Chapter 435: Hong Kong’s Lin Ran Mathematics Center
Compared to the original spacetime’s utterly ordinary and unremarkable 1969, where the only major event was the Apollo Moon Landing and the rest of the year merely served as a footnote to the arrival of the 1970s, this 1969 was a bit too exciting.
From the opening drama in the first half of the year revolving around Hoover’s death and V’s identity, this was both a grand gift to the new president and like the prelude to a mystery suspense movie.
Someone died, and mysteries were thrown out one after another; everyone was a suspect, but everyone also had a reason for not being the killer.
Replacing people with forces fits perfectly here.
Even the White House had reasons why Hoover had to be eliminated.
In the southern states, there were always rumors that Hoover was taken out by the White House because he knew too many secrets of Washington’s bigwigs.
And in Europe, the West German public, who deep down yearned to restore Europe’s glory, deeply believed in V’s omnipotence.
The first half of the year was even America’s time to show off its muscles.
From GPS to space station.
Batch after batch of allied military attachés were taken to the Vietnam War Frontline to watch American soldiers equipped with GPS adapting to any terrain.
Even the toughest jungle in Southeast Asia would be conquered by America.
Implanting a thought imprint deep in the hearts of all allies: GPS is already this awesome, so once the Americans’ Star Wars Program is built, won’t they be invincible?
Monitoring the globe—in 1969 when electronic warfare was just emerging, the militaries of America’s allies all believed that the Soviet Union’s steel cannons would be greatly weakened under this monitoring system.
So the Soviet Union decided to reshape its relationship with China, not just because of the economy, but also because the Soviet Union realized that without cooperating with China, they could never catch up to America in the Star Wars Program.
Ten thousand satellites—doing it alone, who knows when that would happen.
And America took the opportunity to reshape its image globally.
No longer the decadent Uncle Sam mired in the quagmire; in 1969, they became future warriors in mechs who treated the quagmire as nothing.
When Nixon visited Europe and East Asia, he frequently mentioned our space station, welcoming allies to select astronauts to work together on our space station.
The space station is called Freedom, the free world’s high ground in space; it belongs not only to America but to all humanity.
As American Media said, GPS and the space station are quickly helping America climb out of the trough; anti-war sentiment is suppressed, and people have become optimistic about war—this is the professor’s merit.
Similarly, this is America’s glory.
The entire situation rapidly improved.
Until August 1969, when from that month onward, the Vietnam War Frontline once again turned into a quagmire.
The mechs failed.
Uncle Sam had to take off the mechs, put on camouflage uniforms, and fight another rotten battle with North Vietnam’s treants.
Even worse than before—their air superiority was not as good as before.
By December, all of North Vietnam’s air defense system was contracted by China.
Even in missiles, the Soviet Union provided basic production capacity, and China carried out modifications.
Just as China named it, building a Great Wall in North Vietnam’s sky.
Anti-war sentiment surged again.
Late summer 1969 in Sasebo, the US Military base at the port was usually very quiet.
Occasionally, the tail flames of F-4 Ghost fighter jets streaked across the sky, reminding the city of its distant yet real entanglement with the Vietnam War.
However, the helicopters flying out of the Sasebo naval base generally carried out logistics tasks; they did not participate in combat.
Murakami Ryu was born in Sasebo City, Nagasaki Prefecture.
At this time, he was idle at home—saying idle flatters him a bit; more accurately, he was kicked out of school by it.
Because in the summer of 1969, Murakami Ryu staged a rooftop blockade protest on high school campus.
He wrote “Smash the National Polity” in blue paint on the gate pillars of the high school main entrance, then ran to the library wall and wrote: “Comrades, take up weapons.”
The incident itself was very serious, serious enough that he was indefinitely suspended.
But what he did was also comical, because Murakami Ryu wrote the character for “weapon” wrong as the character for “exam”; his slogan was all in kanji.
Because of such a low-level mistake, he was gossiped about by the local public, saying such a fool couldn’t be a student from Hokko High.
Little did they know that such a fool would soon become a writer.
The following March, before graduation, Murakami Ryu formed a rock band again, started shooting movies and holding rock concerts; he later rewrote these events into the novel “69.”
Murakami Ryu rubbed his sore shoulder, looking at the warships outside the window at the port, and mocked himself: “Our little fuss, compared to Hanoi’s missiles, what is it?”
Life after suspension was like an unfinished rock song, disjointed yet full of restlessness.
He lived in a narrow wooden house in downtown Sasebo; his father was an art teacher, his mother managed the housework; both shook their heads and sighed at their son’s rebellion but tacitly allowed him to hole up in the attic flipping through newspapers.
Throughout the second half of the year, Japan’s military-related media like “Aviation Fan” and “Maru” magazines, and the international section of Asahi Shimbun, were densely reporting the latest developments in the Vietnam War.
This autumn, the Vietnam War was no longer just US Military and treants’ jungle melee but an invisible battlefield of electronic warfare.
Reports claimed that China secretly intervened, providing a series of advanced air defense equipment, engaging in back-and-forth escalation against America’s air superiority.
His friends: A Jian who formed the “Coelacanth” band with him, the bespectacled news agency guy Xiao Lin, and that hippie-style youth Da Jie who always had a cigarette in his mouth.
They gathered weekly in Murakami Ryu’s attic, around the radio and piles of clippings, passionately discussing these distant signal wars.
Looking globally, Japan was the most enthusiastic about such reports.
Very simple: in this world, Japan and China are the most direct competitors in consumer electronics.
Hong Kong even took away the Vietnam War dividends that originally belonged to Japan.
China used General Electric’s shell to sell large amounts of materials to the US Military in the Vietnam War.
These cakes originally belonged to Japanese companies.
Japanese media hyped up the frontline electronic warfare, emphasizing China’s involvement, to remind America: you’re fighting China! You can’t buy their products anymore, and you’d better not continue cargo transshipment in Hong Kong.
This should all be left to us Japan to do.
There were economic factors behind the public opinion as well.
And Japan’s red tide activists also needed such reports; they needed China’s strength to prove that their chosen path was correct.
Demand from both sides.
What it led to was that, although this war was in North Vietnam’s jungle, Japanese media was the most active in reporting it.
Making the fire burn ever brighter.
Even in Tokyo, you could see yesterday’s battle reports on TV by nine in the morning and in newspapers.
After recovering from the suspension notice, the first thing Murakami Ryu did was go with his friends to the cafe “Blues House” near the port.
It was a hangout for rebellious youth culture, with walls plastered with Woodstock Festival posters.
America’s hippies rocked in the mud, while Japan’s youth marched in the streets.
A Jian waved the latest issue of “Aviation Fan,” excitedly reading: “Look here! China’s missiles have the American imperialists all turned around!”
Xiao Lin pushed up his glasses and added: “Yomiuri Shimbun says the US Military uses chaff clouds and heat decoy flares to counter, but Chinese people upgraded the infrared composite seeker, hitting rate jumping from 20% to 70%.
This electronic warfare escalation is too fast; the American imperialists’ Bell Labs are working overtime on iterations.”
Da Jie exhaled a smoke ring and said lazily: “Brothers, isn’t this just our rock? Signal against signal, frequency against frequency. We should also do some confrontation of our own, form a new band, sing anti-war songs.”
Murakami Ryu listened, nodded, thinking: the emptiness after suspension, like the Vietnam War jungle, was full of unknown echoes.
After entering autumn, the autumn wind dispersed the summer heat, and Sasebo’s street marches continued.
Anti-war students held high banners saying “Stop Bombing North Vietnam!”; though suspended, Murakami Ryu often blended into the crowd, handing out flyers.
His friends were even more obsessed with media reports about frontline electronic countermeasures, which fascinated them.
Da Jie brought hippie magazines smuggled from near the US Military base, with Vietnam War photos tucked inside.
As Sasebo’s maple leaves turned red, warships came and went frequently at the port, reminding of the shadow of the security treaty.
Murakami Ryu’s life gradually got back on track; during the day he helped his father with odd jobs at school, waiting for the chance to return.
In the evenings, he gathered with friends.
Media reported Vietnam War escalation: China’s air defense network suppressing US Military air superiority in Ashao Valley, US Military’s iterative response upgrading AIM-7 missile’s solid-state circuitry with anti-jamming layers.
“Aviation Fan” published illustrations: F-105 Thunderchief dodging V-75 missile, but now the focus is China’s Dragon Shadow semi-active guidance against US Military chaff and ECM.
Friends debated endlessly in Blues House.
Murakami Ryu listened, casually strumming his guitar, with novel ideas forming in his mind: high school rebellion and distant battlefield—could these be written together?
In December, Christmas lights illuminated the port, US Military soldiers noisy in the streets.
Sasebo’s anti-war marches grew more intense.
His suspension was nearing its end; he decided to act before graduation: form a new rock band, shoot a short film, hold a concert.
Friends gathered around the radio, listening to NHK reports on the latest Vietnam War developments.
The Panda Radio from China was the symbol for these rebellious youths; even second-hand, they had to buy Chinese goods.
Or if the family wouldn’t give money and you had to buy a Sony radio, you’d still find a way to paint it black and white to pretend it’s a panda.
“China’s electronic jamming vehicles successfully jammed US Military data links; B-52 forced into high-altitude blind drops, bombing success rate greatly reduced.”
The second half of 1969 was like a wild blues tune, with media’s Vietnam War reports as the background music.
Murakami Ryu began conceiving “69,” trying to commemorate his youth and record this turbulent year.
Similarly, Nixon failed to bring American soldiers back to New York for Christmas.
Instead, his confidant Kissinger couldn’t spend Christmas in New York and was forced to go to Hong Kong on that day.
At this place appointed by China, to meet with Chinese people for talks and negotiations.
His current identity was White House National Security Advisor; the position itself wasn’t important, but his power made him very sensitive.
Every move by Kissinger was seen as the president’s will.
And the reason he gave was to unveil the plaque for the establishment of Hong Kong University’s Lin Ran Mathematics Center.
This was also a fabricated reason; Hong Kong University only learned a month ago that it was establishing a Lin Ran Mathematics Center, funded by donation from the Rockefeller Foundation, authorized by Lin Ran.
For Hong Kong University, of course they were happy; a Lin Ran-named Mathematics Center—even Columbia University doesn’t have this treatment, right?
In the future, Yau could say, back in the day when I studied at the Lin Ran Mathematics Center, unlike you guys who need breaks after two problems. Sent from my mobile phone.
Christmas in Hong Kong, Victoria Harbour’s night sky adorned with colorful lights.
Henry Kissinger’s White House special plane landed at Kai Tak Airport at dusk.
The hatch opened; he adjusted his tie, put on sunglasses, and stepped down the gangway.
The Hong Kong Government’s courtesy motorcade had been waiting for a long time.
The driver was a white person wearing white gloves, speaking fluent English Language: “Mister, welcome to Hong Kong, Merry Christmas.”
Kissinger nodded, but muttered inwardly: Merry? President Nixon’s orders had this National Security Advisor away from New York’s family dinner on the holiday, flying halfway around the world for this mission—how could he be merry?
Actually, the best negotiation partner would be Lin Ran himself.
Rather than having the professor come to Hong Kong over Christmas, Kissinger would rather work harder himself.
If the professor went and never returned, he wouldn’t be able to stay not just in Washington but anywhere in America.
The motorcade drove along the Kowloon Peninsula toward Central, the scenery outside the window like a rapidly flipping film.
Chinese-style Christmas in full flavor.
On Tsim Sha Tsui’s Nathan Road, neon signs flashed Merry Christmas and bilingual holiday promotions.
“Panda?” Kissinger pointed at a large panda doll wearing a Christmas hat on Nathan Road and asked.
Similar to the one lounging on the building like on Shudu’s Chunxi Road, except this one was standing on the ground.
“Yes, mister, we all know behind it is China’s Panda Electronics,” the driver said frankly.
In the ears of smart people, it was easy to read the signal that England’s control over Hong Kong was limited.
“My family has a Panda Radio too; I like their design,” Kissinger said noncommittally.
Department stores like Wing On and Sincere had exteriors hung with colored lights, Christmas trees adorned with gold and silver balls.
Along the way, pedestrians surged.
There were expatriates, US Military sailors everywhere who had just come on leave from frontline bases, but mostly Chinese faces.
“Hong Kong’s flu is still spreading,” the driver chatted. “This Christmas, many people go out wearing masks; be careful, mister.”
That evening was the celebration banquet hosted by the Hong Kong Government.
Early the next morning, Kissinger arrived at Hong Kong University.
The Lin Ran Mathematics Center unveiling ceremony was held in the grand auditorium, with Hong Kong University pulling out all the stops.
In the audience gathered celebrities from all walks of life in Hong Kong; no matter which camp you were from, all were gathered together at this moment.
