Chapter 65: Midnight Emergency Dispatch

The night over the Indian Ocean was purely black.

Only starlight and the Restoration Ship's own navigation light traced a solitary ribbon of light across the boundless sea. On the bridge, the instrument panel emitted a faint green glow, its needles trembling rhythmically. The watch officer Lin Hai stood at the chart table, holding a lukewarm coffee, his eyes fixed on the pencil line indicating the heading.

"Heading 120, speed 18 knots, wind force level three, sea state calm," he said softly to the navigator beside him, "At this speed we can reach the outskirts of Colombo by tomorrow noon."

The navigator was a young man in his early twenties named Chen Qiming, who had graduated from a technical school three months earlier. "Sir, will the Yingguo really let us enter the port?"

"The President said they will let us," Lin Hai said, taking a sip of coffee. "If they refuse, we'll stop outside the main channel and make every ship entering or leaving the port see. The Yingguo can tally this bill—"

Before the words finished, the steel door of the communications room was flung open.

Communicationsman Wang Xiaohua rushed out, clutching a freshly translated telegram sheet. His face was startlingly pale in the dim light, his lips trembling, unable to utter a word.

"Wang Xiaohua?" Lin Hai frowned. "What's the situation?"

Wang Xiaohua shoved the telegram into Lin Hai's hand, turned and braced against the bulkhead, his shoulders beginning to shake violently.

Lin Hai lowered his head to look.

The telegram was brief, only three lines. It used the Dragon Eye Network's highest‑security encoding format, and each translated character burned like red‑hot iron nails, scorching his eyes:

【South Ocean-7 Emergency Telegram】

Java Batavia, this morning at six o'clock. Dutch military police suppressed Chinese merchants' protest, opened fire.

Confirmed dead: forty‑seven; injured: over a hundred. Corpses piled on the dock, blood flowing like a channel.

The Chamber of Commerce issued an urgent plea, asking: Where is the motherland?】

The coffee cup slipped from Lin Hai's hand, shattering on the steel floor. The brown liquid splashed, looking exactly like the blood described in the telegram.

【7】 Everyone on the bridge turned their heads.

Everyone on the bridge turned their heads.

"Sir?" Chen Qiming approached cautiously.

Lin Hai gave no reply. His fingers clenched the thin paper, his knuckles whitening from the pressure. After a full ten seconds he lifted his head, his voice hoarse as sandpaper rubbing:

"Immediately inform the captain. All ships, enter Level‑2 alert status."

"Level‑2 alert?" Chen Qiming was startled. "But we…"

"Execute the order!"

Lin Hai practically shouted. The young navigator trembled all over, turned and rushed toward the intercom. The alarm bell rang immediately, short and sharp, echoing through the ship's hull in the dead of night.

Li Te lay in the captain's cabin, half‑clothed.

Over thirty continuous hours of command, plus the prolonged psychological standoff with the Yingguo fleet, left the captain exhausted. Yet he slept lightly—an habit cultivated over years, ready to be roused at any moment.

Thus when the alarm sounded the third time, he was already sitting up, his feet slipping into his boots.

"Report!"

Lin Hai's voice rang from outside the door, trembling with suppressed agitation.

"Enter."

The door opened. Lin Hai stepped in, holding the telegram. He didn't even salute, handing it directly to Li Te.

"Java's in trouble," Lin Hai said softly. "The Dutch… opened fire."

Li Te took the telegram.

He read slowly, one character at a time. After the first pass he read it again. Then he lifted his head, his eyes a bottomless void in the dim light.

"Has the information been verified?"

"It was sent by the Dragon Eye Network's South Ocean‑7, highest security," Lin Hai said. "They wouldn't err on a matter like this."

Li Te nodded. He walked to the porthole, pushed aside the thick bullet‑proof glass. Warm, humid sea wind rushed in, smelling of salt and fish. In the distance, the Intrepid's navigation light still lingered in view, like a stubborn eye.

"How far are we from Java?" he asked, his voice terrifyingly calm.

Lin Hai calculated quickly: "Current position 8° N, 72° E. To Batavia… full‑speed sailing takes about fifty‑six hours. If we turn now, adjusting heading to 165°, raising speed to 30 knots, we can cut it to under fifty hours."

"Fifty hours," Li Te repeated the figure. "Fifty hours—enough for the Dutch to kill how many?"

Lin Hai dared not answer.

Li Te turned. His face was expressionless, but Lin Hai saw the captain's clenched fist trembling slightly—a sign of severely suppressed anger.

"Notify the engine room," Li Te said, "adjust heading to 165°, raise speed to 25 knots. But don't go full speed yet; wait for my order."

"Captain, are we heading to Java?" Lin Hai's voice held a hint of hesitation. "But the President's order is to detour via Colombo, Aden, demonstrate our presence, then return. Changing the plan on our own…"

"So I'm not changing it on my own," Li Te interrupted, walking to the desk, sitting down, pulling out a codebook and the telegram. "I will consult Dubai. But before that, I must make all preparations."

He lifted his pen and began drafting the telegram. The nib scratched across the paper, producing a rustling sound.

【To Dubai Command, Top Secret】

Our ship received at 03:17 the South Ocean‑7 emergency telegram: In Java Batavia, Dutch military police massacred Chinese civilians, confirmed dead forty‑seven, injured over a hundred. The situation is critical; overseas compatriots request assistance.

Our current position is 8° 12′ N, 72° 34′ E. At full speed we could reach Java waters within fifty hours.

Request: Should we alter the original navigation plan to proceed to Java to protect overseas compatriots?

This matter is of great importance; please have the President decide promptly.

Attachment: Personal opinion— to stand by while they die would chill the hearts of three hundred thousand compatriots; but unilateral action might jeopardize the whole operation. Caught between these two hardships, please let the President make the decision.

Li Te, 03:25】

After finishing, he handed the telegram to Lin Hai: "Send it immediately. Use code number one, highest priority."

"Yes!"

Lin Hai took the telegram, turned to leave, but Li Te called him back.

"Wait," Li Te stood, walked up to him, "after sending the telegram, notify all department heads; hold a meeting in the conference room in fifteen minutes. Also… have the kitchen prepare hot meals and coffee; no one will sleep tonight."

"Understood."

After Lin Hai left, Li Te returned to the porthole. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

Forty‑seven dead.

He recalled many years ago, when he still hauled cargo at the Singapore docks. That afternoon, a Yingguo foreman accused Chinese laborers of theft and demanded a search. A co‑worker named Lao Chen protested a few words, only to be struck on the head with an iron rod by the foreman, dying instantly. Blood poured from Lao Chen's ears, nose, and mouth, pooling on the ground.

Around him, dozens of Chinese laborers stood, and none dared to move.

Li Te also didn't dare. He could only watch, watch as Old Chen's eyes gradually lost their luster, watch as that Yingguo foreman spat a mouthful of saliva and muttered curses as he walked away. That night, he hid in the shanty and wept— not for Old Chen, but for his own cowardice.

"This time," he whispered to the darkness outside the window, "it's different."