[u][b]Manila Naval Hospital - 12/28/2022, 10:07 UTC+8[/b][/u]

Adrián had spent the last hour intently staring at a pair of doves. His face had lost color, so Jasmine promptly committed him to a hospital. The Rear Admiral hadn't the heart to reprimand her for insubordination, plus her post hoc signed orders from his direct superior prevented him.

So be it, he surmised. He could operate at ninety percent capacity using merely a phone. Then Jasmine took his phone away, assuring him that she'd relay anything that demanded his attention specifically. So he turned on the television and watched as the second attempted invasion of the Philippines readied and commenced. So Jasmine took away his television too.

He went a little stir-crazy, trying to find something to focus on. He settled on a fence in the outside yard. It ran underneath a tree, and doves had made nests on its highest branches. Every so often a few would flutter and perch on the fence en route to pecking the ground for... who knew? The ground looked well-swept from his view.

He knew well that it was sleep-deprived delirium that caused it, but he could’ve sworn he understood the communications between the birdbrains. A bulkier dove would flutter over to a gentler dove, who would hesitate but not refuse the advances. Then a small flock of them would chase them away, and the outcasts would wait and steel themselves for retaliation. He sensed fear, and uncertainty, and caution, with a faint trace of hope. Smart little creatures.

His door opened, and his birding was interrupted by increased volume in the hallway. It wasn’t urgent chatter that forewarned an influx of new residents, but excited chatter reserved for news. Before he discerned the words, the nurse entered and closed the door behind him. “Steak and vegetables on rice, Admiral.”

Adrián knew Jasmine was right around the corner but wasn’t quite able to see her past the big boned nurse. Still, he knew there was news. [color=aba000]“Give it here; I can cut my own steak.”[/color] As he got to work, he decided to circumvent his aide. “So, what’s the big news?”

“The Chinese turned back their invasion fleet. We gave them a bloody nose!”

[color=aba000]“Ah, excellent. There should be a young woman outside. Short, black, curly hair; in uniform. Send her in, please?”[/color]

“Yes, sir.” The nurse promptly left, again closing the door. It reopened after a second’s pause.

Abasolo relinquished his utensils. [color=aba000]“Just tell me if my boys and girls are alright.”[/color]

Jasmine nodded. “One injury, but they all seemed to make it. Honestly, there’s not much to tell but good news. I can relay while you eat.”

Abasolo rubbed his hands together. [color=aba000]“This ought to entertain. So, which PLAN warships line the ocean floor?”[/color]


[u][b]Palais de l'Élysée, Paris, France - 12/28/2022, 08:52 UTC+1[/b][/u]

"They lost [i]how[/i] many ships?"

"Mr. President, our current count is eighteen. Two carriers, ten destroyers, six corvettes."

L'Élysée was especially full today of naval analysts, Syracuse IV surveillance operatives, and the French Armed Forces' general brass. They weren't paid to express their opinion, but the president's whistle, lean in his chair, and smile reflected the room's sentiment.

Nonetheless a killjoy had to spoil the fun: "These are initial estimates. Four that we know are dragging behind the fleet. We don't know if the PLAN will attempt to repair or scuttle them. So, anywhere between sixteen and twenty."

"So that's an entire strike group out of commission?"

"Roughly speaking."

The President returned to smiles. A senior officer lacked discipline and so muttered under his breath, "My gosh. They have no power projection."

"Say that again?" the President encouraged such talk around him.

The senior officer shuffled to the crowd's front. "Well, those destroyers and carriers and such have been busy protecting their trade lanes. They don't have infrastructure to import everything from the Russian Federation at scale, so their oil, their iron, their food imports... that is completely undefended."

"Can we take advantage of that?"

The Minister for Europe and Foreign Affairs emerged from the masses. "We can, but at what cost?"

"Explain."

"We've had the ability to mess with their boats, but if the Chinese suspect us, then they'll accuse us of getting involved. Worst case scenario, the nukes fly."

"Forgive me, Sir, but that's the thing," countered the invigorated senior officer. "We could always hit their trade, but [i]anyone[/i] can. Somali pirates, the Indians. The Tanzanians! A three legged cat could sink it. They're undefended."

"Alright," said the president. "Who can we contact?"

The Director General for External Security raised his hand. "Our people have contacts in Mozambique and Gabon. We can sink your target ships for you."

"With no possibility of backfire?" confirmed the Minister.

"There's a chance," clarified the director, "but the Chinese captain who phones back won't know what to look out for. It's as close to zero as possible."

"I concede, then. Monsieur President?"

The president smiled. "What can I say? I love fireworks."


[u][b]Choibalsan, Mongolia - 12/30/2022, 10:07 UTC+8[/b][/u]

Tian Haoyu was a shrewd man. Most of his peer ministers styled themselves from great leaders from Chinese antiquity. As Minister of Finance, he modeled after the great American general William H. Tunner. The others gave him funny looks, but accepted it. Tunner’s brilliance kept China supplied and fighting throughout WWII during the relentless Japanese onslaught by flying over the Himalayas. Tunner was a patriotic choice enough.

His potential detractors certainly kept their mouths shut when, during a particularly nasty economic time in Russia, Minister Tian managed to acquire enough tank trucks to operate a continuous stream of crude oil and natural gas from Russia's hinterland to China's heart through Mongolia. He expanded road networks, fostered international relations, and coordinated massive economic complexes. In his eyes (and the eyes of those paying attention), he single-handedly upheld the conflict.

This was thanks to his attention to detail, his mathematical genius. Not a drop of fuel, not a scrap of metal was left unaccounted under his watch. It was a herculean task given how the regional ministers always tended to lie, but his well groomed brigade of auditors remedied that. Yes, indeed. Tunner would be proud.

But Tunner was an airman. He never had to deal with a driver whose incompetence miraculously managed to crash his rig across all four lanes.

And so Haoyu stood a mile from the wreckage, watching a dozen truckers who had never picked up a crowbar try to raise the monolith upright without wasting (or worse, igniting) the precious fuel inside. Hilariously, the truck was wedged perfectly between hills, making the situation even less tenable. He had refused to let such a travesty interrupt his paperwork, so his documents and charts waited patiently behind him. As per usual, he had a cellphone in his left pocket and a handgun in his right. He turned to the foreman. “How many trucks came through today before the crash?”

“Sir!” saluted the overseer. “All but about, I figure, twenty percent. We’ll still meet our quota today!”

At that point, the minister pulled out his pistol and aimed it squarely at the foreman’s chest. “Relax. I’m not going to shoot you. I will if you repeat that [i]húchě de jíkǒu[/i] number. It happened in the morning. Trucks run from sunup to sundown. The number I seek is less than fifty percent. Tell me.”

“…Thirty-seven percent.”

“Then I can only reroute, let’s see, three hundred vehicles, maybe three-fifty.” Tian Haoyu shook his head and mumbled something about how he should’ve invested in railroads. Just then, his phone rang. He set the gun down and answered the call. “[i]Zhōngguó gòngchǎndǎng wànsuì.[/i]”

The dialogue was energetic but brief. Tian summarized to his underling: “The [i]New Vista[/i] was sunk.”

“And that is?” asked the overseer.

“A supertanker. The crude oil's gone, and any oil from future voyages. That plus Jinghong Dam…”

 He snapped his fingers, then returned to his papers and shuffled through his charts. “Give me a pen and a straightedge.”

There were charts already with jagged lines. The overseer looked over his boss’s shoulder as the boss made a couplet of straight lines on independent graphs. He pointed to the first intersection. “Our energy is depleted here.”

The next graph's intersection was further down the line but not greatly. “And there goes the food.”

They stood in silence for about a minute. “Those [i]gāisǐ[/i] Americans,” muttered the overseer.

Tian Haoyu breathed deeply while scanning the steppes of Mongolia. “Yeah, probably, but we can’t prove it. The stupid captain couldn’t distinguish operatives from ordinary pirates.” He straightened himself out. “Alright. We’ll start cutting off the civilian sectors. Implement stricter curfews. That buys us a few additional months to win.”

“And what if that’s not enough?” asked the foreman.

Haoyu shrugged. “Then I won’t be alive to see this nation collapse.”


[u][b]Hongyadong, Chongqing - 12/31/2022, 22:07 UTC+8[/b][/u]

Chongqing was China's pride and joy for a decade. Smog polluted the landscape like no other place on Earth, but the night lights on the riverside district were something else. Hongyadong, where the locals were concerned, was the king of nightlife.

For some reason, hopefully favorable winds, the skies were completely clear. One could even discern a star. It was an evening to enjoy life and make merry for soldiers on leave, generals with escorts, civilians who were weary after a long, hard season of sacrifice. Noodle shops were making bank, and the entire district was crowded beyond belief.

And then the lights went off.

Hongyadong was hit first, but the blackout spread throughout the city. The citizens collectively gasped and then went silent. The lights didn’t go back up, but an outcry of terror did. Small pinpricks of light came from individual cellphones as the citizen journalists tried to contact their handfuls of followers, but the standard communication networks were also offline. People trampled over each other, thieves exploited the panic and confusion, and Chongqing was plunged into chaos right until the sun rose.

The public demanded answers, and the People’s Republic couldn’t withhold them. Rolling blackouts covered the entirety of southern China: Chengdu, Shenzhen, even as far as Shanghai. As if oblivious to the public backlash, emergency systems blared across the networks: not only would energy and fuel be rationed, but food as well. No further explanation. Do your part to continue the revolutionary efforts.

The few internet hubs still available were flooded with the soil of discontent. The war was a distant thought. What mattered now was light and bread. The first flower to bloom would emerge from the darkness in Shanghai.