Chapter 631: Has the Bismarck Fleet Vanished?

The fuel pipe still connects the two ships. Heavy oil continues to be pumped. The fuel gauge shows that the Bismarck's fuel has recovered to sixty‑three percent. One more night and it will exceed eighty percent.

Footsteps came from behind.

She Er did not turn around.

"General," the officer on duty said, "Engineer Lanfang's team requests an audience."

She Er turned.

A young man stood at the bridge doorway, holding a folder. He appeared to be under thirty, his face still smeared with oil, but his eyes were bright.

"General She Er," he said in halting German, "I am Lin Yuan, a marine engineer. I have come to report the repair progress."

She Er nodded and said, "Please come in."

Lin Yuan walked to the chart table and opened the folder.

"General, the ammunition feed mechanism of turret A has had the damaged hydraulic lines replaced. Testing can be conducted tomorrow morning, and we expect to restore the firing rate to over ninety‑five percent of normal."

He turned the page: "We have sealed the breach in the mid‑ship water‑intake compartment with quick‑dry cement. The drainage pump is operating normally, and we expect to fully drain the accumulated water by tomorrow noon."

"The external antenna of the radio room has been repaired. The backup antenna has also been rewired, and now both systems are functional."

He closed the folder: "Overall, General, the Bismarck's damage is lighter than we anticipated. The British shot accurately, but your armor is thick enough. As long as it doesn't take further hits, this ship can fight for another two years."

She Er was silent for a few seconds.

He looked at the young man before him, at his oil‑stained face.

"Engineer Lin," he said, "Did you come voluntarily?"

Lin Yuan was startled for a moment, then nodded, "Yes, General."

"Why?"

Lin Yuan thought for a moment.

"General," he said, "The Bismarck Class was designed by us. We drew the first blueprint, we calculated every figure. They fight in the Atlantic like… like our children fighting outside."

He paused: "When a child is hurt, can a father not go to rescue?"

She Er was stunned.

He looked at the young man, at his steadfast eyes.

He recalled his father, the village teacher who, when he sent him to the naval academy at fourteen, said, "Go, child. The navy's future is in your hands."

Now, does that future still exist?

He does not know.

But he knows that the young man before him is Lanfang's future.

"Engineer Lin," he extended his hand, "Thank you."

Lin Yuan grasped his hand, "General, I wish you a smooth journey."

She Er nodded.

Lin Yuan saluted, turned, and walked out of the bridge.

She Er stood alone by the window, watching the pitch‑black night outside.

The lights on the supply ship still flickered. Heavy oil in the pipe kept flowing. The Bismarck was gradually regaining its vitality.

He suddenly recalled Admiral Tirpitz's words: "Whenever I see a new warship launched, I don't think about how powerful it is. I think—if one day it sinks, how long will the mothers of those young sailors wait at the harbor?"

The old admiral, he thought, today those mothers need not wait any longer.

Three days.

A full three days.

The Bismarck's turret A regained its normal firing rate. The Tirpitz's boiler room weld seams were reinforced. Both ships' fuel tanks were topped up to eighty‑five percent, the ammunition magazines were restocked with three hundred 380 mm armor‑piercing shells. The fresh‑water and food holds were completely filled.

Lanfang's engineers completed the mission.

At six o'clock in the early morning, the sun just rose from the horizon, tinting the whole sea area gold‑red.

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

The warship that had once been on the brink of death now resembled a lion just awakened, its coat flashing coldly in the morning light. Sailors on deck were hauling in lines, preparing to cast off and depart—not from a port, but from this temporary anchorage.

Through the speaking tube came She Er's voice, thick with a Prussian accent, yet each word clear and forceful:

"General Zhang, the Bismarck and Tirpitz are ready. Thank the Lanfang Navy for our assistance. The German Navy will forever cherish this duty."

Zhang Zhen was silent for a few seconds, then said:

"General She Er, I wish you a smooth journey. President Chen asked me to convey a message to you."

"Please speak."

"The ocean is vast, the Indian Ocean even more so. Yet no matter how big the sea, there are harbors where one can dock."

The other side was silent for a long while.

Then She Er said, "Thank President Chen for me. Tell him She Er will not forget this sentence."

Zhang Zhen set down the speaking tube and walked to the porthole.

The Bismarck's bow was slowly turning. Not north, not west, but south.

Southward, to the Cape of Good Hope. Southward, to the Indian Ocean. Southward, to the waters that no German warship has ever entered.

The Tirpitz followed closely behind. The two German warships drew long, slender wakes in the morning light, like two arrows shot southward.

Zhang Zhen watched them grow smaller and fainter, until they finally vanished on the horizon.

"All fleet," he said, "course zero‑six‑zero, speed fifteen knots. Destination—Suez Canal, homeward."

The Huaihe sounded its whistle and slowly turned northeast.

Dongting Lake, Poyang Lake, and five destroyers each turned in succession.

The two fleets split, each taking its own course.

Zhang Zhen stood on the bridge, casting one last glance south.

There is nothing there any more. Only the sea, only the sky, only that faint wake, being smoothed out by the waves.

He suddenly recalled the words Lin Yuan had said: "The child is wounded; can a father not go to save him?"

Now, the child has been saved.

It's time to go home.

"Accelerate," he said.

The Huai River's speed rose from fifteen knots to eighteen knots. Its bow cut through the waves, leaving a longer white trail.

Ahead lies Gibraltar, the Mediterranean Sea, the Suez Canal, the Red Sea, home.

Behind are the Bismarck, the Tirpitz, the Indian Ocean, a new battlefield.

It is the unknown.

But he knows those two ships will survive.

They will keep fighting.

They will make the Yingguo folk remember that two tigers have entered their backyard.

That is enough.

London, 10 Downing Street, evening of March 17

On the Prime Minister's desk lay two telegrams.

One from the Gibraltar fleet:

"The Lanfang fleet has passed through the Strait of Gibraltar today, entered the Mediterranean Sea, and is returning east. No abnormalities observed. All vessels are in good condition, showing no signs of damage."

One from a West African Coast patrol ship:

"The Bismarck and the Tirpitz have vanished. Their last sighting was at latitude XX°XX′ N, longitude XX°XX′ W, heading apparently south. The Vengeance-class fleet is searching the area, but no target has been found yet."

The Prime Minister stared at the two telegrams, silent for a long while.