Search for the Buried Bomber

CHAPTER 2





Arrival



We wound our way along the saddle ridges twisting through the chain of mountains. In many places the path was just a small gap between trees. The tracks we followed had been built with planks cut from the trees around us. The difference between such temporary measures and real roads, you could feel it in the rattling of your bones. Hours of twisting roads and constant jolts slowly shocked us senseless.

As we drove along, we each tried to figure out where we were. We'd been told the 723 Project was in the Greater Khingan range, but the area we were passing through bore little resemblance to it. Some of my fellow passengers said that though the deep forest here was similar to the Greater Khingan, the terrain and topography were entirely different. Plus, the Greater Khingan would have been even more unbearably cold this time of year. They figured we'd entered the Langshan ("Wolf Mountain") range instead, and that we were being driven directly into the depths of the forest.

These, of course, were only guesses. We really had no idea where we were. Judging from the size of the mountain range around us, Old Cat told me later, he'd thought we might have already crossed the Chinese-Mongolian border and were now in Outer Mongolia.

The road went on forever. The saddle ridge coiled itself back and forth through the range. As our driver threaded his way along the twisting mountain passes, we soon lost all sense of direction. We could only resign ourselves to going wherever it was we were being taken. We drove along at a terribly slow pace, and the truck broke down frequently. Our tires kept sinking into the black morass of fallen leaves that littered the path. I can't remember how many times I was awoken to get out and help push. By the time we finally reached our destination, four days and five nights had passed.

I remember our arrival as if it were yesterday. A sweeping valley appeared before our exhausted eyes. Amid the thick brush, we could see rusted chain-link fencing crawling with green vines. Looking closely, we could just make out the faint trace of Japanese characters written on the wooden fence posts. Inner Mongolia had been part of Manchukuo, a puppet regime the Japanese had established in the Northeast. They had carried out all kinds of secret activities throughout the region. While prospecting, we would often come across hidden Japanese bunkers built into the mountains. Most had been doused in gasoline and set alight when the Japanese withdrew, but some still contained strange installations. I remember once finding a three-story building in which each story was only half the height of an average human. There were no stairs and you had to climb a chain to reach the next floor. To this day I still have no idea what that building could possibly have been used for.

After we drove past the fence and the trees that stood behind it, there appeared to us a number of simple wooden cabins, all of them in advanced states of disrepair. Long, tendriled vines climbed the walls. The roofs seemed to have collapsed beneath the weight of fallen leaves. They looked to have been abandoned for thirty to forty years. Several PLA trucks were parked alongside the cabins, and more than ten military tents had been set up. Seeing our truck arrive, a number of engineering corpsmen hurried over to help us unload our belongings.

Rong Aiguo was here as well, but he didn't come greet us. He just stood at a distance and watched, his expression serious as ever. I later realized this was the last time I ever saw the man. I don't even know whether Rong Aiguo was his real name. After the project was over, I ran into most of the men who served beside me at 723, but I never saw Rong Aiguo again or heard even a single mention of his name. I asked many veteran officers—men with vast numbers of contacts—as well as the numerous high-ranking military commissars with whom I sometimes worked. None of them had ever heard of a Rong Aiguo. I have to believe that whatever Rong Aiguo's true identity was, it was something remarkable. He wasn't just some common official within the engineering corps. Of course, all this was after the fact and has nothing to do with the events that were about to unfold.

After exiting the truck, we were led to our rooms in the broken-down log cabins and helped to settle in. These had previously housed Japanese soldiers, and the furniture they'd used was still there, all of it neatly arranged but ruined to such a degree that the wood flaked off like butter when rubbed between one's fingers. The rooms had been quickly straightened up for our arrival and lime powder sprinkled about to kill any insects, but one shake of the bed's wooden baseboard and a whole pile of unidentifiable dead insects came pouring out. The baseboard itself was soaking wet. There was no way to sleep on it. The only thing to do was unroll our sleeping bags and sleep on the floor. I detested those cabins. The atmosphere inside them gave me a strange, uncomfortable feeling. People from my generation are all similar in this respect: as soon as we enter a place somehow connected to Japan, a heavy, difficult-to-express feeling comes over us. Still, I had no choice but to stay there.

After we finished unpacking, a young private took us to get something to eat. Some of the other guys and I stuck by Old Cat. Of all of us, he seemed the most at home. I'd watched him when we first rolled in. As soon as he saw all the tents already laid out, he began to smirk, as if he knew what was about to happen. There was a certain gravity to Old Cat, and you could tell he had a handle on things. I breathed easier at his side.

It was a quiet afternoon. As night fell the twenty or so of us were led to a large tent. A curtain had been drawn at the front of the room and a projector set up at the back. The man conducting the meeting was a colonel. I felt that I'd seen him before, but couldn't remember where or when. He began by very formally welcoming us to the 723 Project and apologizing for the inconvenience we had suffered due to its secrecy. Of course, his face didn't betray a hint of regret, and as he spoke he wasted few words.

"Today's meeting will contain national secrets of the highest order," he said, "and so I must request that you all raise your right hands and swear that, for the rest of your lives, you will never divulge what you are about to learn, not to your wives, your parents, your fellow soldiers, or your children."

We were all accustomed to taking oaths. Our work as prospectors often involved national secrets. We were frequently required to swear that we would keep our work confidential before beginning a project. In those days, taking an oath was a serious thing, seen as representing our revolutionary sentiments. These days taking an oath is about as meaningful as having lunch.

At the time, national secrets were divided into three levels: confidential, secret, and top secret. For the most part, prospecting projects—like the Daqing oil field, for example—were considered secret, even though photographs of them were still sometimes published in newspapers. None of us had ever worked on a top-secret-level project before. We really had no idea what sort of extraordinary information we were about to be privy to, nor could we have ever imagined.

A number of us glanced around the room from one face to another. We'd been held in suspense for such a long time. I admit having been a little excited. Of course, there were many who remained unimpressed. It was common in those days to make a big hubbub about insignificant events. We'd often be told with great seriousness that we were about to be informed of an issue of extreme national secrecy, and it would turn out to be some ridiculous trifle—the recent whereabouts and mundane behavior of some Party leader, for example.

Someone later explained national secrets to me in this way: if a secret involves the livelihood of the people, it's confidential; if it involves the economy or military affairs, it's secret; and if it involves Party leaders or some impossible-to-explain subversion of the current worldview, only then is it considered top secret.

Of course, in all plans there exist a few snags. As I watched Old Cat swear himself to secrecy, I saw him use his other hand to draw an X on his thigh, meaning the oath wouldn't count. This was a pretty grade-school maneuver, but I could understand being fed up with the absurdity of it all. I mean, the older generations of my family had been involved in some illicit dealings, activities much worse than violating an oath, and none of it had seemed to leave the least sort of negative impression on my father's character. Besides, most people probably wouldn't believe me anyway.

As the oath ended, each of us was filled with his own thoughts. Then the colonel extinguished the lantern and someone at the back of the room started the projector. As it began running, I realized how ignorant I really was—this would be no slide show. That little machine was a film projector. We'd only watched movies on huge screens with correspondingly large projectors. We were all very curious about this miniature version. The colonel, however, gestured sternly for us to stop jabbering.

Ten minutes into the film, I felt my whole body stiffen. I understood that the severity with which we had been instructed to conceal this information was far from just talk. The movie we were being shown was one whose contents should absolutely never be revealed—a "Zero Film."