Chapter 328: Finding That Fine Line Between Orders and Reality

"Admiral!" The officer stood at attention and saluted.

Jellicoe nodded and prepared to leave, but then stopped.

"What is your name?"

"James Carter, Admiral. Lieutenant, Operations Division staff."

"How old are you?"

"Twenty-two, Admiral."

Twenty-two. Jellicoe looked at that young face and recalled when he himself was twenty-two. Back then, the world was still vast, and the future still long.

"Lieutenant Carter," Jellicoe said, "do you think we will win?"

The young officer froze for a moment, then squared his shoulders: "Of course, Admiral. The Royal Navy has never lost."

Never lost.

Yes, after Trafalgar, the Royal Navy had never lost another large-scale naval battle. A hundred years of an undefeated record, a hundred years of maritime supremacy.

Now, this record was about to be put to the test.

"Very good." Jellicoe patted his shoulder. "Keep that confidence."

He walked down the stairs and out of the Admiralty building.

London's night sky had no stars; dark clouds hung low, as if it truly were about to rain.

Jellicoe looked up at the sky and took a deep breath.

Cold, damp air filled his lungs.

Then he got into the car.

"Back to the apartment," he said to the driver.

The car drove into the night. Jellicoe leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes.

Tomorrow, the war would enter a new phase.

Tomorrow, the Royal Navy would sail toward its fate.

And he would bear all the consequences.

For better or worse.

In life or in death.

This was his responsibility.

Berlin, Admiralty building, Chief of Staff's office.

June sunlight streamed through the tall windows, casting bright patches on the polished oak floor. But the atmosphere in the room was as cold as midwinter.

Marshal Tirpitz stood by the window, his back to the room. He had stood like this for ten minutes, motionless, like a frozen statue.

Behind him, Admiral Reinhard Scheer, Commander-in-Chief of the High Seas Fleet, sat on the sofa, his hands clasped tight. The fifty-three-year-old naval officer had the face of a typical Prussian soldier — angular and sharp-eyed — but at this moment his brow was deeply furrowed and his lips pressed into a hard, straight line.

"He cannot truly mean to do that." Scheer finally broke the silence, his voice dry. "Pull the entire fleet out for a decisive battle against the British? That is suicide."

Tirpitz slowly turned around. The sixty-seven-year-old founder of the navy looked older than his years, the bags under his eyes heavy, the wrinkles on his forehead carved deep as knife cuts.

"His Majesty has already decided." His voice was soft, yet it struck Scheer's heart like a heavy hammer. "The victories in the East have gone to his head. He now believes the Deguo armed forces are invincible — the army has proven it, and now it is the navy's turn."

"But these are two completely different battlefields!" Scheer stood up and walked over to the huge map of the North Sea. "On land, we can concentrate our forces and Breakthrough at a single point. But at sea? The British control every outlet of the North Sea; they can mass their forces anywhere and wait at ease for our arrival. The moment we leave port, we are exposed to their reconnaissance network!"

Tirpitz walked to the liquor cabinet and poured two glasses of brandy. He handed one to Scheer, picked up the other himself, and drained it in one gulp. The spirits burned down his throat, bringing a brief numbing sensation.

"I know." He set down his glass. "I know all the risks. But the Emperor will not listen. Yesterday at Sanssouci Palace, he spent a full hour explaining to me his dream of a 'Naval Trafalgar.' He said Deguo needs a naval battle that will go down in history, just as Nelson defeated the combined Franco-Spanish fleet."

"Go down in history?" Scheer sneered. "If we lose, it certainly will go down in history — as one of the most foolish naval decisions ever made."

The room fell silent again. From outside the window came the clamor of Berlin's streets — the clanging of trams, the honking of cars, the chatter and laughter of pedestrians. It was an ordinary summer afternoon, but in this office, two men were discussing a decision that could alter the entire course of the war.

"Reinhard." Tirpitz finally spoke. "If we must strike — I mean if, if the Emperor's orders ultimately cannot be defied — what do we do?"

Scheer stared at the map. The blue North Sea spread across it like a giant trap. The Yingguo homeland lay like a barrier to the northwest: Scapa Flow, Invergordon, Rosyth... one Yingguo naval base after another was marked there, locking down the Deguo fleet's passage into the Atlantic like a chain.

"We cannot fight a fleet decisive battle," he said categorically. "That is exactly what the British want. Their numerical superiority is too great — twenty-eight dreadnoughts versus eighteen, nine battlecruisers versus five. In a head-on collision, we would be crushed."

"Then what is your recommendation?"

Scheer's finger moved across the map and finally stopped at a position in the central North Sea.

"Decoy tactics," he said. "Let Hipper's reconnaissance fleet sortie and attack Yingguo coastal targets or merchant shipping lanes. The British will certainly send a fleet to intercept — most likely Beatty's battlecruisers. Then Hipper will fight while retreating, drawing them toward the waters where our main fleet lies in ambush."

Tirpitz's eyes lit up: "Fight a limited victory. Devour a portion of the British fleet rather than seek a decisive battle."

"Exactly." Scheer nodded. "If we are lucky, we can cripple or even annihilate Beatty's fleet. The British would lose four to six battlecruisers, while Hipper's fleet has five. Even if we take losses too, the exchange ratio would be in our favor."

He paused: "More importantly, such a victory would be enough to satisfy the Emperor's vanity. 'Deguo Navy Cripples Yingguo Fleet in the North Sea' — a headline like that would make the front page of every newspaper."

Tirpitz pondered. He walked to his desk, opened a drawer, and took out a thick document.

"This is the latest assessment from intelligence." He handed the document to Scheer. "The current state, deployment, and commanders' habits of the Yingguo Grand Fleet... along with some decoded radio fragments."

Scheer flipped through the document quickly. His gaze came to rest on one page:

"June 3rd, Yingguo battlecruisers 'Lion,' 'Princess Royal,' and 'Queen Mary' completed repairs and departed Rosyth shipyard to return to Scapa Flow... Major General Beatty has frequently inspected each ship of late; morale is high..."

"Beatty." Scheer murmured the name. "David Beatty. Pugnacious, impulsive, hungry for glory. If he is the one chasing Hipper... he will chase hard."

"That is exactly what we need," Tirpitz said. "An opponent impulsive enough, confident enough, reckless enough. Only then will he pursue into our trap without hesitation."

Scheer closed the document and looked up: "But the premise is that the Emperor agrees to this plan. If he insists that we seek out the Yingguo main fleet for a decisive battle..."

"Then let him 'believe' we are seeking a decisive battle." A bitter smile appeared at the corner of Tirpitz's mouth. "Reinhard, how many years have you and I served in the navy? Forty? Fifty? We learned long ago how to find that fine line between orders and reality."