Chapter 388: Retribution Has Come

Inside the lavish palace decorated in blue and gold, the Empire's top brass sat in attendance.

The number of participants today was considerable — a motley assortment of twenty-odd people. This was rare in the past, because usually when something came up, the Transmigrators handled it internally via phone calls and small-scale meetings; a grand scene like this seldom occurred.

Mountains of paperwork and seas of meetings — in other words, bureaucracy — did not exist in this fledgling regime for the time being.

The bosses didn't even have enough literate clerks yet, let alone hold any kind of meeting… they couldn't even scrape together enough people in the audience to applaud and play the straight man.

Furthermore, the most fundamental point was this: the Transmigrators, as bureaucrats and capitalists rolled into one, would never cultivate a massive bureaucratic class to cause trouble for themselves down the road.

Bureaucrats are a purely consumptive class — every cent they spend comes from taxes, and every one of their posts requires the endorsement of power.

And in the future, the state's main tax revenue would certainly be collected from the descendants of the Transmigrators who controlled the world's top 250 enterprises; the real power of the state would also rest in their hands. Under those circumstances, cultivating a massive bureaucratic class would simply be asking for trouble — did the bosses have so much money they had nowhere to spend it? Or did they think they had too much power on their hands?

So the Transmigrators, who had a clear vision of the future, worked from the very start to build the framework of a new society — just follow the general path of the Industrial Revolution era of later generations, and that would be correct. On that foundation, add some managerial conveniences brought by later-generation technology, and at least for now, the imagined new society was being managed rather well by the two-hundred-odd Transmigrators.

However, everything is relative. Beneath the seemingly gentle, prosperous, and thriving New World lurked cold, harsh realities: slaves, mines, all manner of long-term loans, 996, 997, and workplace fatalities that occurred every single day.

Even as the immigrants experienced the incomparable public services of the new society, they were also rapidly being educated and remolded by it — a capitalist society, after all, naturally sees everything in terms of money.

All social activities operated under a certain cold, ruthless set of rules. Those who violated the rules either went to the Pit or went to the Pit. In the new society, the price for stealing a single coin and stealing a single gold piece was exactly the same.

The idleness, slow rhythm, personal connections, and worldly wisdom that immigrants from agricultural societies had learned in their previous lives were all crushed to nothing before the machine-like force of capital. Human relationships began to grow simple and cold; the pyramid-like operations of the great clans began to be replaced by the colonizing worker-bee model of individual households.

A labor system far harsher than that of later generations, yet it made the 996ers cry out that the bosses were merciful — this was the blessing earned in their previous lives as losers… truly a blessing. Those without blessings all went to the Pit, the quarries, and the Dense Forest.

Of course, this kind of highly organized social planning, precise down to every individual, was unsustainable in the long run. The path of relying on continuous territorial expansion and capital export to mask internal contradictions would eventually hit a bottleneck, because the Earth was only so big. So as society developed, products like masses of unemployed workers would one day appear on the streets.

But by the time that day came, the Transmigrators would likely have closed their eyes for good — who would care about the floodwaters raging behind them?

The long rectangular table was lined with people on both sides; a few extra chairs lay scattered haphazardly against the walls. The air above the great hall was thick with the mingled scents of various tobaccos. The imperial throne upon the dais stood utterly empty, while voices tinged with faint echoes circled around everyone's ears.

The person standing below the steps of the dais, currently speaking, was Army Commander Han Bo.

No matter how deeply the Transmigrators wanted to "insert" themselves into the matter of the King's Rescue, as long as they intended to intervene, the ones who would step forward to play the lead role were certain to be the Military. Thus at today's meeting, the bigwigs of the Army, the Navy, and even the Special Operations Team were all present, their general-officer uniforms of various colors forming a conspicuous row along one side of the long table.

And the first to voice an opinion on the King's Rescue was, naturally, the Army, whom everyone expected to play the leading role.

As a former military officer, Han Bo had always adhered to the principle of following the Party's lead. In peacetime, he managed the army quite well, and the Army had developed in a steady and stable manner, very much in line with the Cabinet's requirements.

However, adhering to principles did not mean he was brainless, nor did it mean he disregarded his department's interests.

On the matter of the King's Rescue, although the politicians' general inclination was to stick a foot in, Han Bo did not blindly echo them. To be precise, his personal stance on this matter was "negative." So as soon as he began today, Commander Han brought up a long list of objective difficulties, showing absolutely no intention of playing along with the grand designs of the various politicians.

"It is now mid-November, and the north has already entered winter. Please take note, everyone — this is the winter of a Little Ice Age. Although we lack meteorological data, in the Beijing-Tianjin region, words like 'the bitter cold of deep winter' and 'water freezing the instant it drips' are by no means an exaggeration."

"And our troops? I can tell everyone here explicitly: these southern soldiers have undergone no winter field training. Most of the lads have never even seen snow. So if we hastily dispatch them to the battlefield, an overall drop in the unit's combat effectiveness is certain, and a large number of non-combat casualties is also foreseeable."

At this point, Han Bo shook his head slightly and turned his gaze toward Industry Minister Zou Guoqing, who was responsible for planning industrial production: "Additionally, army greatcoats, cotton-padded boots, gloves, Lei Feng hats, anti-freeze cream, and other supplies for winter operations — I have not seen them in the Army warehouses. I wonder if these supplies can be produced on short notice in time?"

Zou Guoqing, seated at the table, rolled his eyes at these words.

On the matter of the King's Rescue alone, the blame for failing to prepare supplies in advance really could not be pinned on Zou Guoqing. Although the Transmigrators knew history, their farthest reach before this had only extended to Shanghai, so from top to bottom, not a single person had seriously considered running off to Beijing for a King's Rescue in the winter of 1629.

To put it bluntly, the reason this matter had blown up to such a scale today was because certain bird-brained opportunists were at work: since a major upheaval had appeared in the north, why not take a swing at the tree whether there were dates or not, and see if we could scoop up some benefits?

This mentality is common among students before an exam: cramming at the last minute.

However, deploying troops to the north, 1,500 kilometers away, was not something that could be solved by last-minute cramming. And indeed, as soon as Han Bo casually listed a few difficulties, the opportunists present were left utterly at a loss.

"If we truly make up our minds, these supplies can also be rush-produced." Feeling the pressured stares coming from all around, Zou Guoqing sighed and still embraced the cramming approach: "Cotton-padded coats and trousers can all be rush-produced by mobilizing female workers. We have the winter-uniform patterns for all domestic and foreign armies, and the raw materials — cotton, canvas, even the bearskin for the hats — are all in ample supply."

"I'll give Lao Sun at the Clothing Factory a call right now. I won't dare promise too much, but delivering 500 sets of winter clothing to the army within three days is no problem."

"Also, things like cold-protection equipment are actually easy to handle. Glycerin and Vaseline are both available at the Chemical Plant; the lab can temporarily mix up a batch of anti-freeze oil for the soldiers to use."

At this point, Zou Guoqing glanced sidelong at the few people seated to his left — as for whether to turn a spur-of-the-moment opportunistic act into a serious endeavor and pour massive resources into it, you decide for yourselves.

Xia Xianze, seated at the head, reached out a hand and pressed downward. Although he remained neutral on this matter, since the meeting had been convened, it was his responsibility to maintain order: "Alright, the winter-clothing issue is resolved. Han Bo, continue — lay out whatever other difficulties there are."

Han Bo nodded and continued: "The number 500 is excellent. That is precisely the number I had in mind — exactly one battalion. Our troops are all modernized, high-consumption units, so we could never dispatch a large army to begin with. Transporting supplies from Taiwan across thousands of li to the north — just think about it and you'll know how absurd that is."

"Besides," Han Bo said, sweeping an indignant glare across the gentlemen in the front row, "at the start of the year, you slashed the Army's recruit plan by a full two battalions. Hah — now the retribution has come: just 500 men. If you want more, there aren't any."

After venting a thorough complaint about certain people's shortsightedness, Han Bo raised one final question: "Suppose our 'Intervention Army' proceeds smoothly all the way, and these 500 men safely land at Jinwei City, the closest point to Beijing. Then who can tell me — what is our strategic objective?"

Meeting Han Bo's sweeping gaze, Foreign Secretary Cai Feiming, seated in the front row, coughed once and then said: "What if we set the objective as obtaining the heads of a few hundred… preferably a thousand genuine Tartars, and then going to Beijing to claim credit after the Eight Banners withdraw their troops?"

"My apologies, but that would be very difficult to accomplish." A smile that said "I knew you'd ask for something like this" appeared on Han Bo's face.

At this point, he walked over to the large display board at the side and picked up the pointer: "This is the route map of the Eight Banners' advance during the Later Jin's first incursion into the interior, also known as the 'Jisi Incident.' Everyone, please take a look."

After drawing a horizontal line with the pointer between Beijing and Shanhai Pass, Han Bo continued: "Whether on the offensive or in retreat, the Banner Troops this time moved along this one line: Yongping, Zunhua, Jizhou, Tongzhou, Beijing. And if we set out from Tianjin, reaching any of those aforementioned areas to the north requires a journey of at least a hundred li at the closest."

Han Bo set down the pointer, a gloating smile spreading across his face: "Because you gentlemen, in your far-sighted wisdom, previously axed the Army's warhorse program, our soldiers have received no riding training whatsoever. So don't expect that after the lads drift across the sea to Tianjin, they'll step off the ship and instantly transform into a cavalry battalion, sweeping like the wind to fight the Tartars."

"This is the 17th century. There are no high-speed rails or paved cement roads around Tianjin. To have a mere 500 soldiers leave their rear base, march overland for a hundred li in field conditions, then seek an opportunity to destroy a sufficient number of enemies, and then, carrying the enemies' heads, return to Jinwei while being pursued and intercepted by tens of thousands of Eight Banners cavalry… I'm sorry, we cannot do this."

Han Bo spread his hands at this point: "In my view, apart from huddling inside Jinwei City and waiting for the Eight Banners to crash against us and get themselves killed, there is no other tactically reasonable way to employ these 500 soldiers."

A sardonic smile appeared on his face: "You reap what you sow. If you don't maintain troops in the early stages, then when the time comes to use them, don't expect the soldiers to turn into Saiyans."

"In fact," Han Bo concluded, "in the view of us Army colleagues, this is a thoroughgoing military gamble from start to finish. It is a spur-of-the-moment, utterly unprepared, objectively reckless, and brainlessly criminal act of murdering our own soldiers!"

As Han Bo spoke these words, his voice and expression were fierce and severe.