“Now this one is interesting,” said Pei Qing. “The corpsmen said that if it’s not a concrete base, then it’s definitely a precisionblasting site, meaning it’s filled with explosives. They’re certain that in the space behind the door deep holes were drilled into the load-bearing layer of cave rock, then filled at key points with an extremely large quantity of water and shock-proof explosives. That way, if the situation ever became critical, the Japanese could seal the cave off at a moment’s notice, buying themselves some time. Only a select few higher-ups would know the detonation codes required to carry out this ‘sacred’ task. For some reason, however, the Japanese sealed the iron door shut when they left. Clearly they hadn’t wanted to block the cave off entirely. Or maybe the only people who knew the detonation code had already died.”
“You’re saying that we were standing on a heap of dynamite?” I asked.
“No,” interrupted one of the corpsmen behind us, “a huge heap of dynamite.”
The engineering corpsman who spoke up was relatively old, perhaps even older than the deputy squad leader. He pushed his way in between us. Old Cat introduced him as Tang Zeding, company commander of the engineering corps and a veteran just returned from the Chinese-Indian border. Obviously the two of them knew each other. Old Tang had a completely different personality from the deputy squad leader, and perhaps due to his higher rank, he never hesitated to engage with us. After sitting down, he began to speak: “They say that back then, the Japanese generally used Type 97 explosives, a synthesis of TNT and some shit I can’t remember—benzene or something. They’re hugely powerful in water.” He added that we shouldn’t worry. The Japanese had plenty of experience rigging explosives. They weren’t going to go off by accident. He also believed that the location of the explosives showed that the Japanese considered the cavern a key strategic point. The explosives were a fail-safe in case the Japanese lost control of the cavern. If this assessment was true, then the rest of the underground river should be comparatively safe to travel.
“I’m glad you think so,” Wang Sichuan said sarcastically, patting Old Tang on the back.
“So that’s what we’ve been discussing,” said Pei Qing, “but there’s something else we need to address. I’m talking about the issue of Yuan Xile and Chen Luohu.”
What is he talking about? I thought to myself.
“What issue?” I asked. “Aren’t they still waiting for us upriver?”
Pei Qing shook his head. “Old Cat said that when his group arrived, they found our equipment and the corpse of the martyred soldier, but Yuan Xile, Chen Luohu, and the engineering corpsman were nowhere to be seen.”
How could that be possible? Pei Qing said they had two hypotheses: either Old Cat somehow missed Yuan Xile and the other two, or the three of them realized the water was rising, came to rescue us, and ran into some sort of trouble. “In any case,” he said, “we can’t go back and look for them now. All we can do is pray they’re all right.”
My heart was overcome with worry. Chen Luohu and Yuan Xile were both unable to care for themselves. Would that young soldier really be able to look after them?
The discussion moved on to the course of the river. Some suggested we use mise-á-la-masse (a contour map created by measuring how electrical current passes through minerals) to map the area around us, but this data was only approximate and we needed detail. Then a noise suddenly echoed across the cave. We turned our heads. Two of the engineering corpsmen had walked a great distance away from the camp along one of the terraces. All we could see were the beams of their flashlights bobbing in the dark. The deputy squad leader yelled for them to return, but they waved for us to come over, pointing with their flashlights at the roof of the cave.
Wang Sichuan’s eyes lit up and we jumped to our feet. Everybody ran over to see what it was. There, on the ceiling, amid a profusion of stalactites, was the U-shaped form of a power cable. It was thick as a man’s arm, extending down the cave in one direction and to the foot of the cave wall and into the water in the other. As I stood beside the cable, I began to hear the sound of fingernails scratching on stone, just as we’d heard through the rocks atop the iron door. This time, however, the noise was the static produced by electricity coursing through the cable. The corpsmen became very excited. The existence of this cable meant there was some kind of electrical equipment nearby. Whatever generator the Japanese had used, it wouldn’t have produced enough power to go very far. A power cable thus meant we weren’t far from our goal. But how could an electrical cable here still have power? Could the generator still be running? Old Tang had several of the corpsmen form a human ladder to raise him up. The cable was decayed from decades of water erosion, and calcium carbonate had formed thickly around it, pinning it to the stalactites. It could not be pulled free. Old Tang ordered the deputy squad leader into the water to see what the cable connected to.
The deputy squad leader removed his clothes and followed the layers of rock terrace to the river’s edge. With one hand tracking the course of the cable, he dove under. We watched as he swam out, submerging one moment, coming up for air the next. Soon enough his flashlight beam was swallowed up by the dark of the cave. We hurriedly launched one of the rafts and paddled out after him. In a moment we’d rowed to the middle of the river. We could see the deputy squad leader’s flashlight shining from beneath the water. We watched as the beam moved back and forth, then stopped and began to float toward the surface. Seconds later there was a splash of water and the deputy squad leader emerged, gasping for breath. In one fell swoop he hauled himself into the boat.
We anxiously helped him sit down and gave him a towel to dry his face. Unable to bear the suspense, Wang Sichuan asked what was down there. It took the deputy squad leader a minute to regain his breath. Then he stammered out, “A plane! The wreckage of a plane is lying on the river bottom!”
CHAPTER 22
The Night Fighter
A plane? Could we have reached the end of the cave, thirty six hundred feet underground? Impossible! According to the barometer, we weren’t even halfway there. And if the mysterious bomber really was lying on the river bottom, at least some of it would break the surface. Our flashlights would definitely have been able to illuminate the cross of its shadowy hulk, but here the river was a sheet of darkness. We could make out nothing.
“Is it the bomber?” asked Wang Sichuan.
The deputy squad leader shook his head. “It’s a little puddle jumper,” he said. The plane, he said, was sturdily chained to an iron track running along the river bottom and seemed to have been completely destroyed.
Being freshly injured, I had to stay out of the water. Although I was burning with excitement, I could only watch as those around me jumped into the river one after another, each vying to be the first to the bottom. They had been inspecting the wreck for about an hour when Old Tang called us back to shore. Once on dry land, the swimmers breathlessly described the underwater scene while they dried themselves off. We made a sketch according to their description of the plane. It wasn’t until much later that we learned this was a very rare model indeed. An aerodynamics engineer at the Air Force Academy recognized it as a smaller version of the Ki-102 series. If we’d really discovered one down there, the professor said, it would demonstrate how seriously the Japanese regarded this place. Back then the Ki-102 was still a relatively new model of night fighter.
At the time, though, we’d seen only a small number of planes, and our understanding of them was limited. All we knew for sure was that the power cable led to the wreckage of a small plane lying atop an iron railway at the bottom of the river. There was also some strange piece of machinery wedged into a crevice in the rock. Presumably it was the control for the mining track. The wings of the plane had been snapped completely off and the nose was smashed beyond recognition. Perhaps it was the victim of some crash landing. The real question was, however, what was it doing here? To keep finding things where they shouldn’t be is the definition of strange. “Strange.” That still seems the right way to think about the whole situation.