Chapter 164

"What's the content?"

"The content is…" Chen Feng thought for a moment, "Tell everyone that we are going home. But going home is not the end, it's a new beginning. Tell our compatriots in Borneo to hold on, the great army has arrived. Tell the troops and civilians in Dubai to prepare to welcome new immigrants—many Borneo compatriots will come to study and work. Tell the whole world that the Lanfang Republic has officially returned."

Wang Wenwu recorded it, his hand trembling slightly.

"Also," Chen Feng added, "in my name, issue a commendation order to Li Te. Grant a collective first‑class merit to all participating officers and soldiers. Give condolence money to the families of the fallen Dutch sailors—if any exist. We will show our strength, and also our magnanimity."

"Is this… appropriate?"

"Appropriate." Chen Feng nodded, "We must let the world see that Lanfang is not barbaric. We reason, but we also show force. When reason fails, we speak with force; after the force is displayed, we finish with reason."

Wang Wenwu understood: "A mix of soft and hard tactics."

"Right." Chen Feng looked out the window as the sky darkened, "Now the hard part is done. Next, it's time for the soft part."

He picked up the phone: "Connect to communications. Put me through… The Hague, Netherlands, Ministry of Foreign Affairs."

Wang Wenwu widened his eyes: "Do you want to speak directly with the Dutch government?"

"Why not?" Chen Feng smiled, "The war is over; it's time to negotiate. Tell the Dutch that we can discuss evacuation, reparations, and normalization of relations. But the premise is—they must recognize Borneo as Lanfang's territory."

"Will they agree?"

"If they don't agree now, they will later." Chen Feng said, "When our army controls the whole island, when the international community gradually accepts the fact, when they calculate the cost of continued resistance… they will agree. Time is on our side."

The call connected.

Chen Feng took the microphone: "Hello, this is Chen Feng, President of the Lanfang Republic. Please put me through to Dutch Foreign Minister Van de Heiden. Yes, now. Tell him I want to discuss Borneo's future."

February 21, 1914, 6 a. m., off the coast of Kundian.

The transport fleet lay like a pod of black whales, quietly anchored on the sea shrouded in morning mist. Leading the line was the battleship *Huai River*, its dark‑gray hull appearing massive in the dim light. Behind it, twenty‑three transport ships formed three columns, their bows all pointing toward the deep‑green coastline.

5th Division commander Amir stood on the bridge of the transport ship *Mount Tai*, holding a telescope. He was a typical desert man, dark‑skinned with a thick beard, but now he wore not a traditional Arab robe but the Lanfang army's khaki field uniform, its collar badge bearing a major‑general's gold star.

"How much longer?" he asked the navigation officer beside him.

"Eight nautical miles to the planned landing point, sir." The navigation officer, a Chinese youngster in his early twenties, a graduate of the Dubai Naval Academy, replied, "According to the schedule, the transfer to landing craft begins at 07:00."

Amir nodded and kept scanning the coastline. Through the telescope, the outline of Kundian Port was already clearly visible. A few wisps of black smoke rose from the harbor—remnants of yesterday's sea battle. Farther out, a broad beach stretched ahead, the landing site known as *Red Beach*.

"What about the tide?"

"The tide is rising; the high point will be around 08:00, which works for us." The navigation officer opened the tide table. "Today the wave height is 0.5 m, wind force level three, weather conditions are excellent."

Good. Amir repeated the word in his mind. As a soldier raised in the desert, he had an innate unfamiliarity with the sea. Yet in the past six months he had led the 5th Division through three amphibious landing drills in Oman Bay, progressing from seasick nausea to maintaining shooting posture on a bobbing boat. Now the test had arrived.

"Tell each regiment breakfast starts at 06:30," Amir put down the telescope, "Let the soldiers eat their fill; the next twenty‑four hours may leave no time for meals."

The order was passed down. Soon the transport ship's galley began to emit the aroma of food: rice, salted fish, vegetable soup, and specially supplied dates—prepared especially for the Arab soldiers' dietary habits.

Amir did not go to eat. He walked to the lower deck, where the soldiers' berths were.

The berths were packed. As it was the final moment before landing, everyone was fully equipped: khaki field uniforms, German steel helmets, ammunition belts, backpacks. Some checked weapons, some polished bayonets, others muttered combat doctrines. When the commander entered, the soldiers rose.

"Relax," Amir said in Arabic, walking up to a young soldier. "Fahd, are you nervous?"

The soldier named Fahd, about eighteen or nineteen, his face still youthful but his eyes firm, replied: "Reporting, sir, not nervous!"

"Lying." Amir laughed. "The first time I went onto a battlefield, I was so nervous my hands trembled. But remember what I taught you: nervousness is normal, yet if you follow the training you'll survive."

He patted Fahd's shoulder and turned to the others:

"Brothers, what we're doing today your fathers might not understand. Why would a group of Arabs cross the ocean to help the Chinese reclaim their homeland?"

The berths fell silent. Everyone stared at their commander.

"I'll tell you why." Amir's voice echoed in the steel hull. "Because this is not the Chinese homeland; it is Lanfang's homeland. And we are Lanfang's soldiers. When we swear allegiance to this flag—" he pointed to the Yellow Dragon Flag hanging on the bulkhead—"we pledge to protect everything of this country, every inch of land, every citizen."

He paused:

"Today, our landing in Borneo is not to fight for others, but to fulfill our oath. Tomorrow, if anyone attacks our families on the Arabian Peninsula, the Chinese brothers of the 1st and 2nd Divisions will fight for us. That is the nation, that is the army—we are one."

The soldiers listened quietly. Some nodded, others gripped their rifles tighter.

"Any more questions?" Amir asked.

A middle‑aged soldier raised his hand: "Sir, if we encounter Dutch resistance… should we open fire?"

"Anyone bearing weapons is an enemy," Amir said sternly. "Do not be soft with the enemy, or you will die. But if they surrender, treat them as prisoners of war; no mistreatment. We are a disciplined army, not barbarians."

"Understood."

"Good." Amir glanced at his watch. "Forty minutes left. Final equipment check, then eat. At 07:00, the transfer on schedule."

He left the berths and returned to the bridge. The navigation officer handed him a lunchbox: "Commander, have some as well."

Amir took it, scooped a few mouthfuls of rice, his eyes never leaving the coastline.

At 06:50, the transport fleet began lowering the landing craft.

They were not traditional small launches but Lanfang Shipyard's specially designed LCVP (Landing Craft, Vehicle, Personnel). Each was ten meters long, three meters wide, with a ramp at the bow, capable of carrying thirty fully‑armed soldiers or a jeep. Powered by two diesel engines, they could reach ten knots.