He paused, allowing the weight of the statistic to settle over the assembly.
“The People’s Congress has authorized, under national and international law, the establishment of the Maritime Sovereignty Protection Zone. This measure will ensure rigorous customs inspections of all vessels entering Chinese ports, explicitly including those bound for the Taiwan province, whose authorities have failed to control the flow of illicit substances endangering Chinese citizens.”
The main screen illuminated with a detailed map of the Taiwan Strait, the new inspection zones marked clearly in red. Shen’s pulse quickened. The choke points were unmistakably deliberate — Penghu approaches, the Pratas corridor, and the northern strait narrows.
“The maritime authorities have formally requested naval support to enforce this new legislation,” Chen continued, his voice firm and authoritative. “The Central Military Commission has fully endorsed our participation.”
Captain Wang Jian leaned in close, whispering, “Maritime authorities. He means the militia fleet.”
Shen nodded grimly. Everyone knew these fishing vessels carried more electronics than fish, and crews more proficient with weapons than nets.
“Rules of engagement.” The screen transitioned, outlining explicit operational guidelines. “Vessels failing to comply with inspection demands or exhibiting resistance will be boarded. Resistance is defined broadly — failure to stop, encrypted communications, crew resistance, or deviation from established routes.” Chen’s voice hardened. “Your discretion is paramount.”
Shen understood immediately. The rules weren’t designed to avoid confrontation — they practically guaranteed it.
“Force composition per enforcement zone includes one destroyer squadron, two frigate flotillas, militia support, aerial coverage, and standby submarine assets.” Younger officers straightened with pride; veterans recognized an ominous escalation.
Assignments appeared on-screen. “Northern Zone — Destroyer Squadron 9. Central Zone — Squadron 12. Penghu Approach Zone — Squadron 15, Captain Shen Tao commanding.”
Shen’s jaw tightened imperceptibly. Penghu was a critical flashpoint, its waters crowded and its defenses formidable. His squadron would be at the heart of the operation, visible to global scrutiny within minutes of any incident.
“Packets before you contain detailed operational boundaries, protocols, and militia coordination guidelines,” Chen announced as sealed folders circulated.
Shen opened his folder, his heart sinking at the text: “Militia vessels will initiate close-approach maneuvers to facilitate inspection opportunities. Naval units maintain overwatch and escalate upon noncompliance or hostile intent.”
Translation: the militia will provoke, and naval forces will respond decisively, thought Shen.
A younger officer raised his hand. “What about Coast Guard coordination, Admiral?”
“There will be no Coast Guard involvement,” Chen responded sharply. “This is exclusively a naval operation supporting civilian customs authority. Our actions have clear and firm legislative backing.”
“Intelligence indicates significant Taiwanese military concentrations, including autonomous defense systems advised by American personnel,” Chen continued, his tone unyielding. “Your primary mission is the enforcement of national sovereignty. Noncompliant vessels attempting to evade inspection or displaying hostile actions will be decisively stopped.”
Captain Nie Yuhang stood, cautious. “Sir, what if American vessels intervene?”
“Any interference will constitute a direct threat to Chinese sovereignty,” Chen stated coldly. “Intelligence assessments indicate the Americans are unlikely to risk direct confrontation. Autonomous systems may probe our operations. Observe, record, but engage only if hostile intent is clear.”
He concluded gravely, “You have thirty days. Prioritize boarding drills, small-boat maneuvers, and strict fire discipline. Remember, we enforce the law, but stand prepared to defend our national integrity. Unless provoked, we do not initiate conflict — but we will not tolerate challenges to our sovereignty.”
As officers filed out, murmurs reflected mixed apprehension and determination. Shen’s mentor, Vice Admiral Deng, subtly approached him. “Penghu will define this entire campaign. Trust your instincts, follow your orders. The nation’s future depends on this.”
Shen nodded solemnly. He understood clearly now — the Navy’s role was provocatively structured under the undeniable legitimacy provided by DEAC-33, a legal framework masking an inevitable escalation.
As Shen stepped outside, heat washed over him, matching his inner turmoil. His phone buzzed. Messages from home were innocently unaware of the storm approaching. He responded briefly, unable to promise safety, only duty.
Thirty days.
He glanced toward Yulin Base, steel hulls gleaming ominously under the tropical sun.
The countdown to confrontation had begun, cloaked in legality but poised for history-altering consequences.
Rain hammered Admiral Deng Litian’s residence with tropical fury, each drop exploding against terra cotta tiles like liquid shrapnel. Captain Shen Tao paused in the covered entrance, watching water cascade off traditional eaves onto manicured gardens now churning with mud.
“Tao!” Deng Litian appeared in the doorway, trading his uniform for a simple cotton shirt that made him appear more grandfather than fleet admiral. “Come in, before you drown.”
Inside, the house radiated quiet wealth and historic discretion — Ming dynasty vases shared space with silk scrolls of a bygone era. Deng led Shen to an antique cabinet, where he withdrew an expensive bottle of fine alcohol and a pair of ornately decorated glasses.
“Maotai,” Deng said reverently as he showed him the bottle. “Fifty-year reserve. From simpler times.”
“When were times ever simple?” Shen replied.
Deng chuckled softly. “Truth.” He poured two glasses for them in his study. “But at least our enemies used to be human.”
They drank, the fiery baijiu burning away pretense. The study in his base housing home resembled a command center, masquerading as a scholarly retreat. He had maps layered upon maps, a secure terminal glowing softly on his desk, and a wall-mounted display showing real-time naval positions across the Pacific and into the Arctic.
“Hungry?” Deng gestured to a simple meal — rice, steamed fish, vegetables. “My wife insists admirals eat like peasants. Keeps us humble.”
They ate quietly, thunder punctuating the clink of chopsticks. Shen noticed Deng’s eyes repeatedly drifting to the map display, especially focused on deployments in Russia and Iran.
Finally, Deng set down his bowl. “Tao, what do you know about this spring’s exercise taking place in Western Russia, the Great Plains of Iran, and the Bering Sea?” he asked.
“Just that this exercise is supposed to test the logistical capabilities of the Eurasian Defense and Economic Pact’s ability to transport large numbers of men and materials across great distances, assemble them into formations, and then conduct joint military exercises between our alliance partners. It’s fairly similar to the annual NATO exercises held in Europe each summer and fall.”
“That’s what you are supposed to know.” Deng moved to the wall display, enlarging deployment patterns. “What would you say if I told you this giant exercise was cover for something bigger? Something no one will see coming?”
Shen’s chopsticks froze midair. “Are you serious? This exercise has been in the planning for more than a year. Heck, the Army has deployed two entire Group Armies to participate in it. What could it possibly be cover for, if not this exercise?”