Chapter 528: Cable Cutting

"General, there's one more thing." Zhou Tieshan took a document from his briefcase, "This is the Security Department's drafted 'Family Resettlement Plan.' All Arab Division officers—from platoon leaders to division commanders—their immediate relatives will be moved into the newly built 'Officer Village' in Dubai. There will be good housing, schools, hospitals; living conditions will be far better than now."

Shadike took the document, skimmed quickly. The plan is detailed, benefits generous, but the clause on the last page made his heart sink: family members' entry and exit must be reported, communications with the outside will undergo "appropriate inspection," and leaving the village area without approval is prohibited.

This is a hostage. The civilized term is "family centralized resettlement," but in essence it's a hostage.

"Is this mandatory?" He tried to keep his voice calm.

"Strongly recommended," Zhou Tieshan smiled, "Of course, officers can choose not to participate. But then their promotion chances, special allowances, retirement placement… may be affected."

Choice. No‑choice choice.

Shadike was silent for a long time. Outside the tent, the soldiers' late roll‑call chant drifted in the desert night wind.

"I understand, Minister. I will convey this 'recommendation' to the officers…"

"Very well." Zhou Tieshan put away the document, "Also, next week the President will inspect the Arab Division. I want him to see a high‑morale, well‑trained force, not a ragtag crowd. Can you manage that?"

"Yes, Minister."

"Then I won't disturb you."

Zhou Tieshan left the tent, boarded the waiting jeep. The vehicle rolled out of the camp, bouncing along the desert road. Outside the window, the black desert stretched in all directions, only the headlights illuminated a small patch ahead.

The driver glanced at the rearview mirror and asked cautiously, "Minister, back to Dubai?"

"Port. I'm heading overnight to Borneo to check the security deployment there."

"You've gone three days without proper rest…"

"War doesn't wait for you to be rested." Zhou Tieshan leaned against the seat, closed his eyes, "Go faster."

The jeep accelerated, raising a long plume of dust on the desert road. The headlight beam pierced the darkness like a fragile sword trying to split the endless night.

Meanwhile, in the Arab Division's camp behind them, soldiers finished training and returned to their tents. Some wrote letters home, telling relatives they ate well, were warm, and earned money. Others, under political officers, studied the "Lanfang Republic Citizen Code" and the "Military Duties."

Loyalty is being forged, fear is being implanted, a special unit is being born. It will become Lanfang's sharp sword, but it may also be a double‑edged blade—able to strike the enemy and also wound itself.

Zhou Tieshan knows the risk, but he knows more that in this dangerous world, the risk of not taking risks is greater.

The jeep drove toward the horizon, disappearing into the desert night.

December 15, 1916, North Atlantic, latitude 52° N, longitude 30° W.

The Royal Navy auxiliary cruiser "Albian" cut through lead‑gray waves, laboring through six‑meter‑high swells. This former passenger liner, now a warship of 18,000 tons displacement, equipped with six 152‑mm guns and two torpedo tubes, was at this moment carrying out the most special mission—cable cutting.

On the bridge, Colonel Richard Turner raised a telescope, staring at the rolling sea ahead. The forty‑five‑year‑old officer had twenty years of naval service, but this was his first time undertaking such a mission.

"Position confirmed, Captain," the navigation officer reported, "We are now 320 nautical miles west of Ireland, five nautical miles from the German 'North Atlantic No. 7' submarine cable relay point."

"Weather?"

"Continuously worsening. Wind 25 knots, waves six to eight meters, visibility under three nautical miles. Not suitable for diving operations."

Colonel Turner lowered the telescope, a thin cold smile at the corner of his mouth: "Unsuitable is perfect. In this weather, German patrol boats won't appear, and neutral merchant ships will avoid the area. Just right for work."

He turned and gave orders: "Reduce speed to five knots. Deploy a guard boat. Notify the 'Sea Monster' team to prepare to submerge."

The "Albian" began to slow, its massive hull heaving more violently in the surf. On deck, sailors untied the securing lines and hoisted a specially built deep‑diving work boat, "Sea Monster No. 3," onto the surface. This fifteen‑meter‑long craft had an odd shape, with a huge mechanical claw and cutter at the bow, capable of operating at three hundred meters depth.

On the work boat, four divers and two operators were already in place. Team leader Lieutenant Mike Harris—a thirty‑year‑old Scot with ten years of deep‑sea experience—checked the equipment and gave a thumbs‑up to the mother ship.

"Dive!"

The steel cable slowly unfurled, "Sea Monster No. 3" sank into the raging water, soon disappearing beneath the deep blue surface.

Two hundred eighty meters below.

The seawater here was almost black, only the work boat's forward searchlight illuminated a small area. The immense pressure made the hull moan faintly, but within the double‑layer pressure‑resistant shell everything was normal.

"Sonar detects target," the operator said, eyes on the screen, "Four hundred meters ahead, submarine cable. About ten centimeters in diameter, double‑layer armored."

Harris leaned over to look at the screen. The sonar image showed a thick line lying on the seabed sand, extending north and south. This is one of Germany's three main undersea telegraph cables to the Americas, carrying most diplomatic and commercial communications between Berlin and Washington, and Berlin and Buenos Aires.

"Approaching. Prepare cutter."

The work boat moved closer. In the searchlight beam, the cable's outline grew clearer—a thick black rubber tube, wrapped with a steel‑wire braid and a bitumen waterproof layer, with a lead weight ring every twenty meters to keep it on the seabed.

"German engineers did a good job," Harris evaluated, "This design resists most natural damage, but it can't stop us."

The work boat's front mechanical arm unfolded, its end a rotating toothed cutting disc. The operator carefully guided the arm, aligning the cutter with the middle of the cable.

"Contact. Begin cutting."

The toothed disc spun, emitting a low hum that could be heard even inside the sound‑proof cabin. The cutter met the cable armor, sparking—a flash of metal friction as the steel wires were severed.

Progress was slow. Double‑layer armor, rubber insulation, internal copper conductors… each layer required different cutting parameters. Harris stared at the monitor, constantly adjusting pressure and speed.

Twenty minutes later, the operator lifted his head: "First armor layer cut. Second layer… complete. Rubber layer being cut."

Suddenly, the sonar alarm rang.