Blackstone Code
Chapter 339:

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Outside the presidential residence, Mr. Truman pulled out a cigarette case, extracted three cigarettes, and handed them to the two men beside him before lighting one for himself.

"Do we really need sixty days?" he asked the Deputy Minister of Defense, who shook his head in response.

If that timeframe referred to the entire mobilization-to-conclusion period, it was excessive—let alone the actual naval engagement itself. According to the tactical research division at naval headquarters, the battle would likely conclude within thirty-six hours from its onset, with the Federation achieving a decisive victory on all fronts.

They had equipped Pretton's pirate group with replicas of Gevra's Royal Navy flagship vessels and exaggerated both the size of the pirate fleet and their combat proficiency in intelligence reports. In other words, what appeared to be a righteous campaign against pirates was, from the start, viewed by naval command as a direct clash with Gevra's navy.

However, this confrontation would remain limited in scale. It was unlikely that Gevra would deploy its main battle fleet—that would be reckless. On the other hand, the Federation could afford to send additional ships and even deploy their secret weapon.

With intent versus apathy, there was no way they could lose.

Truman listened to the Deputy Minister of Defense's explanation with an impassive expression. After hearing him out, he nodded. "Tell the generals to make the conditions more stringent. Consider how we might respond if things turn against us, and add more challenging constraints for ourselves."

"If we lose this time, neither the navy nor the army will see any meaningful development over the next decade."

His tone was grave, his words earnest. What seemed to most like an inconsequential anti-piracy operation was, in reality, a pivotal moment that would determine the military and national fortunes of the Baylor Federation for the next ten years.

They could have avoided this conflict, but avoidance wasn't an option. Backing down now would only embolden others while costing the Federation significant international interests. They had no choice but to fight. The best they could do now was ensure every tactic and plan was flawless, committing fully to the endeavor.

After the Deputy Minister of Defense departed, Truman glanced at the dwindling cigarettes in his hand. He took a drag, then stubbed it out on the ground, sparks scattering.

Turning to the head of the National Security Council (NSC) Operations Division, he said, "Begin. It's time."

As diplomatic negotiations progressed, war could erupt at any moment. Truthfully, Truman hoped relations with Nagalier could be established peacefully, confining the conflict to a simple anti-piracy operation. He didn't want Nagalier to stand opposed to the Federation; otherwise, Gevra might intervene under the guise of protecting its ally or upholding justice. If that happened, Gevra could deploy its main fleet for a full-scale naval battle.

That was the worst-case scenario, but in matters of such magnitude, any wishful thinking amounted to irresponsibility—to oneself and to the nation.

Thus, beginning immediately, the NSC would launch a comprehensive purge of domestic spies—a prolonged process.

Though the Federation hadn't participated in the current world war, spies from various nations were abundant here. This was likely due to the Federation's robust economy and technological prowess, which gave it latent wartime potential worth monitoring.

In the past, as long as these spies avoided sensitive secrets, the NSC left them alone—a policy rooted in isolationism. The Federation aimed solely to defend itself without appearing aggressive. But times had changed.

With the decision finalized, the machinery of the state began to move. Anyone paying attention to the naval bases along the Eastern Ocean coast would notice frequent ship movements and numerous tugboats coming and going.

"It seems they've made up their minds…" muttered an unassuming middle-aged man standing outside Sirius Port, watching a tugboat depart from the harbor.

Dressed in ordinary clothes—not fashionable but not outdated—he appeared to be fishing alongside a younger companion, perhaps his child or a relative. Both were fishing, though in truth, they weren't typical anglers. At this cursed hour, fishing served dual purposes: distraction from hardship and sustenance.

Many people fished along the shore, but these two were different. They observed the port's activity daily, meticulously recording the types and numbers of ships entering and leaving.

The older fisherman frowned slightly. "What are those tugboats doing?" he murmured, half to himself. For days, the boats had been moving back and forth, seemingly empty yet somehow suspicious.

In reality, those tugboats were towing submarines—an almost magical notion, but true nonetheless. Though Schep's submarines met current naval demands and satisfied certain performance criteria, their endurance during submerged operations remained subpar. To conceal these secret weapons, the navy used tugboats to transport them to designated waters before allowing them to surface and proceed independently.

To outsiders, the tugboats appeared idle, but something about their movements unsettled the two spies.

"Take note," the elder said quietly, glancing back. "This information might be important."

Today, the port felt different. Strangers had appeared on the docks extending from the beach. As a deep-water military port providing direct access to the Eastern Ocean, Sirius Port had long attracted foreign spies. Among the anglers, at least thirty percent hailed from different countries, all sharing the same objective: surveilling the military harbor.

For nearly five years, the elder spy had blended seamlessly into the crowd, knowing everyone who frequented the area—their names, habits, routines. Yet, in a brief lapse of vigilance, several vehicles pulled up at the end of the wooden walkway, and men dressed somewhat like soldiers but exuding a distinct aura stepped out.

Perhaps they'd been compromised.

The Gevran spy showed no panic. In the past, colleagues had occasionally been exposed, enduring interrogations and minor punishments before being deported with tickets purchased by the Federation's counterintelligence agency. Such leniency fostered complacency among spies operating within the Federation compared to those elsewhere.

"It's over. No need to trouble our little Federation chicks," the elder joked lightly, reeling in his line. He chuckled at the missing bait on his hook and carefully coiled the line.

Their bucket already held three or four fish—enough for a hearty dinner. His younger companion began packing up, visibly nervous. It was likely the young man's first encounter with such a situation. As he bent down, a pen slipped from his chest pocket onto the ground.

That pen contained countless encrypted secrets, though they feared discovery less because the contents appeared innocuous—a mere diary unless decrypted. Still, the young man's blood pressure spiked, reddening his face as he reached for the pen lodged between the planks. A polished shoe stepped firmly onto it.

Startled, the young man followed the gleaming leather upward: high-end socks, discernible by their fabric; gray-patterned trousers worn despite the heat—typical attire for government officials. Finally, he met the gaze of a man in sunglasses.

Glancing around, he realized they were surrounded. The elder spy posing as his father had also been detained. With a subtle signal, the elder raised his hands slowly, straightening up reluctantly, glaring defiantly at their captors.

Truthfully, before becoming a spy sent to the Federation, the young man had undergone extensive military training. Skilled in combat techniques, vehicle operation, firearms, lockpicking, and more, he fancied himself akin to fictional agents—capable of escaping danger with elegance and ease.

But now, all he could do was raise his hands. No opportunity to showcase his skills was given, fueling his frustration. If only he had a chance, he wouldn't surrender so easily.

A rifle butt slammed into the base of his neck, plunging him into darkness and nearly knocking him into the water. With a curt order, both were hauled away.

As the leader of the NSC operations team prepared to board the vehicle, he cast a glance at the murmuring crowd gathered on the dock. Smirking faintly, he pointed casually, eliciting shifts in expressions among the onlookers.

They knew each other well enough to recognize that many in the group were spies—agents from foreign nations. That the Federation's NSC hadn't acted against them until now wasn't due to ignorance but rather a lack of necessity.

Suddenly, thoughts raced through everyone's minds. An uneasy feeling settled in—they sensed the Federation's stance might have shifted irrevocably.

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