Chapter 628: Converged

"Sir Wen Gait," he finally said, "You're right."

He paused: "Let them go. Keep the fleet monitoring, but don't approach. Let the intelligence department keep analyzing, but keep it quiet. Let the newspapers write nothing, as if this never happened."

Wen Gait said on the other end of the phone, "Understood, Prime Minister."

The Prime Minister hung up.

He sat on the bedside, looking out the window.

The night outside was so deep that the surface of the Thames was invisible. Only a few distant lights cast tiny reflections on the water, like countless fallen stars.

He suddenly recalled the scene when the war first broke out, crowds flooding the streets in cheers. Back then they believed they could be home before Christmas.

Now three years have passed.

How much longer must we fight?

He didn't know.

He only knew that the fleet that had just passed through the Suez Canal was tipping the balance of this war.

The Bismarck had been sailing for nineteen days.

From February 19th's departure to now, a full nineteen days—over 4,500 hours—tossed in the North Atlantic's raging winds and waves, drifting on the long southbound route.

The crew had lost a layer of flesh. Not from hunger—the food was sufficient—but from fatigue, from grinding, from a mental drain with no known endpoint. Their eye sockets were sunken, cheekbones protruding; the once‑fitting uniforms now hung empty. Fresh water was rationed, one pot per person per day—enough to drink, not enough to wash the face. Hair clumped into strands, stubble grew in a messy tangle, and the whole battleship smelled like a moving zoo.

Fresh vegetables had long been finished. Canned food and hard biscuits became the staple. Soaking the hard biscuits in hot water softened them a bit, but they still felt like chewing sand. The cans held salty beef, so salty it could kill a person, yet no one complained—having something to eat was enough.

Fuel remaining was seventeen percent. Tirpitz was at fourteen percent.

She Er reduced the speed to eight knots. It couldn't go lower; any further reduction would impair steering, and a storm would cause loss of control.

He drifted like that, floating in the middle of the Atlantic, like a ghost unable to find a harbor.

March 10, 09:00 hours.

She Er stood on the bridge, looking at the North Atlantic chart on the table, covered in pencil lines. The staff officers updated the position daily; the dashed line representing the Bismarck had been drawn out long, from 60° N heading south, now near 20° N.

Another five hundred nautical miles south lay the equator.

Beyond the equator is the Southern Hemisphere—South Africa, South America, a world he had never visited.

"General," the chief navigator whispered, "our fuel…"

"I know," She Er cut him off.

He of course knew. Seventeen percent. At eight knots, they could run about four more days. After four days the fuel would be exhausted, the main engine would stop, and the Bismarck would become a floating steel coffin.

By then, he had two choices: abandon ship, or scuttle.

Abandon ship? Twelve hundred people cramped onto liferafts, drifting in the Atlantic's middle, with a survival rate under ten percent.

Scuttle? Open the sea valve, let seawater flood the compartments, and have the Bismarck sink with twelve hundred aboard.

No.

He shook his head.

There was a third option. Wait.

Wait for Lanfang's response.

Though sixteen days had already passed, though there was no news, he was still waiting.

Because waiting was the only hope.

"General," the communications officer's voice came from behind, trembling with suppressed fear, "we've received a telegram. From the Lanfang Navy Department."

She Er turned around.

The communications officer's hand shook. The few pages of telegram paper rustled in his hand like leaves in the wind.

She Er took the telegram, lowered his head and read it once.

Then he closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

Then he opened his eyes and read it again.

Everyone on the bridge stared at him; no one dared speak.

She Er finally lifted his head. His face was expressionless—not because he lacked expression, but because the overly complex emotions piled together, turning into a void.

"Change course," he said. His voice was hoarse, unrecognizable as his own.

The chief navigator blinked, "General?"

She Er walked to the porthole and pointed toward the southwest.

"Course 260, Speed Ten Knots," he said, "to meet our guest."

The chief navigator opened his mouth to ask who the guest was, but he saw the telegram in She Er's hand.

He saw She Er's eyes.

In those eyes was something that had never appeared in the past sixteen days.

It was light.

March 13, morning

The lookout was the first to spot that fleet.

"Ship silhouettes!" his voice came through the megaphone, sharp and altered, "Due east! Multiple—battleships!"

She Er took three steps in two, rushed to the porthole, and raised the telescope.

In the lens, several black dots appeared on the horizon.

At first they were vague outlines, like a pencil lightly dotting rice paper. But as the two ships drew nearer, the black dots grew larger and clearer—

Two sleek battleships, towering bridges, massive turrets. That was the silhouette of a Bismarck Class.

Two supply ships trailed behind, their hulls short and stout, like moving warehouses. Five destroyers spread on the wings, thin black smoke drifting from their funnels, clearly also at full speed.

She Er lowered the telescope.

His hand trembled slightly. This time, not from nerves, but from something else.

"Raise the signal flag," he said, "German Navy welcomes Lanfang Navy."

The watch officer froze for a moment: "General, what flag should we raise?"

"German Navy flag," She Er said, "side by side with the Lanfang Navy flag."

The watch officer ran toward the signal flag locker.

Thirty seconds later, two flags rose on Bismarck's mast. The tricolor German Navy flag of red, white and black, and the Lanfang Navy flag of a red field with a golden dragon, fluttered side by side in the sea breeze.

It was a rare sight in human history. Two warships of different nations, in the same sea area, raised each other's flags.

Thirty minutes later, two small boats were lowered simultaneously from both flagships.

She Er wore a white‑washed officer's uniform, with a bandage still wrapped around their left arm—a wound left by the Queen Ship's bombardment that had not fully healed. They stood on the small boat, the sea wind blowing their hair into a mess, but they could not bother to tidy it. They simply stared at the warship on the opposite side drawing ever closer.

Huaihe.

It was a warship newer than Bismarck. Its lines were smoother, the bridge higher, the turret's outline sharper. It glittered in the sunlight like a fresh toy just rolled out of the dock. Sailors on the deck stood in formation, uniforms crisp, hat brims pressed neatly.

She Er thought of their own Bismarck. That warship had been sailing for nineteen days, bearing three battle wounds, its fuel nearly exhausted.

They suddenly felt a bit of envy.