Part 257: The Grand Fleet

“Wind direction 230, wind force 4…”

Around the field, several staff officers continuously reported changes in wind direction and speed.

The navigator held a small flag to indicate the ship’s position, judging its current speed and sail handling based on the wind conditions.

The gunnery officer held a long bamboo pole, its length roughly corresponding to the scaled-down direct fire range of the ship’s cannons. When indirect fire was needed, he would use the pole to draw a firing arc on the ground and then write down a number for the estimated hit probability.

The first mate held a “chart” and a notebook, constantly recording information.

Ming Qiu sometimes walked with the formation, other times stood on the sidelines, watching and thinking. Blue Force actors, playing pirates or government troops, continuously charged from the sidelines—sometimes in groups of two or three, sometimes in a large crowd, sometimes attempting to encircle and intercept them from different directions.

These men were genuine former pirates, arranging themselves in various formations according to their old habits. Ming Qiu’s “fleet” had to find the most effective response under all sorts of battlefield conditions.

Li Di, full of interest, craned his neck from the sidelines to watch the tactical exercise. A few other curious Senators stood around him. One of them was Ming Qiu’s son, Ming Lang. Watching his father’s serious yet enthusiastic expression, his own face showed a mixture of happiness and helplessness.

He could understand his father’s desire to achieve something significant at sea, even though he himself had no interest in it. However, the thought of his father going to war on a thousand-ton, smoke-belching, “domestically produced ship” made him genuinely worried. Ming Lang was a somewhat ambivalent Senator, not particularly impressed by the absolute confidence and self-assurance that permeated the Senate. In his view, the entire industrial system the Senate had built was a grand collection of counterfeit and shoddy goods, reeking of a “shanzhai” (knock-off) mentality—and this was even more true of their political system and organizational structure.

His father was about to command a “shanzhai” navy filled with inferior products to war. As a son, he was naturally very concerned.

However, the matter was not up to him, nor was it up to Li Mei.

A week ago, Ming Lang had received the document regarding this appointment. With his years of experience in organizational departments, he quickly realized that the appointment violated organizational procedures, or rather, it did not conform to the principle of “rule of law.”

The separation of the Ministry of the Navy and the Naval Command was established during the Second Plenary Session with the intention of separating military administration from military command, a measure for the civilian government to control the military. The person appointed as the minister of this military-political department did not necessarily have to be a civilian, but the head of this department should under no circumstances hold a military command position.

His father’s appointment as Minister of the Navy, while also holding the command position of the High Seas Fleet, was a clear violation. During Operation Engine, no matter how much they needed to rely on his professional skills, he should have been given a consultative role, like Chief Fleet Advisor. The person who truly held military command had to be a professional soldier not involved in military administration.

Therefore, he immediately met with Wen Desi and pointed out the problem.

Wen Desi proposed a compromise: they could first revoke Ming Qiu’s position as Minister of the Navy and then appoint him as Fleet Admiral. After Operation Engine, they could relieve him of his fleet command and reappoint him as Minister of the Navy. Ming Lang expressed that while this solution followed organizational procedures, it seemed rather forced. Furthermore, reappointing him immediately after Operation Engine would make the appointment and removal of positions seem too frivolous and playful.

“Besides, the procedure of first dismissing and then appointing is too cumbersome,” Ming Lang said cautiously. “Although the Ministers of the Army and Navy are not directly elected positions, their dismissal and appointment must be approved by the Senate Standing Committee.” In his heart, he didn’t think much of this plan, but since the leader had proposed it, he had said enough.

“We are in the founding stage now. Some things can be handled with discretion; we shouldn’t be too rigid,” Chen Haiyang proposed another plan. “Why not appoint Old Ming as Chief Advisor, with the stipulation that he will assume command in the absence of the Admiral…”

Specifically, Li Di would concurrently serve as Fleet Admiral. Of course, Li Di had no command ability, so Ming Qiu would be in actual command. Since he would only be appointed as Chief Advisor, it wouldn’t need to be elevated to such a high level, and the procedure would be much simpler.

However, the proposal to appoint him as Chief Advisor was opposed by Chen Haiyang. After all, fighting a war as a chief advisor was a completely different concept from fighting as a commander-in-chief. The honor, ultimately, belongs to the commander, not the advisor. Just as the victory at Dien Bien Phu was organized and commanded by the Chinese advisory group, with Chen Geng playing a decisive role, the final glory went to Vo Nguyen Giap.

“For Old Ming to go to war at his current status and position, it’s really about securing a legacy. Old Ming is already in his early sixties, unlike us young people who will have plenty of opportunities in the future,” Chen Haiyang insisted.

“This is probably unavoidable,” Wen Desi said. “I think we can do this: just fly Ming Qiu’s admiral’s flag on the flagship.”

Chen Haiyang felt this was the only way, especially since Ming Lang strongly disagreed with the plan of dismissing and then reappointing.

“I agree with this arrangement as well,” Wen Desi said. “But this matter still needs to be discussed at a meeting before a final decision is made.”

He then added, “I heard the Navy plans to name the fleet the ‘High Seas Fleet’?”

Chen Haiyang nodded. “Indeed, there is such a plan, but it hasn’t been officially decided. Also, we don’t plan to organize a fleet headquarters for now—we lack enough officers. It’s just a name. The specific organization…”

“How it’s organized doesn’t matter,” Wen Desi interrupted him. “The name ‘High Seas Fleet’ is too unlucky. Have you forgotten the rainbow at Scapa Flow? I think ‘Grand Fleet’ would be better.”

Chen Haiyang thought to himself that it was strange for Wen Desi to personally intervene in such a trivial matter. But on second thought, the name “High Seas Fleet” was indeed unlucky. Operation Engine was the Navy’s first large-scale maritime operation, and it was only natural for President Wen to want a more auspicious name.

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On September 26, 1631, dawn broke over Saint Mary’s Bay, north of Hong Kong Island. The morning sun slanted down on the largest concentration of the Senate’s fleet since D-Day.

The naval anchorage was at Causeway Bay, located in the central bay of Hong Kong Island, very close to the western channel of Saint Mary’s Bay.

The Causeway Bay anchorage was surrounded by small, rolling hills and islands. Most of these islands were barren, with only a few scattered fishing villages. Now, these villages had all been relocated. Observation posts were set up on key islands, monitoring the surrounding sea and land. From the sea, one could see the Morning Star flag flying on Victoria Peak—from a newly completed fort.

From the bay, one could see the massive Hong Kong Fortress at the Central Pier. Although it was called a trading post, the huge, square, castle-like building and the cannons on its corner bastions proclaimed its undeniable military power.

The anchorage at Causeway Bay was large enough to accommodate the entire Senate Navy and was far from the merchant shipping lanes. This was the staging anchorage for the newly established Grand Fleet. Since the beginning of Operation Engine, the newly formed Grand Fleet headquarters had moved here from Lingao.

At the red mooring buoys of the anchorage was tied the flagship of the Grand Fleet’s Chief Advisor and Acting Fleet Admiral, the 1,500-ton cruiser Lichun. Through the ship’s radio transmitter, it could communicate directly with the Admiralty in Bopu. Around the Lichun were gathered sixty-eight various ships and a large number of small boats, comprising the majority of the Grand Fleet’s main surface forces.

The First Fleet, directly commanded by Rear Admiral Ming Qiu, included the cruiser Lichun. It, along with the four first-class gunboats Chidian, Yufeng, Chenglang, and Yangbo, formed the fleet’s main force.

The Lichun was in the center, surrounded by the four first-class gunboats. The other ships were anchored on the periphery to protect the capital ships from sudden enemy attacks. These were the 3rd, 5th, 13th, and 14th Special Service Boat Squadrons, each with four special service boats.

All special service boat squadrons participating in Operation Engine had been refitted. All ships with a standard displacement of less than 200 tons were decommissioned and replaced with larger vessels. Due to the rush, the cannons on board had not yet been upgraded, but their equipment level and ship condition were a step up from the Pearl River Estuary Campaign.

The flagship of the Second Fleet, the first-class gunboat Zhenyang, and its subordinate gunboats Nongchao, Daishuang, and the second-class gunboat Fubo, were anchored not far from the First Fleet. In addition to these four capital ships, another five special service boat squadrons were under its command.

On the outermost perimeter were four H800s converted into hybrid sail-steam fast colliers: Haifeng, Haiyu, Haikang, and Haifu. They would accompany the fleet when necessary to perform at-sea coaling tasks.

This was the main force of the Navy for Operation Engine. To the north of the main force were anchored 21 single-masted and two-masted patrol boats under the command of the Coast Guard Headquarters, the 16 spar torpedo boats of the 1st Ocean-going Spar Torpedo Boat Flotilla, the 1st Transport Flotilla’s flagship EMS and its 24 H800 “Harmony” class ships, and the 2nd Transport Flotilla’s 33 miscellaneous transport ships.

This vast, pale-black fleet lay quietly at anchor, each ship making preparations for departure. They had been fully loaded with coal and supplies in the naval port, so their waterlines were low. Across the entire anchorage, only the Navy’s yellow motor launches, spewing thick smoke from their tall funnels, chugged back and forth with a “putt-putt” sound. On the warships themselves, aside from the occasional flutter of communication signal flags, there was little sign of activity. Although the anchorage was quiet, a palpable sense of excitement permeated the entire fleet.

This day was the anniversary of D-Day. Three full years had passed since the landing. The Senate had started from scratch and achieved what could be called earth-shattering results. Everyone’s morale was high. Whether Senator or naturalized citizen, all felt they were engaged in a great new enterprise. Everyone was certain that it would add a new glorious page to the history of the Senate.