You're a US police officer, what are you thinking about going back to the East for?

Chapter 229 Deep Sea Activation (7k)

An hour later.

Under the cold light of the consulate corridor, a man wearing a dark blue repairman's jacket and a baseball cap stood quietly at the elevator entrance.

A consulate staff member in a white shirt walked out from the depths of the corridor.

Their footsteps clashed in the empty corridor.

In the instant they brushed past each other, there was no eye contact, nor any unnecessary pause in their movements.

The worker pulled his hand out of his pocket and stuffed a folded square note into the side pocket of the repairman's jacket.

The mechanic casually slipped his hand into his pocket and grabbed the note that read "For Sale: 1998 Red Ford F-150"

He lowered his hat brim slightly, turned around, and stepped into the elevator car that had just opened.

The metal door slowly closed, cutting off the view from the corridor.

The view zooms out, plunging into the underground printing press of a long-established community newspaper in downtown Seattle.

At three in the morning, the pungent smell of ink mixed with the wood pulp of paper filled the entire enclosed space.

The enormous rotary printing press roared deafeningly, its tracks spinning at high speed as rolls of newsprint darted wildly between the steel cylinders.

The ink rollers rolled over the paper, leaving behind rows of dense black lead characters.

Beyond the rapidly scrolling papers, in the bottom left corner of the Classifieds section, there was a notice: "Selling a 1998 Red Ford F-150."

150, there are scratches on the right side door, and the letter "Contact Person Old George" is printed in a neat square shape on the paper.

It blends in seamlessly like a drop of water into the ocean, disappearing into thousands of lost cat notices and rental listings.

The morning paper, carrying this strategic wake-up code, was ejected by the machine and poured into the packaging area along the assembly line.

Several workers quickly tied the newspaper tightly with plastic straps and threw it into the box-type newspaper delivery truck waiting on the loading and unloading platform.

The heavy carriage door slammed shut with a bang.

The newspaper delivery truck's red taillights lit up in the early morning mist, its exhaust pipe spewed out a plume of white smoke, and its tires rolled over the puddles as it drove towards the remote towns in northern Washington state that bordered the primeval forests.

The morning light is faint.

The streets of Seattle's Chinatown were still shrouded in a damp, chilly mist, and even the breakfast stalls hadn't put up their awnings yet.

As usual, Uncle Chen stood in front of the glass door of Jubaozhai Antique Shop, wearing his dark Tang suit vest.

He wasn't sweeping the floor as usual, nor was he handling the pair of shiny lion's head walnuts.

He took a wooden sign that read "In-house inventory, temporarily closed" from the hook behind the door and hung it on the handle on the inside of the glass door.

Then, Uncle Chen turned around and grabbed the bottom of the metal roller shutter door outside with both hands.

With a sudden burst of strength from his arms, accompanied by a metallic scraping sound, the heavy roller shutter was pulled down hard to the bottom and locked with a "click".

The outside world's view was completely blocked by this iron curtain.

The moment the roller shutter closed, the snobbish pretense that Chen Bo always wore on his face vanished without a trace.

His eyes became unusually deep and cold, and his back stood ramrod straight.

Uncle Chen turned around, strode through the exhibition hall filled with blue and white porcelain and jade artifacts, and headed straight for the back hall.

He pushed open a hidden door behind a mahogany display shelf and followed a narrow, steep wooden staircase into the basement of Jubaozhai.

The air in the basement was cold and dry.

At the far end, there were several wooden crates filled with shock-absorbing foam. Uncle Chen walked over and pulled open the top solid wooden crate, which weighed several dozen kilograms, revealing an old-fashioned mechanical safe embedded in the wall behind it.

He skillfully turned the brass combination lock, pressing his ear against the cold metal door to listen to the mechanical clicking of the lock cylinder.

Turn left three times, then turn right two times.

"Click."

Uncle Chen gripped the heavy handle and forcefully pulled open the safe door.

There were no antiques or account books inside.

Only bundles of old US dollar bills, bound tightly with thick rubber bands and exuding a musty smell, were neatly stacked on the shelf like bricks.

Uncle Chen bent down and pulled out two black heavy-duty tactical canvas travel bags from the corner of the bottom of the safe.

He unzipped the bag, grabbed the old papers, and threw them into the canvas bag one bundle after another.

Domestic instructions required him to prepare this non-consecutive clean money before dawn, which meant he had to fill it up within an hour.

The zipper was roughly pulled up, and Uncle Chen dragged the two heavy canvas bags by the straps to the exit of the basement.

Inside a closed auto repair shop in the suburbs of Seattle.

On the towering ceiling, several high-powered industrial searchlights emitted a blinding white light, illuminating the heavy-duty refrigerated truck with the paint scheme of a legitimate cross-border logistics company in the center of the workshop.

Four or five men dressed in dark blue overalls and wearing heavy welding masks were working around the truck.

The workshop was filled with the screeching sound of grinding wheels cutting high-strength steel plates.

Sparks flew through the air like a fountain, casting flickering light on and off in the workshop.

Inside the refrigerated truck, two workers were using handheld cutting machines to cut a rectangular opening along the insulation layer on the inside of the truck, revealing the robust steel frame of the truck.

The other three workers immediately stepped forward, gritting their teeth and with veins bulging on their foreheads, and together lifted an incredibly heavy lead plate and a heat-insulating and flame-retardant material with a special coating.

They fitted these materials into the interlayer of the steel frame with a tight fit and then used hydraulic jacks to compact them completely.

A welder stepped forward, put on his mask, and his welding torch emitted a blinding blue-white arc.

The welding torch moves quickly along the cut edge of the steel plate, re-welding and sealing the outer steel plate.

Apart from the clanging of tools, the screeching of cutting, and the heavy breathing of the workers, no one spoke in the entire workshop.

No one asked what the truck was going to carry, nor was anyone curious as to why lead plates were used to modify an ordinary refrigerated truck.

They just kept their heads down, staring intently at the blueprints in their hands, working tirelessly.

In northern Washington state, on the edge of the Cascade Mountains, less than 30 kilometers from the U.S.-Canada border.

At 7:30 a.m., a thick white fog still lingered over the coniferous forests of this remote logging town, and the air was damp and chilly.

On the edge of the town, an old wooden house stands quietly by the roadside. The wooden roof tiles are covered with moss, and the paint on the porch is peeling and cracked.

"Squeak—"

The deformed screen door of the wooden house was pushed open.

Tom, who was over sixty years old, came out yawning.

He was wearing a red and black plaid flannel shirt and a pair of loose, old jeans, the belt of which was stretched and deformed by his protruding beer belly.

He shuffled along in his cotton slippers, stepping on the dew-covered, withered grass in the yard, and slowly walked to the white metal mailbox by the roadside, reaching out to pull out the community morning newspaper that had just been delivered.

Good morning, old Tom!

In the neighbor's yard, the neighbor was pulling hard on the start rope of an old lawnmower.

After the engine sputtered and emitted a puff of gray smoke, the neighbor straightened up and greeted him loudly.

Old Tom's sleepy eyes immediately brightened, and his face adopted the typical expression of an American country old man—enthusiastic yet tinged with a touch of worldly complaints.

"Early my ass, Bill!"

Old Tom waved the newspaper, still smelling of ink, in his hand and began to complain in a rough, hoarse voice.

"That damn Walmart in town has raised the price of eggs and bacon by twelve cents again! Why don't they just rob them?"

"Damn this rainy day, my left knee is starting to hurt again."

"And last night's Seahawks game was utter garbage. The quarterback was practically blind with polio. I could throw more accurately with my eyes closed!"

Hearing this, neighbor Bill, gripping the lawnmower handle, burst into laughter: "Come on, Tom, those Seahawks cowards are hopeless. Go back inside and warm yourself by the fire, or you'll get rheumatism!"

Old Tom cursed and gave the middle finger, then shrank back and slowly walked back to the cabin.

Close the door to keep out the morning chill.

Old Tom walked into the living room, and an old golden retriever with thinning fur and a limp gait immediately wagged its tail and came over, rubbing its wet nose against his trouser leg.

"Alright, old buddy, I know you're hungry."

Old Tom bent down and vigorously rubbed the dog's head with his rough, large hands.

He walked to the cupboard, poured a large bowl of cheap dry dog ​​food, and dumped it into the plastic basin on the floor.

The old golden retriever immediately buried its head in its food and began to eat.

Old Tom straightened up and subconsciously rubbed his left knee.

Through his jeans, he could feel the cold medical steel plate inside.

In his youth, he was a professional hunter, but later, due to the damned animal protectionism of the left, he was gradually forced to give up hunting and went to work in a logging camp.

Fifteen years ago, he had his left leg crushed when a loose log fell on him at a logging camp.

The logging camp's insurance company found excuses to refuse to pay, and the hospital, seeing that he couldn't afford the exorbitant bill, planned to amputate his leg and throw him out the door.

At that time, he not only faced lifelong disability, but his granddaughter, who had just started high school, also didn't have money for food next month.

It was an anonymous check from an unknown chamber of commerce in Seattle called "Community Mutual Aid" that not only paid for his metal plate implantation surgery but also set up a trust fund to support his granddaughter through her expensive state university education.

After the money arrived in his account, and even after he was discharged from the hospital, a white man claiming to be an insurance salesman contacted him.

The man didn't make any unreasonable demands, but simply asked if he was willing to continue living quietly in this border town until one day, someone might need him to go into the forest to check the road.

Old Tom agreed on the spot.

He went to the kitchen, poured himself a large glass of bitter black coffee from the coffee machine, and took out a donut covered in frosting from a greasy cardboard box.

Old Tom carried his breakfast to the table and sat down in the slightly dented old rocking chair.

He casually pulled a pair of reading glasses with the edges wrapped in tape from the pocket of his flannel shirt and put them on the bridge of his nose.

He took a big bite of the donut, sipped his coffee, then unfolded the newspaper in his hand and began to read it casually, just like every morning for the past fifteen years.

He glanced casually at the boring state political news on the front page and flipped directly to the GG category section.

His eyes scanned down line by line through the densely packed information on lawn mowing services, roof leak repairs, used pickup trucks for sale, and old furniture clearance sales.

Suddenly, his gaze froze on a very inconspicuous little square of text in the bottom right corner of the page.

[Selling a red 1998 Ford F-150. There are scratches on the right door. Urgent sale. Contact: Old George.]

Old Tom stopped chewing.

From the very first second his gaze locked onto that line of black lead text, the image of a dull, mediocre, and complaining old American country man seemed to be suddenly torn apart and vanished instantly.

His eyes, which had been somewhat cloudy and unfocused due to presbyopia, immediately became sharp, cold, and full of aggression.

His shoulders and back, which had been slouching against the chair back, instinctively tensed up, his abdominal muscles contracted, and his posture instantly changed from leaning back to a forward-leaning stance ready to spring into action at any moment.

Old Tom slowly moved his chin and swallowed the donut in his mouth.

He didn't eat the rest. He simply placed the half-eaten donut on the porcelain plate, took off the pair of reading glasses that were taped to his nose, and tossed them onto the table.

He stood up.

His movements were no longer as slow and aged as they had been in the courtyard; his steps were now steady and powerful.

Old Tom grabbed the newspaper from the table, walked straight to the fireplace in the living room, and pulled an old brass windproof lighter from his pocket.

With a "ding," the lighter was turned on, and a pale blue flame shot up.

He set the edge of the newspaper on fire.

Old Tom watched expressionlessly as the newspaper with the wake-up code rolled and turned black rapidly in the flames, until the flames burned his fingertips. Only then did he release his grip, letting it fall into the fireplace and burn into an unrecognizable pile of ashes.

After confirming that the ashes had been completely scattered, Old Tom turned around and strode toward the entrance to the basement.

He walked down the dimly lit wooden stairs and pushed open a hidden storage cabinet that was obscured by an old lawnmower and discarded tires.

He bent down, used his hands to pull out a heavy, dusty black iron box from the deepest part of the box.

With two clicks, old Tom unlocked the latch and lifted the lid of the box.

Inside lay a nearly perfectly maintained Remington M700 bolt-action shotgun, several moisture-proof ammunition boxes filled with .308 Magnum rounds, a Zeiss telescope with laser rangefinder, and a tactical backpack stuffed with high-energy wilderness survival rations and waterproof camouflage netting.

Old Tom reached out and picked up the Remington shotgun.

He released the safety, gripped the bolt with his right hand, and pulled it back sharply.

"Click."

The crisp metallic clanging echoed in the basement.

His fingers flew across the ejector and firing mechanism with professional, fluid movements, without any unnecessary pauses.

Fifteen years of seclusion did not erase the memories etched into his very being.

After confirming that the weapon was in absolutely perfect condition, he grabbed a few bright yellow bullets and loaded them one by one into the magazine, then stuffed the shotgun into an ordinary canvas gun holster.

Old Tom took off his red and black checkered flannel shirt and put on a windproof and waterproof dark green camouflage hunting outfit, slipping on a pair of thick waterproof tactical boots.

He hung the Zeiss binoculars around his neck, tucked them inside his jacket, and slung the heavy tactical backpack over his shoulder.

Old Tom, carrying his gun holster, walked out of the cabin.

As he walked across the front lawn, his neighbor Bill, who was mowing the lawn next door, stopped and looked at him with some curiosity at his fully armed attire.

"Hey, Tom! Where are you headed in that outfit?" Bill shouted.

Old Tom immediately grinned, revealing a natural, rugged smile.

"The weather's unusually nice today, I'm thinking of trying my luck deep in the forests north of the border!"

Old Tom patted the canvas gun holster in his hand and responded loudly.

"Let's see if we can hunt down a big enough buck! I'll treat you to barbecue then!"

"Good luck, old buddy! Just don't get eaten by the black bear!"

The neighbor laughed and waved, completely unaware that the familiar Tom was now a completely different person.

Old Tom walked over to the old Ford pickup truck parked outside the yard.

He threw his tactical backpack and gun holster into the back of the truck, opened the door, and sat in the cab, which reeked of cheap engine oil.

Turn the key.

The old V8 engine let out a rough roar, spewing out a thick plume of black smoke from the exhaust pipe.

Old Tom gripped the steering wheel tightly with both hands, a hint of suppressed excitement lurking in his cold eyes.

He stared at the highway leading north ahead and floored the accelerator.

The pickup truck's tires screeched as it sped off from the quiet logging town, heading towards the "loggers'" route that had been dormant for over a decade.

In S88G8, old Tom drove his Ford pickup truck, which was belching black smoke from its exhaust pipe, off the flat interstate highway and plunged into a gravel road leading deep into the Cascade Mountains.

As the altitude increases, the Douglas fir trees on both sides become increasingly dense, blocking out the sky.

Old Tom could never have known that this route was known as the "Lumberjacks' Route" in some underground secret room, much less that it was once a strategic move by a major power during the Cold War.

He didn't even know who he was serving.

Fifteen years ago, the white salesman only told him that if he ever saw that particular used Ford GG in the newspaper, he should take a shotgun, go for a drive in that forest he could walk out of with his eyes closed, and see if the scenery had changed.

Old Tom had only one incomplete puzzle in his mind: a rugged mountain road about thirty miles long, stretching from an abandoned logging camp to the edge of an Indian reservation.

He didn't need to know the cause and effect, nor did he need to know what would pass through here. He was just a nail, a nail only responsible for being driven into a specific place.

The pickup truck bounced violently through the mud and potholes, and old Tom's left leg, which had a steel plate implanted, throbbed with pain.

But this pain actually stimulated a deep-seated excitement in his nerves.

Fifteen years of mediocre life were like a thick layer of dust, and now, that dust has been completely blown away.

He felt his blood rushing, and his rough, large hands gripping the steering wheel were as steady as a rock.

The pickup truck stopped at a fork in the road overgrown with weeds.

Old Tom pushed open the car door, grabbed the Remington M700 shotgun, and jumped out.

Like a seasoned hunter searching for prey, he bent down and carefully examined the footprints and animal droppings in the soil.

His gaze swept around, not looking for the deer, but searching for any trace of human industrial civilization.

A very faint buzzing sound came from above the treetops in the distance.

Old Tom immediately stopped what he was doing.

He leaned naturally against the trunk of a thick fir tree, raised the Zeiss binoculars on his chest, and looked up through the gaps in the leaves.

Beneath the hazy clouds, a CBP (Customs and Border Protection) drone painted in white low-visibility paint slowly cruised along the ridgeline.

Old Tom squinted, looking at the spherical photovoltaic tower mounted on the belly of the drone.

Infrared thermal imager.

Old Tom made his judgment in his mind.

He didn't take out paper and pen; instead, he memorized the drone's course, altitude, and the time of its appearance.

After the drone flew away, he continued to explore further.

Old Tom stopped in an open area that used to be a popular camp for poachers.

He discovered that an abandoned forest road, which had been hidden by bushes, had been widened by human intervention.

There were fresh tracks on the soil from heavy off-road tires, and several rough wooden plaques with some kind of Native American totemism were nailed to the tree trunks nearby.

Indigenous gangs may have upgraded their smuggling routes and firepower.

Old Tom crouched down without making a sound, pretending to inspect a rabbit hole, but his eyes scanned the surrounding terrain to its blind spots.

Just then, the sound of footsteps crunching through dry branches came from behind the bushes to his left.

Old Tom's body tensed instantly.

He slowly and naturally stood up, his right thumb silently releasing the safety of his Remington shotgun. The muzzle seemed to be casually pointing towards the ground, but it could be raised and fired in just 0.5 seconds.

The bushes were cleared away.

A burly white man wearing a gray waterproof jacket and carrying a compound bow came out.

When the burly white man saw Old Tom, he visibly paused, his fingers, which were resting on his bow, curled slightly, and there was a barely perceptible wariness in his eyes.

"Hey, old man."

The burly white man broke the silence first, complaining loudly in a typical Northern Washington accent.

"You can't see a single deer hair in this godforsaken place, it's all the stench of coyotes."

Old Tom, seeing the other man's seemingly casual but actually scrutinizing eyes, immediately adopted the demeanor of a snobbish, uncouth country bumpkin.

"Isn't that right!"

Old Tom spat on the ground.

"These damn animal rights organizations are feeding wolves bigger than cows. I've been walking around here for two hours, and my legs are almost frozen."

As Old Tom spoke, he naturally slung his shotgun over his shoulder, pointing the muzzle to the sky, displaying a relaxed posture devoid of any hostility.

"My name is Tom, and I'm from town."

Old Tom made a seemingly enthusiastic suggestion.

"Want to walk a bit further? There's a water source up ahead; maybe we'll run into a big truck there."

The white, burly man's wariness lessened slightly as he looked at Old Tom's somewhat hunched figure and worn-out hunting clothes.

"Thanks, Tom. My name is Mike."

The burly man shook his head and pointed in another direction, "But I'm planning to try my luck on that hill to the east; my friend is waiting for me there."

"Good luck, Mike. Don't let those Native Americans steal your bow!"

Old Tom laughed heartily.

"You too, old man."

The two nodded to each other from a distance of more than ten meters, then turned around and walked in opposite directions.

The moment he turned around, the smile on Old Tom's face vanished, replaced by extreme coldness and vigilance.

That guy had calluses on his hands from years of using automatic weapons; he was definitely not an ordinary hunter. That hill to the east? That's the entrance to another dirt road leading into the forest.

Old Tom secretly breathed a sigh of relief, as long as the other party wasn't targeting his own line of work.

He still has two-thirds of the road sections to survey, and he doesn't have time to create any unforeseen complications.

At the same time, Mike, who was walking eastward, let out a long sigh of relief.

The calluses on the old man's hands were from years of handling bolt-action rifles, and the way he stood up completely concealed any weakness in his lower body. He was a tough nut to crack.

Mike touched the note in his pocket that read "Selling a 1998 red Ford F-150" and quickened his pace.

In this vast primeval forest, there are several other low-level, silent individuals like Old Tom and "Mike" who are strangers to each other, not subordinate to each other, and even wary of each other's identities.

They are like individual cogs scattered from a huge, sophisticated machine.

Driven by the same command, they awoke from their mundane lives and, under various legal cover identities, transformed every tire track, every surveillance camera, and every hidden sentry post along the "loggers'" route into data in their minds.

Ultimately, all this data will be written on waterproof paper, stuffed into different dead mailboxes, and compiled into a network sufficient to allow targets to safely cross the border.

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