Migration

CHAPTER 1

August 1996

The smell of exhaust from the combination of combustion engine exhaust, factory discharge of carbon monoxide, sulfur, and other toxic chemicals mingled in the air. The city of Guangzhou in the People’s Republic of China was filled with noxious, choking contaminants that were an everyday sensation, permeating every pore and dwelling. Row upon row of state owned high-rise apartment buildings stood in formation at the west end of the fourth largest city in China. A dark utility van and a four-door sedan approached one of the apartment buildings. The residences of this city needed to see no markings to identify the vehicles. The lack of ornamentation broadcast the owner of these two automobiles with as much fanfare as if they had flashing lights. The few people out on the street in front gave a wide berth as the vehicles slithered through to the alleyway behind the apartment complex.

The door burst open with a crash and the sound of splintering wood. Silence. Manchi Pohang woke but could not discern whether he had been dreaming or if something real had woken him. Manchi held his breath and strained to be absolutely still. He listened but could make out no foreign noise. The nervousness was painted on his face with sweat and intense concentration. He was a wanted man. This was his first visit home since his acceptance to the University of Hong Kong three years ago. There it was again, a soft scraping sound. Manchi tensed, was it real? Or was his imagination getting the better of him.

Manchi had grown up in this small room, but now after those years in Hong Kong it felt strangely foreign. Although it had been only three years, even the pictures that hung on the walls looked strange and ancient.

The news had arrived thirteen months ago. A fellow college student had obtained information about the abduction of Manchi’s co-conspirator, Singh Lee, for being an enemy of the state. Manchi was identified as an interest to the state in connection to subversive activities against the Republic. He too could be taken if the authorities knew he had traveled across the boarder into his homeland. Since 1993 Manchi had enjoyed the liberty of living in the British colony of Hong Kong. The college life was casual and his time was filled with academic pursuit and intellectual discussions on the political situation. Even the daily exertion of existing on campus and beers at the local pub were new and exciting. He had tasted liberty. With the passion and energy of youth, Manchi developed the delusion that he could inspire a change. He read the great works by American and French visionaries about their glorious revolutions. It consumed him. So great was his obsession that the realities of the world were lost on him. It was not new, Tiananmen Square was only ten years old. Another sound jolted him out of his half sleep. The scuffing of a boot on carpet, or maybe, the sound of the furnace fan. It could be nothing more than a typical household noise in the twenty-four-story apartment building. Maybe it was one of the many neighbors that surrounded their two-bedroom home on the twelfth floor. Manchi let his body go limp, trying to calm himself. He would not let his paranoia prevail. He forced himself to breath slowly. He was beginning to doubt himself, why the hell was he here? He thought of the sorrow and guilt he felt about visiting his father. He wouldn't be here if it wasn’t for the damned condition. His father’s respiratory illness had become much worse. Manchi had given in to his hysterical mother’s request. She convinced Manchi his father was nearing his last breath. Manchi had made the trek north out of the safety of Hong Kong with relative ease—it wasn’t the getting in, it was the getting out of China that Manchi worried about. Tonight the thoughts of being trapped in China brought fear and anxiety that almost made him feel paralyzed. Manchi closed his eyes and attempted to push his overactive imagination back and will himself to sleep. The sounds were all in his head.

The four uniformed officers rushed into the apartment, stopped and listened. Nothing. The leader, dressed in dark tactical uniform with no markings, waved his men down a short hallway. Silently they moved. The leader held up a fist for them to stop and he listened again. There was a dull thump from the apartment above. He let out a soft breath then edged them closer. The leader then pointed to two of his men to enter the door on the left. Next he motioned for the remaining man to follow him through the door slightly ajar on his right. The leader pushed open the door and saw the suspect: a bare foot poked out from under a quilted bedspread. His partner readied himself to hold the man down. Grabbing the appendage, the leader wrapped a wire-reinforced nylon flex-cuff around the ankle. The suspect screamed out in freight and began to squirm and thrash about, trying to free himself. He was held tight to the bed as both wrists and ankles were eventually banded. Manchi’s eyes portrayed the panic that consumed him, and realized that it was senseless to struggle against the bonds. He looked back and forth between the state security officers and at the cuffs. The worst nightmare for the ideological young student had come true.

Bound like some sort of wild creature, the men handled Manchi with the delicacy of quarry workers breaking granite. Manchi was suddenly pulled violently across the sheets. He let out a scream that was silenced with a fist to the side of his jaw. Mr. and Mrs. Pohang could not respond to their son’s calls for help, the two other uniformed men held them at gunpoint.

Manchi Pohang was dragged from his bed, hitting his head on the side table, sending a Mickey Mouse alarm clock flying. Manchi’s body recoiled from the blow and bounced off the carpet as the unceremonious departure played out. Finally forced to his feet, they led him through his parents’ home and out into the hall. As Manchi shuffled under the constraints on his ankles, a hood was then placed over his head. Out in the hall, he was picked up and thrown into a large canvas basket on wheels and pushed into the elevator. Once on the ground level he was wheeled out into the night. Manchi felt like a rag doll as he was lifted out of the basket and thrown into the back of a van. He felt large hands shoving him into a squatting position in a corner. The vehicle lurched forward and Manchi was left with nothing more than his thoughts and fears.

After what seemed like hours, the van slowed to a stop. There was a mechanical sound as if a chain were being dragged through a gear. The van began moving slowly forward, and then it came to a stop. A long silence followed. The sweat of fear had drenched the Nike jersey Manchi wore. He began to feel an overwhelming panic welling up inside him. Before he could react to his fear, the van door was thrown open and he was hauled out of the back. His knee smashed painfully into something metal as he was led forcibly across a rough surface, rammed up against a doorway, and then dragged down a flight of stairs. The sounds of his struggle echoed off the cold floor and hard walls. After descending more stairs, Manchi was finally thrown into a metal chair and his wrists were secured to the frame with more nylon ties. Someone removed his hood and instantly a club struck him from behind with the force of a pile driver.

We have no sense of humor to your liberal ideations. The uniformed man whispered into Manchi’s ear with vengeance in his voice. You are an enemy of the state and will be broken!

The man who had removed his hood came around from behind Manchi and asked him a question, but Manchi couldn’t understand him through his stunned senses from the first blow. The man then pulled at his hand and forced it into a wooden contraption with screw bolts to tighten wood blocks. The interrogator then worked the steel bolt spindles of what Manchi realized was a common carpenter’s vice. Manchi screamed when the small bones of his hand broke under the force. You have preached your last traitorous sermon! Manchi looked up from his disfigured hand to the bug-eyed officer. He felt the rage and disgust of everything Chinese well up inside him. The pain in his hand and the soulless gaze of the interrogator made Manchi resent the Chinese even more. Though his hand pulsed alive with pain, Manchi Pohang replied, Liberty is something I would gladly give a hand for. He then smiled at the officer with pride. The uniformed interrogators only reply was a sly grin. He reached into the shadow behind Manchi and brought out a small plastic bottle containing a clear liquid. The man jammed the nozzle up at Manchi’s face then shot the stinging acid up his left nostril. The burning liquid drained down his throat and out of his right nostril. Manchi gagged and tried to spit out the fluid. The piercing pain and the sensation of drowning cased Manchi’s resolution to falter. But then it stopped and he quickly recovered, sitting up as straight as his restraints would allow. Manchi could see the officer had removed his green uniform blouse and now stood before him in a white collarless shirt stained with sweat. The officer tucked in the loose ends of his shirt and hitched up his pants. He then nodded to someone hidden in the dark shadows. Manchi twisted desperately in both directions but could see no one.

It came out of nowhere. The sledgehammer flashed before him and struck his left foot, crushing the bones and sending blood splattering across the cold cement floor. Surprisingly, the initial blow didn’t hurt. It was after he looked down at the shattered and flattened foot that the intense pain shot through him. Manchi wailed. After some time, his screams lessening, the officer asked him, Who are your accomplices? Manchi, reeling from the abuse, body fluids dripping from his nose and mouth shook his head no. The officer smiled and disappeared out of the light that was cast from an intensely bright lamp above Manchi. He saw the black polished shoes reappear and then the green pant legs before the officer was fully in his view. Manchi yanked at the restraints and swung his head from side to side in desperation. The man looked at him and gave a smile that showed no hint of compassion. Manchi swore aloud at the regime against which he rebelled. The officer rested a simple cane on his crushed foot and spoke calmly through Manchi’s screams. I didn’t hear the names of your accomplices.

Manchi wanted to be brave and deliver another rebuttal, but his wit had nothing to offer at this level of pain. Manchi shook his head yes, but could not speak with the cane grinding the pulp of his foot. When the officer raised the cane, Manchi felt the return of his fortitude. He spat at the dark bug-eyes. The nail that drove into his back drained him instantly. He felt it being withdrawn and a cool liquid poured over his shoulder. When the acid entered his wound, the searing, ripping horror of it made his entire body tremble. The bug-eyed officer held out a soldering iron towards Manchi’s face. Manchi twisted violently back and forth to dodge the instrument. Vise-like hands steadied his head. No. No! I’ll tell you anything you want! I promise! NO! Manchi’s screams continued as the tip of the iron entered his eye and boiled the liquid inside. Soon his left eye was flattened and lay dead in the socket.

The torture continued: broken appendages, open sores filled with excruciatingly painful substances, and beatings. The last blow to the back of his head forced Manchi’s right eye out of its socket, rendering him blind. After six hours the interrogator had a complete list of twenty-two accomplices, including a young woman that was named as this young man’s most trusted confidant. Having gained all that they could from this traitorous criminal, Manchi Pohang was deposited into a cold, wet windowless cell. Unable to move, he smelled food being delivered, but had not the energy or strength to move or eat. Manchi heard what he thought were rats consuming his daily rations. The small rodents became more confident, making more frequent forays into his small square home. Manchi Pohang ached with hunger and pain. His broken body festered. Every muscle hurt beyond comprehension. The agony lasted only five days. Manchi Pohang was buried in the community site behind the prison facility walls.

CHAPTER 2

He looked at them and wondered how many would die.

Homer Ruiz shrugged at the faces and turned away. Homer slowly retrieved the instruments of his trade and gazed once more down through the open hatch in the deck. After peering into the black void that he knew would become a hell, Homer put away his mask and gloves. He took in the sweetness of the burnt metal that still wafted in the air. The steel, faded white with streaks of rust, felt alive; it moved ever so slightly from a gentle swell. Welding the cracked seam in the ship’s forward hold had been simple and easy. It gave him satisfaction nonetheless. He smiled at his handiwork and then retreated up the steep ladder to the humid polluted air of Hong Kong.

Homer Ruiz looked back across the wide deck with its hatch covers and crane pedestals. He paused and wondered who these people were that would call this decaying wreck a home. Unable to answer the question, Homer continued across the worn deck toward the brow. He made his way down the narrow accommodation ladder that led to the waiting small boat. A Pakistani crewmember pushed Homer’s TIG welding unit behind him. The waiting launch’s unstable deck made it difficult to load the heavy tool; but, eventually they managed to secure the machine to a rail with an old line the boat owner retrieved from a locker under the steering console.

Kapitan Vtorogo Ranga, standing on the accommodation ladder platform, hunched over his cigarette as though he were lighting it in a cold Siberian wind. The blue smoke leaked out up through his cupped hands. He could not distinguish the Filipino welder from the rest of that servant race. Tell your boss that you have more work on the ship. He muttered in Homer’s direction.

Homer was sick of the condescension that Westerners and all of Asia had for Filipinos. The everyday battle of racism to prove himself again and again as something more than a second-class citizen of the world exhausted him. I am the boss. He replied to the seaman.

Who do you work for? Kapitan Ranga asked in response, the taste of sarcasm in his words. Homer sighed, having dealt with this kind of discrimination before. I’m being paid by the organization. He referred to the Triad. I own this business. I’ve been welding for years as a private, sole owner.

Kapitan Ranga, not used to a Filipino worker demonstrating such confidence, coughed on his cigarette smoke he had retro-haled up through his nose. You own it? he peered skeptically at the shorter man.

Homer nodded. The boat suddenly began gyrating from the wake of a passing dhow. Kapitan Ranga, captain of Kamishu, waved a hand at the smoke that hung in the stagnant air and gauged whether or not to continue to treat this damned Asian as a subservient laborer or as a man. Ranga sighed with resignation to accept the short, weathered entrepreneur as a useful necessity to his success. This project was the most ambitious and vast undertaking, an experiment really, than anyone had ever attempted. Thousands of lives were at stake, but more importantly to him were the hundreds of thousands of dollars. With the work this competent welder provided, he just might succeed. The Croatian seafarer followed Homer into the launch that waited to shuttle them ashore. Okay, have it your way, YOU have work tomorrow.

The small wooden water taxi dodged and maneuvered around and through the maze of the many obstacles: anchored vessels and water borne traffic in the harbor. Homer noticed that Kapitan Ranga needed no grip on a rail to steady himself, while Homer struggled with staying upright. It made him resent the sea captain that much more. The boat suddenly bumped into the old tires that protected the floating platform that was connected to the long narrow pier. Homer relaxed his hold on the gunwale then followed Ranga out of the boat. Together they made their way up the wooden pier and across the asphalt parking lot. The sea captain lit another cigarette, his fifth of the day. I need it water tight. Kapitan Ranga told him, returning the Zippo to the back pocket of his Levi’s. His dress was very Americanized Homer thought, amused by the thought that even this man felt the need to be accepted.

Homer nodded acknowledgment. I should do the main deck. That hatch up forward needs work also. There’s a crack up there I noticed when I was down in the hold today. A lot of light was coming in when the hatch was closed. Kapitan Ranga grunted an acknowledgment as he took a puff of his Marlboro. I’ll have my men do an integrity inspection before you come back he said, exhaling smoke through his nostrils. Yes, sir. Homer dropped the unused welding rods into the storage cylinder in the back of his van. He then heard the scuff of leather against pavement; another man approached but was hidden by the Land Rover parked next to Homer’s van. He hated being in this situation…the threat was real. He felt the hair on his arms rise in warning. Calm down. Stay cool. Analyze. To take his mind off the disastrous thoughts that could give him away, the thoughts of his trade came to mind. A technique of focusing on his welding equipment, doing a mental inventory, something that took his mind away from the fear, had served him well. Homer had noticed that the welds on the watertight hatch where he had worked today were crude. It was obvious to Homer’s trained eye that the previous welder had been hurried and had taken no time to keep a smooth bead of weld. That quality of work was of course so common in the old super-power Soviet Union.

Homer had carefully made mental notes as he made his way throughout the ship that day. He reviewed them in his mind; Kamishu was at least 20,000 tons. The previous smugglers Homer had worked on had only been small coastal freighters of 500 to 1,500 tons displacement. Motor vessel Kamishu was a cargo carrier originally designed for carrying dry goods like wheat and cement, but from the slippery decks Homer guessed that at some point it had transported oil. The five large cargo holds were empty except for those faces he had counted in the compartment. He had a natural curiosity that was ideal for this kind of fieldwork. The fact that if he were discovered he would be killed seemed only to excite him, but the fear was always there trying to push its way forward in his consciousness. That thought was brought forth in stark reality when he turned and came face-to-face with his employer.

The man that had walked up made his appearance. His eyes reminded Homer of a shark, a deadly soulless predator.

A Pakistani crewmember that had been standing patiently aside, coughed for Homer’s attention. On Homer’s cue, he and the man hefted the welder into the back of the van. Homer closed the white doors and turned toward Kapitan Ranga and Xian Huang, the well-manicured shark hiding behind a pair of dark glasses.

Homer noticed that Xian’s slender proportions made the man appear much taller than his five foot six inch height. The Triad man retrieved a brown envelope from the inside of his tailored blue silk suit that looked oily in the sunlight. He handed the package to the welder, Here’s ten thousand for the work. He paused as Homer took the envelope and looked square into Homer’s eyes through the lifeless sunglasses. Homer could smell the fresh scent of expensive cologne, which failed to cover the man’s bad breath. Be sure she is ready to sail when we have her loaded. Xian Huang made the last statement directly toward Kapitan Ranga. Thank you, Mister Huang, Homer replied, tucking the envelope into his leather apron. Homer left the two men and retreated around the side and into his van just as a gust of moist air lifted Huang’s yellow silk tie.

His hands shook slightly as he inserted the key into the ignition and shifted the van into gear. Homer drove the small Daihatsu utility van into a congested restaurant district of Stanley Beach, spotted a phone booth, and then double-parked. He glanced around as he entered the phone booth, then made the call to the number he had memorized. The voice said the same thing it had said for the past three years, Hello, you have reached Bank of America’s foreign currency department. Please enter the extension of the person you would like to speak to or remain on the line for an operator. Homer punched in the extension. He had reported several ships departures in this way to the Central Intelligence Agency field officer, Kevin Fiore.

As Homer waited for the line to be picked up, he lifted his eyes to look out the booth window. To his horror, the Kapitan and Huang appeared on the street, stopping outside an Italian eatery. Come on, pick up! Homer said into the phone. The receiver became sweat-slick in his hand, his mouth dried up, and he fought down the urge to duck down and hide. He couldn’t believe they were here. Homer felt a bead of fear roll down his spine. If they saw him and found out whom he was calling, the Triad would have him killed before the day was out.

In his agonizing state of waiting, Homer Ruiz watched. The Croat captain threw down the butt of his cigarette and pressed it out with his worn leather boot. Without moving, the captain then looked up from the smashed filter directly at Homer. Homer stared, paralyzed, but the Croat didn’t make any facial gesture of recognition; instead he simply turned toward a young girl sauntering down the sidewalk with a skirt much too short.

The line clicked in his ear, It’s me. Homer waited for no greeting. I have movements and information. Very well, I’ll meet you at the Kangaroo Club in twenty minutes. Thank you. Homer replaced the receiver, relieved at the expeditious machinations of the agent on the other end.

Homer fought through the traffic winding along the old cart path of Hong Kong Island. This was the most congested city in the world, it offered him the relief that he could escape undetected…hopefully. Constantly checking the side mirrors to see if he were being followed, he realized this was an exercise in futility because of the amount of vehicles on the road, like a line of box cars following a locomotive. Homer relaxed and laughed at the absurdity of a twenty-minute rendezvous in Hong Kong.

The pollution was thick as he entered the crammed island traffic of Victoria, making his way to the tunnel. Homer paid the toll and felt his eyes sting as he entered the passageway beneath Hong Kong harbor. The heavier-than-air fog of exhaust fumes reduced visibility to a mere 50 meters. He had lived in the city for years but still hated the tunnels. He thought of what his lungs must be filtering in this pit as he inched along, nothing but red tail lights as far as he could see.

Relieved as daylight once again returned, he wove in and out of the mid-day Kowloon traffic unaware of the Toyota Bluebird following him, being driven by a man in a dark green nylon jacket that hid a Smith & Wesson 9mm automatic.

Homer finally found a side alley with enough free space to