Chapter 539: Clear Skies After the Rain?

Detour?

Going west adds three hundred nautical miles and delays us by at least a day. Going east… the east lies on the International Date Line, with incomplete weather data, so the risk is greater.

Chen Feng thought. A one‑day delay would push back the arrival at Hawaii, possibly affecting the meeting schedule. But forcing a straight path through the storm's eye is too risky— even though the Huaihe was designed with severe sea conditions in mind, nature's power can sometimes surpass any engineering.

A massive wave struck, and the battleship lurched twenty‑five degrees to port. Unsecured items fell, and the sound of shattering rang from everywhere. Several young officers nearly fell, clutching the fixtures tightly.

"President, I recommend turning west to avoid the storm's eye," Zhang Haitao shouted, "Safety first."

Chen Feng looked out the window. Another colossal wave crashed head‑on, ten stories high, like a moving wall of water. The ship's bow plunged into the wave, the whole vessel was submerged, and only after a few seconds did it break free, the hull shaking violently.

In that moment, he suddenly realized: this storm is like the looming international situation. You can choose to detour, buying time, but you may miss the opportunity; you can also face it head‑on, bearing risk, but you may reach the goal.

"No," he finally said, "Maintain course, reduce speed to eight knots. We will go through the storm."

"President!" Zhang Haitao tried to dissuade.

"Listen to me," Chen Feng walked to the chart, his finger pointing between the current position and Hawaii. "If we detour and lose a day, how will the Meilika interpret it? They'll think we fear the storm, or… deliberately stall. Diplomatically, that would be seen as a weak signal."

He turned to face everyone on the bridge.

"And if we go through the storm, arriving on time, even with a damaged hull and exhausted crew, what message do we send? Determination, courage, the will to fulfill the mission despite any hardship. That itself is part of the negotiation."

Wang Wenwu understood. This is not recklessness; it is calculation—calculating the political signal each action conveys.

"But the risk…"

"The risk is manageable," Chen Feng said, looking at Zhang Haitao. "Captain, I trust you and your crew. I also trust this ship. It's called 'Huaihe', a great Chinese river that traverses mountains and rushes to the sea. Today, let it cross the Pacific storm and prove its name."

Zhang Haitao stared into the President's eyes. After a few seconds, he stood at attention and saluted.

"Yes! Maintain course, cross the storm! All hands, prepare for harsher conditions!"

The order was given. Huaihe did not turn; it continued northeast toward the storm's eye. Speed was reduced to eight knots to lessen hull stress. All watertight doors sealed, the damage control team stood ready, and the engine room was under heightened monitoring.

An hour later, they entered the storm's eye wall.

This was the storm's fiercest sector. Winds surged to fifty knots, waves over ten meters high. Rain fell horizontally, visibility dropped below one hundred meters. The battleship heaved violently between crests and troughs, tilting beyond thirty degrees repeatedly.

In the hangar, one cable securing a fighter snapped. An aircraft slid and struck the bulkhead. Ground crew rushed through the danger to re‑secure it, nearly being hit by a flung toolbox.

In the engine room, a turbine set triggered an alarm due to violent vibration. Engineers crawled on the floor, found a loose mounting bolt, and braced the tool with their bodies to fasten it amid the sway.

On the bridge, Chen Feng remained standing, never retreating to the safer command cabin. He wanted everyone to see that he was with them.

"President, you should go down," Wang Wenwu urged.

"No," Chen Feng shook his head, "If the ship truly fails, it makes no difference where I am. But now, standing here, the sailors will know their leader hasn't hidden in a safe spot."

Another massive wave struck, this time from starboard, tilting the ship thirty‑five degrees to port. Everyone thought it would capsize, but the Huaihe's design reflected rigorous engineering—an extremely low center of gravity and strong restoring moment. The hull lingered at the extreme angle for a few seconds, then slowly righted itself.

Sea water poured in through a vent, short‑circuiting the electrical system and cutting power to some sections. Emergency lights flickered on, casting a grim white glow.

"Damage control report!" Zhang Haitao shouted into the intercom.

"Sector A minor flooding, under control! Sector B power loss, under emergency repair! Sector C… one sailor injured, medical team en route!"

"Proceed onward!"

The storm lasted four hours. It was the toughest test the Huaihe has faced since commissioning, and the ultimate trial of Lanfang Navy's blue‑water capability. When the battleship finally burst through the eye wall into calmer waters, everyone collapsed—not from fatigue, but from the sudden release of taut nerves.

Sunlight pierced the clouds, spilling onto the scarred deck. The ship's hull was speckled with salt and water stains; a secondary gun's shield was deformed by the waves, an antenna snapped, yet the overall structure remained intact.

"Loss report," Zhang Haitao's voice was hoarse.

"Seven minor injuries, no serious wounds or deaths. No major hull damage; all primary systems operating normally. Only some external equipment and the antenna need repair," the damage control chief's report let everyone breathe a sigh of relief.

Chen Feng stepped out of the bridge onto the open deck. The sea breeze was still strong but far gentler now. Before him lay a magnificent sight: the storm receding, forming a massive cloud wall to the southeast, while here the sun shone brightly and the sea calmed.

"We made it through," Wang Wenwu followed out, his tone filled with awe.

"Yes," Chen Feng said, looking at the fading storm. "Now we know what the Huaihe can endure, what the Lanfang Navy can endure, and what we ourselves can endure."

He turned eastward. Four days of sailing remained; Hawaii lay ahead.

"Notify Pearl Harbor that we will arrive at the scheduled time. Also, disseminate the news of our storm crossing… appropriately. Not to brag, just to inform."

Wang Wenwu nodded. He understood the meaning of that "informing"—letting the Meilika know that they were not receiving a delicate delegation, but a force tempered by trial.

"Huaihe" continued sailing. On deck, the sailors began cleaning and repairing. Their movements were weary, but their eyes were resolute. After the storm, they knew this ship, this navy, this nation could face any challenge.

In the operations room behind the bridge, staff replotted the chart. The storm had set them thirty nautical miles off course, but the schedule could still be met. The sand‑table exercise continued, though the atmosphere had changed—after a real test, the simulated drill seemed clearer and heavier.

Chen Feng returned to his cabin. After a quick shower, he stood before the mirror. The man reflected there had tired yet sharp eyes, a face marked by the storm's salt and the wrinkles of time.