Chapter 617: No More Pursuit

On the radar screen, three lights are fleeing toward the southeast. The foremost is the Queen Elizabeth, then the Agincourt, and finally the slower Malaya.

The Malaya is on fire.

It had already been hit in a previous battle with the support fleet, a breach on its side, and its speed is only eighteen knots. Now it has become the easiest target for the two Bismarck Class ships.

"Distance?" Shel asked.

"19,000 meters."

"Open fire after entering 18,000 meters. Keep the distance, do not close in."

The Bismarck Class continues the chase.

12:25.

Distance: 18,000 meters.

"Fire."

Eighth salvo.

Shells fly toward the Malaya 18,000 meters away. Forty seconds later, the observer reports: "Hit! Malaya's bow struck!"

Ninth salvo. Tenth salvo. Eleventh salvo.

The Malaya is like an iron anvil repeatedly hammered by a giant; each hit makes the hull shudder violently. Its forward main gun turret is pierced, stuck at a fifteen-degree elevation. Half of the bridge is blown away, the navigation officer killed on the spot. Several large gashes are torn in the side, seawater floods in, and speed drops below fifteen knots.

But it is still moving.

Still running toward the southeast.

Still trying to catch up to its flagship.

Shel watches the burning warship, silent for a few seconds.

"Continue," he says, "until it sinks."

Twelfth salvo. Thirteenth salvo.

12:39.

The Malaya stops.

It didn't stop voluntarily; it can no longer move. Its engine room was hit, all boilers exploded, the hull loses power and lies broadside on the sea.

Then it turned.

Not toward the southeast, but toward the southwest.

Toward the Bismarck.

Shel's pupils contract slightly.

"What is it doing?" the watch officer exclaims.

Shel gives no answer.

He lifts the telescope.

In the lens, the Malaya's bow faces the Bismarck. Its main gun is still firing—only one gun, able to launch a shell every two minutes. The shells land around the Bismarck; though they pose no threat, it continues to fire.

It is telling that German warship: the Royal Navy is not yet extinct.

"General," the gunner's voice comes through the megaphone, "it is approaching. Distance 15,000 meters—14,000 meters—13,000 meters—"

Shel remains silent.

He watches the dying British warship, trailing thick smoke and flame, slowly closing in at less than ten knots.

It cannot possibly hit the Bismarck. Its single gun, at this range, poses no threat to the Bismarck Class's armor.

But it keeps approaching.

Still firing.

It is sinking.

Its rear main gun ceases fire. The hull begins to sink slowly. The bow first submerges, then the forward deck, then the rear main gun that still points toward the Bismarck.

As it sinks, the barrel still aims at that German warship.

Shel lowers the telescope.

"Full speed," he says, "pursue the remaining two ships."

Jellico stands by the port window, watching the spot where the Malaya sank.

Another ship.

Another ship.

"General," the Chief of Staff's voice comes from behind, trembling with suppressed fear, "the German fleet is approaching. Distance 17,000 meters—16,000 meters—"

Jellico does not move.

He watches the silhouettes of the two German warships, their turrets glittering in the sun, watching them draw ever nearer.

"General, we must—"

"I know."

Jellico turns around.

His face shows no expression. Not calm, but a serenity that transcends fear and sorrow.

"Send a report to London," he says, "the Queen Elizabeth, Agincourt are withdrawing. Barham, Valiant, Malaya have sunk. The German fleet—two Bismarck Class ships—are in pursuit. Expected to enter the danger zone in three hours."

The communications officer's fingers tremble on the telegraph key.

"Send."

The telegram is sent.

Jellico walks to the chart table, leans over the North Atlantic map split into fragments by pencil lines.

From their current position, about four hundred nautical miles to the southeast lies the home fleet's defensive zone. Four hundred miles, at the Queen Elizabeth's current speed—twenty knots—requires twenty hours.

Twenty hours.

Will the German fleet chase them for twenty hours?

He doesn't know.

But he knows they must run.

"Full speed," he said, "Boiler Overload. Speed—how fast, how fast."

The Queen Ship and Agincourt's smokestacks began belching thicker black smoke. The two British warships roared southeast at the limit speed of twenty‑five knots.

Behind them, two German warships gave a frantic chase at thirty‑one knots.

The distance shortened meter by meter.

Fifteen thousand meters. Fourteen thousand meters. Thirteen thousand meters.

"General!" the lookout's voice changed tone, "The German fleet is still closing! Distance—twelve thousand meters!"

Jieli Ke did not look back.

He stared at the endless sea ahead, at the faint gray line on the horizon—the direction of England, the direction of home, the only hope for survival.

"Keep running," he said.

Thirteen fifteen.

She Er stood by the porthole, watching the two British warships recede.

The Queen Ship and Agincourt were sprinting southeast at twenty‑five knots. The Bismarck and Tirpitz chased at thirty‑one knots, the distance shrinking slowly.

In another two hours, they'd be within ten thousand meters.

In another two hours, they'd sink them all.

She Er turned and faced the chart table.

After thinking for a few minutes, She Er ordered a turn; She Er could no longer pursue!!!

When the speed dropped, She Er only then realized their hand was shaking.

It wasn't fear. After a warship's prolonged high‑speed run, when that bone‑deep vibration finally ceased, the body began to protest. She Er gripped the rail, forced that hand to stop, then turned back to the chart table.

February 20, dusk. Latitude XX°XX′ N, Longitude XX°XX′ W.

The coordinates meant nothing. Not on any shipping lane, belonging to no nation, just a boundless gray‑blue expanse in the deep Atlantic.

The Bismarck's speed had fallen to twelve knots. The Tirpitz, five thousand meters to the rear‑right, moved just as slowly, like a wounded beast licking its wound. Four destroyers, like loyal yet weary shepherd dogs, spread on both flanks, even slower—they needed fuel transfer from the flagship.

"Fuel report," She Er's voice was a bit hoarse.

The quartermaster opened the log, his finger pausing a second on that column: "Bismarck remaining thirty‑two percent. Tirpitz remaining twenty‑eight percent. Destroyer—"

He hesitated: "Z-10 remaining seventeen percent, the other three all below twenty percent. Without fuel transfer, Z-10 could hold on… about twelve hours."

Twelve hours.

She Er nodded. He had known that figure for a long time, but each time he heard it, the string in his heart tightened a notch.

"Damage report."