Chapter 15: Lord Fisher Will Go Mad

"But will the Germans…"

"Let them protest," Johnson sneered, "After today, naval officers worldwide will know these ships exist. We're just the first."

Colonel Harrison, the British Army intelligence officer stationed in Egypt, stared at the six photographs spread on the oak table for a full three minutes without speaking.

The atmosphere in the office was so heavy it seemed you could wring water from it. The adjutant stood by the wall, even his breathing softened.

"Confirmed?" Harrison finally asked, his voice hoarse.

"Confirmed, sir," Johnson answered standing at attention, having just driven eighty miles in a military truck, his uniform still dusty. "Six identical battleships. These are the negatives; I've developed three sets in the darkroom. One set remains in the Canal Zone, one I brought with me, and another was sent to London via diplomatic pouch."

Harrison picked up a magnifying glass and examined the most recent photograph closely. The side profile of the Westfalen filled the frame, its five turrets outlined with an unsettling clarity.

"Five twin‑turret mounts, ten main guns," Harrison whispered, "Caliber estimated between 11 and 12 inches. Length… over 500 feet. Displacement at least 18,000 tons."

"Speed over 21 knots, sir," Johnson added, "Steam turbine propulsion, judged from the smokestack exhaust pattern."

"How do you know it's a steam turbine?"

"My father works at Vicks Company, sir. He took part in testing the Parsons turbine," Johnson said. "When a compound steam engine accelerates it belches thick black smoke, whereas these ships at full speed emit only a faint vapor from the smokestack. That's a hallmark of steam turbines—combustion is cleaner and power output steadier."

Harrison set down the magnifying glass and rubbed his brow. "The Germans… their secrecy work is too good. MI5, Naval Intelligence, each spending hundreds of thousands of pounds annually, yet six battleships slipped right under our noses until today."

"It may not be that they 'slipped past,' sir," Johnson cautioned, "They might have been completed only recently."

"Impossible," Harrison shook his head. "Look at the sailors on deck—their formations are tight, their drills proficient. That's not the condition of a newly commissioned vessel. They've undergone at least six months of intensive training. Moreover, six ships appearing together indicates they've already formed a complete tactical formation."

He rose and walked to the massive world map on the wall, his finger pointing to the North Sea region.

"Six battleships of this class could shift the balance of power in the North Sea. How many pre‑Dreadnoughts does the German High Seas Fleet currently have?"

"Fourteen capital ships, sir," the adjutant replied promptly, "but most are designs from the late 1890s, with varying main‑gun calibers and speeds generally below 18 knots."

"So these six new ships, once commissioned, will become the absolute core of the German fleet," Harrison's finger traced the map. "Their appearance in the Suez indicates intent to enter the Mediterranean. Destination? The Baltic? The North Sea? Or…"

"Emperor Wilhelm has recently taken an interest in Morocco," the adjutant reminded, "The French are expanding their influence there, and the Germans have expressed 'concern'."

"Using six of the world's most advanced battleships to 'concern' them?" Harrison sneered, "It's a show of force—toward France, and toward us."

He returned to the desk and pulled out the encrypted telegram form.

"I will send a top‑secret telegram to the Admiralty. Johnson."

"Ready, sir."

"Return to the Canal Zone immediately," Harrison said while scribbling rapidly, "Deploy every man you can on both sides of the canal and establish at least eight concealed observation posts. I need a detailed record of every German warship that passes: exact dimensions, draft, crew numbers, any visible weapons‑configuration details. Specifically—watch for any Italian, Austro‑Hungarian, or other nations' officers aboard."

"Do you suspect the Germans are showcasing new weapons, looking for buyers?"

"It's not suspicion, it's certainty," Harrison sealed the encryption, "At this level of technological edge, the Germans won't keep it to themselves for long. They'll leverage it to sway diplomacy, gain allies, or… obtain resources."

When the telegraphist was summoned, Harrison had already finished three pages of cipher.

"Use the 'Neptune' codebook, send it to the Admiralty in London, address the recipient as First Sea Lord John Fisher," Harrison instructed, "CC the Director of MI5. Mark it 'Top Secret, Immediate Dispatch'."

After the telegraphist left, Harrison looked at Johnson: "What do you think, if the Royal Navy engaged these six ships now, what are our odds?"

Johnson hesitated.

"To be honest, Colonel."

"We would win," Johnson said, "but the cost would be beyond imagination. Their main‑gun range may exceed ours, and they're at least three knots faster. That means they can choose engagement distance and timing. Our fleet would have to rely on numerical superiority to block them, and in that process… perhaps two or three capital ships would be sunk before we get within effective range."

Harrison's complexion grew even more grim.

"And that's with only six of them," Johnson continued the harsh truth, "If the Germans have already mastered this design, a second and third batch are likely already on the slips. By the time our Dreadnought enters service, the North Sea could already host twelve or more of the same class."

"Lord Fisher will go mad," Harrison muttered.

"He will demand extra budget to build more new ships," the adjutant said, "The Lords of the House of Commons won't be pleased."

"Whether they're pleased matters not," Harrison's voice turned harsh, "What matters is that the British Empire's three‑century maritime supremacy may face a real challenge within five years. And we've only just discovered the challenger's sword is already this sharp."

Outside, Cairo's streets came alive with the clatter of donkey‑cart bells, hawkers' cries, and the distant morning call from a mosque, weaving the city's daily melody. Yet in that office, the three of them knew—some gear of the world had, this morning, silently shifted its teeth.

German Carefree Palace

"Ha ha! Alfred, did you see the telegram? There's been no official response from London!"

Emperor Wilhelm II paced his study, brandishing the secret dispatch just delivered from the Admiralty. He wore a white field‑marshal uniform, his chest medals jingling, his face openly exhilarated.

Naval Secretary, Admiral Alfred von Tirpitz, stood at the desk, maintaining professional composure. "Your Majesty, the Westfalen detachment has just passed the canal's narrowest stretch. The British's coordination tower must have taken many photographs."

"Let them photograph!" Wilhelm II moved to the massive map of Europe, his finger hammering the British position. "Let them see clearly! The German Empire no longer needs to hide in the Baltic's shallow mud! We now have an ocean‑going fleet!"

Tirpitz, seeing the emperor's excitement wane slightly, spoke cautiously: "Your Majesty, the purpose of this display has been achieved. Yet I must warn that it will also alert Britain early. Intelligence indicates their Dreadnought has only just had its keel laid, and given Britain's industrial capacity, once fully mobilized, construction speed will be very rapid." (The Dreadnought's build time is only a few months.)

"Then let them build!" Wilhelm II turned, his eyes flashing, "What we want is a race—naval race! Make the British pour every penny into shipbuilding, wreck their finances, make their people weary of war! And then…" He lowered his voice, as if sharing a secret, "When their fleet is scattered worldwide maintaining colonies, we concentrate our main force in the North Sea and decide the war in one blow!"