Chapter 377: The Submarine's Performance

"Yes," Te Luota recorded, "but this would increase the cost by thirty percent…"

"Money is not the problem," Tirpitz finally looked up, his eyes weary yet firm, "The issue now is whether we have enough time. The Emperor will not wait two months; he doesn't even want to wait two weeks. So we can only delay as much as possible while preparing for the worst."

He took a folder from the drawer and handed it to Te Luota: "This is the 'Emergency Fleet Deployment Contingency Plan.' If Berlin actually issues a compulsory order demanding we strike, then we will follow this plan."

Te Luota opened the folder and skimmed quickly. The plan was thorough, covering departure times, route choices, reconnaissance deployment, and response strategies upon encountering the Yingguo fleet—everything was included. Yet the further he read, the paler his complexion became.

"Marshal, this… this is almost a suicide mission," Te Luota's voice trembled, "You plan to have the fleet depart at night, slip through the heavy fog across the central North Sea, conduct a bombardment raid on the Yingguo east coast, then return before dawn. But if Jellicoe's main force catches us…"

"Then we fight a rear‑guard action and withdraw in dispersal," Tirpitz said calmly, "At least we can say 'the navy has struck,' giving Berlin an answer. And the actual loss may be smaller than a head‑on battle."

He walked to the window and stared at the still‑dense fog outside.

"This is a political mission, Te Luota, not a military one. The Emperor wants a performance, a posture. I will give him the performance, but I must ensure it does not doom the entire fleet."

A knock sounded at the door, rapid and urgent.

"Come in."

The door opened; it was the headquarters communications officer, a young second lieutenant, his face pale.

"Marshal, Berlin sends an urgent telegram. Your Majesty… Your Majesty requests you to reply immediately, confirming whether the fleet can complete preparations within two weeks to execute the 'Decisive Sortie Operation.'"

Tirpitz and Te Luota exchanged a glance. What had to come, had come.

"Understood," Tirpitz nodded, "You go out first; I'll respond in ten minutes."

The second lieutenant saluted and left, gently closing the door behind him.

The office fell silent for a few seconds. Te Luota watched the old Marshal, awaiting his decision.

Tirpitz walked back to his desk, sat down, and picked up a fountain pen and telegram form. He thought for a full minute, then began to write:

"To Your Majesty: The open‑sea fleet's officers and men are exerting maximum effort on repairs and readiness. The current repair progress for the main vessels is as follows: the 'Frederick the Great' is expected to be combat‑ready in four weeks, the 'Sedlitz' will need six weeks, the 'Devringer' has been confirmed sunk… Based on the present situation, the earliest the fleet can achieve full combat readiness is six weeks from now. In the meantime, the submarine force will intensify harassment to tie down Yingguo naval power. Your loyal servant, Tirpitz."

After finishing, he reviewed it carefully, then signed his name.

"Six weeks," Te Luota whispered, "Your Majesty will not be satisfied."

"But he cannot find a reason to object," Tirpitz handed the telegram draft to Te Luota, "Each point is factual and backed by data. Unless he is willing to admit he knows nothing of the navy, he can only accept this timetable."

"And the aide‑de‑camp...?"

"Tell him the fleet is preparing at full speed but needs time," Tirpitz stood. "Take him on a tour of the shipyard, let him see the wounds of the 'Frederick the Great' with his own eyes, watch how the workers labor in three‑shift repairs. Then book him a first‑class train ticket back to Berlin for tonight."

Te Luota forced a bitter smile, nodded, took the telegram draft, and turned to leave.

The office was again empty save for Tirpitz. He walked back to the window; the fog began to lift, and the warships in the harbor gradually revealed clear outlines. Those iron leviathans, each embodying twenty years of Deguo effort, each bearing the lives of thousands of sailors.

Now he must walk a dangerous tightrope between the Emperor's pressure and his professional judgment.

Outside, a U‑boat slipped completely out of the harbor, vanishing onto the distant sea. "That's the truly effective weapon now," Tirpitz thought, not those massive, costly battleships that are helpless before Jellicoe.

But the Emperor does not understand, or rather, does not wish to understand.

He only needs a victory, one that lets him stand on the Wuwuyong Palace balcony to receive the cheers of the masses.

Even if the price of that victory is the destruction of the entire fleet.

Scotland, Scapa Bay naval base.

Dawn light pierced the perennially gloomy clouds over the North Sea, spilling onto the harbor's calm surface. Twenty‑four dreadnoughts formed a neat column, their anchor chains hanging into deep water, the smokestacks emitting only faint wisps—boilers running at low power, ready to set sail at a moment's notice.

The battleship "Iron Duke," the fleet flagship.

Admiral John Jellicoe stood on the bridge, holding a telescope, carefully observing the anti‑submarine net and patrol boats at the harbor entrance. He was fifty‑six, his hair silver, yet his bearing remained upright, his deep‑blue admiral's uniform crisp with not a wrinkle.

"The weather is fine," First Sea Minister Major General Frederick Studi walked up to him, holding a cup of hot tea. "Visibility exceeds ten nautical miles, wind is force three, sea state is calm. If the Deguo ships come out today, it will be a good day for engagement."

"They will not come out," Jellicoe set down the telescope, his tone certain. "Schultz is no fool. In the Day‑German‑Land war, they achieved some tactical gains but were a strategic failure. Now their fleet is riddled with damage and needs at least two months to refit."

Studi took a sip of tea and remained silent. He knew Jellicoe's judgments were almost always correct—this admiral, renowned for caution and precision, might be the Royal Navy's finest fleet commander in history, and the one who best grasped the complexities of modern naval warfare.

"But their submarines have emerged," Jellicoe turned, walking to the chart table. "Last night three more merchant ships were sunk, all on the Atlantic routes. That Keluozhe fellow is getting bolder."

On the chart table lay a map of the North Atlantic, dotted with red pins marking the positions of merchant ships sunk in the past month. The pins were dense, chiefly clustered along Yingguo's western and southwestern routes.

"The Navy Department wants us to dispatch more destroyers for escort," Studi said, setting down his cup and pointing at the map. "But the problem is, if we split forces for escort, the main fleet's vigilance weakens. If Schultz suddenly strikes…"

"He won't," Jellicoe emphasized again. "At least for six weeks he won't. But the Navy Department's civil officials have a point—the shipping losses are huge, and the Finance Ministry is already complaining about soaring insurance rates. The Prime Minister called me personally yesterday, asking if we could 'do something.'"

Studi gave a wry smile. Politicians are always like that, demanding the fleet protect shipping while also keeping it ready for decisive battle, as if battleships could be split in half like a magic trick.

"Then what do we do?"

"We follow the plan," Jellicoe drew a few circles on the chart. "The first battleship fleet stays in Scapa Bay, on standby. The second battleship fleet rotates to Roses Port for refit. All light vessels—cruisers and destroyers—are split into three groups, taking turns escorting the transport convoy. Each group's escort cycle is two weeks, then they return to port for resupply and repair."

He paused, then added, "Tell each captain that escort duty takes priority, but if they encounter the Deguo main fleet, break contact immediately and report to us. We don't want small‑scale skirmishes; we want a decisive battle."