Chapter 636: Battle of the Arabian Sea

At 09:40 a. m., the sky over the Arabian Sea was clear and cloudless.

The sun had risen to mid‑air, bathing the sea in bright light. Visibility was excellent; ships could be seen clearly at least twenty‑five nautical miles away. There was no fog, no rain, only the almost‑transparent azure typical of tropical waters.

She Er stood at the Bismarck's bridge portside window, holding a coffee that had gone completely cold. Since the radar first picked up the target at four a. m., they had been standing here for a full five hours.

On the radar screen, five dots grew increasingly distinct.

"General," Lieutenant Erich Wald, the radar officer, called from the corner, his voice tinged with tension. "Target confirmed: five large warships, bearing 295°, speed twenty‑one knots, closing on our ship."

She Er nodded, saying nothing.

They walked to the chart table and leaned over to view the positions the staff had just marked for both sides.

Bismarck: latitude XX°XX′ N, longitude XX°XX′ E. Bearing 160°, speed twenty‑eight knots.

Tirpitz: five thousand meters to the left‑rear, same bearing and speed.

Yingguo fleet: southeast, Distance about thirty nautical miles, moving northwest at twenty‑one knots.

She Er's finger traced lightly across the chart. Thirty nautical miles. At the current bearings and speeds, in about one and a half hours they would be at… their finger halted on a point.

Latitude XX°XX′ N, longitude XX°XX′ E.

"Navigation Officer," they said, "calculate where the Yingguo will meet us if we maintain our current bearing and speed."

Navigation Officer Lieutenant Colonel Fritz Brunk's finger darted across the chart, the slide rule whirring, pencil marking. After thirty seconds, they looked up:

"General, if we keep our course, we will meet around 11:15 at latitude XX°XX′ N, longitude XX°XX′ E. At that moment the Distance will be… twenty‑two thousand meters."

Twenty‑two thousand meters.

She Er was silent for a few seconds.

That distance lies within the Effective Range of the Bismarck Class's 380 mm Main Gun. It is also within the Effective Range of the Yingguo Revenge Class's 381 mm gun, but the Shell's power would diminish—twenty‑two thousand meters yields too steep an impact angle, offering limited threat to the Bismarck Class's vertical armor.

"Maintain course," they said, "let the Yingguo chase us."

The Navigation Officer hesitated, "General, no turn?"

She Er shook their head.

"Why turn?" they said, "they can't catch us. Twenty‑one knots versus thirty knots, a nine‑knot gap. Even if we stayed put, they'd need three hours to close the distance."

They walked to the portside window and raised the telescope.

Through the lenses, the sea surface was still empty. Yet they knew the five warships were out there, racing toward them at full speed.

"Let them chase," they said, "once they reach twenty‑two thousand meters we'll fire a few rounds. After firing we'll flee to twenty‑five thousand meters, then let them chase again. Keep playing this way and before nightfall their boilers will explode."

A suppressed laugh echoed across the bridge.

She Er did not laugh.

They set the telescope down and stared at the empty sea.

"Order all ships," they said, "load armor‑piercing Shells into the Main Gun. After entering twenty‑two thousand meters, await my command to fire."

Meanwhile, thirty nautical miles away on the Yingguo fleet's flagship Revenge, the atmosphere was entirely different.

Fleet Commander Rear Admiral Hugh Evans-Thomas stood at the center of the bridge, hands clasped behind his back, brow furrowed. He was fifty‑seven, thirty‑five years of service, had fought in the Jitde‑Lan, commanded split fleets, traversed the North Sea countless times. Yet he had never felt the indescribable unease that rose within him today as he stood at the chart table, watching the two dots.

"Commander," Chief of Staff Colonel Henry Kroly approached, holding the freshly received radar report, "the Deguo have not turned; they maintain their original bearing and speed, moving southeast."

Evans-Thomas took the report and glanced at it.

Southeast.

That is the direction out of the Arabian Sea, toward the deep of the Indian Ocean.

"They want to run?" he muttered to himself.

Kroly shook his head, "Commander, at their speed, if they tried to flee we could never catch them. Yet they are not at full speed; they are only at twenty‑eight knots. That indicates…"

"What does it indicate?"

"It shows they intend to fight," Kroly said. "They aim to use their speed advantage to tangle with us at the limit of range."

Evans-Thomas was silent for a few seconds.

He knew Kroly was right. The Bismarck Class can make thirty knots, nine knots faster than his Revenge Class. If She Er truly wanted to flee, they would already be fifty nautical miles away. But they did not. They lingered thirty nautical miles out, like a lion deliberately slowing its stride, luring the hunters behind step by step.

"He wants to lure us into pursuit, then wear us down using his range advantage," Evans-Thomas said. "Fire a few rounds, then flee; once far away, return. His gun is more accurate than ours, his radar superior, his speed greater. He could play all day while we have no chance to retaliate."

Kroly looked at him, "Commander, what shall we do?"

Evans-Thomas walked to the chart table, leaning over the densely marked map.

"We cannot let him play like this," he said, "we must find a way to force close‑quarter combat."

He looked up, "Order all ships: maintain speed and bearing. But dispatch the destroyers at full speed to flank from both wings. If the Deguo dare to stop and fire, let the destroyers launch torpedoes. Torpedoes ignore any range limitations."

Kroly hesitated, "Commander, destroyers in the main‑ship duel…"

"I know," Evans-Thomas cut in, "the destroyers will die. But as long as we can force the Deguo to turn, as long as we can bring them into our Main Gun range, losing a few destroyers is worth it."

He paused, "War always costs lives. Who dies is irrelevant."

Kroly lowered his head, saying nothing.

Three minutes later, the orders were issued.

The Yingguo fleet's six destroyers burst out from either side of the main ships, sprinting northeast at thirty knots. Their smokestacks belched black smoke, drawing six long trails across the sea like arrows aimed at prey.

On the Revenge's bridge, Evans-Thomas lifted the telescope, watching the destroyers recede farther away.

"Go," he whispered, "go give the Deguo some trouble."

10:50 a. m.

Distance twenty‑three thousand meters.

She Er stood on the bridge, seeing through the telescope the tiny black dots rapidly closing in.

"Destroyers," they said, "six, flanking from both wings."

The gun captain's voice came through the megaphone, "General, should the secondary guns be prepared?"

She Er was silent for three seconds.

Destroyer. This is the only method the Yingguo people have. Use small vessels to force him to turn, giving the main ship a chance to approach.