Chapter 624: Lanfang Navy — Departure

William II turned and said, "So, the thing I gave Chen Feng, he might not care about it at all."

Tirpitz gave no answer.

William II walked back to his desk and sat down. His fingers unconsciously tapped the desk for a few seconds, then stopped.

"Alfred," he said, "do you know why I still sent you?"

Tirpitz lifted his head.

"Because of Scher." William II said, "Because of those two Bismarck Class ships. Because I cannot let Scher die in the North Atlantic, cannot let those two vessels sink in vain. They are heroes of the German Navy, the pride of Germany. If they die, how can I answer the people? How can I answer history?"

He paused: "You go to Lanfang not to persuade Chen Feng to join the war, but to beg him, to save Scher."

Tirpitz's heart jerked sharply.

Beg him.

That word coming from the Emperor's mouth was heavier than any other.

"Your Majesty," he began, his voice a little hoarse, "I—"

"I know." William II cut him off, "I know this is difficult. I know you've fought in the Navy for thirty years and have never begged anyone. But this time…"

He stood up, walked to Tirpitz, and looked at the sixty‑eight‑year‑old old marshal.

"Alfred, I beg you."

Tirpitz was stunned.

The fifty‑eight‑year‑old emperor said "I beg you" to the sixty‑eight‑year‑old old marshal.

He lowered his head.

"Your Majesty," he said, "I obey."

William II patted his shoulder, "Go. Return early."

Tirpitz saluted, turned and walked toward the doorway.

When he reached the doorway, William II's voice came from behind:

"Alfred."

He stopped.

"The telegram from Scher…" William II's voice was soft, "Do you think Lanfang will respond?"

Tirpitz was silent for a few seconds.

"I do not know," he said, "but I know that if Lanfang wanted to save Scher, they would have already done so. They do not need to wait for Scher's distress telegram—they have their own intelligence network and know where Scher is."

He pushed open the door and stepped into the dimly lit corridor.

William II stood alone in the study, watching the closed door.

He suddenly recalled a saying of Frederick the Great: "If my army believes I am invincible, they will truly become invincible."

Now, is his army invincible?

He does not know.

He only knows that those two warships drifting in the North Atlantic are his last hope.

On the evening of February 22, Jeliko stood before a massive North Atlantic chart.

He had been standing for three hours.

Since receiving the last position report of the Bismarck, he had been standing like that, occasionally turning to glance at the chart, occasionally asking the Signal Room for a report, then continuing to stand, like a statue set into the window.

Chief of Staff Commodore Oliver Beck stood three meters away, not daring to disturb.

He knew what Jeliko was thinking: where those two German warships were now, whether the Revenge Class fleet could catch them, and what would happen if they did—five battleships at twenty‑one knots versus two battleships that might still make twenty‑five knots, could they catch up?

They cannot catch up.

The Chief of Staff knew the answer, and Jeliko knew it too.

But the Prime Minister did not know. Or rather, the Prime Minister did not want to know.

Finally, Jeliko turned.

"Has the Revenge Class fleet set out?"

"Yes, General. At eight a. m. this morning, all five departed. Revenge, Determination, Ramillis, Royal Oak, Sovereign. They split into two groups—three heading south along Africa's west coast, two searching along South America's east coast."

Jeliko nodded.

"What orders were given to them?"

"Upon locating the Bismarck, maintain distance, call for support, do not engage rashly."

Jeliko was silent for a few seconds.

"Will they listen?"

The Chief of Staff was startled, "General?"

"Those captains," Jeliko said, "those hot‑blooded young captains. When they see the Bismarck, the ship that sank the Queen Ship, can they restrain themselves from firing?"

The Chief of Staff gave no answer.

Jeliko walked to the chart table and leaned over the markings.

"Revenge Class," he whispered, "speed twenty‑one knots, armor a bit thicker than the Elizabeth Class, but the Main Gun is still 381 mm. Against the Bismarck Class's 380 mm guns, who wins?"

He didn't wait for the Chief of Staff to answer, he gave his own answer: "Whoever scores the first hit wins. But the Bismarck Class has radar, can spot the target in any weather first. And they can make thirty knots, choosing the engagement distance. The Revenge Class… is too slow."

The Chief of Staff said softly, "General, perhaps the Bismarck is no longer able to run. Perhaps they are badly damaged and can only make a few dozen knots. Perhaps our ships can catch up."

Jeliko stared at him for a long time.

"Perhaps," he said, "but the word 'perhaps' is the least valuable in war."

He straightened up and walked back to the window.

Outside the window, the Thames's surface glimmered with a lead‑gray light. Several tugboats were passing on the river, trailing long black smoke.

Dubai Port

The morning mist is clearing.

At Pier Three, the battleships Huai River and Pearl River have completed their final pre‑departure preparations. The crew lines up on the deck, disciplined. The gun shields on the turrets have been removed, but the barrels remain at a zero‑degree elevation— the standard posture for departing.

The two supply ships, Dongting Lake and Poyang Lake, follow closely, their hulls a good deal lower than the battleships but bulging with fuel oil, fresh water, food and ammunition. Five destroyers spread out on both flanks, like shepherd dogs guarding a flock.

Major General Zhang Zhen stands on the bridge of the Huai River, watching the send‑off crowd on the pier.

Chen Feng is not present. That's the rule—the President does not see off the expeditionary force. But Li Te is here, standing on the pier, shaking hands with each engineer boarding the ships.

The engineers shoulder their tool bags, wear Lanfang Navy training uniforms, and file past the gangway. Li Te stands beside the gangway, telling each of them the same words: "Come back alive."

The engineers merely nod, then disappear into the battleship's hatch.

When the last engineer crosses the gangway, Li Te grabs him.

He is a young man, seemingly under thirty, his face still bearing the fresh‑off‑the‑campus green.

"What's your name?" Li Te asks.

"Report, General—Lin Yuan, engine engineer."

Li Te nods: "Lin Yuan, do you know this trip might not return?"

Lin Yuan is silent for a second, then says, "I know, General. I signed the volunteer form."

"Are you afraid?"

Lin Yuan thinks, then says, "Afraid. But I'm more afraid that the two German ships sank."

Li Te looks at him: "Why?"

Lin Yuan lifts his head: "General, the Bismarck Class was designed by us. When they fight in the Atlantic, it's like our children fighting outside. If a child is hurt, can a father not go to rescue?"

Li Te is stunned.

Lin Yuan salutes, turns, runs up the gangway, and disappears into the hatch.

Li Te stands where he is, watching the young man's back, silent for a long while.

At exactly seven o'clock, the signal flag is hoisted.

The Huai River sounds its whistle, the bow slowly pulling away from the pier. The Pearl River follows closely. The supply ships and destroyers proceed in order.

On the pier, workers stand at the dockside, silently seeing the fleet vanish into the morning mist.

Li Te stands on the pier, watching the ship silhouettes grow fainter, until they disappear completely.

He suddenly recalls Chen Feng's words: "A navy's tradition isn't written in books; it's carved into the bones."

Indeed.

Those engineers, those sailors, those young men willing to go to the Atlantic to die—their bones bear the Lanfang Navy's tradition.

Zhang Zhen stands on the bridge of the Huai River, turning one last time to glance at Dubai Port's skyline.

The gantry crane at Dock Three still stands, the hull of the Nagato half‑shrouded by morning mist, like a sleeping steel statue.

He turns, facing the boundless deep blue ahead.

"All fleet," he says, "course 280, speed fifteen knots. Target—Red Sea entrance."

Responses from the ships come through the megaphone.

The Huai River's bow cuts the waves, leaving a long white wake.

Behind, Dubai Port recedes, growing fainter, until it vanishes on the horizon.

Ahead lies the Red Sea, the Suez Canal, the Mediterranean Sea, the Atlantic Ocean.

It is the unknown.

Zhang Zhen's hand grips the rail, then releases.

He remembers Chen Feng's words: "Don't run out of ammunition."

He thinks, "The President won't run out of ammo."

I will bring those two ships back. Bring those engineers back. Bring the Lanfang Navy's honor back.

Certainly.