MMB Chapter 1435 Changing the Policy, Leaving No One Behind
Chapter 1435 Changing the Policy, Leaving No One Behind
In the sky, anti-aircraft missiles tore through the clouds, trailing blinding flames and emitting sharp whistling sounds. Their infrared seekers were locked onto a dozen or so high-speed moving heat sources ahead—a swarm of Yan country "swarm" drones flying in loose tactical formation, their small bodies reflecting a cold metallic luster in the sunlight.
"Lock on! Fire!" The frigate's weapons officer pressed the fire button.
In the command center, General Dawson's lips curled into a hunter's cold smile, which froze completely the next second. On the radar screen, the dots representing the drones didn't disperse to avoid the attack; instead, they seemed to be drawn by invisible threads, tracing dizzying, eerie arcs in the air before instantly rearranging themselves. They no longer fled; instead, they changed direction, like moths to a flame, flying headlong towards the whistling Stinger missile!
"God... what are they doing?!" The adjutant's voice trembled with astonishment.
Dawson did not answer; a chill ran down his spine.
He saw it clearly—a dozen drones deftly split into two lines, like a death corridor paved for the missile. The three "decoys" at the forefront suddenly lowered their heads, diving at an almost vertical angle towards the vulnerable starboard side of the USS Lincoln on the sea! The massive missile behind it, its cumbersome body screeching under such a sudden command, was held back by the intense target signal ahead, like an enraged but irrational bull, charging headlong into its own territory!
"No! Hard to starboard! Full speed evasive maneuver!" Dawson's roar rang out simultaneously with the piercing impact alarm.
Too late.
The missile's solid-fuel propulsion unleashed its final, frenzied roar. Fifty meters, thirty meters, ten meters… Just before touching the ship, the lead drone nimbly skimmed past the radar antenna base, like a swift skimming the water. And that "Stinger," embodying cutting-edge technology, carrying all its kinetic energy and destructive intent, slammed solidly into the steel plate three meters above the waterline on the starboard side of the USS Lincoln.
"boom--!!!"
"General! The underwater structure on the starboard side is damaged! Compartment number three is completely destroyed, and flooding in compartment number four is out of control!"
"The turbine output power has dropped by forty percent! We've lost half our power!"
The adjutant's tearful report pierced through the buzzing eardrums.
Dawson pushed aside the soldiers who were helping him and stumbled to the tattered porthole. As far as the eye could see, the entire sea seemed to be on fire.
"A bunch of idiots! Utter idiots!" Dawson's roar was mixed with the smell of blood and despair. "Who gave the order to use anti-aircraft missiles to shoot these things?! This is like using a tomahawk to kill mosquitoes!"
"It's a joint operations order from the General Staff, which believes that a saturation missile attack can completely eliminate..."
"Saturation? Now it's our own fleet that's being 'saturated'!" Dawson grabbed the communicator, his fingers trembling violently with rage. "All channels broadcast! Immediately cease all anti-aircraft missile attacks! Switch to close-in weapon systems and electronic countermeasures! Repeat, no more missiles! Unless you want to sink your own flagship!"
The command, carrying the anxious tone of radio waves, echoed across the coalition channels. The whistling of missiles temporarily ceased, leaving only scattered close-in weapon systems futilely weaving a barrage on the sea, most of which landed near the drones, exploding into pale sprays. A chilling, brief silence descended.
Dawson gripped the scorching edge of the control console, his eyes glued to the radar screen. The tiny red dots representing the drones, after being "gifted" by missiles and bombarded by artillery fire, not only hadn't diminished, but had begun to regroup. From different altitudes and directions, along intricate and seemingly random trajectories, they rapidly converged, like iron filings drawn by an invisible magnet.
“They…are regrouping.” The radar officer’s voice was dry.
Thirty, fifty, one hundred, three hundred… In just two minutes, an even larger, denser, and more orderly black swarm re-formed above the wrecked Allied fleet. They hovered for a moment, their rotors cutting through the air at high speed, emitting that high-frequency, sharp, collective buzzing that seemed to pierce the brain and evoke the most primal fears—the prayer of predators before their meal.
Dawson's throat tightened, and his heart pounded heavily in his chest.
……
Little Days Fleet.
After being bombarded by missiles, the aircraft carrier carrying helicopters was also badly damaged, not much better off than the one in the United States.
Commander Jill's face was covered in a mixture of oil, blood, and cold sweat. Most of the left sleeve of his brand-new uniform was burned off, revealing red, swollen, and blistering skin.
“Report…” The operations staff officer’s voice was so hoarse it was almost unrecognizable. “The hangar fire cannot be extinguished… We are listing to starboard at fourteen degrees… All power is lost… We… can no longer maintain the ship’s balance.”
Jill didn't react. He looked through the cracked observation window at the swarm of drones that had regrouped in the sky, a dark mass resembling a flock of crows from the apocalypse.
"Commander! The Yan Kingdom drone swarm has turned! It's coming towards us! It's all coming towards us!" came the observer's desperate cry over the communicator.
The backup command room was deathly silent, save for the crackling of the flames and the roar of the waves crashing against the ship. All eyes were on Jill, the man who had sworn an oath before the shrine before setting out, now his face was ashen, and his lips trembled uncontrollably.
"Sir..." The operations staff officer suddenly collapsed to his knees, utterly exhausted, kneeling on the slippery floor. "Surrender...please, surrender! The Yan people have a tradition of not killing prisoners...historically, as long as we lay down our weapons, they would even provide medical treatment, and eventually...we would be safely repatriated..."
"Yes, sir, let's surrender!"
"We can't win, we simply can't win..."
"I want to go home alive! My mom is still waiting for me!"
Pleading and weeping filled the air. Officers knelt down one after another, some tearing at their tattered uniforms, searching for anything white—but the first-aid bandages had all been used up.
A young naval lieutenant's eyes flashed with the will to survive. He frantically unbuckled his belt, pulled down his military trousers, revealing a traditional-style pure white loincloth underneath.
“Use this! This will do! The white one!” He held up the strip of cloth as if it were a key to a way out.
An absurd and pathetic scene unfolded. More people began to follow suit, tearing off their underwear linings and pulling out scraps of what could barely be considered white sheets. But the most glaring and densest sights were still those strips of white loincloths swaying helplessly in the smoke and flames.
Jill closed his eyes. Images flashed through his mind: his earnest instructions before the campaign, his impassioned speech before the camera, his inflated belief in "inevitable victory"... He opened his eyes, looking at his kneeling subordinates, tears streaming down their faces, and at the swarm of bees outside the window, pressing down lower and lower, the aura of death looming over him.
“Give the order…” His voice was hoarse and weak, like a sigh, “Hang… no, raise all the white objects… signal to the Yan Kingdom drones… we surrender.”
He paused, then added the command that even he found absurd:
"Using the internationally recognized distress channel, broadcast in plain text: We surrender unconditionally and request an immediate ceasefire."
command center.
The footage from the deck shows the survivors desperately waving anything white they can find. Ragged strips of cloth are tied to rifle bayonets, bed sheets hang from broken antennas, and many more simply wave white debris in their hands. Among these, the most striking and numerous are rows of white loincloths fluttering in the wind.
A brief, pin-dropping silence fell over the command room, which was then broken by low laughter and sighs of disapproval.
"Truly... they haven't forgotten their roots in 'traditional skills'," an air force general quipped.
“They fear power but do not cherish virtue,” Old Ye’s smile vanished, his eyes sharpening again. “Our ancestors saw right through these people. If you hurt them, they’ll kneel down faster than anyone else. If you show them the slightest mercy, they’ll turn around and start plotting how to bite you back.”
All eyes turned to the young man in the very center of the command center.
Chen Jun.
He was still wearing that rumpled white lab coat, his hair disheveled, his eyes sunken, and his face a bluish-gray from prolonged and extreme sleep deprivation. But his eyes were astonishingly bright, fixed intently on the figures waving white cloths on the screen, his gaze devoid of any warmth.
"Engineer Chen," Old Ye said calmly, "According to international warfare practices, if the other side has clearly raised a white flag and broadcast its surrender, we should usually cease our attack and accept the surrender. What is your opinion?"
All eyes were on Chen Jun, awaiting his verdict.
Chen Jun slowly stood up from the control panel. He walked to the main screen, reached out his hand, and his fingertips almost touched the trembling image of the Izumo.
“Historically,” he began, his voice hoarse with exhaustion, but each word clear as an ice bead falling to the ground, “every time they launched an invasion against us, after failing, they only needed to raise the white flag, and the ultimate cost they paid was negligible.”
He turned around, his gaze sweeping over every face in the command room.
"Thus, generation after generation, an almost instinctive speculative logic has formed in their strategic thinking: invading Yan is the most 'profitable' gamble in the world. If they succeed, they will gain endless wealth, land, and 'glory' recorded in history; if they fail, they can simply bow, apologize, raise the white flag, and wait for the next opportunity. The cost is extremely low, but the potential benefits are huge—this is the deep-seated confidence that allows them to provoke time and time again."
He paused, then pointed precisely at the glaring white cloths on the screen, his voice turning cold:
"If they raise the white flag today, we will, as we have done countless times in the past, cease our attack, accept their surrender, and perhaps even provide humanitarian aid... Then, ten or twenty years from now, when their new aircraft carriers are launched again, when their politicians are once again clamoring about the 'Yan threat,' this fleet, or its successor, will still appear at our doorstep. Because the lesson deeply ingrained in their bones is not 'violating Yan will lead to death,' but 'violating Yan will at worst result in surrendering again.'"
There was silence in the command room.
“Therefore,” Chen Jun said with unwavering resolve, “this time, we must break this cycle.”
He looked at Elder Ye, and then at each of the generals:
"Since they dared to come, they should be prepared to stay here forever."
"Only when the cost of aggression is so high as to be unimaginable and so terrifying as to penetrate the soul can this sea achieve true and lasting peace."
“My suggestion is,” Chen Jun said, emphasizing each word, “Ignore the surrender signal and execute the original destruction order.”
……
on the deck.
Seeing the dark swarm of bees in the sky suddenly stop moving and hover motionless, Jill was almost exhausted, a surge of heat mixed with shame and ecstasy rushed to her head.
“They’ve stopped…they’ve stopped…It works! The surrender is valid!” he muttered incoherently.
A tremendous cheer, mingled with cries of despair, erupted from the surrounding area. Officers embraced each other, soldiers tossed aside their ridiculous white flags, and many kowtowed to the sky. The operations staff officer scrambled over, grabbed Jill's legs, and sobbed uncontrollably, "Sir...we...we survived..."
A twisted smile crept across Jill's face. Yes, history always repeats itself. As long as they bowed their heads, as long as they showed weakness, the shackles of the Yan people's "benevolence and morality" would bind their own hands and feet. Although they suffered a crushing defeat, as long as they returned alive, they could weave a story of "fighting valiantly and unyieldingly," and preserve their foundation. He even began to sketch out the wording of his report upon returning home.
However, before the faint smile of relief on his lips could fully form, the lookout's distorted, utterly terrified scream pierced through all illusions like an ice pick: