**Chapter 882: Time for North America (9)**

Zhong Yifu really wanted to look at the map of New Zealand, yet he found himself resisting the urge. Standing up, he looked out the window; Melbourne was now in autumn, the grass having lost its summer emerald for a deep, dark green. Before long, it would turn to a withered yellow.

Not long ago, when he left the capital, the grass on the yellow earth of Beijing hadn't even sprouted. The change from spring to summer, and then from autumn to winter, was truly mysterious; annual plants transformed through the four seasons, a cycle of endless life that reached its death in the blink of an eye.

Zhong suddenly remembered what Zheng Silang had said before ceding command of the New Zealand campaign: "I only wish for the war to end, yet it does not end as simply as I imagined."

At the time, Zhong had thought Zheng was merely indulging in a literati's lament, but now he felt he understood his comrade's mood. For the current Chinese military, the New Zealand campaign was merely a mop-up operation. Zhong could find nothing in it to excite him.

Recalling late 1922, when he participated in the war between the Northeast Government and Japan—a conflict far lower in intensity and ferocity than the present—Zhong had been completely immersed in the struggle, feeling that even if he died then, he would have no regrets for having participated.

For then, he knew clearly that every casualty was for the sake of China's strategic window. Only by winning could they win a future for China.

But the current war was for the sake of *ending* the war. The outcome was already crystal clear, yet to bring it to a close, so many lives had to be sacrificed just to make a defeated opponent understand that further resistance led only to a dead end.

Zhong didn't feel he had changed fundamentally. Yet after experiencing so much war, he found it no longer brought him excitement or satisfaction. The war itself sat like a mountain on his heart; whenever he considered the numbers of dead and wounded on both sides, it was difficult to even breathe.

This weight did not make Zhong abandon his responsibility. Battle reports arrived like snowflakes, a constant reminder of the foolish progression of the war.

The colony of New Zealand consists of the South and North Islands, along with Stewart Island and several smaller nearby islands. Between the two main islands lies the Cook Strait. The climate is temperate maritime; the terrain mountainous, with narrow plains and rich forests.

Along the New Zealand coastlines suitable for landing, nearly a million British colonial and US troops stood ready. From observation posts in the hills, one could look through high-powered binoculars and see hundreds of Chinese vessels at sea, a fleet with no end in sight.

Allied fighters were either shot down by Chinese jet fighters or dared not take off at all. The skies over New Zealand had been seized by China. Countless leaflets fluttered down from Chinese bombers, drifting onto the positions.

The leaflets were written in English. The main graphic depicted the entire Pacific in red, with New Zealand—situated in a corner of that red ocean—shown in white and surrounded by a ring of red arrows.

Across the top, large black English letters formed a single question: ARE NEW ZEALANDERS PREPARED TO BE DESTROYED FOR THEIR BRITISH LORDS?

The New Zealanders and American GIs were not fools; they knew the strategic picture described was reality, and that New Zealand's destruction was only a matter of time. Yet for the past few centuries, the arrival of a white man's army had always meant achieving its goals. The New Zealanders and Americans were not intimidated by the leaflets, remaining at their posts as if that alone could hold the line.

In the Governor's Mansion, a group of white and Maori council members sat in the meeting room. Governor Ruthven's face was distorted with agitation as he asked loudly, "The Chinese have issued an ultimatum; there are only two hours left until the deadline for a response. Gentlemen, have you reached a decision?"

The council members looked bleak and remained silent, as if silence could form an invisible barrier to keep out a non-white army the likes of which had never been seen.

Finally, a Maori council member asked, "If we surrender, will we be separated from Britain?"

The question struck the members like a heavy hammer. Governor Ruthven felt his face contort even further and quickly covered the lower half with his hand to hide his ugliness.

After a long pause, his voice came muffled from beneath his palm: "Once we surrender, we will become a region ruled by China. Those who persist in their loyalty to the British Empire will be shot or cast back to Britain."

The members were speechless. They could not imagine what it would be like to no longer be a British colony; it was as if their roots had been torn out, leaving them as floating weed in the Pacific with nothing left to rely on.

Finally, a white member rose and addressed the local assembly: "Gentlemen, it seems our only fate is to die for Britain."

The reason the Maori held significant power in New Zealand was their extreme prowess in battle—shown not only in their tattoos but in their long wars with the British colonizers. That was why Britain had accepted their status.

Hearing the white member, the Maori did not flinch. Their blood was up. After a silence, a Maori member suddenly stood and, without a word, walked to the side of the room and picked up a broom. He snapped off the head and, holding the wooden handle, kicked off his shoes and removed his hat. Barefoot and bareheaded, he looked toward heaven and let out a Maori war cry.

Stamping his feet rhythmically on the floor, he began a Maori war dance (Haka). Other Maori members immediately joined in, throwing off their hats and shoes.

The white members were moved by the combat dance and rose as well, hands over their hearts, singing loudly: "Hallelujah! Hallelujah! For the Lord God Omnipotent reigneth! The kingdom of this world is become the kingdom of our Lord, and of His Christ!

And He hath on His vesture and on His thigh a name written, KING OF KINGS, AND LORD OF LORDS! Hallelujah! Hallelujah! Hallelujah!"

In China, all religions—including Taoism—were defined as "commercial organizations." The Christian chanting and the Maori Haka now formed a bizarrely harmonious pair, perfectly integrated in this exchange of "mutual commercial fluffery."

As the council members were lost in their self-indulgence, the Chinese deadline passed.

The Chinese military system utilized computers extensively, so no sooner had the deadline expired than the silhouettes of China's newest heavy bombers, the H-7 (Hong-7), appeared on the horizon.

Taking off from newly built airfields on the Australian coast, 1,800 kilometers away, the jet-powered H-7 had a range of 11,000 kilometers. Designed to bomb the US West Coast from Hawaii, this was its first minor test.

Reaching the target, the H-7's advanced computers calculated at full speed. By now, China had "He Rui's Law," similar to the "Moore's Law" of another timeline.

In that other timeline, Intel co-founder Gordon Moore had observed that the number of transistors on an integrated circuit (IC) doubled every 18 to 24 months, while performance doubled and costs fell accordingly.

Over the past five years in China, "He Rui's Law" had been fully realized. After three cycles of improvement, Chinese computer performance had increased by 2 to the 3rd power—eightfold—while the cost of an IC had dropped to half its original price.

With lower power consumption, the total computing power of each H-7 was 30 times that of five years ago. Coupled with the commitment of massive laser and radar measuring equipment, bombing precision had reached terrifying levels.

The entire New Zealand coastal defense system was carpeted with thermobaric (FAE) bombs in an instant. In the Hawaii campaign, a few such bombs had been enough to wipe out all US forces on a small island. The detonation of thousands of them made the Allied forces across several thousand square kilometers feel the sensation of oxygen deprivation instantly.

These troops were all equipped with gas masks. While these could filter out various toxins, they could not enrich oxygen from the air. As the intense combustion of the thermobaric bombs sucked the oxygen from the surrounding area, over 200,000 Allied officers and men were either killed instantly by the blast and shockwaves or fell into a state of uncontrollable gasping. Starved of oxygen, they tore off their gas masks and frantically clawed at their own throats, chests, and cheeks, desperate for the air that was no longer there.

These scratchings left trails of blood on their throats and faces, yet could not stop the self-mutilating behavior of the Allied troops.

They were not self-mutilating; they simply could not breathe! They only wanted to keep breathing!

The Chinese landing fleet now advanced rapidly toward the New Zealand coast. Landing ships struck the beaches, their bow doors dropping to form ramps for armored vehicles.

IFVs packed with troops surged onto the shore and drove inland. Many vehicles reached terrain where they could no longer move, yet still encountered no resistance. When the landing troops dismounted, they found only a profound silence. The trenches that should have been packed with enemies were indeed filled with them.

The Chinese soldiers' enemies lay there, their faces covered in blood-red scratches, their fingernails filled with their own flesh. Their faces were purple, their tongues lolling from their mouths, their eyes rolled back as they died in twisted positions. It looked as if they had been struck down by a celestial curse.

Even for battle-hardened Chinese soldiers, the sight of this "cursed" scene left them pale with shock. Many less-stoic men doubled over and began to vomit.

On March 25, 1943, the Chinese military seized the New Zealand coast in a single day. On the 26th, the landed Korean units became the primary offensive force. Facing the remaining Allied remnants and New Zealand militia, the Korean Army—now at the level of Chinese second-line units—broke through positions like a hot knife through butter, encircling and annihilating the enemy.

By March 27, following the 370,000 Allies annihilated by the Chinese, the Koreans had wiped out another 480,000 local resistance members.

Starting March 28, the locals fled into the mountains for guerrilla warfare. The 670,000 Korean troops, also from a mountainous homeland, began mountain operations in battalion-sized units.

While the war continued, the outcome held no more suspense. Zhong Yifu had no interest in continuing to command the campaign and ordered the Chinese main force to return to ship and head for the Hawaiian Islands. By May, the primary Chinese offensive force would gather there for the assault on North America.

At this time, He Rui's face remained otherworldly white, his pink lips looking quite delicate. Such a countenance placed immense pressure on the team of doctors. Although they had done everything to check him and confirmed the virus was gone, the damage to his heart and lungs was beyond imagination.

So much so that when the team's representative reported to the Civilization Party Politburo, his own face was as pale as He Rui's. Dr. Liu was not only pale but his voice trembled. An upbeat Northeast native, he had attended school with Health Minister Pang Congcong in 1916 and graduated from Shenyang University Medical School in 1922.

In an uncharacteristically shaky voice, Dr. Liu briefed the 23 Politburo members—whose own expressions were as grim as can be—on He Rui's status. "...The Chairman's recovery is extremely slow; we have found signs of minor internal bleeding. And at this stage..." At this, he couldn't help but choke up. He Rui's actual contributions to medicine were no less than in other fields; the thought that he couldn't save his admired mentor from disease brought Dr. Liu inexpressible pain.

But as the one delivering the report, he forced himself to maintain his composure. He had to make the members understand the reality. "...The Chairman's blood vessels are very fragile. Although the thrombosis is controlled, we cannot guarantee their safety at this stage."

The members were all men of the world, for whom life and death were usually of little concern. Yet now they were speechless, lacking even the courage to ask a question.

Fortunately, Dr. Liu was a true scholar and offered no false optimism, laying out the danger: "The Chairman's vessels can be seen as ticking bombs; any rupture could be fatal. We have arranged 24-hour nursing and hope he pulls through."

The members remained silent. No one dared be the first to ask the terrible question. He Rui was only 53—very young for a statesman. They had assumed he would lead until at least 70, or at the very least until retirement at 68.

While he was healthy, many of them had tried to struggle with him to gain more ground. But knowing he might die at any moment filled them with an abyssal fear.

The foundation of their struggle was a healthy, long-lived He Rui. With that foundation gone, they were all at a loss.

Finally, it was Premier Wu Youping who spoke: "If all goes well, when will the Chairman recover?"

Dr. Liu's voice lacked confidence as he replied low, "For the vessels to recover well, his blood pressure must not be too high. But due to his organ damage, the body is raising blood pressure to maintain function. High pressure in turn affects the vessels. For now, he must rest quietly."

"If he rests completely, can a recovery be ensured?" Wu asked immediately.

"...We can be certain of nothing. We can only do our best," Dr. Liu answered.

Wu wanted to tell the doctor that they *must* save He Rui's life. But the words died in his throat.

After his own recovery from an MI, Wu had learned that He Rui had explicitly told the doctors they could use any radical means to save him. Wu didn't know the true purpose of the man who recounted He Rui's decisive words—the man had praised his resolve. Yet the order to manually massage the heart if necessary was truly terrifying.

Wu firmly believed He Rui had taken the responsibility with great courage, determined to save his life at any cost.

But when it was Wu's turn to make such a heavy decision, he found he could say nothing. Even if he were truly willing to die in He Rui's place, the words wouldn't come.

Finally, overcome with grief, tears welled in his eyes. He hated his own incompetence, yet he truly could not shoulder such a responsibility.

A dead Wu Youping could be replaced. But if something happened to He Rui, there was no one.

Ultimately, the Politburo members—men who could decide the fate of the world and the lives of hundreds of millions—could only tell the doctors to find ways to ensure He Rui's life. They could offer no substantial decisions.

On March 29th, He Rui grew even weaker. Word reached the Politburo that he had fallen into a temporary coma due to a persistent high fever. The members convened, but no one spoke.

No one dared to make a decision.