Chapter 329: The Plan for a Naval Strike

He walked up to Scheer and looked him straight in the eyes: "Draw up your plan. Package it as 'seeking engagement with the enemy's main force,' but in the concrete scheme, make the objective clear: 'luring and annihilating the enemy's vanguard fleet.' When I report to the Emperor... I'll adjust the wording accordingly."

Scheer understood his meaning. It was deception, but also the only way to preserve the fleet.

"Does Hipper know?" he asked.

"You go tell Franz," Tirpitz said. "He's the executor; he needs to know the full truth. But the others—including most of the officers in the fleet—let them believe this is a great decisive battle. Morale needs that kind of story."

Scheer nodded. He felt a heavy weariness. As a soldier, he yearned for battle, yearned for victory. But as a commander, he understood even more clearly the weight of responsibility—over forty thousand sailors' lives were in his hands, and the entire sea power of the German nation rested on his decisions.

"When?" he asked.

"Within three days," Tirpitz said. "The Emperor can no longer wait. The victory celebration on the Eastern Front has just concluded, and he needs good news from the navy too. The sooner the better."

"Then I'll return to Wilhelmshaven right now." Scheer stood up. "And work out the detailed plan with Hipper. How many ships are needed?"

"All that can put to sea," Tirpitz said. "Since we're putting on a show, let's do the whole thing. The main fleet sails in full force, striking the posture of a decisive battle. Only then will the Yingguo people believe we're serious."

Scheer saluted and turned to leave. As he reached the door, Tirpitz called after him.

"Reinhard."

Scheer looked back.

The old marshal stood by the window, sunlight falling from behind him, his face hidden in shadow.

"Bring the boys back," Tirpitz's voice was slightly hoarse. "Bring back as many as you can."

Scheer was silent for a few seconds, then nodded, pushed the door open, and left.

In the corridor, Scheer's footsteps echoed across the empty marble floor. He walked fast, the sound of his military boots striking the ground urgent and firm, as if trying to use that rhythm to suppress the unease in his heart.

At the corner of the staircase, he encountered a young major on the staff. The major immediately snapped to attention and saluted: "Admiral!"

Scheer stopped and looked at the young man. He was thirty-five at most, his blond hair neatly combed back, his blue eyes gleaming with excitement.

"You work at the Admiralty?" Scheer asked.

"Yes, Admiral! Intelligence Division, responsible for the North Sea direction." The major's voice was full of pride. "I've just finished compiling the latest report on Yingguo fleet movements. They've been very active lately—very likely planning some major operation."

Something stirred in Scheer's mind: "What's your name?"

"Karl von Müller, Admiral!"

Von Müller. Scheer recalled the name—a naval family; his father was a retired cruiser captain, and his older brother served as gunnery officer aboard the Derfflinger.

"What do you think of the upcoming operation?" Scheer asked abruptly.

The major's eyes grew even brighter: "We're finally going to strike, Admiral! The entire fleet has been waiting for this day! Teach the Yingguo boys a lesson, let them know whose domain the North Sea is!"

His enthusiasm nearly overflowed. Scheer looked at his young, exhilarated face and thought of himself thirty years ago—back then he too believed that courage and determination could conquer everything.

"If... if we encounter the Yingguo main fleet?" Scheer asked. "They outnumber us."

"Then we fight!" The major didn't hesitate. "The quality of German sailors is higher than the Yingguo people's! Our gunnery is more accurate, our warship designs more advanced! Nelson at Trafalgar didn't have a numerical advantage either, but he won!"

Scheer nodded. He didn't correct the young man—didn't tell him that Nelson's victory relied not on simple courage, but on brilliant tactics and his opponent's stupidity. Nor did he tell him that modern naval warfare was entirely different from the age of sail.

"Keep up the good work, Major." Scheer patted his shoulder. "The navy needs enthusiastic people like you."

"Yes, Admiral!" The major saluted again, his face radiant with a sense of mission.

Scheer continued down the staircase. When he reached the ground-floor lobby, he saw an enormous oil painting hanging on the wall—1871, the German Empire proclaiming its founding in the Hall of Mirrors at the Palace of Versailles. In the painting, Bismarck, Moltke, and Wilhelm I stood together, behind them a unified Germany.

Back then, Deguo had no navy, at least no navy worth mentioning. The sea was the Yingguo people's domain.

Forty-five years later, Deguo possessed the world's second-largest navy, sufficient to challenge that century-old hegemony.

But the price of challenging it might be everything.

Scheer walked out of the Admiralty building. His aide and driver were already waiting at the entrance.

"To the train station," Scheer said as he got into the car. "The fastest train to Wilhelmshaven."

"Yes, Admiral."

The car drove through the streets of Berlin. Scheer watched the city through the window—prosperous, orderly, full of vitality. The cafés along the street were full of people, shop windows displayed their goods, mothers pushed prams strolling through the parks.

All of this rested on a fragile balance. If the fleet lost, that balance would be broken.

The Yingguo people might tighten the blockade, and Deguo's imports of food and raw materials would decrease further. Soldiers at the front would lack ammunition, civilians at home would go hungry. The scales of war would tip completely.

"We cannot lose," Scheer murmured to himself. "No matter what, we cannot lose."

The car arrived at the train station. As Scheer boarded the special train, the setting sun was falling in the west, dyeing the sky blood-red.

The train started, heading north, heading toward Wilhelmshaven, heading toward the fleet and the fate that awaited him.

Sanssouci Palace.

Wilhelm II stood on the balcony, holding a glass of champagne. He had just concluded a small victory celebration, hosting several generals returned from the Eastern Front. At the banquet, the generals recounted how the Russians had collapsed, how the Degjun had pursued them, and how the Sakura Nation's soldiers had "consumed the enemy like locusts."

The Emperor listened with delight. He loved stories of victory, especially victories belonging to Germany.

"Your Majesty," the aide-de-camp reported softly, "Marshal Tirpitz requests an audience."

"Let him in," Wilhelm II said, his tone light and cheerful.

Tirpitz entered the room. He had changed into a formal marshal's dress uniform, his chest covered with medals. But the Emperor noticed that the old marshal's expression was not relaxed.

"Alfred!" Wilhelm II raised his glass. "Come, a toast to the victory on the Eastern Front! A toast to the courage of Germany's soldiers!"

Tirpitz took the glass offered by the attendant, mechanically raised it, and took a small sip.

"Your Majesty, I've just spoken with Admiral Scheer," he said, setting down his glass. "About the plan for a naval strike."