Metamorphosis (5)
By the time the briefing and follow-up meeting dragged on for over an hour, our sleek passenger ship was slicing through the Pearl River estuary at 25 knots. I'd asked the captain if we could push the speed a bit without straining the vessel, just to save time. After some thought, he'd cranked it up by 5 knots. If conditions allowed, he'd add more, he'd said. Ships heading the same way on our starboard side were falling behind one by one, battling the current. Twenty-five knots—46.3 kilometers per hour—might seem slow on land, but on water, especially in a narrow, traffic-heavy channel like this, it was damn fast.
The estuary where river met sea was home to seven major cities, including Hong Kong, and a population of 60 million. Cargo traffic up and down the river matched that scale. Yet there was no hair-raising close calls. The ship was practically empty, making it nimble as hell, and under the bow sat a bow thruster purely for maneuvering. Propulsion came from three waterjets, with auxiliary engines on either side fine-tuning our steering. Of course, the best tools are useless in incompetent hands. This smooth sailing was down to my crew's decades of experience in maritime smuggling.
As we skimmed past a small island about the size of Yeouido, the murky waves carried the stench of poverty and a faint whiff of tear gas from the poor. A closer look revealed the waterways flanking the island crammed with dockworkers' slums, clustered like blisters from shingles.
Daytime, and everyone's just loafing around.
Glancing at my watch: 2:36 p.m. Not lunchtime idleness. Even if it were, workers lounging at home was abnormal. The Black Sea Party militants and peasant workers scraped by day-to-day, but right now, they had no work, so they stayed home. Idle despair born of empty pockets.
North of those slums stretched a loading yard packed with vehicles waiting to ship out. Not a single empty spot amid the sea of trucks—yet no ships in sight to carry them.
Kyung-tae sidled up beside me at the railing, marveling at the sight.
"That backlog's gotta be from all the trade sanctions, right, hyungnim?"
"Probably."
"If things go right, China might split into a bunch of pieces this time."
"Too quick a collapse would be a problem, though..."
No buzz from the ports, factories, or refineries. This river must've been far busier once. India, China's top export market, teaming up with the West to turn hostile—that was likely the killing blow.
The Communists need to hold out until they've outlived their usefulness.
I stared at the unusually debris-free current, uncharacteristic for a continental waterway, then asked, "What do you think of the ship?"
"Once we're geared up, it'll make one hell of a mobile base," Kyung-tae replied without hesitation. "Faster than most patrol boats, stable as can be, great handling. Plenty of room for cargo and vehicles—eight 1.5-ton trucks and eleven 2.5-tons. War spoils transport? No sweat. Reliability's a question mark, but it's not Made in China, so should be fine."
"Not Chinese-made?"
"Built in Italy in '96, they say. Engines are Rolls-Royce. Vice Chief Park Mi-joo... er, now Director Park. Looks like she pulled out all the stops despite the tight deadline."
"Her mentor taught her well. Solid guy."
Solid to a fault—sometimes bordering on foolish. Before I took him in, he really was a fool. Mortgaged his house to guarantee a friend's loan. Friend vanished, wife left demanding divorce by mail, furniture seized, kids barely eating one meal a day. That's how Seo Gapsu ended up meeting me on that Han River bridge.
Too bad I couldn't make the funeral. To keep loyalty in check, you gotta show face at those things. He's a director now, but still a longtime subordinate...
Soo-yeon would handle the wreath without me asking.
"Hyungnim."
"What?"
"When you got time, maybe call Director Park Mi-joo aside and give her some encouragement?"
"We'll see."
"Get some rest first, at least. You only catnapped last night. Still fifty minutes or so till we arrive."
My chronic sleep deprivation was always a worry for Kyung-tae and Soo-yeon. They'd probably clocked exactly how many hours and minutes I'd managed last night.
Well... I wasn't at peak condition now, but when was I ever?
I shook my head. "This downtime's unavoidable, so might as well review the plan again. Wasting it on crappy sleep? One night was enough."
Haste makes waste. The more you hurry, the less you reach. Proverbs East and West warn against rashness, but when you're in the thick of it, it's never that simple. Plans that seemed thoroughly vetted often revealed better alternatives in hindsight. Times like this, bucking the current, were perfect for minimizing future regrets. Even if plans went south, deep deliberation built a foundation for better improvisation.
Kyung-tae scratched his head. "Not changing the ship's name?"
The bow read Becklux—Beta Crucis's nickname.
I shook my head again. "Keeping the original's better for camouflage."
"Got it."
Sensing my need to think, Kyung-tae stepped away.
Nearly an hour later, the Becklux docked. A handful of Public Security officers waited pier-side, faces grim. CCP internal politics were life-or-death. If their boss Gao Xusen fell, heads would roll down the line. No wonder they looked dour.
If that guanxi I'd personally nurtured was still around, it'd be a huge help now.
The provincial official who'd gifted me a Macao hotel and casino? Locked up for 15 years on charges of keeping mistresses and bribery. Seventy lovers; his main wife ordered most whacked, scandal hit foreign press. Central Party sacrificed him as a scapegoat. Shame—he was headed for a top post. If he'd kept it to ten like others, he'd have been fine. Chinese officials: high risk, high return investments, then and now.
Stepping off, Miju shook hands with a man sporting three-pip inspector insignia.
"Director Hu. Good to see you safe after just three days."
"You too, Madam Park."
In Chinese, 女士 (lady) carried different age and tone connotations than Korean.
The dark-circled officer eyed me. "This gentleman's...?"
Miju nodded. "Yes. My boss, Chairman Li."
Li was my alias surname. Peruvian passport, bought from a South American broker tied to foreigner-only casinos.
The officer saluted crisply. "Hushan Liang. Secretary Gao ordered me to escort Chairman Li with utmost courtesy."
He glanced at Miju for translation.
"Li Gyu-hwi. We'll be seeing a lot of each other—let's get along."
My fluent Cantonese sans interpreter caught him off guard. Hushan Liang—briefed on him already. One of Gao Xusen's three lifelines in Public Security.
The officer scanned my sunglasses with probing eyes, then guided us to the waiting convoy.
"Please board. The secretary awaits."
I took only minimal escorts, including Kyung-tae. Soo-yeon and the rest handled loading supplies under Public Security watch: food, medical gear, refit materials.
As I boarded, Hushan Liang chatted briefly with his men outside. They pointed at us frantically; he startled, side-eyeing me. Easy guess: ability users sensed nearby mana fields. His subordinates were basic awakened; mine were leagues ahead. I'd tuned my field just enough.
They call primitive magic users ability holders here?
Civilians preferred slang like psychics or miracle strongmen, but the godless Party couldn't endorse superstition officially.
The convoy rolled out. White-plated Public Security vehicles sped in formation; civilian traffic yielded a lane.
En route, shattered CCTVs everywhere—smashed lenses, spray paint. Half-built high-rises bore red graffiti:
And another:
The first explained the wrecked cameras; the second cherry-picked Maoist rhetoric, sounding like the Maoists.
Similar scrawls even in upscale apartments, where security should be tightest.
This'll need the army soon to contain.
Nearly 20-30% of China's surveillance net gone if cameras were out. Online monitoring persisted, but the front-line barrier against popular apathy had crumbled. The hunting ground looked even better than hoped...
"Hold it."
I squinted, barking at the driver. "Stop the car. Now."
"Why?"
"Stop first, then talk. Hurry!"
The three-pip sergeant, baffled but obedient to my tone, radioed the convoy and pulled to the shoulder. Just past one bridge from the pier. The whole line halted.
The front-seat officer, masking irritation: "Chairman, destination's right ahead. Why stop?"
"Look at that truck."
"Truck?"
They frowned, peering at my pointed target, then shook heads at each other—no red flags.
Senior Officer Hushan Liang probed suspiciously. "What's wrong with it?"
Staring at the brake lights, I replied, "Looks like a bomb in the back."
"Pardon? Just concrete sewer pipes."
Superficially, yes—standard rebar-reinforced tubes. But my eyes saw the explosives packed inside. Luckily, clues for normal sight too.
"Look closer. Back end's blocked by something concave, right? Even drew fake pipe innards on it to hide the seal. Why bother unless...?"
"Uh... it's sealed...? Suspicious, yeah, but calling it a bomb on that alone..."
"Classic Explosively Formed Penetrator setup. Short barrel's another clue. Think single-use cannon with insane penetration. Those army vehicles lined up? Prime targets."
EFP: one-end-sealed tube packed with explosive, open end capped by concave metal liner. Detonation warps the liner into a hypersonic slug. A 20cm-deep, 3kg copper liner at Mach 6 punches 80cm through reinforced concrete—enough to gut a couple APCs. This one? Meter-plus diameter. God knows the penetration. Thick walls minimized scatter.
Now taking me seriously, the officers eased back, radio chatter frantic. Meantime, the truck U-turned at a crosswalk, parking opposite to aim at the military convoy—30 meters away.
Masked driver hopped out repeatedly, straddling the pipe to sight imaginary trajectories, tweaking aim. Meticulous terrorist—or greenhorn lacking confidence.
A faint satisfaction stirred in me.
Good start. Impresses competence from the get-go.
Chatter escalated to Gao Xusen himself; he said he'd handle it, signed off. But the PLA vehicles, pre-positioned for urban incidents, sat idle five minutes more. An officer lounged against an APC, smoking irritably. No warning reached them. Driver finished thirteenth adjustment, grinning shakily atop the pipe—one eye shut, arm extended. Checked watch, sighed in relief.
Then, the hidden bomb's timer activated.