Chapter 159: Seven Deaths

February 20, 1914, 4 a. m., the northwestern waters of Borneo.

The sea surface was like a black silk, shimmering with fine silver specks in the moonlight. The tropical night wind, scented with salt and vegetation, blew through the open portside windows into the bridge of the Yangtze.

Li Te stood at the chart table, holding a dim oil lamp. Its light illuminated the spread-out chart, where red and blue pencils marked a dense tangle of symbols and routes. Beside him, navigator Sa La He—a thirty‑year‑old Arab officer, an outstanding graduate of the first class of the Dubai Naval Academy—was measuring Distance with a compass.

"What is the Distance to Kun Dian Port?" Li Te asked.

"Seventy‑six nautical miles, General," Sa La He replied softly, yet his voice was clear in the silent bridge. "At the current economical speed of eight knots, we can reach the open sea around 10 a. m."

Li Te nodded, walked to the forward observation window. Outside, the entire special mixed fleet sailed in a cruising formation through the darkness. The Yangtze led, the Yellow River was 1.5 nautical miles to the rear‑right, two Hood‑class battlecruisers flanked the left and right wings, and cruisers and destroyers formed a guard ring on the outermost edge.

With navigation lights off, all ships moved like a herd of silent giants, closing on the target under the cover of night.

"What's the visibility?" Li Te asked the watch officer.

"Report, General: moonlight at level two, visibility about five nautical miles. Sea state level one, wind three knots," the watch officer, a young Lieutenant, said, his voice tinged with restrained excitement. "The weather is favorable to us."

Favorable. Li Te repeated the word in his mind. Weather, sea state, speed, enemy intel… every factor had been calculated, every contingency prepared. Yet his chest still felt like a stone pressed down—this was the final test of three years' preparation, and no mistake could be tolerated.

The communications room door opened, and a signalman hurried in, holding a freshly translated telegram.

"General, an Encrypted Telegram from Dubai,"

Li Te took it and read by the oil lamp. The message was brief: "Borneo report, 3 a. m. this morning, Dutch military police in Kun Dian opened fire on a gathering, confirmed seven deaths and over twenty injured. Assembly leader Wang Zhenhua captured. Repeat: fire opened, casualties incurred."

The lower right corner of the telegram bore Chen Feng's signature and today's date: February 20.

The pretext was ready.

Li Te folded the telegram, slipped it into his pocket, and told Sa La He: "Notify all ships, convene an operations meeting at six o'clock. Have the mess crew prepare hot coffee and breakfast, everyone must eat their fill."

"Understood."

"Also," Li Te called him back, "tell the chief engineer to begin accelerating at 5:30. I want to be at a point thirty nautical miles off Kun Dian by eight o'clock."

Sa La He's eyes flashed in the dim light: "General, are we about to engage?"

"We're going home," Li Te patted his shoulder. "Proceed."

The young man turned and left, his steps much quicker than when he arrived.

Li Te returned to the observation window. The eastern horizon began to pale, the deep‑blue night sky turning to a bluish‑gray. A few of the brightest stars still twinkled, among them the Southern Cross—the constellation that had guided countless South Ocean Chinese.

He recalled the scene of departure.

On the morning of February 1, Dubai Port was deserted of traffic. The pier was packed with well‑wishers—soldiers' families, shipyard workers, ordinary citizens. When the Yangtze sounded its whistle and slowly pulled away from the berth, many people wept. Not from sorrow, but from excitement—they knew where the ship was headed, and what it meant.

Wang Bo stood on the deck of the transport fleet, dressed in a brand‑new dark‑blue Zhongshan suit, a "Home‑coming" badge pinned to his chest. The old man kept his gaze on the fleet's direction until it reduced to a few black specks on the horizon.

"We must return," Li Te thought then, "and bring victory back."

Now, they were about to arrive.

At six o'clock, the Yangtze's officers' meeting room was packed. Captains of each ship had received the meeting notice via radio, but only commanders of cruisers and larger vessels were required to attend in person—destroyer captains remained on their ships, receiving orders through Encrypted Telegrams.

Along both sides of the long table, men in dark‑blue naval uniforms wore solemn expressions. The youngest was the Revitalization Ship captain Chen Qiming, twenty‑eight, top graduate of the second class of the Naval Academy. The oldest was the Restoration Ship captain Zhao Haitao, forty‑five, who had taken part in Lanfang's final resistance years ago, his leg still bearing a Dutch bullet scar.

When Li Te entered, everyone stood.

"Sit," he said, moving to the head seat, offering no small talk, and spread the chart. "Intelligence confirms the Dutch opened fire in Kun Dian early this morning. Seven of our compatriots killed, over twenty wounded."

A suppressed inhalation echoed through the room. Several young officers' faces turned ashen.

"Therefore," Li Te's finger tapped the Kun Dian Port spot on the chart, "today we are not here for drills; we are here to protect our overseas compatriots. Under international law, when our nationals abroad face threats to life, the state may take necessary measures to safeguard them. Our measure is—"

He paused, his gaze sweeping each face:

"The fleet will sail into Kun Dian Port, demand the Dutch authorities immediately release the detained compatriots, hand over the soldiers and police who opened fire, and guarantee no similar incidents occur. If they refuse, we will enforce it forcibly."

"What does 'enforce it forcibly' mean?" Chen Qiming asked.

"It means bombardment," Li Te said calmly. "We have absolute firepower superiority. The Dutch Far‑East fleet now has only five pre‑dreadnoughts left, the newest launched in 1904. Their Main Gun's maximum caliber is 280 mm, with a range under 18,000 m. Our 380 mm guns can sink them from 22,000 m away."

He looked at Zhao Haitao: "Captain Zhao, you've dealt with the Dutch before. What's their style?"

Zhao Haitao rubbed the old scar on his leg, sneering, "They bully the weak and fear the strong. When they fought us, we only had a few field guns, and they were arrogant. But as soon as you outmatch them, they cower. A typical colonial army—good in a tail‑wind fight, poor in a hard fight."

"Fine," Li Te nodded. "Then we'll make them understand who the hard‑bone is today."

He stood and began issuing specific orders:

"At eight o'clock, the fleet will reach a point thirty nautical miles off Kun Dian. At eight‑thirty, the cruiser detachment will move forward to scout the harbor. At nine, I will broadcast a final ultimatum to the Dutch authorities over the public radio channel, giving them one hour to respond."

"What if they don't respond?" a cruiser captain asked.

"Then we issue a fire warning," Li Te said. "The Yangtze and Yellow River each fire a round of dummy shells—their impact one nautical mile in front of the harbor, to let them see our power. If they still don't respond, at ten o'clock the first live‑fire barrage will target the harbor's gun emplacements and barracks."

"What about civilian areas?"

"Absolutely avoided," Li Te emphasized. "Our targets are military facilities and government buildings. The staff college has already marked all coordinates on the chart. No one may attack non‑military targets; violators will be dealt with under military law."

He looked at the assembled men: "Any other questions?"