Chapter 209: Front Commander-in-Chief

Zhang Zhen watched all this, a surge of complex emotions welling in his heart. Today's victory was glorious—the greatest victory since the founding of the Lanfang Navy. But looking at the burning wreckage, floating bodies, and struggling survivors on the sea, he felt no joy, only heaviness.

Such is war. The victors write history; the vanquished sink to the bottom of the sea. And whether in victory or defeat, the dead will never return.

He turned and walked into the bridge interior, preparing to send a telegram to Dubai. But before leaving, he took one last look at this stretch of sea.

The morning sun already covered the sea surface, the waves sparkling. Were it not for the burning wreckage and oil slicks, what a beautiful day this would have been.

"It's over," Zhang Zhen said softly.

But he knew this was only the beginning. The outcome of this naval battle would change the entire configuration of the Far East. The Japanese Navy had lost its elite; the Lanfang Navy had made its name in a single battle. The diplomatic maneuvering, strategic adjustments, and even new conflicts to follow would all have their seeds planted today.

But that was for later. Right now, what he needed to do was sweep the battlefield, tally the results, and bring the news of victory home.

Returning to the captain's cabin, Zhang Zhen picked up a pen and began drafting the telegram:

"To Supreme Commander of Lanfang, Chen Feng: From 0640 to 0752 this morning, our Bismarck formation engaged the main force of the Japanese Combined Fleet in waters near 125 degrees east longitude and 28 degrees north latitude. Results as follows..."

He paused for a moment, looking at the blue sea and sky beyond the window.

Then he continued writing:

"In this battle, the entire crew of the Fuxing fought heroically, holding out for forty minutes under siege by four Kongo-class ships, buying critical time for our formation. Captain Lin Haisheng and all those under his command displayed the most sublime courage and spirit of sacrifice of the Lanfang Navy."

"Rear Admiral Zhang Zhen, aboard the battleship Yangtze. 0800 hours."

Finishing the telegram, he pressed the send button. The click-clack of Morse code transmitted the outcome of this naval battle that would decide the fate of the nation to Dubai, ten thousand li away.

Meanwhile, in those waters where the battle had just ended, lifeboats still shuttled back and forth, "rescuing" every life that could still be saved.

Before long, the communications officer strode over, holding a freshly decoded telegram: "Sir, urgent message from Dubai! Personally signed by the Supreme Commander!"

"Read it."

The communications officer cleared his throat and read aloud: "To Rear Admiral Zhang Zhen, Commander of the East China Sea Task Fleet: I am delighted to learn that our naval officers and men have shattered the Japanese invaders in the East China Sea, sinking four enemy capital ships—a glorious result. I hereby order the immediate establishment of the East China Sea Front Command, with you as Commander-in-Chief, with full authority over all combat operations in the East China Sea theater. All naval vessels of ours in East China Sea waters shall be under your command. The nation shall generously provide for the families of fallen officers and men; wounded personnel shall receive every effort in medical treatment. I hope you will press on and expand your victories, projecting our nation's prestige. Supreme Commander of the Republic of Lanfang, Chen Feng."

The bridge fell silent for a few seconds, then muffled cheers erupted.

Several young staff officers patted each other on the shoulders, excitement showing on their faces. But there was no smile on Zhang Zhen's face. He walked to the nautical chart and looked at the dense markings upon it—black crosses representing sunken enemy ships, red arrows representing fleeing enemy vessels, blue circles representing friendly ships.

Full authority. These four words meant power, but they also meant responsibility as heavy as a mountain.

"Send a reply to Dubai," Zhang Zhen spoke, and the bridge immediately fell quiet. "Telegram: Front Commander Zhang Zhen, acknowledging orders and assuming duty. Our forces have secured the East China Sea battlefield and are expanding results. Fuxing is heavily damaged; organizing tow for return. Casualties are being tallied; details to follow. Our troops' morale is high; we shall not fail the nation's trust."

The communications officer recorded rapidly, then asked: "Sir, what encryption level?"

"Highest."

"Yes, sir!"

After the communications officer left, Zhang Zhen looked at Chen Qiming: "Old Chen, what do you think?"

Chen Qiming was the executive officer of the Yangtze and Zhang Zhen's partner of many years. He rubbed his chin: "The pressure is no small thing. We've won now, but though the Japanese Combined Fleet's main force has been heavily damaged, they still have quite a few vessels in home waters. And..."

"And the army hasn't moved yet," Zhang Zhen finished his sentence. "Four Kongo-class ships are sunk, but Japan still has over a dozen old battleships and armored cruisers, plus coastal artillery batteries and air squadrons in Taiwan, the Ryukyus, and the home islands. We only have four capital ships—we can't afford a war of attrition."

"Right. So the Supreme Commander giving you full authority sends a clear message—expand your results, but don't overreach. That balance won't be easy to strike."

Zhang Zhen nodded, his gaze returning to the nautical chart. His finger traced from the Yangtze's current position toward the northeast, then turned west toward the Japanese archipelago.

"Order all captains—an emergency combat conference aboard the Yangtze in one hour. At the same time, send a message to the submarine force, asking for their positions and combat readiness."

"Yes, sir!"

East China Sea surface, battleship cruiser Fuxing, 0840 hours

The cruiser Jiangsu slowly drew near, the seawater between the two giant ships squeezed into white foam. (How should cruisers be named?)

Lin Hai stood on the listing bridge, his left arm slung in bandages across his chest, his face covered in soot and blood. His uniform was torn in several places, but his back was ramrod straight.

"Captain, the Jiangsu is signaling, asking whether towing operations may begin." Communications Officer Li Jing's voice was soft; she herself had gauze wrapped around her own forehead.

Lin Hai nodded: "Reply: Approved. Thank our brother ship for support."

"Yes, sir."

Zhao Wenyuan climbed up from the lower deck. The chief was soaked through at the moment—it was unclear whether from seawater or sweat. He held a canteen in his hand and offered it to Lin Hai: "Drink some water, Captain. The medical team says you've lost a lot of blood and need to rehydrate."

Lin Hai took the canteen and took a long drink. The warm water flowed down his dry throat, bringing a brief sense of comfort.

"How are things below?" he asked.

"The fires are basically under control, but flooding on the starboard side continues. The damage control team is pumping water, but the list is too severe—the effect is limited." Zhao Wenyuan wiped his face. "The good news is, the engine room can still run. That old Liu Ming de is tough as nails—just got knocked out, and he's already awake, cursing up a storm."

Lin Haisheng rarely showed a hint of a smile: "If he can curse, he's fine."

He walked to the shattered porthole and looked out at the Jiangsu, which was paying out the tow cable. That ten-thousand-ton giant looked especially majestic in the morning light, with barely a trace of damage visible on her hull.

"The gap," Lin Haisheng murmured.

"What?" Zhao Wenyuan hadn't heard clearly.

"I said, the gap." Lin Hai turned around. "We fought with everything we had, sacrificed over three hundred men, and barely held off four Kongo-class ships for forty minutes. But the Bismarck Class, once they arrived, took only thirty minutes to send them all to the bottom. That's the gap in technology, the gap of an era."