Chapter 402: Da’s At Sea Rescue
China chose this location as part of the strategy.
This area, win or lose, will trigger the collapse of the Taiwan Stock.
This is the area selected by China, utilizing the freedom of international waters: according to the United Nations Convention on the Law of the Sea, coastal states have an exclusive economic zone of 200 nautical miles from the baseline.
Outside this area are the high seas, or international waters.
All countries enjoy freedoms on the high seas for navigation, overflight, laying submarine cables and pipelines, constructing artificial islands, and conducting scientific research.
The area selected by China is about 372 kilometers outside the baseline of the island at Japan’s southwesternmost end.
Spread out the map and look; this location is legally high seas, but geographically and sensorily, it clings to the south of Japan’s national border, located between Okinawa and 4v.
The area is adjacent to the Miyako Strait and Bashi Channel, a golden waterway and a throat passage.
At the same time, it is very close to the Kadena Air Force Base in Okinawa.
The entire recovery operation process includes fleet assembly, strait transit, area alert, prolonged operations, and return voyage.
The entire process above, at the tactical level, is highly similar to subjects for blockading or controlling a specific area during wartime.
You call this a scientific research activity?
On the bridge of the “Akitsushima”, Captain Saito Kenji gripped the telescope tightly, his palms full of sweat.
Compared to China, Japan is far inferior in preparation, morale from top to bottom, training duration, and fleet strength.
Since the security treaty began, Japan has lacked that do-or-die courage; relying on America Daddy has become their thought imprint.
Once you have such an imprint, it’s no wonder they have no combat power.
He could clearly see the outline of the Chinese frigate in the distance, even the sailors moving on its deck.
Meanwhile, the “Nantong” was like a silent sheepdog, faithfully following them, neither approaching nor distancing, maintaining a suffocating professional distance.
“What is the order from above?” Saito asked the first mate.
“Maintain observation, record everything, wait for the opportunity.” The first mate replied.
Saito smiled bitterly.
Opportunity?
He knew that the hovering P-3C was the real vanguard.
P-8A Poseidon reconnaissance aircraft, call sign “Snake Eye 6”, in the cabin, Electronic Warfare Officer Taylor Lieutenant was saying to his colleagues: “Guys, the party’s about to start.”
They could only watch helplessly; America doesn’t move, so why should we?
Li Zheng looked at the screen, the Akitsushima, after witnessing all this, was slowly turning its bow and heading home.
He also knew that above the high-altitude clouds, the P-8A had already shut down most of its detection equipment.
They all understood.
Understood what that 485-meter deviation meant.
Understood what the composure and professionalism of this fleet meant.
This was a silent handover.
No declaration of war, no treaty, not even a single diplomatic phrase.
But Li Zheng knew that history’s tide, in those thirty minutes just now, had once again crossed an irreversible critical point.
He picked up the ship intercom.
“Order all units, recovery mission complete.
Formation switches to return voyage formation, course 0-3-0, speed 18 knots.”
He paused, then added the last sentence:
“We’re going home.”
In a studio at NTV headquarters in Chiyoda, Japan, a huge screen repeatedly played the BY-2 recovery video released by China, which had gone viral globally.
The image was high-definition and stable.
In the corner of the video, a blurry white shadow occasionally appeared.
Host Shinbo Jiro’s expression was more serious than ever.
“Good evening, everyone.” He began, his voice carrying suppressed anger: “In the past 72 hours, the whole world has seen what happened at our doorstep.
A Chinese fleet completed a world-attention-grabbing space operation outside our exclusive economic zone.
Throughout the process, our Coast Guard was on site, our Self-Defense Force reconnaissance aircraft in the sky.
But we just watched.
Mr. Sakurai, the public wants to know, why did we just watch?
Why didn’t our proud Maritime Self-Defense Force advance?
Why could we only stand like an irrelevant guest invited to watch a neighbor’s housewarming celebration?”
Commentator Sakurai Shin, this time not furious, only humiliation on his face; in his view, this was a silent humiliation, and worse, Chiyoda’s politicians seemed willing to accept such humiliation:
“Mr. Shinbo, because our government, at the moment when it most needed to show national will, chose self-restraint, or self-castration!” His voice wasn’t loud, but each word was like a heavy hammer: “Our Akitsushima was intercepted by their frigate, our reconnaissance aircraft was locked by their radar; facing this, what did we do? Withdraw! Withdraw thirty nautical miles! Under international law, this is equivalent to defaulting that sea area as theirs.”
“Our Aegis destroyers, our Haguro and Maya, are parked in Sasebo port; from there to the incident area, full speed would take less than half a day.
Yet we chose to leave them in port.
What signal does this send to the world, especially America and China? That we have lost the courage and determination to defend our maritime rights at our own doorstep.”
“Mr. Onodera,” Shinbo Jiro immediately threw the question to the former Deputy Minister of Defense, “Do you agree with Mr. Sakurai’s view? Is this really a lack of courage?”
Onodera Yasuhide, this former defense senior official, shook his head gravely:
“I understand Mr. Sakurai’s pain; everyone concerned about national security feels the same, but we must face a cruel fact that can only be frankly admitted in this studio tonight: not dispatching Haguro was not a political choice, but a military one.”
“After the P-3C was locked by their fire-control radar, the Official Residence’s Crisis Management Center and Ministry of Defense’s Joint Staff Office immediately conducted wargaming. The conclusion: if Haguro forced entry in that situation, it would face not just ship-to-ship missiles.
It would face hypersonic anti-ship ballistic missiles from China’s inland, which our current Aegis missile defense system theoretically cannot intercept.”
“And that 485-meter landing point deviation,” he turned to Professor Takahashi, “completely killed all fluke mentality.”
Professor Takahashi from Keio University took over: his analysis went straight to the core of the problem.
“That 485-meter number was the fatal blow of this psychological warfare.
It clearly showed us and the Americans three things: first, China’s independent navigation system is mature, their weapons no longer rely on external signals that can be jammed; second, their hypersonic weapons have incomprehensible terminal precision; third, they have the determination to turn this precision into military reality anytime, anywhere.”
“So, Mr. Shinbo,” Professor Takahashi concluded, “to answer your question: why didn’t we intervene? Because our professional military bureaucrats, after risk assessment, reached a conclusion even they couldn’t accept: intervening equals sending our most advanced warship to apply for an uninterceptable missile live-fire test, and globally live broadcast.
Such suicidal behavior has no meaning beyond brute courage.”
The studio was deathly silent.
Sakurai Shin’s mouth hung open, but he found no words to refute.
That passionate rhetoric based on spirit and courage seemed so fragile before the cold technological gap and strategic wargaming.
“What about the Americans?” Host Shinbo Jiro asked the final question.
“The Americans?” Professor Takahashi smiled bitterly, “They sent their best audience, the P-8A reconnaissance aircraft.
It faithfully recorded our restraint and the Chinese confidence with its most advanced sensors.
It will write this impression into a detailed report and send it back to the Pentagon.
Then, Washington’s politicians will use this report to reassess the value of our pawn on the Pacific Ocean chessboard.”
At the end of the program, Shinbo Jiro made no summary, just facing the lens, in a self-questioning tone, softly said:
“When the sword is still in its sheath, yet already known to break upon drawing.
When the shield is still in hand, yet already known to be useless.
The power we believed in turned into an illusion overnight.
So, tomorrow, how do we face this world that no longer has myths to protect it?”
No. 7, Section 2, County Civil Avenue, Banqiao District, New Taipei City, 18th floor, an office with a single light on
On the huge screen in Wu Jianzhong’s office, last night’s NTV “Deep NEWS21” was replaying on mute.
No sound, but the somber expressions of Onodera Yasuhide and Takahashi Yoichi on screen, plus the scrolling subtitles below like “A2/AD Realization”, “Japan-US Security Vacuum Zone”, said it all.
Chen Xiaoxian sat on the sofa opposite him; the room was in long silence.
Calling Chen Xiaoxian here late at night, without even a cup of tea, clearly the situation was much worse than their last car discussion.
“I watched it three times.” Wu Jianzhong finally spoke, voice hoarse, pointing at Professor Takahashi’s frozen face on screen. “Japan’s best scholar and the defense-savviest former senior official, on their highest-rated program, publicly admitted one thing.”
“Admitted what?” Chen Xiaoxian asked knowingly.
“Admitted their Aegis is just for show.
Admitted their proud alliance has no ability, or will, to challenge the red line drawn by China.” Wu Jianzhong turned his head, eyes hollow from collapsed belief.
They never believed in themselves; what they believed in was always Japan and America.
“Xiaoxian, all our past strategic wargaming, all defense plans, were built on a cornerstone where Japan is the first and most critical defense line.”
“Now,” he smiled self-mockingly, “this line, through a television debate, announced its own non-existence.”
Chen Xiaoxian nodded: “So, the logic we discussed last time—that they will accelerate hollowing us out—has now been finally verified?”
“Yes.” Wu Jianzhong leaned back in his chair, gazing at the ceiling. “This afternoon, I attended a closed-door meeting; Washington, via AIT, has made an informal suggestion to us.”
“What suggestion?”
“They suggest, to maintain global semiconductor supply chain stability, we should encourage TSMC to back up its most advanced 3nm and 2nm production lines to US Arizona and Japan Kumamoto factories via cooperative R&D and technology licensing.”
“Suggestion,” Chen Xiaoxian chewed the word, “I guess this isn’t a suggestion we can refuse.”
“Of course not.” Wu Jianzhong closed his eyes, “Washington folks are too lazy even to pretend.
Their message is clear: since we can’t guarantee holding your gold mine, our only choice is to dig out all the gold before the mine collapses.”
The office fell silent again.
The night view outside the window remained prosperous, traffic flowing.
But they all knew clearly that the foundation this city relies on for survival is being extracted from outside.
“Jianzhong,” Chen Xiaoxian spoke, expression pained, “what we need to discuss now may no longer be how to stop them, but a more realistic problem.”
“What problem?”
“In this game destined to be hollowed out, what price can we strive for ourselves.”
Chen Xiaoxian stood up, walked to the window, looking at the distant lights.
“Before, international capital saw us as a high-risk, high-return asset.
They feared the threat but coveted our technology and profits.
And now, after watching that moon live broadcast and Tokyo talkfest, our positioning has changed.
We are no longer a high-risk asset.
We have become a patient with stable vital signs but diagnosed with terminal illness
“Those doctors are no longer discussing how to treat us, but who will harvest the organs we still have value in.
That aggressive investor called Aethelred Capital is the first surgeon rushing into the ward to operate.”
“And you, Jianzhong,” Chen Xiaoxian pointed to the pile of stock market stabilization documents on his desk, “everything you’re doing, every fund defense, every statement, is like feeding aspirin to a terminal cancer patient—maybe makes them feel better today, but meaningless to the final outcome.”
Wu Jianzhong stared at Chen Xiaoxian for a long time, then slowly, painfully, nodded.
As one of the top financial regulators, he had to admit that the foundation of the building he guarded could no longer be repaired by powers he could touch.
What he could do was perhaps only to strive for a relatively dignified posture for the building’s collapse.
Tanaka Kenta, a ordinary section chief assistant at the Ministry of Internal Affairs and Communications, similar to deputy section chief.
A typical elite civil servant who graduated from East University and entered the bureaucracy.
Tanaka Kenta’s day started at 5:30 a.m., woken by a Yahoo News app push on his mobile phone. The title was black and bold: “Sugahara New Cabinet Forms Midnight, Nikkei Futures Circuit Breaker”.
He wasn’t surprised at all.
As a civil servant at the core of the huge information cocoon in Kasumigaseki, he sensed the storm’s arrival earlier than most citizens.
When that internal emergency notice requiring “unified messaging, cautious response” from all departments was sent to his email via encrypted system, he knew something big was coming.
9 a.m., Ministry of Internal Affairs and Communications office
The office was eerily quiet. No one discussed last night’s earth-shattering event; colleagues sat at their desks precisely one minute before nine, not a second more or less, turned on computers, and began processing the mountain of documents.
Silence is Kasumigaseki’s first survival rule.
The more you know, the more you must act ignorant.
But change couldn’t be hidden. From 9 a.m., the phone lines in his department handling public inquiries were completely overwhelmed.
As section chief assistant, he could see the incoming inquiry summaries flooding the backend system.
Public inquiry phones were overwhelmed.
“Why didn’t the Maritime Self-Defense Force move? Are our Aegis destroyers models?”
“Where is the government’s protest? Why could we only watch them show off at our doorstep?”
“Is my tax money to support an army that only dares to watch, not act?”
Facing these questions, the standard reply from superiors seemed especially pale and powerless:
“We have urged the other side to exercise restraint and not escalate regional tension.”
“The on-site response was the most professional and prudent judgment based on international law and the situation.”
“The Self-Defense Forces will take appropriate action when necessary to protect citizens’ lives and property.”
Tanaka Kenta’s job was to ensure his young staff repeated these standard answers like precise parrots to the citizens on the other end of the line, over and over.
He watched those recent graduates, still glowing with idealism, go from bewildered to numb when receiving angry questions, eventually reciting the official rhetoric they didn’t believe in the same steady, emotionless tone as him.
A nation’s scariest thing is not failure, but losing the courage to face failure, even powdering failure itself with words like prudent and professional.
After work, Shimbashi, an ordinary izakaya; Tanaka Kenta met friends from the same intake year working in different departments at an izakaya near Shimbashi Station.
This is the “bureaucrats and salarymen’s holy land”, air filled with the savory aroma of grilled skewers and a day’s suppressed complaints.
They didn’t complain about work, bosses, and meager salaries as usual.
The izakaya atmosphere was unusually oppressive.
Tanaka Kenta and his friends from Finance and METI silently drank.
“Are we really just going to do this?” his METI friend muttered.
The peer working at Defense Ministry’s Joint Staff Office downed a large glass of beer, face flushed bitterly.
“What else can we do?” he said lowly, “Yesterday’s wargaming, we did seventeen runs overnight.
Every time, as soon as we dispatched Haguro or F-15J to intervene, the outcome was the same: cleared by their Dongfeng in minutes.
Our inaction isn’t political cowardice, but the cold mathematical conclusion after military wargaming, the only way to avoid total annihilation.”
“So,” his Finance friend summarized, “we’ve now openly admitted to the world that even on our turf, we have no military chance of winning?”
No one answered.
But this silence was the answer.
Tanaka finally said: “Isn’t this a fact we knew long ago? This was just another verification.
The Reiwa era’s army was castrated long ago; we lacked strength before, now lack courage; soon, low birthrate will sink Tokyo, and by then, we’ll lack males.”
On the late-night train home, Tanaka Kenta leaned against the swaying train window, watching the passing Tokyo lights outside the window.
He recalled the afternoon after university graduation, full of ideals to serve the nation, taking the exam into the Ministry of Internal Affairs and Communications.
Back then, he firmly believed he was a gear in this nation’s precision instrument; as long as loyal to duty, it would run smoothly, bringing peace and prosperity.
And now, he understood.
When the instrument’s design drawing is outdated, when external engineers can unplug power anytime, when the new instrument next door roars stronger, your little gear, no matter how hard or precise it turns, is meaningless.
He and his hundreds of thousands of Kasumigaseki colleagues, these bureaucrat elites hailed as Japan’s strongest brains, their existence’s meaning is no longer designing the future, but maintaining the status quo.
They are no longer designers, but paperhangers.
Sinking a warship brings sorrow and anger, igniting revenge determination and united will.
But what happened yesterday was something completely different.
It was a silent, technical, convincing surrender, a display of strength, a crushing of will.
The opponent didn’t touch a finger, just showed the blade called tech gap in hand before you.
Then you understand: all your proud swords are museum antiques.
You don’t even qualify for indignation, only bottomless powerlessness of being utterly abandoned by the era.
He realized that he and the entire bureaucracy now had to do something even more sorrowful.
They no longer need to cover a devastating failure, but to powder a nation’s spiritual, slow, irreversible aging—like he said in the izakaya, we’ll eventually self-castrate to no new male births.
He closed his eyes, feeling utterly exhausted.
Tomorrow, another day of repeating lies countless times.
