Oil Tanker 032

When the girl he admired openly threw her arms around another man in public—and it was only their first meeting—even though that man was wrapped head to toe in protective gear, Ma Tian, who considered himself a somewhat charming young man, found his feelings impossible to describe with mere words like anxiety or mixed emotions. He kept telling himself to stay calm, to keep the poise befitting a promising youth, but his sullen expression didn’t ease up even as the group landed on the research vessel, waiting for the helicopter to refuel.

Then, Zhang Fu gave him a resounding smack on the back of the head.

“Kid! The weather report has confirmed that within the next twenty-four hours, a tropical cyclone will form near the tanker, so we’re on a tight schedule! I’ve tolerated you all this way, but if you can’t pull yourself together, you’ll stay on the research ship and wait for orders!”

“Ah, yes!” Ma Tian snapped to attention, realizing that the mission was about to begin. If he kept letting personal matters distract him and endangered himself or his comrades, that would be utterly unforgivable.

As shame crept over him, Yang Xiaohua dragged her suitcase over and stood beside Ma Tian, not meeting his eyes. She murmured, “How could anything possibly be going on between him and me? You blockhead! Don’t get distracted during the mission. Don’t make me look down on you, Ma Tian.”

Indeed, sometimes a girl’s ambiguous remark is enough to fill the heart of any lone soul with courage. Ma Tian was no exception. Suddenly the sky seemed bluer, the clouds whiter, even the heavy, peculiar smell of diesel and electronics aboard the research vessel grew oddly touching, enough to make the heart flutter.

“Sorry.” Wang Chen had observed the exchange, and as Yang Xiaohua walked past him, he muttered quietly.

Yang Xiaohua paused, her almond-shaped eyes revealing a trace of helplessness. “It’s me who should apologize. It’s not really your fault. I got a little carried away—I never imagined you two would survive after the sanatorium explosion. If only Han Li had…”

“Don’t dwell on it. Look, if it weren’t for your help back then, neither of us would’ve made it this far. Don’t put pressure on yourself. In this world, life and death come down to luck, not anyone else.” Wang Chen’s voice was heavy with resignation. He was not good at comforting others, and with everything so messed up, he himself barely understood it all. He’d even been desperate enough to sign up for a life-shortening experiment. Just saying these few words was the best he could manage.

Yang Xiaohua knew the mission was imminent, and dredging up old wounds was inappropriate. She composed herself, patted Wang Chen on the shoulder, and forced a radiant smile. “No matter what, I’ll be watching over you both.”

“Mm.” Noticing Zhang Fu approaching with a bag of guns, Wang Chen hurried to greet him. “Captain Zhang…”

“Hey, cut the formalities. We’re all in this together now. Here’s your gear and breaching explosives. Check it—make sure everything’s in order. By the way, I haven’t had time to ask: headquarters says you’ve had firearms and demolition training, but no combat experience. How good are you, really? Don’t exaggerate and don’t be modest—I need an honest answer.”

“Sure. With a pistol, I can hit every shot on a moving target at ten meters. Same for a shotgun at twenty-five meters. As for explosives, I’ve used grenades and charges before.”

“Not bad. You handled guns before?”

“No, just had a good instructor during training.” Wang Chen said this, but the memory of that devilish instructor still made him uneasy. The man had been relentless—just pulling the trigger over and over until their index fingers bled, and even now they hadn’t fully healed. But it had been worth it. Judging by Zhang Fu’s reaction, he was satisfied with Wang Chen’s marksmanship.

Back then, when Hu Chun shot at Granny Hui, he’d missed the target completely at close range. Being able to consistently hit targets at a certain distance in such a short time was already a significant achievement.

Before boarding the helicopter again, Zhang Fu and Zhou Feng’s two special ops teams received their vaccinations and donned full protective gear. Wang Chen and Liu Shuhuan, on the other hand, could take off their protective suits once the helicopter was airborne. When Wang Chen finally shed the suit, he truly understood what it meant to feel light as a feather.

Without the barrier of plastic, he could once again sense the salt in the sea air, the scorching sun on his skin, and the chill of the shotgun in his hands. He felt more relaxed than ever, eyelids half-closed, mind blank and free of thoughts. The other special ops members noticed his composure and flashed him approving smiles. Soon, the only sound in the cabin was the steady roar of the engines.

As the elite Navy pilot, codenamed “Bat,” announced over the radio that they were about to land, Wang Chen opened his eyes. Through the window, he saw the calm, shimmering sea and a spindle-shaped, dark brown ship growing larger and larger. Ahead of the stern tower came into view a standard helicopter landing pad. The “H” was faded and worn, but still served its purpose.

The helicopter shuddered slightly before coming to a stop. Wang Chen, with his team of security operatives, jumped out on one side, following the preplanned route towards the tanker’s entrance beneath the tower. Zhou Feng’s team, with Liu Shuhuan, raced to the bow to enter from there. Both teams would search simultaneously to minimize gaps and maximize efficiency.

Fang Qiang, inexperienced with shipboard landings, served as the helicopter’s copilot for this mission. Along with a naval ship expert and Bat, they would secure the helicopter and clear the tower, ready at any moment to extract the teams.

With the mission underway, even the usually carefree Ma Tian and the rather ordinary but earnest Wang Chen were fully alert. Wang Chen, his physique enhanced and now unburdened by the cumbersome suit, looked especially sharp in his tactical gear, jogging to the entrance. As planned, he took out a sticky charge and pressed it to the lock while Old Dog, a few steps behind, turned sideways to reveal a pocket on his backpack. Wang Chen pulled out a timed detonator, attached it, and shouted, “Three seconds to blow!”

That was another advantage of having Wang Chen on the team—the security operatives didn’t have to compromise their protective gloves for delicate tasks like setting explosives.

After the blast, and confirming the door was open and the air inside breathable, Wang Chen detached his helmet’s night vision device, raised his shotgun, and charged through the doorway.

He was met with an indescribable stench. Even through his mask, the foul smell seeped in, making his nose burn. Scattered about were fragments of corpses. Ma Tian’s earlier guess was right: after a month or more of being sealed and baked, most of the bodies had dried out, and the breach had left them in pieces.

Stepping over the remains and through a second, open door, Wang Chen found his vision awash in dark green. A corridor stretched straight towards the stern, with doors every ten meters or so. He opened the nearest one—inside were a few bunk beds, messy clothes, personal effects, and pin-up posters on the wall. Clearly, a crew quarters.

As expected, the tanker had been divided into three sections by the cartel: the engine room left untouched, the area beneath the tower for crew and workers, and the forward section for manufacturing illicit drugs. The location of the research center remained to be determined by the teams.

After opening five doors with similar results, no one dared relax—who knew what might lie behind the next one? Besides the occasional mummified corpse, the rooms held only personal effects. Judging by the clothing, all the dead were crew members, with no obvious wounds. Two had clear signs of scratching on their fingers. It seemed the zombie pathogen had contaminated both the drugs shipped from the tanker and the crew themselves—perhaps spread through the air conditioning. With low initial concentration, the crew only turned after the drugs had been shipped out, eventually becoming desiccated corpses after a month in that sealed environment.

Three more doors yielded no surprises. But when the ninth door opened, Wang Chen froze.

At the threshold, four or five shriveled corpses lay haphazardly. Unlike the earlier crew, these were women—naked. Inside, curtains hung everywhere, with double beds behind each. It was obvious this room was set aside to meet the crew’s needs.

Whether these women were willing or not, Wang Chen couldn’t tell.

“All clear inside,” Old Dog reported, coming out after sweeping the inner rooms. Seeing Wang Chen’s dazed expression, he patted his shoulder. “Don’t think too much. They’re gone now. No ropes on their hands and feet—if they’d been forced aboard, you’d have seen cages and chains, not curtains.”

Wang Chen nodded and stepped out.

The rest of the way was uneventful. The upper decks were soon explored. Besides the two-meter-high crew quarters, the forward, more spacious section housed a biplane, a small submarine, and two speedboats, all hidden under the first deck by hydraulic lifts and rails. The cartel had been shrewd—had these craft been left on deck, anyone would have known the tanker was suspicious.

Both teams met up by the cranes. Zhou Feng’s group had found about a dozen corpses and the fuel tanks, but nothing else of note. With no zombies left to bite, even Liu Shuhuan, usually nervous, now seemed emboldened—faking a bravado typical of a streetwise hustler.

“The structural diagrams we collected for the tanker are useless now,” Zhang Fu grumbled. The stifling heat of the ship was starting to overwhelm even the suit’s air conditioning, and everyone was uncomfortable.

“Captain Zhang, the cartel probably left the engine systems untouched, so the forward passageways on either side still lead to the lower decks and engine room. But who knows where these four entrances go,” Zhou Feng, the deputy leader, chimed in.

“Tower team, what’s your status?”

“Tower team, Bat reporting: found one mutilated corpse on the south side, four mummified corpses inside. Everything else is normal—all systems powered down. Last readings show about twenty-six percent fuel remaining. The ship expert says the passageways all connect in pairs; these South Americans probably didn’t bother to make it a maze.”

“Right. You take the left, I’ll take the right.” With the ship full of harmless corpses, Zhang Fu didn’t hesitate.

The teams split up. Zhang Fu’s group, with Wang Chen leading, headed down the right passage to the second deck. But what they found was almost comical: no drug labs or zombies—just a sealed-off deck. At the very front, they found four pressure doors, two large and two small, firmly locked. It seemed that, once power was cut, these doors automatically sealed the second deck. To get through, they’d need either explosives or to restore power.

The cartel had clearly anticipated a breach. If Interpol or special forces boarded, the first move would be to take the tower and cut power—a standard counterterror tactic. The cartel had reversed it: once power was lost, the pressure doors would seal, giving anyone inside time to escape through a hidden route.

Given that the first deck was just lowly crew quarters, it stood to reason that the leaders spent their time on the second deck, ready to seal it and escape at the first sign of trouble.

After weighing the options—breach or restore power—Zhang Fu opted for the safer route. Who knew what was behind those doors? If there were flammable gases, a blast might destroy the entire ship. Restoring power seemed safer; the cartel was crazy, but unlikely to have rigged the whole ship to blow just for that. Any explosives would have likely been triggered as soon as the doors sealed, not a month later.

Leaving Zhou Feng’s team to wait at the doors, Zhang Fu led the rest down to the engine room and, with the ship expert’s help, finally got the generator running.

“Captain Zhang, tower here—voltage is stable. Confirm restore full power?”

“Wait.” Zhang Fu took C4 from a teammate and set it at a weak point in the hull, then radioed Zhou Feng. “Anything on your end?”

“Emergency lights are on. Pressure doors still sealed.”

“Restore power.”

“Roger. Three, two, one—power on.”

A faint hum filled the air as the LED lights brightened. Wang Chen lifted his night vision goggles, taking in the pale yellow color of the ship—aged white paint, rather than rust. With the corpses and scattered weapons removed, it looked like any ordinary ship.

Just as the teams were about to regroup, the corridor lights began flashing red.

“Bat! The LED lights are flashing red. What does it mean?”

“Captain Zhang, the tower computer just powered up—still running diagnostics!” Even before the computer finished, the answer was clear: the sound of rushing water came from the bow, and the sprinkler system activated, dousing everyone in seawater.

“Bat! Find the sprinkler controls. Shut it down, quick!” Zhang Fu barked, racing for the second deck. The ones without suits—Wang Chen and Liu Shuhuan—were soaked, while the rest, still in protective gear, found their vision and movement hampered by the deluge.

“Captain, the computer shows a short circuit in the sprinkler controls!”

“Find another way!”

“Wait, Captain! I’ve found the manual override. I’m on it!”

“Hurry!”

Fortunately, the manual override worked. The torrent slowed, but in less than three minutes, water was already up to their calves, still pouring down from above. It would take time for it to drain into the lowest deck.

“Looks like someone tried to short the sprinklers after being trapped, hoping to survive. But with the power out, it was no use,” Zhang Fu guessed, shaking water from his rifle.

To die of thirst on a tanker—a truly wretched end.

With power restored, the pressure doors at the bow lost their seal and opened easily. Wang Chen and Liu Shuhuan, shotguns raised, led the way into the second deck. Old Dog and Lamen took the rear, smashing the hydraulic arms off the doors to prevent them from closing if the power failed again.

Under the white lights, if not for the swaying and the seawater sloshing at their feet, Wang Chen would have thought he’d entered a high-end laboratory. All those filthy, decrepit drug labs seen in films had no place here. Brown anti-static rubber tiles covered every surface. Two production lines and several packaging machines stood in perfect order, with colored tape marking safety zones.

It was clearly a workshop for both legal and illegal drugs. Dozens of corpses lay scattered. The sprinkler system had washed the drugs off the tables, leaving the water a strange gray-white, with some areas turned to sludge. Zhang Fu scooped up some of the sludge and rubbed it between his gloved fingers. Though he couldn’t tell what it was, the acrid smell in the filtered air was enough for a grim conclusion.

“Wang Chen, Liu Shuhuan—put your respirators on. This sludge is probably liquefied stimulants. If it evaporates, your masks might not be enough.”

“Understood.” Wang Chen held his breath, swapped out his mask, and put on his respirator. Liu Shuhuan did the same.

“Zhou Feng’s team, leave three here to collect finished products—there may be pathogens on them.”

Through the door to the lab was a gleaming, sterile workspace divided into eight huge translucent clean rooms, occupying hundreds of square meters. The entire midsection of the ship was a laboratory.

“Wang Chen, Liu Shuhuan, Ma Tian—you three with me. The rest stay and search for pathogen samples.”

The lab was larger than anyone had expected, so Zhang Fu had to split the team to speed up the search.

Behind the clean rooms were two decontamination chambers. Beyond, the left led to a cold storage room, the right to a supply room. The cold storage door was half open, with several broken corpses inside and out, all apparently lab staff. Judging by where they fell, survivors had fled into the cold room to escape zombies, but when the power failed and temperatures soared, they’d risked leaving and been killed.

The four pressed on, passing two fire doors to the rear cabins.

Here was the living area for the cartel’s top brass, decorated in the gaudy style of a South American nouveau riche. With the corpses floating in seawater, the scene had an eerie, almost voodoo-like beauty.

“Lavish” didn’t begin to describe it: gold banisters, gold doorknobs, and, most outrageously, two short-barreled gold AK-74s mounted above the fireplace, with four golden magazines and boxes of ammo as well.

“Damn, that’s rich,” Liu Shuhuan muttered, lifting his mask to spit. He felt if he didn’t distract himself, he’d want to snatch those AKs.

Zhang Fu saw right through him. “The more valuable something looks in a place like this, the less you should touch it. You’ve heard what the cartel will do. I’d bet those AKs are rigged—touch them and we’re more than eighty percent likely to get blown sky high.”

The words cut right through Liu Shuhuan’s greed, making it vanish like spring snow. He shivered and changed the subject. “Captain Zhang, this should be the last room. What now?”

“Now comes the slow, meticulous work—”

“Captain, at your feet!”