Chapter 593: Thirteen Submarines

Twenty years ago, Emperor Wei Lian II presided over the formation ceremony of the Open Sea Fleet at Kiel Port; he stood behind the emperor, watching twelve battleships sequentially sail out of the harbor basin as the salute guns fired one hundred and one rounds. That evening, he wrote in his diary: "The day the navy is built is the true moment of German unification."

Now he stands before the nautical chart, his back to the doorway, his white officer's uniform faded to a washed‑out hue with frayed collars. No one is behind him; in front of him the North Atlantic sea area is densely marked with red arrows—those indicate the positions of Allied merchant ships sunk in the past three months.

But he is not looking at those arrows.

He is looking at the sea area south of Iceland, west of the Faroe Islands, and east of 30° west longitude. There is no mark there, only a black question mark he drew himself.

That is the location of the last report from submarine U‑36 three days ago.

The major entered and stood at attention.

"Marshal, Kiel is calling."

Tirpitz did not turn around.

"Read."

The major unfolded the first telegram:

"U‑13, on February 16 at 48° N, 22° W, carried out a convoy‑breaking mission, was pursued by enemy destroyer groups, and endured depth‑charge attacks for ninety minutes. The hull suffered multiple damages, speed dropped to six knots, and it could not submerge. The commanding officer reported: Meilika destroyers are equipped with new sonar that can detect submarines at ten kilometres. It has broken out toward the Norwegian coast. Follow‑up—no follow‑up."

Tirpitz remained motionless.

The major read the second one:

"U‑27, on February 17 at 51° N, 19° W, escorted a fleet attack. Engaged two Meilika destroyers; the bridge was hit, and the commanding officer was killed. The first officer took over command, and after firing the last torpedo the submarine lost power. The final line of the telegram: Your Majesty long live—telegram cut off."

The major paused for two seconds.

Third one:

"U‑51, on February 18 at 04:00 at 49° N, 25° W, reported: Detected a Meilika escort fleet and are tracking it. At 07:00 received a signal from the vessel: under depth‑charge attack, taking on water severely, damage control underway. At 09:00 received the final set of signals—unfinished, only the word 'eternal farewell' was identified."

The major finished reading.

The operations room was so quiet that the low hum of air moving through the ventilation ducts could be heard.

Tirpitz still stared at the chart. His right hand rested on the edge of the chart table, his left hand hanging naturally. From behind, his figure remained upright, like an old oak tree.

After a long while, he spoke:

"What is the name of U‑13's commanding officer?"

"Captain Han Si·Mai Er, Marshal."

"Who else is in his family?"

"His mother lives in Kiel, his fiancée in Hamburg. He originally planned to take leave and marry in June of this year."

Tirpitz nodded.

"Send a telegram to Kiel: spare no effort in the rescue. As long as U‑13 has not sunk, there is still hope."

The major stood at attention: "Yes."

But both knew that in the North Sea's February waters, a submarine that has lost its ability to dive has less than a ten‑percent chance of survival.

Tirpitz finally turned around.

His face tightened the major's stomach.

It was neither an expression of anger nor of sorrow. It was a calm deeper than anger and heavier than grief—like a reef battered countless times by waves, its surface still hard, but its interior riddled with countless holes.

"Has General She Er arrived?"

"He is already waiting in the meeting room."

"What about General Xi Pe Er?"

"He is traveling from Wilhelm Port by special train, expected to arrive at four p. m."

Tirpitz nodded.

He walked back to the chart table and cast one last glance at that sea area. The black question mark still hung there, unanswered.

He erased the question mark.

"Let's go."

The meeting room was at the end of the corridor, its windows facing north, offering a view of the Spree River's gray‑blue surface and the Berlin Cathedral's verdigris dome.

When Tirpitz pushed the door open, She Er was already standing by the window.

Laiyinhate She Er, commander of the Open Sea Fleet and the youngest fleet admiral of the German Empire Navy. His face was like granite split by knives and axes, cheekbones high, jaw square, a permanent downward line at the corner of his mouth—not an aging wrinkle but a mark left by years of squinting at the sea horizon in fierce winds and waves.

He did not turn around, still looking out the window.

"Tirpitz," he said, without a title or small talk, "did you read the telegram?"

"Read it."

"Thirteen submarines a month. Today there are three, tomorrow possibly six, the day after possibly ten." She Er's voice was even, as if reciting a logistics report, "Meilika destroyers hunt like packs of hounds; their sonar can lock onto a submarine's position before we even fire a torpedo. Our commanding officers report that now, in the Atlantic, the survival rate is under seventy percent."

He turned:

"Submarine warfare has become ineffective."

Tirpitz walked to the conference table but did not sit.

"I know."

She Er looked at him:

"When did you find out?"

"Three months ago," Tirpitz said, "in November last year, U‑38 returned from the North Atlantic, and its commanding officer told me that Meilika destroyers' sonar performance is at least twice that of Yingguo's old‑type equipment. I had the intelligence department verify it. Their conclusion: Meilika has achieved a Breakthrough in sonar technology and is refitting all Atlantic escort fleet destroyers with new equipment."

"Then why didn't you order a change in submarine tactics?"

"Because it cannot be adjusted," Tirpitz said. "Our submarines were designed on a shallow‑water combat Concept, with dive depth, endurance, torpedo range—each parameter intended for maneuvering in the North Sea against the Royal Navy. We never imagined a day when submarines would have to play hide‑and‑seek in the deep ocean against an opponent with a technological edge."

He paused:

"Just as we never imagined a day when Meilika would personally go to sea to escort."

She Er was silent for a few seconds.

"Do you regret it?"

Regret what?

"Regret that back then I advocated focusing naval construction on battleships," She Er said, "If we had invested resources in submarines then, we might have already cut off Yingguo's lifeline; even if the Meilika people had the best sonar, it would be of no use—because they would never have a fleet needing escort."

Tirpitz did not answer immediately.

He walked to the window, stood where She Er had just stood, and watched the gray‑blue surface of the Spree River.

"I don't regret it," he said, "Battleships and submarines aren't substitutes; they're complementary. Submarines can cut off Yingguo's trade routes, but only a battleship fleet can decide who truly owns the seas."

"Just like now?" She Er's voice held a long‑suppressed sharpness, "Our battleship fleet has been rusting in Port William for three years, and Yingguo's home fleet has been rusting in Scapa Bay for three years as well. Two steel behemoths that have consumed twenty years of citizens' taxes stare across the North Sea, neither daring to go out, neither daring to fire first."

He paused:

"Tirpitz, this is the high seas fleet you have fought your whole life for. Not masters of the sea, but prisoners of the North Sea."