Of course, these are all just speculations. In fact, even now, we still don’t know exactly where that area was. According to Old Grant's later account, he said the vastness of that mountain region made him feel that we might have even crossed the China-Mongolia border and were actually inside Mongolia.

The journey was extremely arduous, because the vehicle followed the direction of the mountain valleys, and the valleys followed the mountain range. The car wound around in the mountains, and we quickly lost our sense of direction, just sitting wherever we ended up. The vehicle moved very slowly, frequently breaking down along the way, and the wheels often got stuck in the black leaf-mold beneath the forest. I can’t remember how many times I was woken up from a doze to help push the car. By the time we finally reached our destination, it had already been four days and five nights.

I still remember it vividly. The destination that appeared before our exhausted eyes was a valley, which should have been the core area of the primeval forest. Yet, in the grass there, we saw large stretches of rusted barbed wire, overgrown with vines and grass. Those with sharp eyes even noticed that the wooden posts holding the barbed wire were painted with Japanese characters, almost completely peeled off.

In those days, everyone was familiar with such scenes. This was the Northeast, and after Japan established Manchukuo, they secretly did many things on this land. When we did exploration work, we often saw secret bunkers and buildings abandoned by the Japanese in the mountains. Most of them were doused with gasoline and burned down completely when they withdrew. Some of the facilities inside these buildings were very strange. I once saw a three-story building in the Northeast, where all the rooms were only half a person high, with no stairs—just a single chain for moving up and down. No one knew what it was for.

After passing through the barbed wire and the trees, we saw many dilapidated wooden shacks, covered in several layers of vines, with roofs collapsed under the weight of leaves. Judging by the state of decay, they had been abandoned for at least thirty or forty years. On one side of the shacks were our PLA trucks and a dozen or so military tents. A few engineering soldiers saw our truck arrive and came over to help us unload our luggage.

Here, we saw George Harris again, but he didn’t greet us—he just stood at a distance, watching us, his expression as stern as ever.

Looking back, that was the last time I saw him. In fact, I can’t even be sure if his name was really George Harris. After this incident, because of work, I met most of the others more than once, but this person—I never heard of him again. At the time, I asked many old officers from the engineering corps, including some with extensive connections who had served in many units, but they all told me they didn’t know this person. So, thinking back, I believe George Harris's identity was not simple—he definitely wasn’t just an ordinary member of the engineering system. Of course, that’s another story and has nothing to do with this one.

After getting off the truck, we were settled into those simple wooden shacks, which had previously housed Japanese soldiers. The furniture was all there, but everything was so dilapidated that the wood would crumble at a touch. When we went in, we found the rooms had been tidied up a bit, with lime powder sprinkled to kill bugs, but decades of neglect couldn’t be cleaned away. Shaking the wooden bedboards sent up clouds of dead, unknown insects. The wood was so damp it was impossible to sleep on, so we had to use sleeping bags on the floor.

Personally, I really disliked those shacks. The atmosphere inside felt strange. I believe anyone born in my generation would feel the same—whenever you stand in a place related to Japan, there’s a heaviness that’s hard to shake off. But at the time, we had no choice.

After settling in, a young soldier came to take us to eat.

Those of us who were more familiar with each other all stuck with Old Grant, since he seemed to be the most reliable here. I saw him, when he got off the truck, looking at those tents with a half-smile for a long time, as if he already knew what was going to happen. Old Grant liked to play it deep, and standing next to him made me feel safer.

The afternoon passed uneventfully. At dusk, we were taken to a tent, where more than twenty people sat noisily on the ground. In front was a screen, and behind it a slide projector, which we called a "pulling shadow machine." Just from the setup, it was clear we were about to have a meeting.

The meeting was presided over by a senior colonel. I remembered seeing him before, but couldn’t recall where. He first officially welcomed us on behalf of 723, then apologized for the inconvenience caused by the security measures. Of course, there was no trace of apology on his face. Without much small talk, he spoke to us in a Langfang accent: “The content of this meeting is classified as top national secret. Please raise your hand and swear with me: for the rest of your life, you will never reveal it, not even to your wife, parents, comrades, or children.”

We were all used to swearing oaths. Many exploration projects were state secrets, and joining a project team always required a confidentiality oath. In those days, such oaths were taken very seriously—this was called revolutionary spirit. Unlike now, when swearing an oath is as casual as having a meal.