The Battle of the Strait

The Sunda Strait was a cauldron of churning, turquoise water, the sea squeezed between the volcanic peaks of Java and Sumatra. Two days after departing Hainan, Meng Tian's trap was set. Task Force Tiger, under the cloak of a moonless night, had successfully sown the eastern exit of the strait with a dense field of modern naval mines, a deadly, invisible garden waiting for its harvest. Now, acting as the irresistible bait, the main battle line of Task Force Dragon steamed boldly into the western mouth of the strait. The four battleships and their screen of cruisers were a clear and arrogant challenge, a gauntlet thrown down that the Dutch navy could not ignore.

From their coastal fortress at Anjer, Dutch lookouts sounded the alarm. The response was swift and furious. The remnants of the Dutch East Indies Squadron, a force still formidable despite the loss of the De Ruyter, steamed out to meet the threat. Their fleet was composed of three aging but heavily armed coastal defense battleships, a squadron of nimble destroyers, and several gunboats. They were outnumbered by the modern Qing dreadnoughts, but they were fighting in their own backyard, a narrow channel where maneuverability was limited and where they would be supported by the colossal, long-range artillery guns of their forts at Merak and Anjer.

The battle began with the roar of those land-based guns. The mountainsides seemed to explode with fire and smoke as the huge coastal artillery pieces opened fire, their shells the size of small motorcars. The water around the Qing fleet erupted in towering geysers, the explosions so powerful they shook the very decks of the ships. The Dutch fleet, advancing under the protective umbrella of their forts, opened fire as well, their shells adding to the maelstrom.

The air became a screaming chaos of crisscrossing shell trajectories, the thunder of the guns a constant, deafening roar that vibrated deep in the chest. Aboard the flagship Tianlong, the bridge was a scene of intense, disciplined focus. Officers shouted range-finding data and damage reports, their voices cutting through the din.

On the open bridge wing, Admiral Meng Tian stood as still as the eye of a hurricane. The chaos of the battle, the deafening noise, the concussive shockwaves of near misses—they all seemed to wash over him, leaving him untouched. He had already unleashed his "humanitarian" squadron. This was no longer a question of honor or politics. This was a pure, clean problem of military science. A problem of force, vectors, and will.

He closed his eyes, and the world of sound and fury dissolved. The heightened state of perception, the 'Battle Sense' of his ancestors, descended upon him. The world became a silent, intricate tapestry of light and intention. He saw the enemy ships not as vessels, but as nodes of hostile intent. He perceived the trajectories of the incoming shells not as screaming metal, but as glowing, arcing lines of probability. He could feel the collective will of the Dutch gunnery officers, a psychic pressure that told him their targets before their own crews had finished loading the guns.

"Task Force, execute evasive pattern Delta," he commanded, his voice calm and clear, cutting through the noise like a surgeon's scalpel. "Cruiser Haitao, hard to starboard, increase speed to flank. A salvo from Fort Merak is inbound on your current position."

The squadron of cruisers, drilled to perfection, responded instantly. The Haitao heeled over, its engines screaming, a white wake churning behind it. An instant later, three massive shells from the coastal fort slammed into the exact patch of water the cruiser had just vacated, sending up plumes of water hundreds of feet into the air.

The Dutch commander, watching from his flagship, the HNLMS Tromp, was bewildered. The Chinese ships seemed to move with a sixth sense, an uncanny ability to anticipate his gunners' aim. His shells were consistently falling just behind them, as if the enemy knew his orders before he had even given them.

He decided to change tactics. "Signal the destroyer squadron," he ordered. "Launch a full torpedo attack under the cover of the flagship's smoke."

The Tromp belched a thick, oily cloud of black smoke, creating a temporary screen on the water. Behind it, a squadron of four Dutch destroyers surged forward, their bows cutting through the waves, preparing to unleash their deadly payload of torpedoes. It was a classic, effective tactic.

But Meng Tian was not watching the smoke. He was feeling the intentions within it.

"All battleships," he commanded, his eyes still closed. "Cease fire on primary targets. Train all main guns on Quadrant Gamma-Seven. Fire a full salvo on my mark."

His gunnery officers were stunned. Quadrant Gamma-Seven was, according to their instruments, empty water inside the smoke screen. To fire a blind salvo from their main guns was a colossal waste of precious, heavy ammunition. "But Admiral," his flag captain protested, "there's nothing there!"

"Fire. On. My. Mark," Meng Tian repeated, his voice now imbued with a cold, absolute authority that tolerated no dissent.

He could feel the destroyers aligning for their attack run, the faint, psychic hum of their torpedo tubes being prepared. "Now," he snapped.

The four Qing battleships unleashed a thunderous broadside. Sixteen tons of high-explosive steel screamed into the center of the black smoke screen. For a moment, there was nothing. Then, the smoke was ripped apart by a series of catastrophic explosions. One of the Dutch destroyers was hit directly and seemed to simply vaporize. Another, its back broken by the concussion of multiple near misses, split in two. The two surviving destroyers, their crews shocked and terrified by the impossible accuracy of the blind salvo, aborted their attack and fled in panic.

The psychological impact on the Dutch was devastating. Their enemies were not just skilled; they were clairvoyant.

With the torpedo threat neutralized, Meng Tian began to systematically dismantle the Dutch battle line. His commands were swift, precise, and brutally effective.

"Dingyuan, target the Tromp's command bridge. Zhenyuan, target its engine room. Fire together."

The two lead battleships fired as one. The combined salvo was devastating. One shell sheared off the Tromp's main communication mast. Another hit the bridge directly, turning the Dutch command center into a slaughterhouse of twisted metal and dead officers. A third punched through the deck and detonated deep in the engine spaces, crippling the ship. The Dutch flagship was left dead in the water, burning and leaderless.

Seeing their flagship neutralized and their destroyers smashed, the remaining Dutch captains knew the battle was lost. Their only hope was to retreat eastward, to break through the strait and flee to the safety of the main naval base at Surabaya, where they could regroup and fight another day. The order was given for a general retreat.

They steamed at full speed towards the eastern exit of the strait, a desperate, disorganized flight.

Meng Tian watched them go, his face impassive. He did not order a pursuit. He did not need to. He simply keyed his microphone. "Task Force Tiger. The fish are swimming into the net. Report."

The reply from Captain Wei of the destroyer squadron was immediate and filled with grim satisfaction. "The net is holding, Admiral."

As the fleeing Dutch fleet entered the narrows, the sea erupted around them. The first Dutch battleship struck a mine, a massive underwater explosion ripping a fatal hole in its hull. It listed heavily, its crew scrambling to abandon ship. A second battleship, trying to swerve to avoid the fate of its sister ship, ran directly into another mine, the blast detonating its forward magazine. The ship disappeared in a fireball that dwarfed the explosion of the De Ruyter.

The Sunda Strait had become a graveyard. The Dutch East Indies Squadron had ceased to exist.

Aboard the Tianlong, Meng Tian finally opened his eyes. The immense strain of sustaining his Battle Sense for so long had taken its toll. He felt a deep, bone-wearying exhaustion, and a faint trickle of blood ran from one of his nostrils. He wiped it away with the back of his glove before anyone could see. He had won a victory that would be studied in naval war colleges for a century, a victory that would be attributed to his "tactical genius." Only he knew the true, draining cost of that genius. He turned to his signalman, his voice steady despite his exhaustion.

"Signal Task Force Serpent. The channel is clear. Commence the landings."