AWB Chapter 75 Errors Cannot Be Guaranteed Next Time
Chapter 75 Errors Cannot Be Guaranteed Next Time
The Dutch delegates instinctively looked out the window. In the distance was the port of Batavia, and further still, the ravaged Waiting-for-Husband Cliff.
"Yesterday, with that shot, I could have attacked the port directly," Li Te said, his back to them. "I could have attacked the governor's mansion, the military camp, your 'Seven Provinces' ship. But I didn't. I chose a desolate mountain. Why?"
He turned around:
"Because I'm giving you a chance. I'm saying: Look, I have the power to destroy you, but I've chosen restraint. Now, it's your turn to choose—to continue upholding the 'dignity' of those killers, or to do the right thing?"
"That's impossible!"
The air in the conference room seemed to freeze.
The words of Justice Van der Sant, "This is impossible," still echoed in the air, and the expressions of the seven Dutch delegates shifted from initial caution to a mixture of annoyance and disbelief. Major Van der Heiden even placed his hand on his hip—though his weapons had been confiscated upon boarding, the gesture itself spoke volumes.
Li Te did not respond immediately. He slowly sat back in his chair, crossed his hands on the table, and calmly scanned each face opposite him.
"So," he began, his voice low, "this is your final answer?"
"Captain," Van der Wiel wiped the sweat from his brow, but tried to keep his tone firm, "please understand, surrendering one's own soldiers—and surrendering them on the spot—is unacceptable in any sovereign nation. We can promise to try them, we can promise to make the results public, we can even invite your side to send observers..."
“I don’t need observers,” Little interrupted him. “I need the killer.”
"They are Dutch soldiers! They are governed by Dutch law!"
"Did they think about the law when they opened fire yesterday?" Litt retorted. "A six-year-old girl, shot in the back, dying in her mother's arms—which Dutch law allows that?"
Van der Heiden jumped to his feet: "Those mobs attacked the military and police! We were defending ourselves!"
"Self-defense?" Li Te stood up as well, the two staring at each other across the table. "Using a Maxim machine gun to mow down civilians is self-defense? Killing forty-seven people is self-defense? Major, why don't you come down with me now and go to the dock to ask the witnesses who started it yesterday?"
"The witnesses were all Chinese! Their testimonies are unreliable!"
"So the testimonies of the military and police are credible?" Li Te sneered. "Or are you saying that in your eyes, Chinese lives don't matter, and Chinese words don't count?"
This remark struck a nerve. Treasurer De Jong's expression changed; he tugged at Van der Wiel's sleeve and whispered, "Chief, arguing like this won't do any good. We need a compromise..."
"There is no compromise." Li Te heard this and raised his voice, "I'm putting my words here today—either hand over those nineteen people, or face the consequences. There is no third way."
Van der Wiel swallowed hard: "Captain, you are forcing us into war."
"War?" Li Te laughed, a cold laugh devoid of warmth. "You dare talk about war?"
He turned around and nodded to Zhao Tieshan. Zhao Tiezhu immediately turned and left.
"Fire."
Litte's voice rang out in the bridge conference room, as calm as saying "Pour a cup of tea." But the consequences of those two words were something the seven Dutch delegates would never forget.
First came the vibration.
The nearly 40,000-ton steel hull of the "Restoration" suddenly swayed sideways, causing teacups, documents, and pens in the conference room to jump up. Van der Wiel instinctively gripped the edge of the table, his fingertips turning white from the force. The windowpanes hummed and resonated, as if they might shatter at any moment.
Then comes the sound.
It wasn't a single cannon shot, but four almost overlapping roars emanating from the bow of the ship. The sound was deep and heavy, like a thousand giant drums pounding in your ears simultaneously. The air in the conference room was compressed in an instant, then suddenly expanded, causing everyone's eardrums to feel a pricking pain.
But it's not over yet.
Less than two seconds after the first volley, the second came. Four more roars, another violent tremor. This time, Van der Wiel clearly saw the chart frame on the wall shaking.
The eight 381mm main guns completed two salvos within ten seconds.
Then, there was deathly silence.
The only sounds in the conference room were heavy breathing and the faint gurgling of some liquid flowing in the distance—the hydraulic oil of the turret's rotating mechanism rushing through the pipes.
Li Te was the first to stand up and walk to the porthole.
"Ladies and gentlemen," he turned around and gestured, "won't you come and take a look?"
The Dutch delegates stood frozen in place. Only Van der Wiel mechanically rose and walked to the window as if sleepwalking. The other six followed, staggering.
Outside the window, in the direction of the port of Batavia, eight huge columns of water are slowly falling.
Each column was thirty meters high, its white spray shimmering in the sunlight like eight giant steel trees that grew and withered in an instant. Where the water columns landed, eight deep craters were blasted into the sea, and layers of waves surged outwards, violently rocking all the ships in the harbor.
The most terrifying thing is the distance.
Those water columns were right in front of the "Seven Provinces"—Vanderville estimated they were no more than a hundred meters away.
The old Dutch pre-dreadnought was now tossed about in the waves like a leaf. People were running around in panic on the deck, and some sailors even jumped into the sea—not to abandon ship, but because they were thrown out by the violent rocking.
"My God..." murmured the treasurer, De Jong.
Li Te walked over to Van der Weir and stood beside him, watching together as the eight columns of water dissipated.
"Mr. Van der Weil," he said softly, as if discussing the weather, "my artillery chief just told me some interesting data."
Van der Wiel turned his head, his eyes fixed on the screen.
"He said that the theoretical error for firing a 381mm main gun at this distance is plus or minus fifteen meters," Li Te smiled. "But that's theoretical. In actual combat, considering sea conditions, wind speed, barrel wear... the error could reach one hundred meters, or even more."
He paused, looking at Van der Wiel:
"For example, in the next round of firing, if the error is 100 meters forward..."
His finger pointed to the "Seven Provinces".
"...Then it will hit directly."
Van der Wiel's Adam's apple bobbed. He wanted to speak, but his throat was dry, and he could only manage a hoarse sound.
“Of course,” Li Te continued, “it’s also possible the error is a hundred meters backward. In that case, the shells would land on the harbor breakwater and kill a few dockworkers—most of them Indonesians, maybe a few Chinese. It doesn’t matter, you don’t care anyway.”
"You..." Van der Wiel finally managed to utter, "This is slaughter..."
“No,” Li Te shook his head. “What happened at the docks yesterday was a massacre. Today’s—it’s an exercise. Routine international naval training, isn’t it?”
He walked back to the conference table, sat down, and picked up his teacup to take a sip. The tea was still warm.
"Alright, you've seen it all. Let's continue discussing terms." Li Te put down his teacup. "My demands remain unchanged: compensation, protection of rights, and the handover of those nineteen people. Now, give me your answer."