At that time, the national secrecy regulations divided secrets into three levels: secret, confidential, and top secret. Ordinary exploration projects, such as the exploration of the Daqing Oilfield, were considered state secrets, but photos could still be published in newspapers. As for state top-secret exploration projects, we had never encountered any, nor did we know what kind of earth-shattering matters might be involved—we couldn’t even begin to guess.

Everyone solemnly took an oath. Many people exchanged glances, clearly a bit expectant that the suspense tormenting us for so long was about to be resolved. Of course, there were also many who were unimpressed, because back then there were often things that made a lot of noise but amounted to little. Many times, things were made to seem mysterious and nerve-wracking, labeled as state top secret, but in the end, it turned out to be something trivial—just involving the whereabouts or living habits of certain “elders,” or something of that sort.

Later, someone summarized it like this: matters involving people’s livelihoods were called secrets; those involving economic or military interests were called confidential; and only those concerning “elders” or things that were inexplicable and worldview-shattering could be called top secret.

There are always troublemakers in any era. I saw Old Grant in front of me, and when he was taking the oath, he drew an X on his thigh with his other hand, meaning that this oath didn’t count. This was a bit of a streetwise trick, and I myself wasn’t taking it too seriously either. Because of my family background, the things my family did before the liberation were much more unscrupulous than breaking an oath, and I never saw my father suffer any psychological trauma from it. Besides, in this day and age, even if I told others, they probably wouldn’t believe me.

With everyone harboring their own thoughts, after the ceremony, Colonel turned off the lights, and someone in the back started up a slide projector. But as soon as the projector started, I realized how inexperienced I was—it was actually a small film projector.

It was a novel thing. The movies we usually watched had huge screens, but now there was one so small, everyone was curious. However, we only discussed it briefly before Colonel silenced us with a gesture. Then, everyone watched in complete silence a black-and-white short film about twenty minutes long.

I only watched for about ten minutes before I felt suffocated, realizing that this time the secrecy was absolutely not for show. The film we were watching was a “No. 0 Film” that absolutely could not be leaked.

3. “No. 0 Film”

The so-called No. 0 Film was a code name, originating from a film about the Daqing Oilfield that Harbin Film Studio began shooting in the early winter of 1959. This film was named “No. 0 Film,” and only high-level central leaders were allowed to view it. Its content covered scenes and details of the early exploration, location, development, and the great oil campaign at Daqing. Since then, we habitually referred to secret films made for central leaders as No. 0 Films. Where the real No. 0 Film ended up, no one knows. Some in our field once said that because the film involved matters concerning Huang Jiqing and Li Siguang, it seemed to have been deliberately destroyed in the end. What really happened is just one of the countless unresolved mysteries of the “Cultural Revolution.”

The segment we watched was very brief but clearly explained the purpose of our secondment this time. I can only give a brief summary of the short film’s content here. I must state in advance that, in the context of that time, none of us could have doubted the film’s credibility, but looking back now, some parts are truly hard to believe.

The story went roughly like this:

In the winter of 1959, while putting out a fire on the southern slopes of the Greater Khingan Mountains, the lumberjacks fighting the fire discovered the wreckage of a Japanese transport plane in a mud bog. It was said that the fire had dried up all the water in the bog, causing the mud to sink and exposing a broken wing.

The local lumberjacks didn’t recognize it as a plane at first. They crawled into the wreckage and took out many parts, which eventually ended up in the hands of the lumber mill’s officials, and later were passed on to the county, where a retired military officer saw them. Only then was the matter reported up the chain of command.

At the time, the leadership took such military relics very seriously. On one hand, they might have significant military research value; on the other, there could be leftover munitions. So the central authorities immediately sent people to handle the matter.

The relevant departments dug the plane out of the mud, and when they inspected the cabin, they were astonished to find that the entire cargo consisted of files from the Kwantung Army regarding geological surveys of the three northeastern provinces and parts of Mongolia.

We all know that after Japan occupied Manchuria, they put a lot of effort into searching for mineral resources, especially oil. But for some reason, the Japanese drilling depth at the time was generally not very deep, and despite searching everywhere, they found no clues. Their exploration teams even passed over the Daqing Oilfield strata several times without discovering the treasure beneath. Afterwards, Japan always considered China to be a country poor in oil, until Huang Jiqing later discovered the Daqing Oilfield, which changed that perception (in fact, before Japan occupied the three northeastern provinces, Americans had also searched and found nothing. Looking back now, this really is a strange thing).