Chapter 363: The Destroyer's Hunt

"Report damage!" Beckett shouted, but the communicator produced only harsh static—the bombardment may have damaged the internal communication lines.

He rushed out of the bridge and ran to the open-air command platform. The sight before him chilled him to the bone—the Black Prince was ablaze amidships, the foredeck was a shambles, and multiple gun positions had been destroyed. Even more terrifying, in the light of the searchlights, he could see the silhouettes of more Deguo warships—not just light cruisers, but larger, darker shadows.

The shadows of battleships.

At least four Deguo dreadnoughts were slowly approaching from the southeast. They had switched on their searchlights too, and more beams locked onto the Black Prince.

It was a despairing sight—a lone Yingguo armored cruiser, surrounded by the searchlights of eight, ten Deguo warships, like an actor on a stage illuminated by countless spotlights, with nowhere to escape.

"God…" Beckett murmured.

He knew the Black Prince's fate was already sealed.

But he still gave the order: "All guns that can still fire, fire at will! Aim at the nearest enemy ship! Prepare torpedoes—if there's a chance, launch!"

It was a desperate counterattack, the struggle of a trapped beast. But at the very least, he would make the Deguo pay.

The Black Prince's remaining guns began to return fire. Shells flew toward the nearest Deguo light cruiser; several scored hits and started small-scale fires. But compared to the firepower she was enduring, this return fire was negligible.

The main guns of the Deguo battleships opened fire.

These were true heavy guns. 305-millimeter, even 350-millimeter shells fell around the Black Prince, throwing up waterspouts taller than the bridge. When direct hits began, the end was only a matter of time.

The first large-caliber shell struck the main gun turret amidships. The turret's armor was torn open and the ammunition inside detonated. The violent explosion blew the entire turret away, flames shooting skyward.

The second shell hit the afterdeck, detonating the depth charge storage area. Chain explosions severely damaged the stern and disabled the steering gear.

The third, the fourth, the fifth…

The Black Prince was like an iron can battered by countless heavy hammers, her hull twisting, breaking apart, burning. Explosions followed one after another, and flames devoured the entire warship.

Beckett was knocked to the ground by the blast wave. He struggled to his feet and saw the bridge was half-destroyed, most officers either dead or wounded. The navigator lay in a pool of blood, the communications officer was pinned beneath a collapsed steel beam, only a faint breath remaining.

He crawled to the voice tube—miraculously, it still worked.

"All hands… abandon ship," he said, using the last of his strength. "Repeat, all hands abandon ship. May God bless you."

Then he turned and looked at the Deguo warships drawing ever closer in the searchlight beams. Their gunfire had already ceased—there was no need to waste ammunition on a ship about to sink.

Beckett straightened his uniform and wiped the blood from his face. He walked to the edge of the bridge and looked down at the chaotic deck below. Sailors were lowering lifeboats and leaping into the sea. Some succeeded, some were consumed by flames, some fell into the burning oil slick.

He could have chosen to jump into the sea, could have chosen to survive. But he did not.

As the captain, as the commander of this ship, he chose to perish together with the Black Prince.

He walked back to the bridge and sat in the blast-warped command chair. He closed his eyes and waited for the final moment to arrive.

Seawater flooded into the bridge. Cold, dark, and then eternal silence.

The Yingguo armored cruiser Black Prince sank at 1:20 a. m. in the middle of the North Sea. Of her entire crew of 857 officers and men, only 34 were later rescued by Deguo vessels; the rest all perished, including Captain Thomas Beckett, Colonel.

And several nautical miles away, the Deguo main fleet—the fleet led by Scheer—continued sailing southeast without stopping, without celebrating, silently passing through the scene of carnage that had just occurred in the darkness.

To Scheer, the Black Prince was merely unexpected prey, a chance encounter. He did not even record the matter in detail in the logbook—on such a chaotic night, during such a desperate flight, sinking a straggling Yingguo cruiser was not worth mentioning.

But such is war: on the grand strategic chessboard, a piece captured is insignificant; but in the microcosm of individual fate, it was the end of 857 lives, the shattering of 857 families.

At 1:45 a. m., the Yingguo destroyer Shark was slowly patrolling through the darkness of the North Sea.

She was one of three reconnaissance squadrons dispatched by Jellicoe, responsible for the southeast direction. Accompanying her were two other destroyers—the Shark, the Shark—as well as the light cruiser Dublin. But an hour earlier, in the thick fog, they had lost visual contact with the Dublin, and now could only maintain contact with each other through faint light signals.

On the bridge of the Shark, Captain Richard Archer, Major, was carefully scanning the sea surface with a night-vision telescope. This new equipment was claimed to be able to spot ships five nautical miles away in the dark, but its actual performance… could only be described as slightly better than the naked eye.

"Anything to report?" he asked the lookout beside him.

"No, sir. Just waves and the occasional… wait."

The lookout suddenly paused, adjusting the telescope's focus: "Two o'clock direction, something. Not a ship, looks like… flotsam? A lot of flotsam."

Archer raised his own telescope. On the sea surface, there were indeed some dark shadows drifting with the waves. They didn't look like wreckage—wreckage usually had angular edges, while these shadows appeared more rounded.

"Close in," he ordered. "Reduce speed to 8 knots, maintain vigilance."

The Shark slowly approached the flotsam. As the distance closed, Archer finally saw what they were—

Life rafts.

Dozens, perhaps a hundred life rafts, scattered across a broad stretch of sea. Each raft was packed with people, shivering in the cold sea breeze. Some were still alive, waving; some were no longer moving, perhaps unconscious, perhaps dead.

"Survivors," Archer judged. "Escaped from a sunken vessel. Looking at the style of the life rafts… they're Yingguo standard issue."

He felt a pang of heartache. These were his compatriots, sailors of the Royal Navy, struggling to survive in the freezing seawater.

"Prepare to rescue," he said. "Lower the boats, save as many as we can. But maintain vigilance—Deguo submarines may use survivors as bait."

The order was passed along. The Shark began to slow and lowered two boats. Sailors rowed the boats, weaving among the life rafts, pulling survivors aboard the destroyer one by one.

Soon, the deck was crowded with the rescued. Most were seriously injured—some with burns, some with frostbite, some hit by shrapnel. The ship's doctor and medics moved through the crowd, providing emergency treatment.

Archer walked up to a survivor who appeared less seriously injured. It was a young sailor, about twenty years old, wrapped in a blanket, holding a cup of hot tea and trembling.