Chapter 633: The Hunt in the Arabian Sea

On the seventh day after the Bismarck rounded the Cape of Good Hope, the sea was as calm as a mirror.

She Er stood at the starboard window of the bridge, holding a cup of ice‑cold coffee. They had been standing there for four hours, from four a. m. to eight a. m., motionless.

The coffee had been delivered by the watch officer half an hour earlier, and he hadn't taken a sip. Not that he didn't want to, he simply forgot. His mind was filled with numbers—speed, fuel, ammunition, distance—leaving no room for taste.

"General," Lieutenant Colonel Fritz Brunke called from behind, "we have entered the Arabian Sea. Our current position is latitude XX°XX', longitude XX°XX'."

She Er turned and walked to the chart table.

The navigation officer's finger tapped the newly marked coordinate, then slid right across the chart: "From here, 400 nautical miles east lies Karachi. Six hundred nautical miles west is the Gulf of Aden. North—"

His finger stopped at an area labeled "Persian Gulf": "It is the Strait of Hormuz."

She Er bent down, eyes tracing those routes.

Arabian Sea. The throat of the Indian Ocean. Yingguo's maritime lifeline.

"General," the navigation officer continued, "according to pre‑war intelligence, Yingguo ships wheat and wool from Australia to the homeland, tea, jute and rubber from India, and oil from the Persian Gulf—over sixty percent of which passes through these waters."

He looked up: "This is Yingguo's soft underbelly."

She Er nodded.

He recalled, half a month earlier, in the captain's cabin of the Huai River, Zhang Zhen pointing at the chart and saying, "Striking Yingguo's supply lines is not limited to the North Atlantic."

Now he understood.

The North Atlantic has escort fleets, patrol aircraft, a dense network of bases. But that is in Europe, at Yingguo's doorstep. The Arabian Sea is different. It lies five thousand nautical miles from Yingguo's mainland, with thin escort forces, sparse bases, and—

She Er's gaze fell on the inconspicuous label in the lower‑right corner of the chart.

Dubai.

Lanfang's Dubai.

It is the nearest major port to these waters. If resupply is needed, if an emergency arises, if…

He did not think further.

"Relay the order," he rose straight, "reduce speed to fifteen knots. Destroyers disperse, widen the search area. We are not after warships, but merchant vessels."

The order was issued.

From the intercom came the engine room's reply: "Speed reduced to fifteen knots. Main engine condition stable."

The loudspeaker outside the bridge sounded, notifying the destroyer detachments to adjust formation.

She Er walked back to the window and raised the telescope.

Through the lens, four destroyers were slowly spreading out. Z‑10 was five nautical miles to the left‑front, Z‑12 to the right‑front, Z‑15 and Z‑18 on the wings. Like hounds they scattered, drawing four white tracks across the sea, gradually fading into the distant morning mist.

The sun rose from the east.

The sunrise over the Arabian Sea differed from that over the Atlantic. Here the sunlight was harsher, the sea bluer, the air tinged with a faint, lingering heat. She Er stood at the window, watching the golden‑red surface, suddenly recalling the dawn at Kiel Port.

There the sunrise was gray‑hazy, the sea lead‑gray, the air bearing the sharp chill unique to the North Sea.

That was home.

He shook his head, casting the thought from his mind.

Now was not the time to think of home.

"General," watch officer Lieutenant Hans Meyer came over, "the radar room reports no large targets within the scan range. There are a few small vessels, all over twenty nautical miles away, possibly fishing boats."

She Er nodded.

Fishing boats.

It shows the waters are not empty. Where there are fishing boats, there are merchant ships. Where there are merchant ships, there are prey.

"Maintain vigilance," he said, "notify the destroyers, report any situation immediately."

"Yes."

The bridge fell silent. Only the low hum of air moving through the ventilation ducts and the distant sound of waves lapping the hull could be heard.

She Er returned to the chart table and glanced again at the densely penciled map.

Arabian Sea.

Three hundred thousand square nautical miles.

Enough to hide two warships.

Also enough to keep Yingguo awake.

At nine a. m., Z‑10 transmitted a report.

"General! Z‑10 reporting!" the communications officer's voice rose a full octave, "Due east, visual contact with multiple vessels! Looks like a merchant convoy!"

"Z‑10, report details."

"General, due east, about twenty‑five nautical miles away. At least ten vessels, various sizes, appears to be a merchant formation. They are flying… I saw it, the Yingguo merchant flag!"

Twenty‑five nautical miles.

At fifteen knots, it will take one hour forty minutes.

"Maintain surveillance, do not expose," he ordered, "we will be there immediately."

He set the telegraph down and turned to face the bridge.

"All fleet, course zero‑nine‑zero, speed twenty‑five knots. Signal Tirpitz: target due east, merchant convoy. Flank the left wing, don't let them escape."

The order was given.

The Bismarck's speed surged from fifteen knots upward: seventeen, twenty, twenty‑three, twenty‑five knots.

The hull shivered—not a normal vibration, but the kind that comes from the keel at full‑speed sprint, making blood boil. The smokestack's black plume drew an ever‑lengthening trail across the sea, like an arrow shot eastward.

Thirty minutes later, the lookout's voice came through the intercom:

"Visual contact! Due east, multiple—at least fifteen! Confirmed merchant ships!"

She Er raised the telescope.

Through the lens, a string of black dots appeared on the horizon. Not the orderly formation of warships, but a scattered assortment of shapes—cargo ships, tankers, and a few small vessels resembling escort ships.

He counted.

Twelve ships. Fifteen ships. Possibly more.

"Tirpitz reporting, has reached the left flank position," the communications officer's voice came through.

She Er nodded.

Two Bismarck Class ships, one left and one right, like two lions flanking from both wings, are closing in on that group of defenseless prey.

Distance is shortening. Twenty‑five nautical miles, twenty nautical miles, fifteen nautical miles.

At fifteen thousand meters, the merchant fleet finally spotted them.

She Er saw through the telescope the largest cargo ship—estimated at twelve thousand tons, bearing a huge red merchant flag—blaring its horn wildly. The horn's sound could be heard across several nautical miles, low and desperate.

Then the entire fleet panicked.

The cargo ships began to turn, trying to scatter and flee. Some headed east, some south, some even north—completely directionless, like a frightened flock of sheep crowding together, blocking each other.

"General," the gunner's voice came through the megaphone, "they are sending a report. At least three ships have raised radio antennas; the distress signal has certainly been transmitted."

She Er was silent for a second.

As expected.