Chapter 656: The British Loss!!

The Conqueror sank. The Counterattack sank. The Prestige sank. The Centurion was heavily damaged, the Revenge was heavily damaged, the Royal Oak was heavily damaged, the Monarch was heavily damaged. The King George V took seven hits, its speed dropped to sixteen knots, and two fires were still burning aboard.

Out of twelve capital ships, after three hours of fighting, three sank, five were heavily damaged, and the remaining four also bore damage.

The opponent, however, was only two Lanfang battleships.

No, not an opponent.

They were bait.

Jielike finally understood.

From the very beginning, this was a trap.

Those two flagless Lanfang battleships were bait. They deliberately drifted out of port at a leisurely pace, deliberately flew no national flag, deliberately assumed an unguarded posture, waiting for him to order fire.

And he really gave the order.

"General," Chief of Staff Kroli's voice came from behind, hoarse beyond recognition, "reinforcement fleet has arrived. Three Revenge‑class ships, two Elizabeth Queen Class ships. They ask whether to pursue Deguo."

Jielike gave no answer.

Pursue?

Pursue what?

Chase those two fully healed, resurrected Bismarck Class ships? When they have fire‑control radar, thirty‑knot speed, and 380‑mm Main Guns?

Or chase those two Lanfang battleships? When they have already been fought for three hours and are being rescued by Deguo?

If we catch up, then what?

Fight another battle?

Lose a few more ships?

Let Deguo and Lanfang fight side by side once more?

"General," Kroli asked again, "whether to pursue?"

Jielike finally spoke.

"Do not pursue," he said, his voice hoarse beyond his own, "disband the fleet. Salvage the men overboard. Withdraw to Mumbai."

Kroli was momentarily stunned: "General, the reinforcement fleet just arrived, we still have…"

"What else do we have?" Jielike turned to look at him, the light in his eyes already extinguished, "We still have eight damaged warships, five fresh troops. Deguo has two fully healed Bismarck Class ships. Even if we catch up, even if we win—then what?"

He walked to the window, gazing at those two Deguo warships in the distance.

"Then Lanfang will formally declare war," he said, "four Bismarck Class ships will set out from Dubai. That 50,000‑ton giant under construction will enter service early. The entire Indian Ocean and Atlantic will be under their control."

He paused: "When that time comes, what will we use to fight?"

Kroli fell silent.

Jielike closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

"Send the order," he said, "retreat."

At ten a. m., in the infirmary beneath the bridge of the Huahe, Zhang Zhen slowly opened his eyes.

He lay on a stretcher, covered with a blanket. The wound on his forehead had been bandaged, and the injury on his left arm tended. Beside him sat a Deguo army doctor, measuring his blood pressure.

"General, you're awake," the doctor said in stiff English.

Zhang Zhen nodded, trying to sit up. The doctor hurriedly held him down: "Don't move, you've lost too much blood, you need rest."

"Where's my ship?" Zhang Zhen asked.

The doctor was momentarily stunned, then said, "The Huahe is still afloat. Deguo damage control teams are making emergency repairs; the flooding has been contained. Your ship… can survive."

Zhang Zhen exhaled a sigh of relief and lay back on the stretcher.

He looked around. In the infirmary lay a dozen wounded, some Lanfang sailors, some Deguo sailors. Some moaned, some slept, some stared at the ceiling in a daze.

A young sailor lay on the adjacent stretcher, his left leg wrapped in thick bandages, blood seeping through. He saw Zhang Zhen looking at him and forced out a smile.

"General," he said, "we won, right?"

Zhang Zhen looked at him, at that youthful face.

The boy seemed under twenty, his eyes bright, his face still bearing unwaned childishness.

"We won," Zhang Zhen said, "we won."

The young sailor laughed, a genuinely happy laugh.

"That's good," he said, then closed his eyes and fell into a deep sleep.

Zhang Zhen watched him, silent for a long while.

One hundred twenty‑seven men were killed.

Three hundred four were seriously injured.

That was the price of the Huahe.

But he knew that price was worth it.

Because the whole world would see those photos: the instant the English opened fire, the shells striking the Huahe, the Lanfang sailors battling in the flames.

That is evidence.

That is the justification for war.

That is—

Victory.

At eleven a. m., in the bridge of the Bismarck, Shel saw Zhang Zhen.

Zhang Zhen had been carried on a stretcher by Deguo sailors. His injuries were too severe to remain on the Huahe—there were not adequate medical facilities there. Shel ordered him transferred to the Bismarck, to be tended by Deguo army doctors.

Zhang Zhen lay on the stretcher, looking at the bridge.

The room was small but neatly arranged: a chart table, a few chairs, a bookcase, a round porthole. Sunlight streamed through the porthole, casting a bright patch on the floor.

Shel sat beside him, holding a cup of coffee.

"General Zhang," She Er said, "you are a tough man."

Zhang Zhen smiled faintly and said nothing.

"Three hours," She Er continued, "two ships against twelve, fought for three hours. Sank one, severely damaged three, wounded countless. And they were still alive."

He paused: "I've been in the navy for thirty years, never have I seen a battle like this."

Zhang Zhen looked at him.

"General She Er," he said, "if you hadn't come, we would have died."

She Er shook his head.

"We arrived late," he said, "we kept you afloat for three hours. My fault."

Zhang Zhen smiled again.

"Not late," he said, "just right."

She Er was stunned for a moment, then also laughed.

He stood up, walked to the window, and looked at the two Lanfang warships being towed outside.

The Huai River and Pearl River were being sandwiched between the Bismarck on one side and the Tirpitz on the other, moving westward at a speed of 12 knots. The Lanfang damage control team and the German damage control team fought side by side, working at full speed to repair.

"General Zhang," She Er suddenly asked, "why are you doing this?"

Zhang Zhen did not answer immediately.

He was silent for a long time, then said, "Because we need a reason."

She Er turned and looked at him.

"What reason?"

"Reason to declare war," Zhang Zhen said, "the President said Lanfang cannot declare war on Yingguo without cause. That would give the Meilika a pretext to ally with Yingguo against us. But if we are the side attacked by Yingguo…"

He paused: "Then that's self‑defense. The whole world would stand on our side."

She Er was silent for a few seconds.

He recalled the words Chen Feng said at the meeting, recalled the reporters, recalled those two unflagged warships.

Every step was calculated to the death.

"General Zhang," he said, "your President is a terrifying person."

Zhang Zhen smiled.

"Terrifying?" he said, "No, reliable."

He closed his eyes, his voice growing softer: "With him, Lanfang… won't lose…"

She Er looked at him, at the face full of fatigue.

Then he walked over and gently pulled the blanket upward.

"Sleep," he said, "you've already done what you had to do."

Zhang Zhen gave no reply.

He was already asleep.