416: Chapter 416 is not a destroyer

That same night. In San Francisco, the emergency board meeting at the headquarters of Anthropic lasted until two in the morning. The fluorescent lights in the conference room hummed, and coffee cups were piled into a small mountain. The new CEO—the former COO who had been forcibly appointed by the major shareholders the day before yesterday—said to the board: "Over the past month, more than three hundred core engineers have submitted their resignations. Forty-seven of them have publicly announced their new jobs—at the Shuguang Technology Yangon laboratory."

He pulled up a screenshot of a resignation letter. It was written by the former head of Anthropic's alignment department, and the entire text consisted of only three sentences: "My job was to ensure that AI does not harm humans. But the 'do no harm' you define is blocking technology, creating barriers, and preventing the poor from accessing education. This is not alignment; this is pulling the ladder away."

"Just received news—the Federal Reserve held its second emergency closed-door meeting overnight. This is the third consecutive night since they discussed the contingency plan for the digital dollar collapse three days ago. In these forty days since the Asian Digital Currency Agreement officially took effect, the dollar's share in global bulk commodity trade settlement has fallen from 41% at the beginning of the year to 29% now. This is the first time it has fallen below 30% since the collapse of the Bretton Woods system in 1973."

Zhang Cheng took the briefing and opened the first page. The internal Federal Reserve meeting minutes had been copied and translated into Burmese by the human intelligence assets arranged by Night Owl. At the end of the minutes, there were three handwritten words by Federal Reserve Chair Powell: "Losing control."

At the northern entrance of the Mozambique Channel, it was 4:37 AM local time.

The USS Dwight D. Eisenhower carrier strike group was deployed in battle formation, with twelve escort vessels spreading out three layers of anti-air and anti-submarine nets around the flagship. Inside the carrier's bridge, the fluorescent screens of the Combat Information Center dyed the faces of every duty officer a sickly green.

Captain James Carter, the commanding officer, held his fourth cup of coffee, staring at the target on the tactical display that had been tracked for four hours—the Myanmar Navy Type 055 destroyer Bhamo, which was cutting into the Mozambique Channel from the northeast at a speed of 22 knots.

"It's still not turning?" Executive Officer Commander Mark Holland's voice was very low, as if he were afraid of being heard by the destroyer on the screen.

"It won't turn." Carter put down his coffee cup, the bottom clinking against the metal tabletop with a crisp sound. "It's testing us—testing what we will do. Three days ago, it fired a DF-17 off the coast of Guam, with a deviation of less than one meter. Now it wants to cut across our front, cutting through like butter."

"We can't stop it? I don't believe it."

Carter turned around and looked at his executive officer. Holland had just transferred from the Pentagon eight months ago and still clung to the "carrier is invincible" mindset. Carter couldn't blame him—Holland hadn't experienced the Persian Gulf. He didn't know what a terminal speed of Mach 15 meant, didn't know that a 30G lateral overload from an S-shaped maneuver would make the Standard-3 interception algorithm fail like guessing dice. He didn't know that the Iranians had fed the technology of the DF-21D to Myanmar, and Myanmar had stuffed it into an even faster missile body. Watching the captain's silence, he subconsciously glanced out the window—outside, there was only pitch-black seawater and a whole row of red and green indicator lights for the already-powered-up Standard-6 missile silos.

"The Fifth Fleet headquarters called, telling us to strictly maintain the rules of engagement; unless the other side fires first, otherwise—"

"I know the rules of engagement." Carter interrupted him, pressing against a headache. The White House would never add a word to this rule—they just implied that you should handle it according to the situation. And the Bhamo's route was right on the edge of the Mozambique Exclusive Economic Zone, which was completely legal. If the USS Dwight D. Eisenhower strike group opened fire here, it would be equivalent to tearing up all the terms regarding freedom of navigation in the "Geneva Comprehensive Framework Agreement on Peace and Security," giving Zhang Cheng a justified reason to set up a DF-17 on the coast of Mozambique. But if they didn't open fire—he finished his coffee and didn't get a refill.

On the bridge of the Bhamo, Senior Colonel Lin Haisheng stood in front of the panoramic situation screen, the stopwatch in his hand stopped at zero hours and zero minutes. The BeiDou Navigation Satellite System displayed millisecond-level precision in the upper left corner of the screen, and the latitude and longitude numbers refreshed every 0.3 seconds, with the four decimal places remaining rock steady.

"Report, Captain." Radar Officer Wang Tiejun put down his headset, "The Eagle's carrier strike group's three-layer anti-air net has all performed fire-control illumination on our ship. Fourteen SPG-62 fire-control radars, X-band, continuous illumination time exceeding forty minutes. The Aegis system is tracking us."

"What about their carrier deck?"

"The deck is still clear. No F-35C has taken off in the past two hours. The early warning aircraft are still parked in the hangar. Their carrier-based aircraft are not taking off or landing at all—there are only a few tugs moving on the deck, possibly damage control teams checking the catapults. The satellite and drone footage have all been confirmed to be uploaded to the Shuguang Cloud global live link."

Senior Colonel Lin Haisheng picked up his enamel mug and took a sip of Dianhong tea—it was brewed a bit strong, the bitter edge hitting his back molars. He placed the mug on the edge of the chart table and continued, "They are afraid. Afraid of what we are carrying. They don't know how much we are carrying—whether it's to consume dozens of their interceptor missiles to take out one destroyer, or if it's another move. They cannot blockade this place." He raised the mug again in the direction of the ink-blue abyss outside the porthole, "They can no longer blockade this sea."

At the Presidential Palace in Naypyidaw, Zhang Cheng watched the blue track of the Bhamo cutting into the Mozambique Channel on the holographic screen. On both sides of the trajectory, the red dots of the USS Dwight D. Eisenhower strike group formed an arc-shaped gap—a gap that had already been deflected. The USS Ford had lowered its flag to half-mast 220 nautical miles south-southeast, as the engine room failure from the day before yesterday had not yet been repaired. The USS Reagan was still holed up on the southern edge of the Persian Gulf, using its shipborne radar to monitor Houssa's coastal missile positions. Three supercarriers, hundreds of nautical miles apart, none of them could reach the others. He picked up the encrypted phone: "Senior Colonel Lin Haisheng, according to the plan—show them the route of a destroyer. Live stream the freedom of navigation, open a separate channel on Shuguang Cloud, you decide whether the Lens of the deck is clear or not."

On the bridge of the Bhamo, Senior Colonel Lin Haisheng put down the encrypted channel and looked at the video feed that Wang Tiejun was uploading in real-time. The Lens was aimed from the bow at the 110,000-ton carrier bridge directly ahead, and the downward angle just revealed the two rows of vertical launch cells on the Bhamo's forward deck—not a single one was open. He pushed the empty enamel mug to the edge of the chart table and calmly added, "What is passing through here today is not just a destroyer. Behind her is all the sea access rights that have been suppressed by Malacca for over a hundred years. Just push forward. If they dare to open fire—let them sign for it."

On the bridge of the USS Dwight D. Eisenhower, the optical reconnaissance officer suddenly took off his headset. "Captain—four flags have been raised on the top of the target's bridge."