Part 260: Setting Sail

At 8:00 a.m. sharp, after the flag-raising ceremony on the cruiser Lichun, a signal flag was hoisted on the signal mast, issuing the anxiously awaited order: “Set sail on schedule!”

Li Di, wearing his white naval summer uniform and a staff officer’s sash, stood on the bridge of the Lichun, watching the ships of the 1st Reconnaissance Squadron. The 200-ton Type II two-masted schooner patrol boats began to weigh anchor. The anchor cables splashed white water, and as the arm-thick cables passed through the hawseholes, the mud on them was washed away by the spray. The 1st Reconnaissance Squadron set sail, followed in succession by the 3rd Special Service Boat Squadron, the 5th Special Service Boat Squadron, the 1st Gunboat Squadron, and the 2nd Gunboat Squadron… The Grand Fleet was finally on its way to the battlefield that would decide the fate of the Senate.

As the fleet sailed out of the anchorage, the troops remaining in Hong Kong and those departing later gave the First Fleet an emotional send-off. Sailors lined the ship’s rails, cheering and waving their hats. Accompanied by the music of the “Warship March,” the sailors of the First Fleet, standing at attention, also waved goodbye to them. Everyone was beaming with joy. Each man believed he was about to engage in a battle that would secure a glorious victory.

No one had the slightest doubt about victory. The commissioning of the Lichun had been a great shock not only to the ordinary natives and naturalized citizens but to all naval personnel as well. The Lichun was the largest ship built to date. Its iron frame, huge main guns, and smokestack belching black smoke and white steam, along with the enormous waves it kicked up during its full-speed trials in the strait, had not only once again flaunted the Senate’s military might but had also made them understand that the Senate was capable of continuously repeating its industrial miracles, not just possessing a few unreplicable “magic weapons.” This kind of miracle was something no one could contend with.

The fleet sailed northwest, accurately taking the Lei Yue Mun channel to leave Saint Mary’s Bay. The northern shore of Saint Mary’s Bay was still under the rule of the Ming Dynasty and had not been brazenly incorporated into the territory of the Hong Kong Agricultural Reclamation Corps, but the entire bay was now, without a doubt, an “Australian inland lake.” Ming army ships never entered Saint Mary’s Bay, and native fishing boats that wanted to fish in the bay had to apply for a license at the Hong Kong trading post and pay a 20% tax in kind on their catch.

Coastal merchant ships and cargo boats heading to Guangzhou and the Pearl River Delta, under the constant patrols and “persuasion” of the Coast Guard’s Hong Kong squadron, no longer entered the Pearl River Estuary but instead docked and traded in Hong Kong. At the commercial pier near Central, the masts were as dense as a forest. The once desolate bay, where only a few fishing boats operated, had now become bustling.

The Lichun sailed slightly north to bypass North Point. It sailed along the coast at a brisk 6 knots under sail. From the deck, one could see Artillery Hill. A puff of white smoke rose from the fort on the hill, followed by the rumbling sound of cannons—it was the coastal artillery firing a salute of farewell.

The secondary guns on the Lichun also fired a salute in return. The thin morning clouds gradually dispersed, and the sunlight shone on the calm, azure sea. A gentle breeze swept across the deck of the Lichun, creating a refreshing and exhilarating feeling.

To pass through the Lei Yue Mun channel, the twenty-seven ships of the First Fleet formed a long single file, with a distance of one thousand meters between each ship, resembling a grand naval review. The steam-powered ships sailed under canvas, merely maintaining pressure in their boilers.

Soon, a dozen fishing boats from the fisheries cooperative, waiting for the tide, appeared on the starboard side. The fishermen waved and cheered at them. To port, the rice paddies of the Kowloon Peninsula were a golden yellow—a testament to the work of the Heaven and Earth Society—heralding the arrival of autumn. The lush green trees along the coast stood out even more against the hazy green mountains in the background.

Not far from the shore, a Type 601 paddlewheel tugboat, spewing black smoke, was laboriously towing a string of barges out to sea. A short while later, when the bridge sighted Cha Kwo Ling, the string of barges had already fallen far behind.

Tugboats performed many tasks in Hong Kong, one of which was to load various goods purchased from Guangzhou onto barges and tow them to Hong Kong. This heavy and slow “water train” was now a major spectacle in the Pearl River Estuary.

As the fleet continued its course, a small Coast Guard patrol boat, puffing black smoke, sped past on the outside. They were on patrol and conducting spot checks, ensuring the Senate’s absolute hegemony in the Pearl River Estuary.

Li Di gazed at all this, a scene that hardly matched his memories of the old world. He had been to Hong Kong more than once in his previous life, but the primitive state before him, stripped of its dense skyscrapers and bustling streets and piers, felt very unfamiliar. He couldn’t help but feel a pang of nostalgia. Suddenly, the signal officer’s loud command through the speaking tube interrupted his reverie.

At this moment, all the senior officers of the First Fleet headquarters, as well as the captain of the Lichun and his staff, were gathered on the bridge. Regulations stipulated that when passing through a narrow channel, all personnel must be at their stations.

As soon as the signal officer’s command was given, four signal flags were hoisted on the small signal mast behind the bridge command post. The first signal flag was the order to change formation. Since they had already passed the narrowest part of the channel, one could tell without even looking at the other three flags that the order was for the ships to assume a normal sailing formation.

At the top of the signal mast flew the rear admiral’s flag of the First Fleet’s Chief Advisor and Li Di’s commodore’s pennant. Li Di’s rank was only Lieutenant Commander, but as the Chief of Staff of the First Fleet and the nominal fleet commander, he was entitled to fly a commodore’s pennant.

Suddenly, the ship’s loudspeaker announced: “Lei Yue Mun channel passage complete! Stow tools! Resume normal deployment!”

People in white service uniforms and blue work clothes began to flock to the fore and aft decks to get a final look at the receding coastline. About a dozen off-duty stokers came to the forecastle, took off their shirts, and began to do gymnastics to the sound of the petty officer’s whistle, bare-chested.

Li Di also left the bridge and went to the “balcony deck” behind it. This was an area on the deck exclusively for officers to relax, with wrought-iron railings, a teak deck, and fixed cast-iron tables and chairs. The Lichun was not large enough to have a private captain’s balcony at the stern, so this area was created behind the bridge instead.

He sat down in a chair and gazed at the sea view. It was rare to have such a beautiful day with pleasant weather.

The captain of the Lichun, Li Ziping, came down from the bridge and also went out onto the deck. He sat down in a chair next to him, casually lit a cigarette, and said:

“Getting used to it?”

Li Di was notoriously prone to seasickness. Despite his insistence on joining the Navy, he had always suffered from it. During his first cruise on the Type 8154, he had thrown up so much he thought he would die. Later, during the sea trials of the Fubo, he was once again carried off the ship. As a result, he had to settle for the positions of Naval Chief of Staff and Harbor Master, both of which, in their primary and secondary capacities, did not require long ocean voyages. But a high-ranking naval officer who couldn’t sail the high seas, even without others saying it, knew he was a “disgrace to the Navy.”

For this reason, Li Di had spent a lot of time on adaptive training, using equipment to improve his sense of balance and frequently seeking opportunities to go to sea. After more than a year of training, he was much better than before.

“I feel fine now. I think I’ll be okay this time.”

“The waves are less than 1.2 meters high right now. It’s typically calm. Once we get into the open ocean, it probably won’t be so peaceful,” Li Ziping said. “And we’ll be sailing around the clock. I don’t know if you’ll be able to handle it then.”

“No problem,” Li Di said sullenly. “I might get a little seasick, but it won’t be a big deal.” He changed the subject. “You must be busy with the full-ship joint training.”

“It’s tough! The Lichun has only been in service for a little over two months since its handover. To achieve combat readiness is simply a fantasy. We can only train while we sail. Anyway, we have strong firepower and high speed. As long as we don’t let the enemy get close for boarding and melee, we won’t lose, no matter how we fight.”

“Speaking of which, the quality of the sailors and department heads on your ship is probably not as good as those on the special service boats. They have a lot of old sea dogs on board, who are at least first-rate sailors.”

Li Di’s last sentence touched upon an unpleasant issue. To ensure the “absolute safety” of the Lichun, all “unreliable” naturalized citizen sailors were excluded when manning the ship and appointing department heads. Many of them were junior officers and non-commissioned officers of pirate origin who were excluded because they had not been naturalized for long and had low political ratings.

Li Ziping said, “I am very much against this practice of prioritizing political reliability in everything. A certain degree of vigilance is necessary, but unlimited quantitative management is going too far…”

Li Di felt the same way, but he made no comment on it. Quantitative management was something President Wen preached “every day, every hour.” He was constantly trying to implement the ISO system in all aspects. Political ratings and reliability ratings were all systems created under the banner of quantitative management. It was unwise to openly oppose them.

“It’s a systemic problem,” he said after a moment’s thought, resorting to a clichéd, all-purpose answer. “We should still consider how to get things done well within the system.”

“I wonder if this operation will go smoothly…” Li Ziping was saying. Suddenly, the speaking tube buzzed: “Captain, report, the rate of water ingress in the bilge is increasing…”

“Understood, I’ll be right there,” Li Ziping said, picking up his hat from the table. “This ship! I knew it wouldn’t be this peaceful!”

The Lichun was a newly launched ship. For a newly built wooden-hulled vessel, taking on water was normal. The hull would automatically seal itself after a period of sailing. As long as the water intake could be controlled below the alert level with the pumps, it would not affect navigation or combat. Almost every European sailing ship was equipped with manual pumps. Sometimes, a ship in poor condition would even have to have its pumps manned in shifts 24 hours a day just to stay afloat.

The Lichun had a steam-powered auxiliary engine, so pumping did not require manual labor, but the rate of water ingress was still closely monitored. Li Ziping was very worried about the quality of the ship, fearing that some quality issue had not been discovered in time. If the ship sank, it would be his responsibility.