Chapter 653: General! Southeast! Smoke screen detected! Two—two large warships!

Reporter Fang kept filming. His camera lens was aimed at the direction of the British fleet, and the shutter clicked‑click‑clicked nonstop. His face was covered in ash, his eyes bloodshot, but his hands were steady.

"Reporter Fang," Zhang Zhen walked over, "How much have you filmed?"

Reporter Fang raised his head: "Eight rolls of film, General. From the start of the battle until now, I've filmed every minute."

Zhang Zhen looked at him, at those eyes streaked with blood vessels yet still focused.

"Protect those films," he said, "They're evidence. If... if we can't get back, find a way to bring the films back. The President is waiting."

Reporter Fang froze for a moment.

"General," he said, "you…"

Zhang Zhen gave no answer.

He turned and walked back to the portside window, continuing to watch the British warships drawing ever nearer.

"Relay orders to all stations," he said, "Prepare for the final battle."

The bridge was silent for a second.

Then, through the megaphone, one reply after another came:

"A turret received!"

"Damage control team received!"

"Engine room received!"

"Medical team received!"

Those voices were calm, eerily calm.

It was the calm only those who had already accepted their fate could have.

Zhang Zhen suddenly recalled Chen Feng's words: "On the Huai River, there are eight hundred Lanfang sailors. They will all die—maybe today, maybe tomorrow, maybe in this battle. Yet they still went."

Yes, they went.

They knew they might die, yet they still went.

Because Lanfang's future required someone to fight for it.

Zhang Zhen's hand clenched on the window frame, then released.

He glanced at the chronometer—08:45 in the morning.

Forty‑five minutes remained until the Bismarck appeared.

Forty‑five minutes.

Can the Huai River hold out for forty‑five minutes?

He didn't know.

But he knew they had to keep holding.

At 08:50, the Pearl River finally sank the Counterattack.

That battleship‑cruiser, after being hit consecutively by eight 380‑mm Shells, finally could not hold. Its hull cracked, sinking slowly to the seabed. The surface was left with only oil slicks and debris, and dozens of liferafts crowded with British sailors.

Zhou Zhen guo had no time to celebrate.

"General!" the lookout's voice changed tone, "Port side! Conqueror and Vengeance are approaching! Starboard! Ramillis and Royal Oak are also coming!"

Zhou Zhen guo turned and looked around.

Four British warships were surrounding from four directions.

"Speed!"

"Twenty knots, General!"

Twenty knots. There's no escape.

Zhou Zhen guo clenched his teeth.

"Main Gun ready!" he roared, "Target—Conqueror! Focus fire! Sink it!"

The Pearl River's three remaining Main Guns swivelled simultaneously, aiming at the approaching Conqueror.

Distance sixteen thousand meters.

"Fire!"

Six Shells burst from the barrel.

The Conqueror also opened fire. Its three Main Guns—its forward Main Gun had already been destroyed—simultaneously erupted, sending six 381‑mm Shells toward the Pearl River.

Forty seconds later, both sides hit again simultaneously.

The Conqueror's hull was struck; flames spewed from the breach, thick smoke billowed. Its speed dropped from twenty‑six knots to twenty‑two knots.

The Pearl River's starboard side was hit again; a Shell pierced the secondary gun deck and exploded inside the hull. The ship shuddered violently, its speed falling from twenty knots to eighteen knots.

"Damage control report!"

"General! Starboard flooding is worsening! Three compartments are flooded! The bilge pumps... the bilge pumps are overloaded and burnt out!"

Zhou Zhen guo's heart sank sharply.

The bilge pumps are burnt out.

That means the influx of water can no longer be controlled. In another twenty minutes, the Pearl River will lose combat capability due to excessive flooding. In another forty minutes, it will sink.

"General," the adjutant's voice trembled, "We…"

Zhou Zhen guo ignored him.

He walked to the portside window, watching the distant Huai River still billowing smoke.

The Huai River's condition was worse. Its speed had dropped below fifteen knots, the bridge was almost flattened by explosions, and flames licked the deck everywhere. Yet it kept firing; its lone remaining Main Gun was still shooting.

"Old Zhang," he thought, "You're still firing, I can't stop either."

"Relay orders to all stations," he said, "Keep firing. Fire until the last Shell."

The bridge was silent for a second.

Then a voice came through the speaking tube, replying: "Yes."

The Main Gun of the Zhujiang fired again.

Six Shells flew toward the Conqueror.

At exactly nine a. m., the Huaihe was already on the brink of collapse.

Speed dropped to fourteen knots. Seven compartments on the port side took on water, and the hull began to tilt slightly—three degrees, four degrees, five degrees. The flames on deck had already spread beneath the bridge; the damage control team fought desperately to extinguish the fire, but it grew larger.

Zhang Zhen stood on the bridge, holding the window frame to keep steady.

His vision darkened intermittently, a symptom of severe blood loss. But he could not fall—he was the commander, and he had to watch the ship fight to the very last moment.

"General," the adjutant rushed over, "you must go to the infirmary! Your wound—"

Zhang Zhen waved his hand to cut him off.

"No need."

He looked at the distant Yingguo warships. Eight of them, still eight. They kept firing, the muzzle flashes flickering in the sunlight like countless falling stars.

"What about the Zhujiang?"

The adjutant reported, "The Zhujiang is still firing. They… they sank the Counterattack, but they are also barely holding on. Speed has dropped to seventeen knots, and the bilge pumps are burnt out."

Zhang Zhen nodded.

He turned and looked at those few reporters.

Reporter Fang was still filming. His camera lens was aimed at the direction of the Yingguo fleet, the shutter click click clicking nonstop. His three companions were also filming, capturing the flames on deck, the sailors fighting the fire, and the wounded lying in pools of blood.

"Reporter Fang," Zhang Zhen walked over, his voice hoarse, "is the film still enough?"

Fang looked up, his eyes reddened, "There are two rolls left, General. Enough to film until the very end."

Zhang Zhen nodded.

He walked to the chart table— the table had been blown to pieces, but the map of the Arabian Sea remained. He bent over, looking at the markings on it.

Huaihe's position: latitude XX°XX', longitude XX°XX'.

The Yingguo fleet's position: all around.

Bismarck's position—

Not yet.

But he knew they were on the way.

Definitely on the way.

"General," the adjutant suddenly pointed to the southeast, "look!"

Zhang Zhen jerked his head up.

To the southeast, on the sea surface, two faint columns of smoke appeared.

It wasn't the thick smoke of burning ships, but the black smoke expelled from the funnels of warships at full speed.

The smoke columns grew thicker and drew nearer.

Then, the ship silhouettes appeared.

Two massive battleships, slender hulls, towering bridges, those iconic twin 380mm turret—

Zhang Zhen's hand clenched on the window frame.

They're coming.

Finally, they're coming.

At the same time, on the bridge of the King George V, the lookout's voice changed tone:

"General! Southeast! Smoke screen detected! Two—two large warships!"

Jellico jerked around, raising his telescope.