Search for the Buried Bomber

CHAPTER 18





Rising Water



The boulder was fifteen feet tall. The water would be that high in ten minutes, though I doubted our nerves could stand to wait that long. Sitting there, watching the water move closer and closer, feeling our hearts thumping fast enough to burst in our chests, having not the slightest idea of what to do next—it was a hellish kind of torture.

Among us, the deputy squad leader remained the most calm. He seemed to have already made his peace with the world. He moved to the side of the rock, sat down, and pulled out his cigarettes. They were soaked to ruin. He tried to light one several times, but finally threw them into the rising water. Wang Sichuan had the greatest resolve. As he shined his flashlight across the cave wall, he yelled for me to come and look for evidence of a waterline. We might determine approximately how high the water would rise, then make whatever preparations remained to us. I hurriedly searched and at last I found it—far, far above our heads.

One of the young soldiers began to cry. They were simply too young, and though we tried to console them, it made no difference. As for me, I felt only restlessness awaiting my death. I didn't have long to wait. Soon the water was above our feet, and with it a feeling of terror spread through us. Everyone held their breath. With faces pale as ghosts, we waited for that final moment when the water would wash over us and all would be gone.

It was then that Wang Sichuan, who had never given up for an instant, suddenly roared and pointed at a section of the cave wall. There jutted the rocky spine of a waterfall. "If we swim over there," he said, "we can climb up as the water rises. At least we'll be able to survive a little while longer."

He had us shine the way with our flashlights, and without another word, he leaped into the swift current. He was swept along, now sinking, now submerging, before he righted himself, got his bearings, and began swimming hard for the waterfall. It wasn't far. With the speed of the current pushing him along, he was soon able to grab hold of the rocks and climb up. He switched on his flashlight and signaled to us that he was all right, that we'd better get over there fast. The deputy squad leader jumped in with his young soldiers. In a moment, they too had made their way over to the waterfall, almost as if there was nothing hard about it. I was ready to go. I slapped Pei Qing on the shoulder, said to him, "Let's go for it," and prepared to jump.

He grabbed me back from the edge, his face deathly pale. "Stay out of the water!" he said.

I was astounded. "What's wrong?"

He pointed at the white water swirling just beyond the rock. "Look!" he said. "There's something in there!"

I switched on my flashlight and shined it on the water beside the rock. There, out of nowhere, was a long black shadow, silently riding the current, its body absolutely still.

Words cannot describe the urgency and disorder of that moment. The white-capped rapids were already above my ankles, Wang Sichuan was bellowing our names from his perch atop the waterfall, Pei Qing was gripping my arm as if he would rather die than release it, and there, in the water just beyond the rock, some dark apparition seemed to be waiting for us. I didn't know what to do even before the thing appeared. I had no energy left now to consider an additional factor. "You see ghosts and spirits everywhere," I shouted at Pei Qing. "Even if there were sharks in the water, we'd still have to go for it!"

Pei Qing refused to listen. With a death grip on my arm, he rolled up his pant leg and yelled, "Take a look at this!"

I lowered my head and looked. A dark black mark had appeared on his calf, like a bruise where something had grabbed hold of him. "I didn't fall into that cage back in the water dungeon," he continued, "something pulled me down. I'm telling you, there's something wrong with the water here."

Nonsense, I thought, but I remembered what I'd seen in the water and my words caught in my throat. Wang Sichuan continued to yell for us. He couldn't understand what the hell was taking us so long. After hesitating only a second longer, I realized it didn't matter whether we jumped in or waited. The water was already at our knees. Regardless of what kind of thing had grabbed Pei Qing, regardless of whether he was willing or not, I gripped his arm and leaped desperately into the river.

The current picked us up in a flash. We were flipped over and around in the waves before I found some measure of stability. All I could see of Wang Sichuan was the beam of his flashlight shining over the water, but that was enough. I took a deep breath and, with all the strength in my body, swam in his direction. I swam wildly, absent of any technique. My eyes saw only the beam hovering in the darkness while my arms worked as hard as they could to get me there. I knew neither how long I swam nor how much farther I had to go. My mind was a blank and I heard only silence. At last, I felt something grab hold of my arm. Wang Sichuan and the others pulled me ashore. Gradually I regained my senses. I could hear once more the thunderous roar of the water crashing all around us.

I wiped the water from my eyes and looked around. The rock waterfall was not much higher than the cliff we'd just left. As I looked back, I saw Pei Qing slowly making his way over to us, pulling himself hand over hand along the wall. He was slow as an old man, but didn't appear to be in any trouble. Once more the strange black shape flashed through my mind. It was nowhere to be seen. Could I have been mistaken again? I wondered. Was it perhaps some trick of light and shadow? Enough, I thought. I calmed myself down and watched as Pei Qing arrived safe and sound. He was pulled up onto the bank and, gasping for breath, immediately lay down against the rock, his face in his hands.

I berated myself for being so gullible, though it was pretty funny that I'd believed Pei Qing's excuses. Now that we'd all made it, Wang Sichuan asked me what the hell had taken us so long. Still panting, I told him to ask me later. I didn't have the strength to get into it yet. He clapped us on the back and said we'd better keep climbing, all the way to the waterline if possible. The water continued to rise with menacing speed. Soon this platform would be submerged as well.

We all nodded. With a burst of energy, the deputy squad leader rose to his feet and began to climb. One by one the rest of us followed. I was still exhausted and waited until almost everyone else was on the wall before beginning. Pei Qing was in even worse shape, so I clapped him on the back and attempted to rouse him. If he were the last to go and somehow fell, there'd be no one left to help him back up. He sat looking at the water, as if some fear still lingered in his heart. Then he stood up, slapped me on the back, and, grinning at me, began to laugh. He turned to the wall and started to climb. Something was wrong. Pei Qing never laughed. What was there to laugh about, and why so strangely? Could he be embarrassed about what had happened? Then Wang Sichuan swore loudly at us from above, complaining that we were always the last ones, so I hurriedly began my climb.

Most underground waterfalls are created by large cracks that open within the rock strata above a cave. Once enough water has poured through these cracks, the calcium carbonate that lines the rock walls is worn away, leaving curtains and flowers of curling stone. These formations were our hand- and footholds as we ascended the falls. Many of them were soft and brittle, splitting beneath our feet, any remaining sense of security fleeing as they crumbled. We continued this slow and nerve-racking ascent until we reached the highest point of the falls. It seemed barely an improvement over the precipice we'd just left. Still, the feeling of imminent doom began to ease slightly. After each of us had found a stable spot to stand on, we began to scan the opposite wall with our flashlights, searching for an escape from the rising water. Our luck appeared to have run out. The wall was almost entirely bare. There was a single outcropping that looked as if it might support our weight, but it was some distance upriver. Given the ferocity of the current, it was clear we'd never make it. The hope we'd felt climbing the falls only amplified our current despair. Any chance of survival had been utterly dashed. Even Wang Sichuan gave up trying. All of us just sat there in silence, glumly watching the water continue its relentless approach.

Then, just as the water had risen to our heels, Wang Sichuan began to sing:

The valley wind swelled our red flag. The raging storm washed our tents.

With blazing passion, we conquered weariness and cold.

Our gear on our backs, we roamed the rolling hills.

Filled with boundless hope,

We sought riches for our motherland.

The heavenly star lit our way. The forest bird woke us at sunrise.

With blazing passion, we conquered weariness and cold.

Our gear on our backs, we roamed the rolling hills.

Filled with boundless hope,

We sought riches for our motherland.

As the winding river joins the billowing sea, So we give our wisdom to the people.

With blazing passion, we conquered weariness and cold.

Our gear on our backs, we roamed the rolling hills.

Filled with boundless hope,

We sought riches for our motherland.

This was "The Prospector's Song." It was the romanticism of this song that made me first decide to become a prospector. Now, these long, dull years of work had all but worn away that youthful passion. I would never have expected Wang Sichuan to sing it now. Though we were facing death, I hadn't felt much of anything, but listening to Wang Sichuan sing with his harsh, gonglike voice, I felt once more traces of the romanticism I had sought as a youth. The rest of us joined in, almost involuntarily, and as we sang that familiar song, our fear began to slip away.

Our situation didn't change, however. No matter how beautifully we sang—nor how awfully Wang Sichuan did—the water continued to rise. In a moment it was above our ankles. Closing our eyes, we sang with all our might. When Buddhists or Christians face death, they can use texts given to them by God to pray their fear be lessened. For us atheists, all that remained was to hope the remembered passion of our younger selves might somehow banish death. Huddled tightly against the rock, we waited for the end to come. The water rose above our knees, our waists, our stomachs. When it reached our chests, the pressure was too great and we could sing no longer.

Suddenly I heard Wang Sichuan yell out, his voice hoarse from singing. I couldn't hear what he said, but I noticed something strange on the water. From somewhere in the distant dark there appeared a blinding light. A moment later, four oxskin rafts floated into view. At first I was sure it had to be an illusion, but as the boats drew closer I could see that none other than Old Cat was squatting at the head of the first raft. A cigarette dangled loosely from his mouth. As he beheld our looks of utter terror and despair, I could see him smirk.