Chapter 51: Standoff at Aman Bay

The two stood side by side at the window, watching the harbor in the night. From afar came the whistle of the steel mill's night shift and the low rumble of the power plant's steam turbine. It was the heartbeat of a newborn nation—strong, steadfast, unstoppable.

"Notify everyone," Li Te ordered finally, "Get proper rest. At dawn tomorrow, we set sail."

"Yes!"

The order spread through the entire ship. Lights went out one by one, leaving only the essential watch lamps lit. The massive battleship merged into the night, like a giant beast about to awaken.

And on the top floor of the administration building, in Chen Feng's study, the lamp was still on.

He stood before the sand table, holding a model representing the Guangfu, slowly moving it to the position of Aman Bay. Beside it, a few small flags representing the British fleet were approaching from the Red Sea direction.

"Young Master, you should rest," Wang Bo said, bringing in a night snack.

"Can't sleep," Chen Feng put down the model, "Wang Bo, what do you think the Yingguo will do? Open fire outright? Or just a show of force?"

The elder set the tray down and walked to the edge of the sand table, watching for a while.

"I've lived sixty years, have seen the Yingguo do business, have seen the Yingguo wage war," he said slowly, "They are particular about 'cost'. If the cost of war is too high, they choose negotiation. If the cost of negotiation is too high, they then choose war."

"So the key is to make them understand that the cost of war is unacceptably high."

"Exactly," Wang Bo nodded, "So tomorrow Li Te's segment is crucial. The better he demonstrates, the less the Yingguo will dare to act."

Chen Feng walked to the window, gazing at the silhouette of the Guangfu in the night.

"I have confidence in Li Te. I have confidence in those young men," he said softly, "Wang Bo, do you know? Sometimes when I look at them, I feel especially... especially envious."

"Envious?"

"They are pure. They know why they fight, they believe they are doing the right thing. Not like me," Chen Feng gave a wry smile, "I calculate every day, weigh, gamble. Sometimes I wake up at midnight and suddenly ask myself: Is this path really correct? Could it lead everyone into the abyss?"

Wang Bo remained silent for a long time.

Then he said, "Young Master, I don't grasp those grand principles. But I know one thing: three years ago when we came here, three hundred thousand people crowded into temporary tents, worrying each day for a mouthful of water or a piece of bread. Now we have electricity, running water, factories, schools, and even our own battleship."

He walked to Chen Feng's side, looking at the lights outside the window.

"Whether this road is right, I don't know. But I do know that this road has let three hundred thousand people live with dignity. That's enough."

Chen Feng turned his head, looking at the elder's wrinkled yet resolute face.

"Thank you, Wang Bo."

"The one who should say thanks is me," Wang Bo laughed, the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes loosening, "Thank you, Young Master, for letting me, before I am buried, still see the Chinese have their own battleship, and still see... the hope of returning home."

The two fell silent.

Outside the window, the night was deep. Yet the eastern horizon already hinted at a faint fish‑belly white.

Royal Navy Dauntless bridge, 9 a. m., March 17, 1906.

"Starboard fifteen degrees, Distance about twelve thousand meters, unknown vessel sighted!"

The lookout's voice came through the speaking tube, tinged with a barely perceptible tremor. Major General John Abbasnot set down his binoculars, his brows furrowing into a river‑shaped line. As commander of this deterrent detachment, he is forty‑eight this year, with over twenty‑five years of service in the Mediterranean and the Far East, yet he has never heard such a report—the tone lacked the excitement of a target sighting, replaced by a sort of... confusion.

"Confirm the features," he said into the speaking tube, his voice steady, revealing no emotion.

A brief silence. Then the lookout's voice sounded again, this time even more uncertain: "Sir... it's huge. Very huge. The smokestack arrangement is odd, only three, but the hull length... My God, it's at least a third longer than ours."

All the officers on the bridge halted their work.

Abbasnot raised the binoculars again. The morning mist was lifting, and the gray speck on the sea surface grew clearer. At first glance, he thought the lookout had erred—it could not be a battleship. Its size was too great, its lines too sleek, lacking the heavy, solid feel of a Royal Navy battleship.

But on a second look, he saw turrets.

Four of them. Twin‑mounted. Even at this distance, the barrel length and diameter could be judged to exceed twelve inches.

"All ship to third‑stage combat readiness," Abbasnot's voice was low, yet each word hammered into the air, "Notify the escort formation, maintain formation. Artillery Officer, calculate target Distance and speed."

The order was transmitted swiftly. Rapid footsteps rang across Dauntless's deck as sailors rushed to their stations. The turrets began to turn slowly, the barrels lifting. Yet unlike the smooth confidence of routine drills, today's movements carried an inexplicable hesitation.

Inside Dauntless's forward Main Gun turret

Loader Tom Harris was inspecting the shell‑ejector. The twenty‑year‑old Yorkshire lad had only joined the navy last year, selected for the turret crew for his strength. At this moment he peered through the observation slit, his mouth slowly widening.

"Jack... look at that,"

Gun captain Jack Robinson came over. He was a veteran, having taken part in naval support during the Boer War, having seen German battleships, having seen French battleships. But this one before him...

"What the hell is that?" Robinson muttered.

The warship was closing at astonishing speed. The smoke from its smokestacks was faint, indicating extremely efficient combustion. Its hull left a wide, flat wake on the sea, its speed estimated over 25 knots—while Dauntless's top speed was only 21 knots.

More terrifying was its demeanor. Such a massive body sailed so smoothly, as if gliding over ice, with almost no pitch. In contrast, Dauntless was experiencing slight rolling, a normal response for a North Sea‑designed ship in the Indian Ocean's typical swell.

Yet the opposing warship was abnormal.

"It's too fast," Harris's voice was a bit hoarse, "And... it's turning?"

Indeed, the gray leviathan was turning toward starboard, its motion so fluid it didn't resemble a multi‑thousand‑ton battleship. Its wake traced a graceful arc across the sea, cutting straight toward the Yingguo fleet's front.

"It's snatching the T‑head..." Robinson's complexion changed.

The T‑head advantage is the most lethal positional edge in naval combat. It means all of the enemy's Main Guns can bear on you, while you have only your forward Main Gun to return fire.

On Dauntless's bridge, Abbasnot also realized this.

"Hard left rudder! Course adjust to 270! Can't let it seize the position!"

The helmsman slammed the wheel. The nearly twenty‑thousand‑ton Dauntless began a slow turn, its steel Keel groaning lowly in the water. But it was too slow; the gray warship, like a nimble shark, slipped easily into the intended course.

Distance shortened to eight thousand meters.

Now even ordinary sailors could see the details.