380: Chapter 380 They Ran Away

Inside the bridge, the combat officer's finger hovered two centimeters above the launch button. His hand did not tremble—but he did not lower it either.

At that very moment, six J-10s passed overhead the fleet at supersonic speed in a wide diamond formation. Their altitude rapidly climbed from twelve thousand meters to eighteen thousand meters. The sonic boom shockwaves smashed into the sea surface, creating six simultaneously expanding white ripples, spaced as precisely as a frame-by-frame animation. The white mist stirred up by the shockwaves on the sea surface extended all the way to the end of the wake behind the stern. With no aircraft able to take off or land on the carrier deck, the crew could only look up at the torn clouds, watching six pale white condensation trails draw an arc across the blue canopy.

Carter rested his hands on the edge of the combat console, his knuckles pressed against the steel surface. He heard the low voice of the captain of the USS Momsen through his headset: "They can. They have all locked on—but they haven't fired."

Carter replied: "They don't need to fire. They just told us they could."

After saying this, he took off his headset and whispered to himself: "This sea is no longer under our control."

Twenty-four minutes later, at the underground joint command center of the Pentagon in Washington. General Milley, Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, finished watching the real-time combat playback of the Gulf of Thailand. He had once publicly admitted at a congressional hearing that the Middle East war was "unwinnable," but he still firmly believed in one thing—forces that could be defeated must retreat, and forces that could retreat must be preserved.

He picked up the encrypted phone and connected to the White House.

"Mr. President, the Seventh Fleet's Peleliu battle group has encountered an indefensible fire-control lock in the Gulf of Thailand. I repeat: indefensible. It's not that the interception success rate is low; it's that our Aegis system cannot effectively handle the air-sea saturation density of the incoming radar signals. They used a combination of electronic decoys and jamming that we have never seen before—it belongs to the same generation, or is even newer, than the technology that suppressed our anti-missile systems on the Middle East battlefield."

There was a long silence on the other end of the line.

"What do you recommend?"

"Retreat. Retreat to outside the Gulf of Thailand immediately." General Milley's voice sounded like a steel plate that had finally snapped after being repeatedly hammered. "If we don't retreat, they will gain the political capital of sinking our second aircraft carrier or quasi-carrier. If we retreat, at least we retain the right to say 'we haven't lost everything' in the next round of negotiations. We have no other options, Mr. President."

At 6:41 AM at dawn, the Peleliu battle group changed direction, altering its course to 180, and retreated out of the Gulf of Thailand at a speed of 20 knots. The crew stood at the edge of the deck, looking at the horizon to the northeast. Nothing could be seen there—only the gray-blue void where the morning mist had not yet dispersed. But everyone knew that behind that void, a fire-control radar was still illuminating them. That beam of X-band electromagnetic waves could not be seen or touched, yet it was like a gun barrel pressed against the back of one's head; you could feel its existence without it ever needing to fire.

That presence caused a 40,000-ton amphibious assault ship and two guided-missile destroyers to turn around and flee without firing a single missile.

Phnom Penh, the underground bunker of the Peace Palace.

At 5:20 AM, Hun Sen received the final phone call from Peterson, the USA ambassador to Cambodia. After listening to what the other party had to say, he placed the phone on the table without hanging up. The hollow hissing sound unique to transoceanic satellite communications came from the receiver. Peterson was still talking—talking about "long-term commitments," "continuing to apply pressure through diplomatic channels," and "the friendship between the USA and Cambodia is as firm as a Rock." Hun Sen stopped listening. He walked to the other end of the underground bunker, where an iron-framed cot was placed. He sat on the edge of the bed, his hands resting on his knees, his back arched like a wax statue that had had its support removed.

His eldest son, Hun Manet, stood at the doorway, holding a freshly printed encrypted telegram in his hand. The telegram was from the Cambodian representative to the United Nations—the UN Security Council had held an emergency closed-door consultation on the "Thailand-Cambodia conflict." The representative from the Dragon Kingdom only said eight words: "Call on both sides to exercise restraint." The Russian representative said, "Noted," and the USA representative didn't even attend the meeting. This telegram was generated at the seventh hour of him sitting in the underground bunker, which was also the moment when Thai tanks had advanced to within 110 kilometers of Phnom Penh.

"Father." Hun Manet's voice was very soft. "There is one more piece of news—Chen Feng, the president of the Phnom Penh Times... is missing. Poipet, Pursat, Pailin... all the zones were raided simultaneously yesterday at dawn."

Hun Sen did not look up.

"And—"

"What else?"

"The interrogation video of Chen Feng... has been made public."

Hun Sen finally raised his head. He looked at his son's face, that face carved from the same mold as his own, now as pale as a wall soaked through by rain. He spoke five words, his voice sounding like air squeezed from the depths of the earth, each word hanging with a thin, unstable tremor.

"What did he say?"

Hun Manet did not answer. He handed over his phone, and the screen was playing the footage of Night Owl interrogating Chen Feng. In the footage, the camera was aimed directly at Chen Feng, and in the Lens, he said in that voice that had become flat after being crushed: "Hun Sen's second son, Hun Manet, directly manages three zones in Pursat Province."

Hun Sen turned off the phone. He placed the phone face down on the cot and said in a hoarse voice: "Get me Naypyidaw. Get me Zhang Cheng."

The call was quickly transferred. The voice from the other end of the line was calm and unexpectedly close, as if the person answering the phone was sitting in another corner of the bunker. Zhang Cheng said four words: "Unconditional surrender."

Hun Sen's hand holding the receiver began to tremble, and his voice squeezed out from between his teeth: "Can we—"

"Unconditional surrender." Zhang Cheng's tone had no inflection. "Cambodia shall disarm completely. Recognize the disputed area of Preah Vihear Temple as Thai territory. Pay 18 billion USD in war reparations. Permanently ban any extra-regional military forces from stationing or establishing bases. Accept supervision of constitutional reform by an 'International Advisory Group'."

He paused.

"Signing time: Today. Signing location: Independence Monument Square in Phnom Penh. Media: Global live broadcast."

Only the rustling sound of electric current remained on the line. Hun Sen's fingers tightened and loosened on the receiver, loosened and tightened, finally resting in a completely powerless grip.

"I will sign," he said.

Phnom Penh, Independence Monument Square.

This square was built to commemorate Cambodia's liberation from French colonial rule. The Independence Monument itself is a lotus-bud-shaped stupa built of ochre sandstone, with Naga serpent reliefs carved on all four sides of the base, and the spire casting a short, heavy shadow under the scorching noon sun. Thirty-five years ago, Hun Sen had stood in this square, announcing the founding of the "People's Republic of Cambodia" amidst the cheers of the masses. At that time, he wore an olive-green military uniform, his back straight, and his voice loud enough to reach the edge of the square without a microphone.

Today, he sat at a folding table beneath the same monument, wearing a slightly oversized dark blue suit, his tie tied a bit crooked—not out of negligence, but because his hands were shaking.