Search for the Buried Bomber dp-1

by Xu, Lei

  CHAPTER 23

  The Unknown Team

  Wang Sichuan and I stared at one another. I looked over at Pei Qing. He and Old Tang were doing the same thing. I had deeply hoped that at least one of us would not be wearing a look of inexpressible terror, but even the eternally unflappable Old Cat had turned deathly pale.

  The phone continued to ring, though the sound soon changed to a low rattle, almost like a belch. The decrepit bell clapper must have split off . There was a young soldier standing beside the telephone. He had no idea what to do. As he looked over at us, his hand began to tremble—his conditioned reflex to grab the phone from the receiver. It continued to ring for a long time. None of us did anything, just stood there stock-still, deadlocked. We remained frozen until the phone stopped ringing. Though even then we didn’t know whether the call had finally stopped or if the phone had simply broken. Still, once that strange, rattling noise was gone, we immediately relaxed.

  Again we looked back and forth from one man to another. We couldn’t pretend this had never happened, but what was there to do now? We prepared to leave. A few soldiers walked over to the phone. Old Tang turned back and called to one of them, “Little Zhao, weren’t you a communications soldier? Well, go on then. Take a look at the phone.”

  The young soldier nodded, but as he was about to pick it up—brring!—the phone suddenly began to ring again. We jumped in fright. Old Tang whipped around, instantly set his feet in horse stance, and fluidly pulled his gun. Many soldiers who’d studied martial arts were like this. I’d seen monk soldiers—able fighters and rather skilled with a gun—but as soon they were frightened, they reflexively shifted into a martial-arts pose. Their feet hit the ground and they’d be in horse stance, but with their gun raised out. It never failed to amuse me.

  No one was about to laugh now. We were frozen once more, staring stiffly at the telephone. Then Wang Sichuan yelled, “Who are you scared of?” strode over, and grabbed the phone from the receiver. “Hello!” In the black depths of that crack in the earth, within the ruins of a secret installation abandoned by the Japanese, hearing an ancient telephone suddenly ring—and then Wang Sichuan marches over and takes the call? Our hearts were going to beat out of our chests.

  Wang Sichuan went silent. The sound that came in response was utterly inhuman. We all heard it: a series of quick bursts of static electricity and a host of indescribable noises, as if someone were coughing very, very rapidly. One after another we each picked up the phone and listened. We had no idea what it might be, but we knew it had to mean something. There was a definite pattern amid the noise.

  Now, reader, I know what you’re thinking: Morse code. We all jump to this conclusion because all those foreign adventure movies and novels overstate the frequency with which that simple telegraphic code is used. To be sure, explorers from other countries have and still do employ Morse code as a way to increase their chance of survival, but for us that was an impossibility. Morse code uses the Roman alphabet, and in the China of that era, Russian was the language to learn, from the first day of school all the way through graduation. It wasn’t until the late 1950s that ChineseSoviet relations soured and English became the required foreign language. We only began to learn some elementary English in the reeducation classes we took at the workers’ university once the Cultural Revolution was over. So even if it had been Morse code, none of us would have been able to understand it—we didn’t even know the ABCs.

  The noise continued for another forty-five seconds before disappearing again. Wang Sichuan then hung up the phone, though the rest of us remained circled around it, waiting for it to ring again. For the next two hours, it made not a sound.

  Old Tang ordered all corpsmen in the vicinity to check the phone line. He then asked Little Zhao, the former communications soldier, just what the hell was going on. Little Zhao explained that hand-crank telephones are in fact a sort of generator and can receive (and send) two kinds of calls: from another telephone or from a routing room. Just crank the lever and the other end of the line will start to ring. Because this phone had just done so, there could only be one explanation: the telephone wire still had power. The indistinct sound we heard was most likely the result of a disjunction between a dry cell that was out of power and a telephone wire that wasn’t. These wires can last for a very long time, but the dry cell was certainly already ruined. And since this sort of telephone can communicate across a relatively large distance, it would be very difficult to estimate where the call was coming from.

  The group of soldiers Old Tang had sent to follow the telephone line tracked it for about one hundred feet, only to find that after joining up with the giant power cable, it too extended deep into the sinkhole. This gave Old Tang the basis for a materialistic explanation. The power cable and the telephone wire, he said, had undoubtedly begun to affect one another. When we got here, he’d sent a couple guys to check on the generator. While fiddling with it, they must have somehow enlarged the electrical current, which then penetrated the insulation of the telephone wire and caused the phone to ring. As for the patterned regularity of the noise, it was probably just the sound of static electricity running through the circuit. This felt like a sensible explanation. Wiping the sweat from our faces, we were so relieved we nearly congratulated one another.

  Only Pei Qing refused to accept it. Continuing to stare at the phone, he shook his head at Old Tang, his face unfathomable. Old Tang asked Pei Qing what was the matter. Pei Qing looked at us for a moment, then, taking the phone in hand, he began to cautiously rotate the crank, gradually gaining confidence and quickening his pace. Somehow, the call went through! Placing the phone against his ear, he looked at us, brought a finger to his lips, and motioned for silence.

  Describing the event later, we would all say this call had been placed straight to hell. The call continued soundlessly for around ten seconds, and I thanked God for not giving us any further scares. Then, once more, the phone released that indescribable noise.

  Pei Qing listened for a moment, then brought the phone up so we could hear: that continuous high-frequency cough, no different than before. “Have you ever seen The Eternal Wave[1]?” he asked.

  CHAPTER 24

  The Eternal Wave

  It wasn’t that we were stupid, we just didn’t know what Pei Qing meant. At the time, nobody knew anything about telegraphs except for that di-di-di sound they made in the movies. And you young folks born after the seventies, even if you’d watched a bunch of old movies, would you therefore know, upon hearing a rhythmic series of knocks, that it was some kind of meaningful signal? I doubt it. Thus it was truly incredible to us that Pei Qing could make some kind of connection. Finally, it was Little Zhao who said something. “Engineer Pei, do you mean that the sound we’re hearing is a telegram?”

  “Listen,” said Pei Qing. “Do you hear that—pa-pa-pa-pa, pa. It starts over every thirty-four seconds.” He raised his arm and glanced at his watch. “Each time the duration is exactly the same.” He looked over at us. “It’s not a person on the other end of the line. It’s an automatic transmitter on a loop.”

  “Are you sure?” asked Old Cat, narrowing his eyes at Pei Qing.

  Pei Qing nodded several times, then turned to Little Zhao. “During basic training, did you communication soldiers memorize telegraphic code?”

  Little Zhao nodded, chagrined. “But I’ve pretty much forgotten it all.”

  “Will it come back to you if you listen to the code?” asked Pei Qing. He gave the phone to Little Zhao and asked us for a piece of paper. I had no idea what was going on, but I took a workbook from my pocket and handed it over. Little Zhao’s brows wrinkled as if he were being forced to do something against his will. With a great show of effort he put his ear to the phone and listened for the code.

  To this day I still have that notebook. Here is what he wrote down:

  281716530604714523972757205302260255297205222232

  After he finished, we stared uncomprehendingly at the string of numb
ers he’d written. Looking over the numbers once more, Little Zhao stated confidently that it was a message in standard Chinese telegraphic code. Chinese telegraphic code has codes for about seven thousand different characters. Even a professional telegraph operator often needs a codebook to interpret lesser-used characters. What hope was there for Little Zhao, who’d been trained in no more than the fundamentals? Still, he split the numbers into groups of eight, giving him six phrases, though among these he could understand only the most commonly used codes.

  Extreme28171653

  —06047145

  —23972757

  Us20530226

  Stop02552972

  —05222232

  Based on these few characters, all we could determine was that the person or people who’d set the automatic telegraph weren’t Japanese. We passed the text around so everyone could take a look, but it was only for show. We merely took it up, moved our eyeballs symbolically, and passed it on, like the text of a long presentation being passed around some basic-level meeting. Only two people—I remember this very clearly—examined the text in great detail. One was Old Cat; the other was Pei Qing. Old Cat scanned it once, his brow wrinkling immediately. Pei Qing, on the other hand, stared at it, biting his lower lip all the while. Then, suddenly, he spoke up: “I think I understand it.”

  We all turned to him at once. “My father was our town’s telegraph operator,” said Pei Qing. “When I was little, I would translate messages for him. I’ve probably seen codes for more than a thousand different characters. Now, when I send telegrams, I write the code directly. I don’t need a postal worker to translate it for me.”

  We looked at him as if he were some kind of supernatural being. Old Cat’s face had turned pale. “What does it say?” he asked.

  Pei Qing leaned over the desk, snatched my notebook from me, and began to scrawl. We crowded around, several of us fishing out cigarettes. As he worked, we smoked and observed his progress. He had memorized the translation for the code and was writing the correlated word next to each group of eight numbers. At last, he handed us the notebook to see what he had written:

  Extreme28171653

  Danger06047145

  Save23972757

  Us20530226

  Stop02552972

  Prospecting05222232

  “The telegram is a cry for help!” several of us gasped.

  Everything then happened extremely fast. As Old Cat looked at the translated text, faint beads of sweat appeared on his forehead. He told Old Tang to gather everyone together. We had to set off at once. They were in danger, he said, and we couldn’t delay for an instant.

  In reality, we were all aware that this ghostly transmission had been sent some time ago. The sender had probably already suffered some untimely fate. Still, it was our duty as the rescue team to assume the best. We had to believe the people we were tasked with rescuing were still alive. While we were readying our equipment, Old Cat stopped a few of us and said we had to stay here. Something bad had surely happened up ahead, he said. We were completely in the dark about the danger awaiting us. If we all entered together and whatever happened to the other team befell us as well, our entire group would be annihilated. A few of us needed to stay behind and form the second echelon. Once the first unit made it safely, they would send someone back to notify us.

  We objected. How could they expect us to go along with this? “Why don’t you guys be the second echelon?” said Wang Sichuan. “I’d never do anything so cowardly.”

  Old Cat just shook his head. “Right now this is a military operation,” he said, “and Old Tang has the most weight around here. This is what he wants. Obey orders! In any case, all of you are injured. Staying behind is in your best interest.”

  Saying this, he walked off. Wang Sichuan bristled, but after Old Cat mentioned the word orders, he could no longer protest. Everyone knew that Old Tang was a softie. These orders must have come from Old Cat himself.

  He hadn’t gone more than a few steps when he suddenly turned back. “You can understand telegraphic code,” he said to Pei Qing. “That’ll probably come in handy. They’ll stay here, but you come along.”

  Pei Qing seemed to have been expecting this. Smirking, he turned to us. “Take good care of the place!” he said, his voice sickening. Wang Sichuan was so angry he was almost spitting blood.

  We watched them board the three boats and quickly push off from the bank. The person at the head of each shined his flashlight along the cave walls, searching for the power cables. Twenty minutes later, all three had disappeared into the dark of the cave, their noises moving farther and farther away. I was not accustomed to the sudden quiet that descended upon us. Looking around, we discovered that, in addition to Wang Sichuan and I, the deputy squad leader and three engineering corpsmen had also been left behind. All at once I felt a kind of sadness.

  What should we do now? Wang Sichuan asked me. All I could say was that Old Cat had a point. We were injured. There was no denying it. In a way he had been doing us a favor. All five of us squatted down. Even the deputy squad leader looked crestfallen. A soldier doesn’t fear death, only that he might be unable to join the battle. There was nothing to do but look for a few cigarettes to console them with. As I reached into my pocket, I was given a start. I withdrew my hand. There was another note.

  CHAPTER 25

  The Second Note

  The note was superficially identical to the one I had been given on the rocky shoal, both torn from our worker’s insurance documents. Paper back then was thick, yellowed, and rough, not at all like today’s high-quality stock. Opening it, I saw, once again, only a few small characters: “Enter the sinkhole.”

  The three characters were written in an exceedingly sloppy manner, so sloppily that it took me a while to figure out what they said. They’d been jotted down in a terrific rush. I could feel my heart thump heavily in my chest. Enter the sinkhole? I turned and looked to where it yawned amid the circle of iron railings. It wasn’t far away. All of the power cables hung from its mouth like the tentacles of an octopus, winding together in thick bundles. Between these river water ran down into its black depths. Enter this sinkhole? I was confused and reached inside my pocket once more, but besides my cigarettes, I found nothing else. Who could have slipped it in there? When I discovered the first note, warning me to “Beware of Pei Qing,” I had disregarded it, assuming it was some trick played by Chen Luohu. Now, having received a second one, I was forced to take it seriously.

  Wang Sichuan and the rest were all squatting nearby. They saw the mix of emotions that played across my face. They all crowded around to take a look. Knowing I wouldn’t be able to resolve the matter myself, I handed it over. Maybe one of them could figure out just what the hell was going on.

  Wang Sichuan gulped and said it had to be a clue, but damned if he knew who it was from or why they’d given it to us like this. Could our team be harboring an enemy spy? We all agreed that was a possibility. Otherwise there would be no need to convey information so surreptitiously. Wang Sichuan then jumped to his feet, saying, “Comrades, the chance to win honor has arrived! It looks as if there’s something fishy going on in that sinkhole and the enemy spy cannot be allowed to find out about it. Thus it was we who were covertly appointed to investigate. This shows the confidence our comrades have in us. Come on then, there’s no time to waste—let’s begin at once!”

  I stopped him. “Something’s not right. We need to make some kind of plan first. We don’t even know who placed the note in my pocket. Let’s first go down to the mouth of the sinkhole and take a look. Even if we really are going to explore it, we still shouldn’t make that decision hastily.” Wang Sichuan nodded, adding that, in fact, this was just what he had intended all along. So we turned on our flashlights and made our way over to the sinkhole.

  The engineering corpsmen who’d just surveyed this area had left their anchors and locks. With these we made our way smoothly down the wall to where the sinkhole opened. To be honest, I hadn’
t looked at the sinkhole too closely until now. When we first arrived, I’d noticed straightaway how slippery the rock was around the entrance and so hadn’t dared get any closer. The mouth was big enough to drive a jeep through, though the tangle of electrical wires took up almost half the space. The remaining gap was pitchblack, and out of it blew an intermittent cold wind.

  Thanks to the soundness of my exam-based education, I could already tell what it would be like inside just by looking at it. Indeed, sinkhole was a rather apt description of the thing. Despite being located deep underground, it was fundamentally identical to sinkholes on the surface, having been formed by erosion as water flowed down a vertical crack in the rock. I didn’t know how deep it went, but once the surface water had penetrated to a certain depth, the sinkhole would either begin to slope down along the rock strata—descending gradually into the earth like a set of stairs—or form a tilted joint, becoming winding and complex. This sinkhole was a kind of cave within a cave. The water most likely exited through some hair-thin crack at the end to become groundwater, but it was also possible that beneath our feet there was another cave system or that somewhere down below was an even deeper tributary of the underground river.