Chapter 625: Lanfang to Enter the Atlantic for Training?

Evening of February 24.

The Bismarck, steaming at ten knots, sailed slowly southward. Five thousand meters to its rear right, the Tirpitz moved equally sluggishly, like a wounded giant beast. Four destroyers were scattered on either wing, moving even slower—having just taken on Fuel from the main ship, they needed time to digest it.

She Er stood at the porthole, watching the sunset sink bit by bit into the horizon.

Four days.

From the sending of those two telegrams until now, exactly four days have passed.

The German Navy Ministry's reply arrived the same day—"Received. Your Majesty commends. Persevere." Nothing more.

On Lanfang's side, there has been no response to this day.

Perhaps they will not reply. Perhaps they simply do not care about the fate of the two German warships. Perhaps what Chen Feng wants is merely to have Germany and Yingguo wear each other out, then reap the profit.

She Er shook their head.

No. If Chen Feng truly didn't care, he wouldn't have said those words to Wilson in Hawaii. He wouldn't have let Li Te say "Bon voyage" when seeing him off in Dubai. He wouldn't…

He suddenly recalled the farewell words Li Te had said: "The world is vast. The Pacific is even larger. Large enough to accommodate the navies of two nations."

Now, the Atlantic is also vast.

Large enough to hold two wandering warships?

He does not know.

"General," the officer on duty called from behind, "Fuel remaining is twenty‑nine percent. Tirpitz has twenty‑five percent left. At the current speed, we can sustain sailing for about …"

"I know," She Er interrupted.

Of course he knew. He calculated those numbers ten times a day, etched into his mind.

Twenty‑nine percent. At ten knots, we could go … He did not continue the calculation. It was useless to compute, because there was no direction.

South? What lies to the south? He didn't know.

East? To the east is Africa, but Yingguo is waiting there.

West? To the west is South America, but it's too far.

North? To the north is Yingguo's blockade line.

No direction.

"General," the navigation officer said softly, "we …"

She Er turned around, looking at the young face. The navigation officer was only twenty‑seven, his face still bearing a boyish air. His home was in Kiel, and a fiancée waited for him in Hamburg.

"Wait a little longer," She Er said.

The navigation officer stared blankly, "Wait for what?"

She Er gave no answer.

He gazed at the bottomless darkness beyond the porthole, at the sky full of stars, at the Southern Cross rising from the horizon.

Red Sea, February 27

The Red Sea had no fog.

There was sun. There was a heat wave. There was scorching heat that could fry an egg on the deck.

On the third day after the fleet entered the Red Sea, the temperature rose to thirty‑eight degrees. The sea surface resembled a huge, reflective blue‑steel plate, with not a breath of wind. The sun rose in the east, set in the west, and the intervening ten‑plus hours were an endless blaze.

The crew shed their jackets, working on deck in thin undershirts. Sweat evaporated before it could fall, leaving a layer of salty frost on the skin. Officers no longer demanded immaculate dress—surviving in this weather was victory itself.

Young sailors on the destroyer even slipped onto the deck, hoping to jump into the sea and swim. They were scolded back by the captain—there are sharks in the Red Sea, and many of them.

Zhang Zhen stood on the bridge of the Huaihe, looking at the chart.

The bridge had a ventilation system, the temperature five or six degrees cooler than the deck, yet still stifling. He wore a short‑sleeved shirt with the collar open, and sweat continued to bead on his forehead.

"How much longer until the canal entrance?" he asked.

The navigation officer wiped his sweat, pointed at the chart: "We can reach outside Suez Port by tomorrow evening. If all goes well, we can enter the canal the morning after tomorrow."

Zhang Zhen nodded.

He was silent for a few seconds, then said, "Draft a telegram."

The communications officer picked up the logbook.

"To the Consulate of Lanfang in Cairo, attention Egyptian authorities," Zhang Zhen paused, "The Lanfang naval far‑sea training fleet 'Huaihe', 'Zhujiang' and auxiliary vessels intend to pass through the Suez Canal on the morning of March 1; please grant passage. Our fleet will observe the canal's neutral regulations, conduct no military activities during transit, keep all turrets at zero elevation, refrain from aircraft take‑offs or landings, and cease radio transmissions."

He thought for a moment, then added, "Fleet Commander Zhang Zhen, Major General, respectfully."

The communications officer finished writing, looked up: "General, send it?"

Zhang Zhen stared at the glaring blue beyond the window.

Once this telegram was sent, the British would know. London would receive the news within a few hours, Jellico would see it, the Prime Minister would see it, the intelligence department would see it. Then they would discuss, speculate, worry, and get nervous.

But he had to send it.

Because it was the rule. Passing through the Suez Canal required prior application; otherwise it would be deemed illegal, giving the British a reason to intercept.

He did not want to give the British any excuse.

"Send," he said.

The communications officer pressed the telegraph key. The "dit‑dit‑dit‑dit" sound echoed in the bridge, like a heartbeat.

Thirty seconds later, the telegram was dispatched.

Zhang Zhen looked out the window, saying nothing.

He recalled Chen Feng's words: "Let the British know. Let the whole world know. Open and upright, dignified and proper."

Yes, open and upright.

Let them know that the Lanfang fleet is heading to the Atlantic for training.

Make them guess, make them doubt, keep them sleepless.

But make them not dare to act.

"General," the navigation officer asked softly, "Do you think the British will let us pass?"

Zhang Zhen turned around, looking at that young face.

"Will," he said, "they don't dare to refuse."

The Chief Navigator was startled for a moment: "Why?"

Zhang Zhen did not answer directly. He walked to the porthole and pointed at the endless sea outside.

"Because this is international waters," he said, "because we are a neutral nation. Because our ships are stronger than any they have left. Because they are unsure what we actually intend to do."

He paused: "Because Jieli Kobi is clear to everyone, if they now turn against us, those four Bismarck Class ships will set out from Dubai and join the Deguo side."

The Chief Navigator was silent for a few seconds.

"So," he said, "the Yingguo can only endure?"

"Endure," Zhang Zhen nodded, "gritting their teeth, endure. Enduring while cursing, cursing while giving us passage."

The Chief Navigator thought for a moment, then suddenly laughed.

"Then we're quite wicked."

Zhang Zhen looked at him, and a faint smile rose at the corner of his mouth.

"Not wicked," he said, "but clever."

A suppressed laugh rang out on the bridge.

Outside the window, the sun continued to scorch the Red Sea. The sea surface was as calm as a mirror, reflecting a sky so blue it turned violet.

The fleet moved forward at fifteen knots, the bow cutting through the waves, leaving two white streaks on either side of the hull that quickly vanished into the blue backdrop.

Ahead, the Suez Canal grew nearer.

The telegram arrived at nine a. m.

Senior Commissioner Sir Lei Dian Na De Wen Gai Te was eating breakfast—fried eggs, bacon, toast, and a cup of red tea shipped from London. This had been his habit in Egypt for five years; no matter how hot the weather, breakfast was always English‑style.

The deputy placed the telegram beside him, then stepped back one step, waiting.

Lei Dian Na De Wen Gai Te picked up the telegram, took a sip of tea, then began to read.

After reading the first line, his eyebrows furrowed slightly.

After reading the second line, he set down his cup.

After finishing the third line, he lifted his head and looked at the deputy.

"Lanfang people are going to the Atlantic for 'deep‑sea training'?"