Chapter 597: Nagato No. 2

Four twin‑mounted 410 mm guns, two forward and two aft, in a back‑loaded layout. The barrels point straight ahead, angled three degrees upward from the horizon—that's the shipyard‑mandated safety angle, not a combat angle. Yet even so, the silhouette of those eight barrels is enough to make one hold one's breath.

Each barrel is twenty‑one meters long and weighs one hundred two tons.

Each salvo can hurl twelve tons of steel up to forty kilometers away.

Each armor‑piercing shell can penetrate any active battleship's Armour Belt at a Distance of twenty thousand meters.

From the day the first Keel was laid in the dock, from the day the first batch of special steel was poured in the smelting workshop, from the day the first design drawing lit up on Chen Feng's laptop screen.

But numbers are just numbers.

At this moment, the morning mist has cleared, the sun finally breaks through the clouds, illuminating the entire Nagato from bow to stern—

Li Te hears himself holding his breath.

"Speed test ready," he says, his voice lower than usual, "We plan to leave the dock at nine o'clock sharp, reach the offshore speed‑measurement zone at eleven. The engine room reports the main engine is stable; full power can be sustained for over six hours."

Chen Feng gives no reply.

He still watches the battleship, his gaze moving from the bow to the bridge, from the bridge to the smokestack, from the smokestack to the rear main gun turret. Slow, focused, as if observing an object he has hand‑polished for three years and is now nearing completion.

"Wang Wenwu," he says.

"Present."

"Any news from the Germans?"

Wang Wenwu pulls a telegram from his briefcase. He doesn't read it, handing it straight to Chen Feng—he knows the President's habit: important telegrams must be seen with his own eyes.

Chen Feng takes it, his eyes scanning the page.

The message is brief. It was sent by She Er in a private capacity, addressed to Li Te, but everyone knows who the telegram is really meant for.

"To General Li Te, Naval Technical Department, Lanfang:

Thanks to your nation's technical support, the Bismarck and Tirpitz have completed their final pre‑departure preparations today. The ships are in good condition, the crew's morale is high. I will lead the fleet into the North Sea at dawn tomorrow, targeting the North Atlantic route.

This departure may be a farewell forever. Yet regardless of the outcome, the German Navy will forever remember Lanfang's aid in its time of hardship.

I have a word, not sure whether I should say it—President Chen, in Hawaii, told President Wilson, "Meilika's fate, Lanfang's fate as well," and I firmly believe it. I also firmly believe this "fate" will not come today or tomorrow, but when we are at our most perilous.

On the day the Bismarck departs, I will stand on the bridge and salute eastward.

German High Seas Fleet Commander Laiyinhate She Er

18 February 1917

Chen Feng finishes reading, says nothing.

He folds the telegram neatly, neither returning it to Wang Wenwu nor stowing it in his pocket. He merely squeezes the paper, as if holding a freshly ejected shell still hot to the touch.

"She Er is a good soldier," he says.

Li Te offers no reply.

Chen Feng hands the telegram to Wang Wenwu: "File it. Top‑secret."

"Understood."

"Also," Chen Feng pauses, "reply to him. Just say—"

He stops.

The gantry crane platform falls silent for a few seconds. A northeast wind blows in, carrying the shipyard's distinctive scent—welding fumes, heavy‑oil steam, salty sea air. In the distance, Dock No. 3's gate slowly opens, seawater surging into the basin, churning fine white spray against Nagato's bow.

"Just say, the lights of Lanfang Shipyard never go out," Chen Feng says.

Wang Wenwu quickly jots it down in his memorandum.

Li Te watches him, about to speak but stops.

"What do you want to ask?" Chen Feng says without turning.

"She Er's telegram…" Li Te chooses his words, "He's asking us when exactly the fate will come."

"I know."

"And your answer is— the shipyard's lights never go out?"

"Yes."

Li Te remains silent for a few seconds.

"General," he changes his address—this is not a dialogue between a president and a navy commander, but between two friends striving for their nation. "She Er took the Bismarck out of port. He used his own flagship as bait, betting that we would pull him out at his most perilous moment."

He pauses:

"Do you really intend to let him wait?"

Chen Feng finally turns around.

He is thirty, with a few white hairs at his temples, yet his gaze remains the same as when Li Te first saw him in Dubai years ago— not sharp, but deep. So deep the bottom is unseen, so deep that any light that enters is swallowed, turning to silence.

"Li Te," he says, "do you know which line of She Er's telegram I admire most?"

Li Te gives no answer.

"It's not 'firmly believe Lanfang will meet its fate.'" Chen Feng says, "It's 'this departure may be a farewell forever.'"

He looks at the battleship in the distance, about to undergo sea trials:

"She Er knows this trip may not return. He knows the Bismarck may be the German Navy's last surface fleet dispatched in the war. He knows how many enemies await him on the Atlantic— the home fleet of Yingguo, Meilika's Atlantic fleet, mines, submarines."

He pauses:

"But he still went."

"Because he had no choice," Li Te says.

"Yes." Chen Feng says, "He had no choice."

He looks at Li Te:

"So—if one day Lanfang also has no choice, I will, like him, stand on the bridge and salute toward some direction."

He pauses:

"But not today."

The gate of Dock No. 3 has been fully opened. A tug steered into the dock, taking position on both sides of the Nagato. At the top of the bridge, a signal flag rose—not a naval flag, but a sea‑trial flag. The red‑white‑blue fluttered, rustling in the morning breeze.

"Go," Chen Feng said, "Board."

The bridge of the Nagato is more spacious than the Bismarck Class.

This was the first thing Li Te noticed when stepping onto the battleship. It wasn't a deliberate comparison, just a soldier's instinct—like a racer in the first second of sitting in the cockpit, instinctively feeling the seat angle, the steering‑wheel damping, and the instrument‑panel layout.

The bridge designed by Xiaori was compact, efficient, almost a harsh rationalism. Every piece of equipment had an immutable spot, every pipe ran the shortest route, even the angle of the porthole was calculated for maximum visibility rather than comfort.

Nagato is different.

Not that it is irrational. On the contrary—its rationality is on another level. It leaves more space for the commander, clearer sight for the lookout, and more redundant backups for the damage‑control team. This is not luxury; it is the crystallization of combat experience.

After the Japan‑Germany‑Netherlands Sea Battle, both Deguo and Yingguo learned the same lesson: naval combat is not a turret duel, but a damage‑control duel. Whoever can keep a damaged hull afloat into port wins.

Lanfang has never fought the Japan‑Germany‑Netherlands, but Chen Feng has a laptop.