Chapter 626: Against Absolute Power, We Can Do Nothing!

"Yes, Sir. Two Bismarck Class battleships, two supply ships, five destroyers. The application is to pass the canal tomorrow morning."

Wen Gait read the telegram again. Those words—'long‑range training'—stood out starkly.

"Training?" he slapped the telegram on the desk. "At this critical moment, right after the Deguo people have just finished a major sea battle, they want to train in the Atlantic?"

The deputy officer said nothing.

Wen Gait stood and walked to the window. Outside was Cairo's street scene—camels, horse‑drawn carriages, locals in long robes—utterly out of place in this war‑torn world.

"Is the naval attaché here?"

"Here, Sir. He's already been notified."

As the words finished, the door was knocked. Naval attaché Colonel Henry Wilson entered, holding an identical telegram.

"Sir, have you read it?"

Wen Gait nodded: "Read it. What do you think?"

Wilson walked to the chart table—on which a Mediterranean and Red Sea map was permanently spread. His finger rested on the location of the Suez Canal.

"Two Zhujiang‑class, that is, Bismarck Class. 45,000 tons, 380 mm Main Gun, thirty knots speed. With the supply ships and destroyers, this is a complete mixed task force."

He paused: "If they truly are going to train, why the Atlantic? Can't they train in the Pacific? In the Indian Ocean? Why must they cross our lifeline?"

Wen Gait was silent for a few seconds.

"Do you suspect they're going to deliver supplies to the Deguo?"

Wilson looked up: "Sir, I have no evidence. But the timing is too convenient. The Deguo just finished a battle; two Bismarck Class ships fled wounded, low on fuel. Then the Lanfang people dispatched two identical warships with supply ships toward the Atlantic."

Wen Gait walked back to the table and sat down.

"What does London say?"

"The telegram has been sent; we're awaiting a reply," Wilson said, "but per procedure, we have no grounds to refuse. They're a neutral nation, applying to pass the international canal, promising to obey the rules. If we refuse, we'd violate international law."

Wen Gait nodded.

"Then we won't refuse," he said, "but we won't welcome them either."

He stood and walked to the window.

"Notify the Canal Authority, prepare for navigation. Deploy personnel to monitor both banks of the canal continuously, recording every ship's movements. Especially those two supply ships—how much they loaded, how much is missing on exit, all must be clarified."

Wilson stood at attention: "Understood."

Wen Gait stared out the window and suddenly asked, "Tell me, what do the Lanfang people actually want?"

Wilson did not answer immediately.

He thought for a moment and said, "Sir, I think what they want is—to keep this war going."

Wen Gait turned and looked at him.

"The longer it drags on, the better. The longer it lasts, the more valuable they become. The longer it lasts, the more time they have to build ships. The longer it lasts, Meilika's downfall is delayed."

He paused: "They're buying time."

Wen Gait was silent for a long while.

"Then let them stall," he finally said, "we can't afford to stall, but we can't let them be too comfortable either."

He walked back to his desk, picked up the telegram, and read it again.

"Tell them," he said, "we'll allow passage, but they must strictly obey the rules. Any breach of neutrality gives the canal the right to suspend navigation."

Wilson noted it.

Wen Gait set the telegram down and looked out the window.

"I have an ominous feeling," he whispered, "that once this fleet leaves, the Atlantic will become even more chaotic."

Wilson said nothing.

Because he shared the same feeling.

London, Naval Department, evening of February 28

Jellico stood at the window, watching the twilight over the Thames.

He had held the telegram in his hand for ten minutes; its corners were warmed by his body heat.

He finally turned and walked back to the chart table.

"The Lanfang fleet requests passage through the Suez Canal," he thrust the telegram to the Chief of Staff. "Tomorrow morning."

Chief of Staff Commodore Oliver Beck took the telegram, skimmed it quickly, then looked up.

"General, what do you think?"

Jellico did not answer at once. He leaned over the map, his finger tracing the Mediterranean, then the Strait of Gibraltar, stopping at the Atlantic.

"Two Bismarck Class," he said, "two supply ships. Five destroyers."

He paused: "If they enter the Atlantic and head south, where could they meet the Bismarck?"

The Chief of Staff's finger moved across the map, calculating Distance and time.

"Assuming the Bismarck's current position is the last reported coordinates—latitude XX°XX', longitude XX°XX'. Assuming it sails south at ten knots, and the Lanfang fleet sails west at fifteen knots. Roughly…"

He measured and calculated: "Approximately five days later, near latitude XX°XX', longitude XX°XX', an encounter is possible."

Jellico nodded.

"Five days," he said, "after five days, we can do nothing."

The Chief of Staff was silent for a few seconds. "General, what shall we do?"

Jellico straightened, looking at the map.

"Send a destroyer to follow," he said. "Depart from Gibraltar, wait until the Lanfang fleet passes the strait, then trail them at a distance. No need to get close; we just need to know which direction they head."

"What if they head south?"

Jellico did not answer immediately.

He looked at the boundless Atlantic, and at the dotted line extending from Gibraltar.

"If they head south," he finally said, "that would mean our guess was right. They are going to rendezvous with the Deguo people."

The Chief of Staff asked softly, "Should we…?"

"No." Jielike interrupted him, "We do nothing. Just watch."

He turned and looked at the Chief of Staff: "Because if we act, Lanfang will join the fight. Four Bismarck Class ships will set out from Dubai to join the Deguo side. The Meilika people will hesitate even more.."

He paused: "We cannot give them any excuse."

The Chief of Staff nodded.

"Understood." he said.

Jielike walked back to the window.

Outside the window, the surface of the Thames glimmered with a lead‑gray light. Several tugboats drifted by, trailing long black smoke. In the distance, London's street lamps lit one by one, like countless stars fallen to the ground.

He suddenly thought of Nelson.

The naval commander who fell at the Battle of Trafalgar had faced the combined fleet of Faguo and Spain. That was a frontal fight, a clash of swords and spears.

And now?

Now the opponent is invisible, the war is undeclared, the fleet flies a "Training" flag, and its intentions are forever unknowable.