Chapter 646: Being befriended by this kind of

5 a. m., Pier No. 3.

Zhang Zhen stood on the bridge of the Huai He, watching the crew bustling on deck. The sky was still dark, but the pier lights illuminated the battleship as if it were daylight.

The adjutant came over: "General, the Zhu Jiang is ready. Captain Zhou asks, when do we set sail?"

Zhang Zhen glanced at the chronometer—5:07.

"Six o'clock sharp," he said. "Have Zhou Zhen guo check again; the fire‑control radar must stay on the whole time, but keep the Main Gun's barrel at zero elevation—no one may raise it early."

"Yes!"

After the adjutant left, Zhang Zhen went to the starboard window and watched the "special passengers" boarding on the pier.

Four reporters—three men and a woman—carried cameras and spare film boxes. The officer in charge of reception was assigning them cabins—a semi‑protected spot beneath the bridge that could capture the battle outside while remaining relatively safe.

The lead reporter, surnamed Fang, was in his forties and said to have worked twenty years in journalism, covering wars, disasters, and countless large scenes. Yet now, standing on the Huai He's deck, he looked up at the four massive 380‑mm Main Guns, his face showing an expression Zhang Zhen knew well—the look anyone sees when they first encounter this beast.

Awe.

Zhang Zhen stepped out of the bridge onto the deck.

Reporter Fang saw him and hurried forward: "General Zhang!"

Zhang Zhen nodded. "Reporter Fang, are the cabins arranged?"

"All set, thank you for your concern, General." Fang paused, lowered his voice, "General, the president's people have briefed us. We know what to film."

Zhang Zhen looked at him.

"Film the first instant the Yingguo fire," Fang said. "Capture the Shells hitting the ship, our men getting wounded, our retaliation— the more gruesome, the more authentic."

Zhang Zhen was silent for a second.

"Reporter Fang," he said, "if the fight really breaks out, I may not be able to look after you. Stay hidden, don't charge forward."

Fang laughed, "Don't worry, General. I have more war‑film experience than you. Hide when you must, film when you must, we won't die."

Zhang Zhen nodded, turned, and walked back to the bridge.

Behind him, Fang was already calling his companions to check cameras and adjust lenses.

At six o'clock sharp, the Huai He's whistle blew.

The cables were hauled in, the gangway retracted. The massive hull of the Huai He slowly left the pier, slipping into the Persian Gulf's waters in the morning light.

The Zhu Jiang followed close behind.

The two over‑30,000‑ton giants, bearing no flags, drifted silently toward the horizon.

On the pier, a few early‑rising workers halted, watching the two warships recede. They didn't know where the ships were headed or what they would do.

All they knew was that the ships looked beautiful.

6:30, Bismarck bridge.

Scher stood by the window, watching the two warships that had already vanished beyond the horizon.

He could no longer see them, but he knew they were there, sailing east, gradually moving toward the Yingguo's gunfire.

Duty officer Major Mai Er came over: "General, Tirpitz reports all ready. Boilers preheated, Main Engine on standby."

Scher nodded.

"Let the crew rest. Depart at twelve sharp." He paused, "Tell the mess hall to add a midday meal. Give everyone a good dinner."

Mai Er froze for a moment, then smiled, "Yes, General!"

Scher continued standing by the window.

He recalled Zhang Zhen, the general who had said in a meeting without hesitation, "My ship can hold out for four and a half hours." He thought of the 1,600 Lanfang sailors on the Lanfang battleship, who didn't yet know their mission yet still went.

He also remembered Tirpitz's remark, "The Chinese are cunning, cunning indeed."

Indeed, cunning.

But this cunning is the kind that keeps the enemy sleepless, the kind that lets our own survive.

He suddenly felt that being befriended by such a "cunning" person was the German Navy's luck.

In the distance, the sun had fully risen. The Persian Gulf's surface glittered like it were strewn with shattered gold.

Scher watched the golden sheen and suddenly thought of the sunrise at Kiel Harbor.

That sunrise, too, was golden.

He whispered, "When I finish this battle, I'll go home."

Behind him, Major Mai Er heard it but said nothing.

He knew what the general meant.

Home.

Everyone who goes to sea wants to return home.

9 a. m., Dubai Port Pier No. 3.

Tirpitz stood alone there, watching the Bismarck about to set sail.

He didn't board. At sixty‑eight, climbing was inconvenient, and—he didn't want the crew to see him. With the old Marshal present, the crew would be nervous and restrained.

He simply stood, watching from afar the warship bearing his name.

The Bismarck was quiet. Few moved on deck, only a handful of sailors conducting final checks. A few wisps of light smoke drifted from the funnel, showing the main engine was on standby.

Tirpitz suddenly recalled the scene years ago when he first proposed the "Dauntless Ship" plan.

Back then he was young, his hair still black, standing at the Imperial Parliament podium, shouting at skeptical legislators, "Deguo needs a powerful fleet, not for provocation but for survival!"

Thirty years later, his fleet still existed.

Yet survival remained an issue.

In the distance, on the Bismarck's deck, a young sailor was cleaning a secondary gun. Bare‑chested, his skin tanned dark by the sun, his movements deft. After wiping the barrel, he straightened, stretched, and caught sight of the old man standing on the pier.

The young sailor froze, then stood at attention and saluted toward him.

He didn't know who he was, but he knew that anyone who could stand alone on a pier watching warships must be a notable figure.

Tirpitz saw that salute.

He raised his hand and returned the salute from afar.

Then he turned and walked slowly toward the car waiting by the road.

Behind him, Bismarck sat quietly at the dock, awaiting its next departure.

Twelve hours later, it will sail toward the battlefield.

Sail toward the battle that changes everything.

Sail toward destiny.

At four o'clock in the morning, on the bridge of the King George V.

Jielike has not slept well for three days.

Since receiving intelligence that Bismarck and Tirpitz were about to leave Dubai, he has been staying on this flagship. By day he studies routes at the chart table, by night he leans on a deck chair for a nap, waking at the slightest sound. The staff urged him to return to his cabin to rest, but he would not—seven days have passed, those two damned Deguo battleships have been in Lanfang's harbor for a full seven days, who knows what they have repaired.