Chapter 494: The Fifth Salvo in the North Sea

She Er rushed to the radar screen. The fuzzy dots, at least four, the large ones could be battleships, the small ones could be cruisers or destroyers. Their heading was straight toward them, speed… estimated over twenty knots.

Yingguo forces arrived.

"Combat alert!" She Er's roar rose above the storm, "All ships, go to combat status! Notify Tirpitz, prepare to engage! Cruisers and destroyers, go forward for reconnaissance, confirm target identity!"

The alarm sounded inside Bismarck. Sailors leapt from hammocks into battle stations. The turrets began to turn, the ammunition hoist buzzed, and the engine room raised steam pressure to the limit.

But the Tirpitz, moving at eight knots, was a deadly burden.

She Er stared at the radar screen. The dots drew nearer—fourteen nautical miles, thirteen nautical miles… The enemy clearly had spotted them as well, adjusting heading to seize a favorable position.

"General!" the lookout's voice came through the speaking tube, "Visual contact! Starboard, bearing 280! It's… it's a battleship‑cruiser! Hood class! Two ships!"

She Er lifted the telescope. In a lull of the storm, in the instant lightning split the night sky, he saw them.

Two massive silhouettes rose and fell in the swell. A slender hull, towering triangular masts, four Main Guns… Indeed, Hood class. The Yingguo's cutting‑edge warship, bought from Lanfang, a steel behemoth with Eastern lineage like Bismarck.

Now, these two beasts, in the North Sea storm, have set their sights on the wounded Tirpitz.

And Bismarck stands in the middle.

She Er lowered the telescope and drew a deep breath.

"Notify all ships: prepare to engage. Main Gun target, enemy flagship. Distance… twelve thousand meters. Await my order."

"Yes!"

The turret turned slowly, the 380‑mm giant gun lifted its barrel, pointing toward the enemy ship in the darkness.

The North Sea's waves rose like moving gray mountains.

General She Er stood on Bismarck's bridge, both hands gripping the brass handrails fixed to the wall. The 45,000‑ton steel behemoth rose and fell in eight‑meter‑high swells; each time the bow plunged into a trough, the whole battleship emitted a low moan—the Keel's wail under extreme pressure.

"Heading?" his voice was torn by the wind and waves.

"Maintain 310, General!" Lieutenant Bernhard shouted, the young Lieutenant with a golden short beard turning pale, not from fear but seasickness, "But the rudder's ineffective! The left side waves are too big!"

She Er looked out through the porthole battered repeatedly by seawater and streaked with water marks. Visibility was under two nautical miles; the sky and sea were lead‑gray, only white crests shattered and reformed in the darkness. He could not see Tirpitz—logically she should be a mile to the right‑rear, but now, beyond the rain and towering waves, nothing was visible.

"Radar?" She Er turned to the still‑buzzing new device on the port side.

Operator Lieutenant Heinrich Schmidt swiped his finger across the screen; the flickering dots were blurred by sea‑surface chatter. "Three… maybe four large targets, bearing 270 to 275, Distance about eighteen thousand meters!" his voice wavered, "General, the clutter is strong, could be a false reading!"

"It's not a false reading." She Er pulled a pocket watch from his coat pocket and glanced: 5:17 a. m. According to plan, if Yingguo caught up, it would be about this time. "Notify Tirpitz, prepare to engage. All ships, combat readiness level one."

The alarm cut through the storm's roar.

Fifteen nautical miles away, the Hood battleship‑cruiser sliced through the waves at twenty‑two knots.

On the bridge, General Weiersili stared at the radar screen. Compared with the Deguo's still‑experimental gear, the Hood was equipped with a second‑generation surface‑search radar supplied by Lanfang, far more stable.

"Two large targets, confirmed." the radar officer's voice was clear and strong, "Bearing 095, Distance fifteen thousand meters. Heading… estimated 310. Speed… very slow, not exceeding fifteen knots."

Colonel Tuowei hurried to the chart table, pencil flashing a mark. "They're slowing down. Why?"

"Maybe the '' had a problem." Weiersili walked to the porthole, though outside the rain obscured everything, "Six hours ago a submarine report said one of the ships emitted abnormal thick smoke."

"Opportunity." Tuowei looked up, eyes shining in the dim light, "General, if we can seize the T‑head, concentrate the firepower of two ships on one—"

"The premise is that Queen Ship can keep up." Weiersili cut him off, "Gudenuo reports the starboard propeller vibration has increased; he won't exceed twenty‑five knots."

Gudenuo's voice crackled over the communicator, with static hiss: "Queen Ship reporting, my vessel is two chains to your ship's right‑rear, can maintain current formation. But I advise engaging quickly; this cursed weather is unfavorable for gunnery."

Weiersili and Tuowei exchanged a glance.

"Order." Weiersili's voice rang through the bridge, "Adjust heading to 100, the two ships advance side by side. Target, enemy flagship. Main Gun load armor‑piercing shells, await my fire command."

"Yes!"

The order was sent to Queen Ship via signal lights. The two 40,000‑ton giants slowly turned in the storm, eight twin‑mounted 15‑inch turrets began to rotate in sync, the massive barrels lifted, pointing toward the northeast darkness.

In Hood's B turret ammunition magazine, Corporal John Miller and five other sailors were pushing a 879‑kilogram 15‑inch shell onto the hoist tray.

"Quick! Quick!" the turret officer shouted above, his voice muffled through the speaking tube.

The shell was in place; the propellant bags—four silk‑wrapped nitro‑cellulose bags—were carefully set behind the shell. Miller wiped the sweat from his face, which was actually condensation. The magazine was hot and humid, but far drier than the deck above, battered by storm and seawater.

"You're saying the Deguo are really out there?" a young sailor gasped, his name Tom, only nineteen.

"The radar says they are," Miller patted his shoulder, "Don't overthink it, do your job. Get the shell up, the rest is for the old men above."

The hoist buzzed to life, sending the death load thirty meters up to the turret.

Miller leaned against the steel wall, listening to the distant howl of the storm beyond the hull. It was his third combat patrol; the first two were escort missions, never seeing an enemy ship. This time was different—everyone knew it was different. Hood versus Bismarck, the "climactic showdown" the papers had bragged about for months, now unfolding in this cursed weather.

"Corporal." Tom whispered, "Can we win?"

Miller looked at the wide‑eyed youngster, recalling his brother in Portsmouth. "The Royal Navy hasn't lost a major sea battle, kid. We suffered heavier losses in the Japan‑Germany‑Netherlands theater, but the Deguo fled back to port. This time…"

He was cut off. The hull lurched violently, everyone clinging to nearby fixtures. The sound of seawater slamming the hull came from afar, like a giant pounding an iron door with its fists.

"This time," Miller steadied himself, whispering the rest, "we will win too."