Chapter 634: Hunt in the Arabian Sea 2

"Distance?" he asked.

"12,000 meters."

"Secondary guns ready," he said, "Target—those cargo ships. Open fire at will."

The Bismarck's six twin‑mounted 150 mm secondary guns fired simultaneously.

Those turrets are normally used against destroyers. Although the 105 mm shells are small, they are sufficient against unarmored merchant ships.

The first salvo landed around the cargo‑ship formation. Columns of water rose among the fleet, like white giants suddenly surfacing from the sea.

A 5,000‑ton cargo ship was violently rocked by the water surge from a near‑miss. Its speed, already slow, dropped from twelve knots to eight knots, like a wounded ox.

The second salvo fired in unison, hitting.

The cargo ship took a hit on its port side. The explosion tossed the lifeboat, flames spewed from the breach, and thick black smoke billowed upward. The ship began to slow, soon stopping and lying broadside on the sea.

"Hit!" a restrained cheer erupted on the bridge.

Scher did not smile.

He raised his binoculars, watching the ship. On deck, sailors in white uniforms were leaping onto the lifeboat. The lifeboat was lowered, a dozen people crammed inside, frantically rowing away from the burning vessel.

"Continue," he said.

Third round. Fourth round.

The Tirpitz also joined the slaughter. Its secondary guns aimed at an oil tanker—the most dangerous target. The first shot struck the deck, failing to ignite the oil tanks. The second hit near the waterline, and black crude began leaking, spreading a strange iridescent sheen across the sea.

The tanker began to list.

Not rapidly, but visible to the naked eye. The port side sank, the starboard rose, and items on deck started sliding down: oil drums, ropes, life rings—and a few people who hadn't managed to jump overboard.

Scher watched those people fall into the sea, struggling in the oil slick.

He lowered the binoculars.

"Destroyers," he said, "close‑range fire. Stop those that are still fleeing."

Four destroyers lunged at the fleeing merchant ships like hounds.

Z-10, at full speed, surged toward a cargo ship fleeing south. Its 105 mm Main Gun fired continuously, shells landing around the cargo ship. One hit the bow, sharply reducing its speed. Two struck the bridge, shattering the wooden bridge structure into flying fragments.

Z-10 passed 100 meters from its port side, sweeping the deck with its machine gun.

The cargo ship stopped.

It lay on the sea surface, smoke billowing from multiple points of the hull, the deck littered with corpses and debris.

Z-12 and Z-15 blocked two other cargo ships on the opposite side. Those ships tried to tack together for mutual cover, but the destroyers' fire was too dense. In under ten minutes, both vessels were ablaze.

Z-18 caught up with a small oil tanker attempting to flee. Its Main Gun fired only twice—first a warning shot, second hitting the stern. The tanker's main engine was blown up, leaving it powerless and spinning on the sea.

Forty minutes later, only burning wreckage and oil slick remained on the sea.

The largest cargo ship—the 12,000‑ton behemoth—still struggled. Its bow had already sunk, but the stern remained raised, the propeller protruding above water and turning slowly. On deck, sailors were lowering the last few lifeboats.

Scher watched the ship.

Its name was still visible—in English, "Calcutta Star".

Calcutta Star.

A cargo ship sailing from India to Yingguo. What was it carrying? Tea? Jute? Or war materiel?

He didn't know. It didn't matter.

What mattered was that it sank, and the Yingguo lost a ship to transport goods.

"Main Gun ready," he said.

The gun captain hesitated: "General, target?"

Scher pointed at the dying cargo ship: "That one."

The gun captain was silent for a second, then said, "Affirmative."

A 380 mm Main Gun slowly rose. Its barrel aimed at the 12,000‑ton cargo ship.

"Fire."

Flames burst from the muzzle.

Forty seconds later, the shell struck the middle of the cargo ship.

The explosion tore the ship in two. It didn't sink slowly; it split cleanly at the midpoint. The front half sank rapidly, the rear half lifted higher before also descending. Within three minutes it vanished completely from the sea.

Only oil slick, debris, and a few dozen scattered liferafts remained on the sea.

Scher lowered the binoculars.

"Count the battle results," he said.

Fifteen minutes later, the quartermaster reported, "General, preliminary count: eleven cargo ships and two oil tankers sunk, total tonnage about 92,000 tons. Captured… none captured, all sank."

92,000 tons.

Scher silently recited the figure in his mind.

A single Elizabeth Queen Class battleship displaces 32,000 tons. Ninety‑two thousand tons equals three battleships.

"What about personnel casualties?"

The quartermaster hesitated, "General, unable to tally. The merchant‑ship crew… we saw at least twenty liferafts lowered, but…"

He did not finish.

Scher knew what he meant.

This sea area is four hundred nautical miles from the nearest land. No fresh water, no food—how long could those liferafts last? Three days? Five days? Or longer?

He recalled the scene after the Battle of the Sea of Japan, when the Deguo fleet rescued Yingguo sailors. The young Yingguo lieutenant, rescued aboard with lips frozen purple, still insisted on saluting him and saying "Thank you."

Now?

"General," Major Maier softly asked, "shall we dispatch destroyers to rescue survivors?"

Scher was silent for three seconds.

He thought of the Yingguo sailors who fell overboard after the Queen Ship sank in the Atlantic, and recalled his own words—"Leave it to Jieli Ke to salvage it."

Now those words have returned.

"We can't stop," he said, "we don't know when the Yingguo fleet will arrive. They have been receiving the distress signal for forty minutes. If India has a fast cruiser, it could appear on the horizon in two hours."

He paused: "Full speed ahead, heading 130. Leave this sea area."

Major Mai lowered his head, saying nothing.

She Er knew what he was thinking. Everyone on the ship was thinking the same. But no one would voice it—the chances of survival for those Yingguo who fell overboard were originally less than thirty percent. Even if salvaged, they would become prisoners of war.

It wasn't cruelty.

It was war.

The Bismarck's speed rose from fifteen knots to twenty knots.

The bow cut through the waves, casting the wreck‑strewn sea behind it.

She Er stood at the portside window, watching the lifeboats grow smaller. Some people on the rafts waved, unclear whether in plea or in curse. Two nautical miles away, She Er heard no sound.

She Er turned around.

"Communications officer," he said, "send a telegram to the Lanfang Navy Department."

The communications officer picked up the logbook.

"Content: Entered the Arabian Sea, today sank thirteen Yingguo merchant ships, about ninety thousand tons. Yingguo now aware. Follow‑up action plan to be reported separately. — She Er"

After writing, the communications officer looked up: "General, send it?"

She Er nodded.

Thirty seconds later, the telegram was sent.