Chapter 611: Burning Steel

Schmidt looks through the telescope at the position of the Yingguo fleet. A column of water rises— but it's too far. The nearest one is eight hundred meters from the Elizabeth Queen Ship, the farthest is beyond twelve hundred meters.

Eight hundred meters.

That is the limit of error.

"Keep loading!" he shouts, "Second round, fire!"

Another salvo.

This time a bit better. Two shells missed and fell about three hundred meters off the Elizabeth Queen Ship's starboard side, but still did not hit.

Schmidt puts down the telescope and clenches his fists.

Technological lag.

He had learned this term back at the military academy. At the time the professor was lecturing on the Russo‑Japanese War, on the advantage of dreadnoughts over preceding dreadnoughts. He sat taking notes, thinking it was all past history, unrelated to modern naval combat.

Now he knows.

Technological lag never disappears. It only appears in different forms on different battlefields.

Deguo's King Class 305mm guns were designed in 1908. That was technology nine years ago. In that era they were the world's most powerful ship guns, capable of piercing any contemporary battleship's armor at a Distance of twenty thousand meters.

But now it is 1917.

Yingguo's Elizabeth Queen Class is equipped with 381mm guns, designed in 1913. In those four years, artillery technology made a qualitative leap. More powerful propellant, heavier projectiles, flatter trajectories.

Four years, an eight‑year design gap, on this twenty‑three thousand meter sea surface becomes a distance between life and death.

"General!" the lookout's voice comes from overhead, "Third round salvo, incoming!"

Schmidt lifts his head.

Through the bridge's skylight he sees a dozen black dots falling from the sky. The black dots grow nearer, larger, flashing death‑light in the sun—

"Evasive!" he shouts, "Hard right!"

The King turns wildly on the sea.

But it's already too late.

The first Shell lands fifty meters off the port side. A column of water shoots up, blocking the entire view of the porthole.

The second lands aft of the stern, the huge wave it raises makes the hull sway violently.

The third—

Direct hit.

Schmidt feels the deck beneath his feet jolt, nearly toppling him. He grabs the edge of the chart table and barely steadies himself.

Then the explosion sound comes.

It is the most terrifying sound he has heard in his thirty‑four years of service. Not a boom, but a tearing. The sound of metal being ripped, like a giant beast gnawing another giant beast with its teeth. The sound comes from deep within the hull, penetrating decks, bulkheads, eardrums, stabbing straight into the brain.

"Port side hit!" the damage control team's report comes through the megaphone, the voice sharp and altered, "Port side aft secondary gun deck! Fire! Flooding!"

Schmidt rushes to the port side porthole.

He sees it.

At the port side aft of the King, a roughly three‑meter‑wide breach is spewing flame. Thick smoke pours from the breach, blown away by the sea wind, leaving a black trail on the hull. The steel plates at the edge of the breach are twisted and deformed, like a torn can.

The damage control team is rushing up. The fire‑hose is already connected, a white jet of water shoots toward the flame.

But the second Shell falls.

This time it hits below the bridge.

The explosion almost flips Schmidt onto the deck. He props himself with both hands, feeling the world spin. His ears buzz, hearing nothing. His vision blurs, only red things sway— it is blood.

He struggles to rise, leaning on the chart table to stand upright.

The bridge is now unrecognizable.

All the port side portholes are shattered, glass shards litter the floor. Documents on the chart table are blown everywhere by the shockwave. A staff officer lies in a corner, blood flowing from his forehead, motionless. The communications officer crouches at the comms station, shouting into the microphone, but Schmidt hears nothing.

He staggers to the porthole.

On the sea, the Yingguo fleet continues firing. The muzzle flashes flicker in the sun like the blinking eyes of death.

The fourth round salvo is falling.

Twenty‑three thousand meters away, the Caesar is burning.

Colonel Leider stands on the bridge, watching his battleship being torn apart piece by piece.

When the first Shell hit, he was at the port side observation port. The blast's shockwave threw him three meters onto the chart table, his ribs hitting the table corner, breaking two. When he got up, his mouth was full of blood.

But he could not attend to that.

He rushes to the porthole, seeing a three‑meter‑long crack torn open on Caesar's port side. Sea water rushes in, several damage control crew have already jumped into the breach, trying to plug it with a sealing pad. But the second Shell falls.

This time it hits below the bridge.

The explosion blows the radio room skyward. Thirteen communications men are killed on the spot— Leider sees their bodies tossed onto the deck, some missing arms, some missing legs, some stripped of everything, just a pool of mangled flesh.

"Damage control report!" he shouts, blood in his throat making his voice hoarse.

From the megaphone comes the damage control chief's altered voice: "Port side flooding severe! Three compartments flooded! Pumps at full power, but inflow exceeds outflow! Hull listing three degrees to port!"

Leider rushes to the inclinometer.

The needle points to three degrees. Still rising slowly.

Three and a half. Four.

"Close all port side watertight doors!" he shouts, "Pump water into starboard side to balance the hull!"

Orders given. The damage control team frantically turns valves, pumping seawater into the starboard ballast tanks. Three thousand tons of seawater surge into starboard, the hull's tilt slows, then begins to recover.

Four degrees. Three and a half. Three.

Leider lets out a sigh of relief.

Then the third Shell falls.

This time it hits the after deck.

The explosion blew away the Caesar's rear Main Gun turret—the steel colossus weighing six hundred tons was hurled by the shockwave, then slammed heavily onto the deck, rolled twice, and finally lodged at the edge of the stern, half hanging in the air and half on the ship.

Leidel looked at the turret through the port window. Its barrel was twisted and deformed, pointing to the sky like a dying hand.

It was the most important of the four Main Gun turrets on the Caesar. Without it, the Caesar's firepower was reduced by a quarter.

But more terrifying was that directly beneath the turret base lay the ammunition magazine.

If the ammunition magazine were detonated—

"Damage control team!" he shouted, "Flood the rear ammunition magazine! Immediately!"

A voice came through the intercom: "Flooding in progress! But the water intake rate—"

Before the words finished, another round of Shells fell.

This time they struck the middle of the hull.

The Caesar shuddered violently, like a beast with its heart pierced. Leidel grabbed the chart table and stayed upright. He heard the sound of metal tearing from deep within the hull, the Keel moaning, the Weld Seam cracking, the death throes of a forty‑five‑thousand‑ton giant ship.