Chapter 398: William's Concession

"This is the safest choice under the current conditions, Your Majesty," Tirpitz insisted, "We can sink some merchant ships, shell some port facilities, cause some damage. That will at least account for us domestically and also give the army some support."

The emperor said nothing. He stood with his hands behind his back, pacing on the dock, his deep‑blue cloak fluttering slightly in the summer sea breeze. Tirpitz and the other officers waited quietly.

In the distance, a submarine was leaving the harbor. Its sleek hull slipped silently over the water, and the crew on the conning tower saluted toward the dock.

"Submarines..." Wilhelm muttered, then suddenly turned, "Alfred, what if I devote all resources to the submarine force? If I let Kloze go all‑out, could he cut off England's sea lanes?"

The question caught everyone off guard. Tirpitz was momentarily stunned, then thought quickly.

"In the short term, submarines can indeed cause greater damage," he answered cautiously, "but in the long run, the English will adjust their escort strategies and develop new anti‑submarine technology. Moreover, submarine warfare carries political risk—if we sink too many neutral ships, it could push America into the war."

"America..." Wilhelm sneered, "That hypocrite Wilson talks about neutrality, but in fact has been feeding England all along. If he truly entered the war, he would have done so long ago."

But he did not pursue the topic further, instead returning to the original question: "So your recommendation is—no large‑scale sortie before July 25; if we must strike, only conduct small‑scale raids. Is that correct?"

"Yes, Your Majesty. This is the optimal choice based on professional judgment."

Wilhelm II stared at Tirpitz, his gaze sharp as a blade. The tension on the dock was at its peak; everyone knew that this answer could decide Tirpitz's fate, even the future of the German Navy.

"Do you know how they talk about you outside, Alfred?" the emperor said suddenly, his voice light yet each word as sharp as a needle. "They call you the 'Port Marshal,' say your fleet will only rust in Wilhelm Port, claim you fear Jelliko, fear battle."

Tirpitz's complexion did not change, but the joints of his fingers gripping the marshal's staff turned white: "Your Majesty, I am sixty‑seven this year, have served in the navy for nearly fifty years. I have fought in three wars and commanded fleet operations. I know what fear is, but I also know what responsibility is. My duty is not to appease the loud‑mouthed, but to protect the German Navy, to safeguard the lives of these twenty‑five thousand sailors."

He paused, his voice steadier: "If I am dismissed for insisting on professional judgment, then dismiss me. But before that, I must speak the truth. Compelling an unprepared fleet to sortie is not bravery, it is folly. It does not serve the Empire; it betrays the Empire."

The dock fell deathly silent. Even the gulls ceased their cries.

Wilhelm II's expression shifted unpredictably, from anger to contemplation, then to a complex weariness. At last he sighed—a sigh so deep it seemed to expel all the anxiety accumulated in his chest.

"July 20," the emperor finally said. "I give you two weeks. Not the 25th, the 20th. In two weeks I want to see a fleet capable of sortieing. The scale may be smaller, the objectives more limited, but it must be a genuine combat operation. This is my final concession, Alfred."

Tirpitz closed his eyes. Two weeks was five days earlier than his bottom line, yet ten days later than the emperor's original demand of July 10. It was a compromise, a concession both sides could barely accept.

"Yes, Your Majesty," he opened his eyes. "July 20, the open‑sea fleet will carry out a combat mission. I will submit a detailed plan within three days."

Wilhelm nodded, turned toward the carriage. After a few steps he stopped again, but did not look back: "Alfred, I know you are right. But sometimes… doing the right thing requires more courage than doing the wrong thing. Because you must bear the criticism of those who don't understand, and endure history's misinterpretation."

He paused: "Continue doing what you believe is right. At least I still understand you."

After speaking, the emperor climbed into the carriage. The procession slowly pulled away from the dock.

Tirpitz stood rooted, unmoving for a long while. The sea wind lifted his graying hair, and his deep‑blue marshal's uniform glimmered in the sunlight.

"Marshal..." Trota said cautiously.

"Summon all ship captains," Tirpitz turned, his expression returning to its usual calm, "We must draft a plan—a combat plan that can be executed on July 20, with controllable risk and real significance. Moreover…"

He looked toward the harbor mouth, where two patrolling destroyers were returning.

"Notify the submarine force headquarters; I want to see Deng Nitz. If the surface fleet can only conduct limited operations, then underwater… perhaps we can do more."

The orders were relayed. Wilhelm Port bustled again, but this time the work was purposeful rather than frantic. Two weeks was neither too long nor too short—enough to accomplish some tasks, yet insufficient for everything.

Tirpitz walked toward the headquarters building. His stride remained steady, his back still straight. The emperor's final words echoed in his ear: "At least I still understand you."

Perhaps it was sincere, perhaps merely consolation.

Either way, he still had two weeks.

Two weeks to ready the German Navy for a respectable, safe, meaningful sortie.

This might not be enough to change the war, but at least it could preserve the fleet's vigor and the sailors' lives.

July 3, 4 p. m., Strategic Room, Dubai Presidential Palace.

Chen Feng stood before an updated world map, holding three freshly delivered reports: one from Li Te, stating that the Bismarck Class battleship had been transferred and set sail; one from an informant embedded in Berlin, detailing Wilhelm II's inspection of Wilhelm Port; and one from the western front, reporting that the Sakura Nation's vanguard train had crossed the German‑French border.

Three matters, three lines, all progressing according to plan.

But Chen Feng knew that progress did not equal success. The real test began now: can the battleship reach Germany safely? Can the Sakura Nation's troops play a role on the western front? Can the German Navy achieve any results under limited conditions?

Every link could falter, and each problem might trigger a chain reaction.

"President," Wang Wenwu entered, pushing the door, a telegram in hand. "The Industry Department reports that the first Prototype Car 'No. 1' has completed final assembly and is undergoing ground tests. He requests your inspection."

Chen Feng's eyes lit up. "Finally finished. Schedule it for tomorrow morning."

"Understood," Wang Wenwu noted, then hesitated. "President, there's something… I'm not sure I should say."

"Speak."

"Some of our officers… object to this deal. They argue that selling the two most advanced battleships to Germany aids a potential adversary. If Germany wins the war and consolidates its position in Europe, its next target could be overseas expansion, which might threaten Lanfang's interests."