Riverfront the old fishing and shipping docks of the river continued to bare the discrete signs of the war; lopsided, broken, cut short, some were still just posts in the water graying and green and covered in bird shit. During dry, hot summer periods the water was low enough that the masts or twisted bows of small boats sunk during the war emerged from the water as a hint and indication of something that had come to past, and if not lost momentarily may be gone forever.
But perhaps this is why he chose to live there, he and others like him. Functionally forced out of Shanghai proper out of concerns over space, they sat writing and painting and commuting from Pudong looking across to the Puxi, the West Bank. The fall from grace, and the loss of what future the Pudong had was long gone, but was a blank slate to the residents to decide for themselves. And, they had the far more pleasing Puxi to look at.
The ferry docked and unloaded. Stepping back onto dry land Chang turned down one of the roads and split like the crowd. On the far side the automotive traffic was far less heavy, the roads in better repair for that. A newly installed trolley cart track glistened in the sun as the distant ringing of its bell heralded its coming from around the distant bend. Milling in the road were rickshaws and bicycles. As the day grew later, so did come the farmers who came in their trucks or their animal pulled carts to bring to the river-side warehouses the groceries harvested that day, and there were wagons piled high with butcher-ready chickens, crates of eggs, and sheaves of rice.
Passed the ferry stops and the river side warehouses came the new experiment for the new Shanghai. The communes and communities of the artists who had come to put their mark on a city rebuilding itself a new after years of harsh destructive war. And for all those who came after, picking up the notoriety, and the conditions the city had built, and was still building for itself in the years growing longer after. Set off on narrow roads off the main road, the communes of the writers and the architects nestled themselves in reclaimed green spaces and gardens of young trees. Roads barely wide enough to accommodate a single car wound back and forth along, meeting the river and peeling aside again in hectic continuity. In warped plots, high rises designed by the new generation stood among their gardens, some resembling the enclosed compounds in the northern Hutong, others as open as a park.
The styles were many. There were structures built of stone, like in the old way; but their roofs bowed upwards and out so dramatically it seemed to be a cartoon. There were buildings made of glass. Others or cement and mortar, bleached white and with a lattice work of wooden beams or steel beams painted red to break the monotony. Windows were octagonal. Windows were tall. Doors were sometimes wide and opened onto covered porches were the awning swept up like a wave at sea.
The older designed compounds were easy to point out, they were either the closest to a western or Chinese tradition and as complex as they were diverse in the range of modest conservatism or absolute mechanical brutalism. But the newest had taken on a more consistent tone, as the community grew and debated among itself; it had created a new form. They called it the wind and wave.
At where the curve of the river began to steer away from the Bund and Huangpu. Staring across the river, the apartments which Chu Chang lived looked directly down Suzhou Creek and the industrial lattice work of the Waibaidu Bridge.
Standing three stories tall, the bows of the roof reaching up like the sails on a ship and its walls warped and waving, the Artist's Communal Apartments #34, or the Pearl House stood bathed in the late day sun. Its white walls turning orange by the light on the western side, and fading to a deep dark purple on the other. A garden, complete with a pond surrounded it, not large as the structure itself took up much of it, but this had been made up for. A second story patio was rich with small green shrubs and flowers, and a man standing there looked out and saw Chu Chang and he hailed him with a pleasant voice. Chu Chang returned the favor and he could hear cheers of celebration from the deck.
He came up to the front door, a red double door, set in a niche in a white turret that came off the side of the building, but did not go so high as the roof. Opening, he stepped into the relative coolness of the main landing and living space. Light poured in from the western windows high up in the turret attachment, flying down in long beams from the tall narrow windows that spiraled up the height.
The interior had a sparse, minimalist cleanliness. With the same organic curves, but with little decoration. Save for the rugs and a few couches and chairs scattered about the floor there was little in the way of overdone decoration. A man seated in a chair looked up at Chu Chang's entrance and rose, calling out, “Chin Chun!”, his courtesy name.
The man dropped a notebook on a table next to the chair as he stepped forward, “How was the city?” he asked, invitingly. He was a short man, round, and balding early.
“It was well.” Chang said matter of factly.
“The appointment went well?” the man asked.
“I did, clean bill of health.” Chang laughed, “Jiao-Long, is dinner made?”
“Yes, yes. Xiu is serving it up on the deck. She thought it was such a good day everyone deserved to eat in the open air.”
“Ah, that would explain that then.” he replied, thinking to the people that hailed him on his way in, “How is it?”
“I do not know, I didn't go to eat.” Jiang-Long admitted.
“That is absurd, even for you. How come?”
“I told myself I would hold off on anything until I finish this chapter.” Jiang-Long confessed, turning and pointing to the book on the table, “I've been having a hard time with it. And I should just get it done. No, I'll go and eat when I'm done. Just, save me some.”
“I don't know if there'll be any left, but I will try.” Chang said with a bow, walking away from his neighbor to join in with the dining.
In all, there were some thirty people sharing the apartment. Sometime more, sometime less, living as a loose family, as a tribe and village in its own right. That evening, a little over half were sharing space on the upper deck, seated at the benches stuffing plump dumplings into their mouths with their fingers, waving about skewered pieces of pork and beef, and slurping down noodles. Of them all, the oldest, the architect that designed the structure held the head of his table with his wife, the cook. They held court over a gang of budding and growing journalists, writers, chefs, writers, and painters. Visual theorists and literary engineers answering the call to realize the new world. It couldn't be said how long any of them would last here, if they would move on or return to their homes; though perhaps they might stay for the long term like Chang.
As soon as the elder head of the table noticed his arrival he stood, and beckoned him to come. He was a middle aged man with graying hair. The lines in his face could either be from the laughter and smiles of his company, or the marks of sorrow from the war. Either case, they carved and marked his face heavily and he looked like an older man. A gentle man.
He had not sat down for longer than a minute before his wife descended on Chang, eagerly putting a plate before him and piling onto it the wide array of things, rice, vegetables, meat, and dumplings. She was a few years younger than her husband, but the lines of age were just starting to be defined in her features.
“How was your appointment?” the old architect asked, Fu Huan.
“It was fine.” Chang answered, scooping up rice in his chopsticks. Huan's wife, Jia set down before him a class of wine before returning to Huan's side. “They said just to keep off of the fat and I'll be fine.” he added, half joking.
“Oh, what do they know.” Fu Jia said in a laughing shout, “I have a brother whose eaten nothing but fatty, fried pork all his life and he's healthy as an ox. You're fine, Chun dear.”
“You said to you were going to check on how the record progress is going yet. Do they have anything pressed?” asked Huan, showing a genuine interest and concern.
“I did, but they didn't come back with anything!” he declared.
“They like to drag their feet. You go back again soon and start asking questions. After all, you don't get paid until things are made. That's your labor there too.”
Mohe County
The passed few days had not been going well for Man Wu. While reports had come in the forward men had managed to make their way to the target, his mind had been daunted by thoughts of the renegade Japanese pilot, still at large in either China or Russia. While nothing definitive had come up yet, his men in the field had been reporting in just enough to keep them on the trail. The problem now though is: the trail seemed to have split. Man Wu did not know which way the Wokou pilot had gone to. He figured most of the trails were animal paths, or used by the local hunters. But one of them had to be the Wokou's.
Sitting in his tent, he leaned back in his chair. His feet resting on the table in the middle of it. It was not a small tent, neither was it very large. He had room to move, and had his numerous required instruments of command scattered around. In one corner stood a uniform on a rack, his own. And in a chest below that was his rifle, shovel, and ammunition and tools for engineering work; though it seems he did less of that these days.
Trying to force aside the doubts about the pilot, Man Wu forced his mind onto other tracks of thought. Progress on the bridge was advancing along at the expected click and clearing teams progressing through the Russian wilderness was actually ahead of schedule. If they were not ordered to break they might catch up with the survey crews between them and the advanced occupying force. On that he figured that it had been some time since they had orders, and he began to mull over if there was anything more engaging for them to do then sit and wait. But he realized he would need permission from command to issue anything that wasn't reactive at best. So he had to sit and wait. And think about the Japanese pilot.
He cursed himself that he could not capture him. It was such a fundamentally easy job. How had they not caught up with a man on foot, and possibly injured. But if the fugitive wasn't simply an air force pilot, could his elusiveness suggest he was something more than a common Japanese pilot?
He brought his feet back to the floor and leaned forward interested. Resting an elbow on the table he held his chin in his hand and stroked at the side of his chin as he meditated that. Supposing the bar of the man's skill, could he be Japanese intelligence? A spy? Did the Japanese train their men on moving with broken legs? Did they break their legs in training so they could know how it felt to move on it, march on it, crawl on in?
He realized he was going down dangerous pathways, and shook himself from it. “Fuck!” he hissed under his breath and stood up. Agitated he left the tent and went to wander about the tent. Before he could get far a junior communication's officer raced up to him. Hearing his name called Colonel Wu looked across to the pale faced young man stepping up to him.
By the hollowness of his voice he could tell something was very, very wrong. “A survey patrol was hit.” he said, forcing himself to subdue the terrified rattle in his voice.
Thoughts of the pilot at large washed out of him as he heard those words. A survey crew was hit.
“Shit, what happened. Speak!” Man Wu said forcefully as he turned on his heels and marched instinctively to the communications tent.
“I-I don't know sir. One of the other patrols stumbled upon them after they heard gun fire. The firing had stopped before they made it to relieve them, but he entire group had be eliminated.” the officer stuttered, startled.
Shit, shit, Man Wu thought to himself. He went into the tent and called out, “Is that patrol still on?” he demanded.
“Yes sir.” a radio operator reported, standing up and stepping away from his radio. Man Wu came over, and took his seat.
“This is command, come in.” he said into the handset.
“Third patrol, survey group. Reporting in.” a man said on the other end with a deeply western accent, a Uyghur perhaps.
“What's the situation in the field?” Man Wu asked.
“We heard gunfire, maybe a kilometer out, towards the direction of second patrol. We went to investigate and assist. By the time we arrived though they were all killed. We had one who was wounded sir, shot through the neck. But he died before we could administer any medical attention.”
Man Wu could feel his heart beat through his hands as his knuckles went bone white. “Any sign of the enemy combatant?” he asked.
“No, comrade. It seems they came, open fire, and left.”
Man Wu bit the inside of his lip, and for a few tense moments was coldly silent. “I want everyone to tighten in on the main group. Maintain visual contact with one another. Keep command alight to anything on going. I'll radio to base and see if aerial assets can be moved in for reconnaissance, they couldn't have gone far.”
“We copy that.” the patrol responded. By this point a flurry of copies also came in.
Siberia
Yerofeysky
Night was falling. In the sky the sparse clouds and the once clear blue was aflame with oranges and purples. But there was also a rising darkness that was coming to mute those colors. On the ground things were becoming almost as night. Flash lights from the patrols on the streets lit up the unpaved streets of the villages as groups moved about on their night patrol. For the rest, they came to the impromptu barracks in the uninhabited houses that dotted the village community. Packed in tight, soldiers sat at cots or on the ground smoking and complaining. As the night darkened the lamp and candle light of the local resident's homes went out as the soldiers lights continued to stay on passed what was reasonable to the villagers.
Tonight, Wu Hong was unlucky. Picked at random by command, he and his squad were one of the several that had to patrol and secure the streets that night. But things seemed tense. Earlier that evening word had come over the radios a survey patrol was attacked, all shot dead. There were other rumors about that night as well, and there was a sense of tension in the air that made the rifle in his hands all that more heavier. Cradling it and a flashlight he shone the light down the side of darkened houses, into stables and barns where the eyes of curious cows or cats peered bright and luminescent from within. He even shown it down along the base of the houses, underneath the raised floor boards half expecting some snarling Russian with a massive knife to be ready to pounce from the dark shadows underneath.
“I was there when we found the horse.” Keung said. The whole squad moved as a loosely packed group through the night. Flash light beams danced across the road and up into the trees or across fence lines. Flowers closed up for the night were caught in the beam and cast sharp long shadows across the ground, “We were going to go out and zero in our guns at the edge of town when we saw it.”
“I heard it was fucked up pretty bad.” Yu Huan said. Their voices were hushed as they moved along. A faint courtesy to those who were sleeping.
“Fuck, you're telling me.” Keung said, “Someone had cut its head off and set it up on a stick. I tell you, it looked like some spooky totem. And it was just there, covered in flies and watching us. The rest of the body wasn't far off.”
“And what had happened to it?”
“Well whatever happened, it was gutted open. Stunk like shit, I wanted out as soon as I saw that because of it. Shit, comrade.”
“You think it was wolves?” Yu Huan thought to ask.
“I don't think wolves would decapitate a horse and stick its head up on a pike.” Keung confided, “That's some very unwolf-like behavior.”
“Well... Bears maybe? I hear there's bears around here.”
“I don't think they do that either.”
“Some woman's cat got killed today.” Wu Hong pipped in, compelled in his anxiety to plug in, “I saw her crying in the street today. She had it out on the ground in front of her.”
“It was probably Tou-Wan Hui.” Keung said, “He likes cats. Thinks they go good with beer.”
“But, would he crush it?” Huan asked.
“Well, that might be extreme.” Keung admitted, “Usually I'd expect him to shoot it and be done with it. No need for drama.”
“How'd it look?” Cheng Bao asked.
“Bad.” was all Huan could say.
They walked on in silence for some more time. Walking a narrow foot path along the edge of the village. They would pass through some orchards and open fields were some of the cows would graze. The sun had fully set by now, and the world was dark save for the light of their flashlights. Overhead a million stars and a full moon looked down at them. The song of crickets filled the air.
Someone stepping on a stick, and the squad went tense. Stopping in their tracks they swept their guns passed the dark night. Shining their lights up to the woods at the edge of the village. The under brush and the trunks of the towering pine trees were faintly caught by the passing light. But nothing was seen. They were starting to relax when a rifle shot echoed in the darkness, heralding with it an explosion of chaos as the air was lit up with rifle fire. From somewhere in the trees an automatic weapon was being unloaded and tracers tore through the cold night air, glowing white hot as all went to hell.
Training kicked in immediately and everyone dove to the ground. Yu Huan's heart raced into his throat and he held his arms over his shoulders as stray bullets and chunks of wood were blown off of the apple tree behind him and fell in a rain against the back of his neck. The suddenness number his brain, and all he could think to do was to curl up more and more until he believed he could achieve something so infinitely small he could blink out of existence.
As bullets flew whistles blew all over the village. From Ju Gan and all over elsewhere. Cowering in the grass, Yu Huan felt a hand reach down and pull him up, and before he could register what was happening he was pulled up behind the apple tree and thrown over a fence. He had time to see the wood line erupting in a constant stream of gunfire as relentless rounds were fired into the village, without concern for who or what they might hit.
Then, as suddenly as they had begun they stopped. Huan looked up to see Sergeant Ju Gan resting his rifle on the fence, aiming up in the dark moonlight to the wood line and searching. There was a moment of long silence where even the crickets were holding their breath. Even the wind seemed to have died.
The shouts from the village itself soon however confirmed all was not dead. “What the hell was that?” Yu Huan said, out of breath. He could feel his body shake in excitement. His ears were ringing, and his face felt hot.
Ju Gan looked down at him. His face as equally blank as his. Neither of them knew what had happened.
