Search for the Buried Bomber

CHAPTER 22





The Night Fighter



Aplane? 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.

Wang Sichuan went so far as to ask whether the Japanese might have constructed an underground arsenal here, storing the planes that they didn't have time to transport. Should they ever have to repel an assault on their position, they would be ready.

I couldn't see the point of spending so much effort storing a bunch of planes in a cave. The Japs might do things a little strangely, I said, but they weren't fools. We shouldn't turn them into stereotypically idiotic movie villains who could do nothing more than run around cursing "bakayaro" all the time.

Those who'd stayed behind wanted to take a look for themselves, but Old Tang didn't want to take any further risks and sternly denied them. They had no choice but to crowd around Wang Sichuan and implore him to keep talking about what he'd seen. He was only too happy to oblige, continuing to brag and boast about the experience.

Old Tang and Old Cat were also excitedly discussing what had just happened. Now that we'd located a power cable, they guessed the path ahead would be much smoother. The existence of the iron track also suggested that the terrain should begin to even out. Rather than waste any more time here, they decided to continue on immediately. As soon as the order was given, we quickly organized our belongings, dressed, and set out once more.

We followed the cable along the cave wall, advancing slowly, and before long came upon an emergency light. This part of the cave had once been highly developed. It would be a smooth road ahead. Now Old Cat felt there was no need for delay. We floated for two or three kilometers without break, finally coming across a giant tangle of power cables converged on the roof of the cave. Old Tang inspected it for a moment and said there was definitely a generator somewhere nearby. Turning the next corner, we saw a large twostory concrete scaffold erected on the side of the cave wall. Just a little farther down from this scaffolding, level with the river, gaped the black maw of a sinkhole, fenced on all sides by iron railings. A chaos of power cables emerged from within. Old Tang said this was a power distribution center and that the generator was located somewhere inside. He was positive one of the power cables snaking their way out of the sinkhole would lead to the end of the cave. I noticed a guard post perched atop the scaffold. It had a searchlight and was covered in iron netting. Then someone cried out and we all snapped to the direction he was looking. On the lower level of the scaffold were two army tents, along with packs and sleeping bags of the kind we were used to. With one glance we knew this gear didn't belong to the Japanese. It had been set up only recently.

Old Cat immediately stood up. "Get closer," he said to Old Tang.

Even though it was built by the Japanese, I nonetheless felt a sense of comfort climbing onto the concrete base. After all, we'd been traveling through barren and inhospitable terrain for some time now. Painted on the scaffold were partially rubbed-off characters that read: " saki Heavy Industries Joint Unit 076." The first floor of the scaffold was dry, and we discovered that, sure enough, these were PLA tents. This was someone's temporary campsite. As suspected, another prospecting team had entered the cave before us. Even though I had long been sure that this was the case, to have the proof right in front of me set my mind much more at ease. None of our groups had brought tents. That this team had kept theirs suggested there were women among their number, and most likely more than one. Yuan Xile and the rest of her unit must have made it all the way here.

Old Cat ordered a search of the area. After climbing the ladder to the scaffold's second floor, we found a bunker concealed behind a pile of sandbags. The small lounge inside stank of mildew and mold but was otherwise in fairly good order. Crisscrossing electrical wires ran throughout the room. There was a bed, an army-green writing desk, a military-use candlestick telephone, and even a gun rack with a single rifle, so rusted it resembled an iron club. Had there been spiders here, this room would have long since become a snarl of webs. A pity there were none. The place felt almost too immaculate—no dust or dirt, just a collection of mildewed furniture. The whole scene gave me a terribly creepy feeling, as if the Japanese had only just left.

On the writing desk was a mess tin and canteen identical to our own. Evidently the people Old Cat was looking for had held a meeting in here. Nothing else grabbed our attention. After thinking it over, we decided the engineering corpsmen should station themselves here and continue to search the area. A number of daily necessities had been left at the camp, so we figured whoever was staying here wouldn't have gone far. Then, just as we were about to leave the bunker, a shrill ring reverberated from behind me. The noise was clear and sharp, as abrupt as a clap of thunder sounding within the bunker. The hair on the back of my neck stood up. We all turned around. There, on the wall at the back of the room, the ancient telephone was ringing.