Chapter 658: Radio Waves Before Dawn

It was 4 a. m. Dubai time, and the sky was still dark.

Reporter Fang sat in the darkroom, his hands immersed in developer, pulling photos from the tray one by one. Under the red safety light, the images looked as if they were dredged from hell—flames spewing from the muzzle of King George V, a fireball erupting at the bow of Huai River, sailors sprinting on deck to fight the fire, and Zhang Zhen, his face covered in blood, standing at the bridge window.

His hand trembled. Not from fatigue, but because the images were so heavy that he could not bear them.

"Teacher Fang, how much longer?" a young reporter called from outside the door.

"Just wait."

He pulled out another. This one captured the instant Huai River was hit by the third Shell— the Shell had just pierced the secondary gun deck, the flame had not yet erupted, but the ship's shudder was already visible in the photo.

This photo could be seen by the whole world.

At 4:30 a. m., the first batch of twelve photos was sent to the telegraph room. A technician at Lanfang News Agency stared at the photos, his hand also trembling.

"Where to send?" he asked.

"London, Berlin, New York, Tokyo, Paris, Rome—every place with a telegraph line. The President said, let the whole world see." (The editor notes: I don't know if that was possible then, but newspapers in the Republic era already carried foreign photos.)

The telegraph key began to tap. Those images were converted into dense Morse code, traveling along submarine cables through the Persian Gulf, the Red Sea, the Mediterranean Sea, the Atlantic Ocean, flooding every corner of the world.

It was 1 a. m. London time.

The Times editor-in-chief George Jeffery was woken by the telephone ring. He fumbled in the dark for the handset and heard the duty editor's voice from the editorial office—a voice he had only heard during Degjun's bombardment of London—low, trembling, as if haunted.

"Editor-in-chief, Lanfang News Agency has sent a set of photos. You need to see them yourself,"

Twenty minutes later, Jeffery rushed into the editorial department. On the desk lay the twelve photos, freshly developed and still wet.

He examined them one by one.

When he reached the third, his hand began to tremble.

When he saw the seventh, he closed his eyes.

When he saw the last one—Zhang Zhen, his face drenched in blood, standing at the bridge window—he remained silent for a full minute.

"When did this happen?"

"Early yesterday morning. Arabian Sea. Yingguo fleet… attacked Lanfang people."

Jeffery looked up at the duty editor: "Has it been verified? Isn't this a Deguo plot?"

"Reuters' correspondent in Dubai also sent a report. He said… it's true. Lanfang lost two warships, over a hundred dead. Tens of thousands have already gathered outside city hall."

Jeffery glanced at the photos again.

"Front page," he said, "full page. Not a single photo may be cut."

"Editor-in-chief, this…"

"This is news. If we don't report the truth, what are we doing?"

At 3 a. m., The Times went into emergency reprint. The printing press roared, producing several hundred thousand copies of those photos, which would appear at every newsstand in London within a few hours.

The same scene unfolded simultaneously at every newspaper on Fleet Street. The editor-in-chief of The Daily Mirror said only one line after seeing the photos: "This is the most humiliating day for the British Empire in a hundred years. Print, full print."

At 5 a. m., the first batch of newspapers hit the streets.

It was 6 a. m. Dubai time.

The sun had not risen, yet the dock was already packed with people.

The earliest arrivals were shipyard workers. They lived in the dock district and were awakened by the telegraph around four in the morning—relatives and friends called from the city, saying Yingguo guys had attacked our ships. The workers dressed and ran to the dock.

On the dock, Huai River and Pearl River lay still. In the dawn light, the sight of the two warships froze everyone in place.

Huai River's bridge was almost cut flat, leaving only a twisted mass of steel. A huge breach on the port side still leaked water, dripping into the sea. The deck was riddled with shell holes, some exposing the compartments below. The Lanfang Navy flag—red background with a golden dragon—still hung on a half‑mast, flapping in the sea breeze, its surface riddled with holes.

An old worker knelt down.

His name was Lin Fusheng, fifty‑eight, who had worked thirty years at the Dubai shipyard. On Huai River's launch day, he was the welding foreman and had personally welded the ship's Keel. His son Lin Yuan served as an engine man on Huai River and, two nights ago, had called him to say everything was fine.

Now he knelt there, staring at the wrecked ship, muttering something. Those nearby could not hear, only saw his shoulders shaking.

What about Lin Yuan?

No one dared to ask.

The crowd swelled. At seven, a few thousand people crowded the dock. No one spoke; they just stood, watching the two ships. The silence was more painful than any shout.

A young worker suddenly bolted to the dock edge and shouted at the sea, "My brother is on Pearl River! He's only nineteen!"

No one pulled him back. He just stood, shouting at the sea. As he kept shouting, he crouched down, clutching his head and weeping.

A middle‑aged worker beside him walked over and patted his shoulder. He said nothing, just kept patting.

At 7:30, some people began moving toward city hall.

First a few, then dozens, then hundreds. No organization, no slogans—just a silent march. More kept joining along the way: dock workers, city merchants, school students, and even a few Arab elders in long robes.

At eight, the square in front of city hall had already gathered over thirty thousand people.

At the center of the square, the flagpole bore the Lanfang Golden Dragon flag half‑masted—a mourning banner.

Among the crowd, an elderly man with a cane stepped forward. He wore an old uniform, several medals from the household war twenty years earlier hanging on his chest. He turned and addressed the crowd:

"I fought in the household war. Back then we had nothing; Yingguo guys bullied us, the Dutch bullied us, even the small nations dared to ride on our heads. But now? We have warships, cannons, soldiers who fear no death! Yingguo killed our people; we cannot just let it be!"

Someone in the crowd began shouting, "Blood debt, blood repayment!"

One shouted, ten shouted, a hundred shouted. In the end, the whole square chanted: "Blood debt, blood repayment!" "Yingguo guys get out of Yazhou!" "Do not bully Lanfang!"

The shouts thundered, making the city hall's glass windows hum.

It was 5 a. m. Berlin time.

Deguo Propaganda Department Minister Joseph was woken by an urgent call. After hearing the report, he said only one thing: "Send me the photos, the fastest car."

Thirty minutes later, he looked at the stack of photos, a slow smile curling his mouth.

"Heaven aids Germany," he murmured.

At six, major Deguo newspapers simultaneously received the notice: the front page must use Lanfang's photos, with the headline drafted by the Propaganda Department—"The British Empire Shows Its True Face! Jelliko Slaughters Neutral Nation Sailors!"