Saturday, June, 6, 1998.
Then the clouds unfolded and the sea —well, the sea; that awful brown should be mostly Yangtze water even at this distance— was revealed. From the window of the BAe 125, sir Edgar Allerdyce Mahoney, KC, DSC, GCMG, GCVO, expected to glimpse again what would become his home for, at least, four years. But no land could be found; only the trail of at least fifty ships —mostly containerships, but also a big deal of tankers— steaming east or westbound. "We are starting our approach", croaked a voice coming from the cabin. "We are descending a bit earlier, sir, because we have information that the commies will try to put off some fireworks on your arrival. They're on for a surprise". Even from inside the plane it was evident that the air was charged with heated moisture; oh, the glories of late spring in East Asia. He felt nervous, again. His governorship was going to be a bumpy affair and he knew that; Twigg alerted him (the poor chap, even more distracted that he was) that the Chinese were bound to a fresh round of agitation on the build-up to the Communist Party congress, in October. But, come on, he relished the opportunity. If he passed on, what was next for him? A sedated governorship on the Turks and Caicos? Nah, he still was a military man, he knew the island, he lost his blood for it (indeed, his knee was very well lately, thank you very much) and he yearned for some action. The good thoughts were passing by his mind...oh, there they are. Two Rocks, Emery, Craig Rock... he knew the approach, even after all this years, even if he couldn't pilot a plane for the sake of it. Dozens of approaches, ferrying from Fukuoka and back, every two months, during four years, the best and the worst of his life. "Defence Campaign, 1969-73", told the clasp in his medal, and so proud of it, even if back home it wasn't that popular. Oh, that turn was new, that will confuse the Chinese. And, in good measure, it was to give him the inspection tour: there was Tai Shan, the naval base, home for years, and today a nest of spies for all he knew (that must be my first task here, he thought), then another big, long curve, a risky one, if an enterprising officer with a SA-2 took a chance for the worse... Nah, it wasn't there. Or, it... Oh, yeah, boom. The air vibrated, the plane shaked, but that was that; a card from Chairman Zhu "You are here, and you aren't welcome" but not even the thuggish hardliner in Peking would dare to knock down a RAF plane. It was for show: their waters, their air, their surface-air missile test; nothing to deserve more than the usual diplomatic complaint. And then the Big Island itself, in its green and brown glory: the Tsang Pai Oil Terminal, with the tankers loading that oh-so-much-needed oil for the further development of Chinese capitalism, with a good slice of profits to BP, Royal Dutch and Cathay Oil too; the water reservoirs, Evans, Matheson, Long Tan; the brownish industrial estates, chugging even more cheap toys and electronics to dilapidated shops in Salford; the one, two, three containership terminals (these weren't there in my Royal Marines youth); that was Beilun, there's where the bad guys are; here Port Albert, with the astounding Eight Towers and a skyline to give New York a run for its money... now low, a stretch of brown water again... and here we are. The brakes of the BAe 125 slammed down. "We have arrived, sir", croaked the voice again. "It's eleven fifteen local time". He was grateful. He was hopeful. He was home.