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The 34-year-old Liao, a peasant fisherman from Hainan, had spent his life on the waters of the South China Sea, on trawlers like the one he now captained. At twenty meters long, She Kou was a seine trawler with a blue hull and the characteristic high spoon prow of Asian vessels. The boat was modest compared to the hundreds of thousands of ocean-going trawlers the PRC sent worldwide in search of protein for its 1.3 billion people. Most mariners would call it a rust bucket, but She Kou, at this moment, was the most powerful warship in the South China Sea.

A woman. Liao’s eyes were drawn to his sister on the bow. Li Ming was two years younger, but her weathered face and her hands, calloused from a lifetime on the boats, made her look two decades older than she was. Li’s sad eyes were focused on the task before her, one she could do in her sleep. The years ahead would be filled with more drudgery and grime, and the smells of diesel, rotting fish, and salt. She ignored the spray that lashed her, as it had thousands and thousands of times in her lifespan, and continued to work the block and tackle of the nets. Now considered a dried-up old maid, she had no way to rise above her deckhand status. Liao watched her from the bridge, and, as the wind blew her long frizzled hair about her head, he noticed the streaks of gray.

Liao would be rewarded by the Party with a woman, and not a hag from the Hainan docks like Li Ming. His woman would be a young beauty from Hong Kong or Shanghai, like the girls who read the news on television with their smooth skin and shiny hair. And silk dresses that hugged their curves, adorning a strong body that could bear him a son. For the service he was about to render to the People’s Republic, he would ask for two sons, and he would get them. Liao Chang would ensure they were educated and ready to attain their leadership positions in the Party. His reward would be great for his actions this day.

Liao lifted his binoculars again to study the wooden banca boats one mile off the starboard bow, six of them in open water northwest of Huangyan Island. They were within hailing distance of each other as they moved northeast dragging lines for tuna. Or grouper. These big fish could feed dozens and dozens of hungry mouths on the mainland, and the mouths were insatiable. The mongrel Filipinos were stealing them from Liao and the People’s Republic right before their eyes — in Chinese waters! A frown formed on Liao’s face when he read the message painted in poorly formed characters on the colorful banners flying above the decrepit and dirty bancas: The Western Philippine Sea is Ours!

We’ll see about that, Liao thought as he turned the wheel left to open the distance a bit. He grunted at the mere thought of the body of water they called the Western Philippine Sea. Even the Western barbarians called this the South China Sea. And the islands were the Zhongsha Islands, not the Filipino name Kulumpol ng Panatag and certainly not the western Scarborough Shoal — whatever a “Scarborough” was. The sea and the territory was Chinese, and the Chinese people, through the ancient construct of yi integrity, named things that belonged to them under heaven.

A stiff breeze from the north formed whitecaps on the one-meter seas, and visibility had fallen to under two miles in gray mist. Perfect, Liao thought, and he nudged the throttle ahead a hair to ensure this opportunity would not pass if the unpredictable bancas were to turn away. Pinned as they were against the shallow bank of Huangyan a few miles to their right, he knew he had them trapped.

From his position at the helm, Liao twisted his head right and peered through an aft-facing window. He saw the technician Xia who stood beside the generator in full foul-weather gear and unusual facemask. When their eyes met, Liao showed two fingers, his estimate of when She Kou would be in perfect position. The plan was to engage the generator when they were one mile upwind; at the moment, the winds were out of the north-northeast, holding steady at 15 knots with an occasional gust to 20. A big deck hand they called “Fatso” worked on a fouled net and hovered nearby. He was not briefed, nor was Li Ming. Both were wise enough not to ask about their landlubber passenger as they went about their tasks. Liao hoped they were up forward when the time came — in two minutes.

The wooden bancas bobbed in the sea, their half-naked deck hands oblivious to the raw conditions as they heaved in lines across gunwales of peeling paint. He saw one of the filthy boats pull in a large fish, and through the binoculars, he could see the Filipinos looking at him from across the water. One sent a gesture of contempt his way before returning to haul in another big fish, one that Liao surmised to be a tuna. Filipinos in their flimsy boats caught the large fish on lines — the barbarians cared about such things! Powerful Chinese boats like She Kou could drag nets and catch fish in the bulk needed to feed the vast multitudes on the mainland that did the People’s work, Western sensitivities be damned.

With gentle pressure on the wheel, Liao turned into them 10 degrees and steadied on a heading of northeast. The pathetic little flotilla was falling off down his starboard rail, and he craned his neck right to keep them in sight. Spray flew over the port side when the protection of the boats’ high prow was lost. Li Ming now worked in even greater misery on the rolling deck under the bridge.

Liao whipped his head left and scanned the horizon. The lead seiner Le Peng 4220 was in position two miles off his port quarter, a gray silhouette in the mist, a single light showing from the mast. Good. The militia vessel provided Liao mutual support and would serve as witness to the service She Kou would render to the People’s Republic on this momentous day.

Liao again checked the winds and with his seaman’s eye assessed the Filipino position as they fell further aft.

Now.

With exaggerated movements of his head, Liao pointed at the clueless bancas and signaled to Xia who nodded in return. Xia threw a switch on the generator, and it cranked to life. Fatso was too close and oblivious to the danger. He watched the machine sputter as Xia moved away from it.

Get back to work, Fatso! Liao thought. Curiosity killed the cat!

Beyond the generator’s single exhaust tube, Liao saw something cause the sea in the background to appear out of focus. He knew the substance was clear and odorless and was surprised he could detect it. Xia motioned for Fatso to get away, but the big deck hand ignored him.

Liao grabbed the deck loudspeaker microphone, “Do as he says!” he bellowed.

Fatso suddenly fell to his knees. Then, on all fours, he gasped for breath. Fatso looked up at the pilothouse in agony, uncomprehending. Why can’t I breathe?

With a cry, Li Ming appeared from the port side. Liao warned her, “Stay away!”

It was too late. As soon as Li put her hand on Fatso’s shoulder, she, too, dropped to her knees in agonizing convulsions. With Fatso motionless on deck, Li gasped for air before she then collapsed next to her already dead crewmate.

The machine sounded like a gasoline-powered grass mower and continued to run as Liao shook his head in regret and double-checked the winds. After several minutes, the machine sputtered and stopped. Taking great care to ensure he was upwind, Xia stepped to it from his position under the pilothouse by stepping over the dead. Xia crouched and grasped the wooden stocks it rested on, and using the strength of his legs and hands, pushed up and out. The machine tumbled over the side and into the South China Sea.