Chapter 609: Deguo King Class Bridge · Detecting Enemy Ship

On the Empress Ship, Captain Fritz Lancelot, Colonel, was standing on the deck.

He was the most unconventional captain in the fleet. Born of nobility yet never pretentious; gentle in temperament yet daring the toughest battles. In the Day‑Denland Sea Battle, his warship was hit seven times, yet he kept fighting to the last moment, and the sailors privately called him "Iron Fritz".

At this moment he stood on the deck, watching four King Class ships sprinting at full speed.

The sea wind was strong, rattling his coat. Yet he did not return to the bridge, just stood there, feeling the tremor of the 45,000‑ton steel beneath his feet.

"General," a voice from behind said, "the wind is strong outside; you should return to the bridge."

Lancelot did not turn: "Aide, did you hear that?"

"Hear what?"

"The ship's voice," Lancelot said, "it is crying."

The aide was stunned.

Lancelot continued, "When the Boiler Overload occurs, every steel plate bears stress beyond its design limit. The Weld Seam moans, the Rivet trembles, even the Keel emits a lament we cannot hear. It is not a machine; it is a living thing."

He turned, looking at the aide's young face:

"Do you know why it is fighting so desperately?"

The aide opened his mouth, but gave no answer.

"Because it knows," Lancelot said, "that if it doesn't speed up, its comrades will die. It does not want its comrades to die."

He patted the bridge rail:

"So it cries. Yet it runs."

The aide lowered his head, saying nothing further.

Lancelot turned and walked back to the bridge.

On the chart table, the course extending southwest grew longer. Four King Class ships, carrying over three thousand Deguo sailors, were racing toward an unknown fate.

At the same time, a hundred twenty nautical miles away, Admiral John Jellicoe was standing on the flagship's bridge.

In his hand he held the telegram from London. It was brief, but he had read it ten times.

"Queen Ship sunk. Major General Beatty killed."

Jellicoe closed his eyes, inhaled deeply, then opened them again.

He had known Beatty for thirty years. From Greenwich Naval Academy to the Mediterranean Fleet, from the home fleet to the battleship‑cruiser detachment. Beatty was the most courageous, most decisive commander he had ever seen. In the Day‑Denland Sea Battle, it was Beatty's reconnaissance fleet that braved Deguo fire to buy them precious time.

Now he was dead.

Killed beneath the muzzle of the Bismarck.

"General," a voice came from behind.

Jellicoe turned.

Chief of Staff Commodore Oliver Beck stood three meters away, holding a freshly received report: "Signal Room report, ahead there appears to be the mechanical noise of a large fleet. Feature analysis… Deguo warship."

Jellicoe's pupils contracted slightly.

Deguo warship.

Not a Bismarck Class— the propeller signature of the Bismarck Class had long been recorded. This is another kind.

King Class.

"Distance?"

"Signal estimate, about fifty nautical miles. Not precise."

Fifty nautical miles.

Jellicoe's mind flashed with countless images: the intelligence report on Deguo support fleet movements, the Bismarck's retreat route, and the four Deguo battleships now approaching—

"They are coming to rendezvous with the Bismarck," he whispered.

Beck leaned in: "General, do we pursue or not?"

Jellicoe was silent for two seconds.

Pursue or not?

That is a question.

If they pursue, they may encounter the Deguo support fleet. Four King Class against five Elizabeth Queen Class; the odds of victory are high, but not certain. If they lose one or two ships in battle and then meet the Bismarck—

If they do not pursue, the Bismarck might escape. That vessel that sank the Hood and the Queen Ship will return to Deguo with victorious glory, becoming the war hero of all of Deguo.

Jellicoe lifted his head, his gaze sharpening:

"Pursue. Entire fleet, course 260, speed 24 knots. Main Gun loading armor‑piercing shells."

He walked to the port window, looking at the misty sea ahead:

"The Queen Ship's vengeance will collect interest today."

Elizabeth Queen Ship, Agincourt, Barham, Valiant, Malaya— the five most powerful Royal Navy battleships accelerated together. Black smoke from their funnels traced five long streaks across the sea, like five arrows shot toward the unknown.

09:43 a. m.

The North Atlantic sun had risen to mid‑sky, bathing the sea in bright light. Visibility was excellent; ship silhouettes could be seen clearly at least twenty‑five nautical miles out.

Schmidt stood at the port window of the King Class bridge, holding a cup of ice‑cold coffee. He had been here for a full four hours, never leaving the window since the Boiler Overload moment.

The coffee had been delivered half an hour earlier by the quartermaster; he hadn't taken a sip. Not that he didn't want to, he simply forgot. His brain was filled with numbers—speed, distance, fuel, time—leaving no room for taste.

"General," a lookout called from behind, a full octave higher than usual, "starboard! Bearing 260, ship sighted!"

Schmidt's hand paused, and the coffee cup made a faint clink against the saucer.

He set the cup down, hurried to the starboard window, and raised the binoculars hanging on his chest.

In the lenses, several black dots appeared on the horizon.

At first they were vague outlines, like a pencil lightly dotting rice paper. But as the King Class pressed forward, the dots grew clearer—

Sleek hulls. Angled funnels. The distinctive twin‑turret arrangement.

Five ships.

Exactly five ships.

Schmidt's breathing stopped for a second.

"Elizabeth Queen Class." He set down the telescope, his voice unexpectedly steady, "Five ships. All right here."

The bridge fell silent for a moment, then rippled like water struck by a stone.

The navigation officer lunged to the chart table to begin calculating the distance. The communications officer grabbed the microphone to inform the ships. The duty officer sprinted to the captain's cabin to wake the off‑duty officers—though no one was actually asleep.

Schmidt did not move.

He stood in place, holding the telescope, continuing to watch the five approaching British battleships. They formed a standard line of battle, moving at high speed, their smokestacks belching thick smoke, clearly at full speed ahead.

Distance.

He needed to know the distance.

"Navigation officer, calculate the distance."

"Yes!" The navigation officer's voice came, with a slight tremor—not fear, but a physiological response to a surge of adrenaline—"Optical Rangefinder reading... 24,000 meters! Bearing 260, heading... being calculated, seems to be directly toward us!"

24,000 meters.

Schmidt's mind raced.

At 24,000 meters, the Elizabeth Queen Class's 381 mm Main Gun is at the edge of its Effective Range. At this distance the Shell's impact points are widely scattered, with a Hit Rate below five percent. But for Deguo's King Class 305 mm gun, the distance is already too great— the Shell takes forty seconds to travel, its Kinetic Energy drops severely, posing almost no threat to the British battleship's Armour Belt.

The British can hit them; they cannot hit the British.

This is the gap.