Chapter 661: Dock: Parting and Setting Sail

At six o'clock in the evening, the setting sun began to sink into the Persian Gulf.

On the dock, the Bismarck and the Tirpitz's smokestacks began to emit smoke— they were preheating their boilers, preparing to set sail.

Sheer stood on the Bismarck's bridge, looking at the city on the dock. In the distance, the city hall's outline was especially clear in the sunset. The crowd in the square had already dispersed, but the shouts seemed to still echo beside the ears.

"General," the duty officer said as he walked over, "All preparations are complete. We can set sail at any time."

Sheer nodded.

They stepped down from the bridge and went to the dock. A black car was parked there.

Chen Feng got out of the car.

The two stood on the dock, watching the Bismarck under the sunset.

"General Sheer," Chen Feng began, "This sortie is simple—keep an eye on Jieliko's fleet. They are still recuperating in Mumbai; once they emerge, we strike. But do not engage in a decisive battle; wait for our main force."

Sheer nodded, "Understood."

"Also," Chen Feng paused, "come back alive."

Sheer looked at them, silent for a few seconds.

"President Chen," they said, "Do you know what I admire most about you?"

Chen Feng said nothing.

"That day in the city hall, you recited those one hundred twenty‑seven names. Each one was spoken clearly. You truly memorized them."

They extended a hand.

"Brother Wang once told me: a commander must treat his soldiers as people. You have done that."

Chen Feng grasped Sheer's hand.

"Come back alive," they repeated.

Sheer released the hand, turned and walked back to the gangway. After a few steps, they looked back once.

"President Chen, when this battle is over, I will treat you to a drink. German beer with Lanfang's cuisine."

Chen Feng smiled.

"Fine. I'll be waiting."

At seven o'clock in the evening, the Bismarck and the Tirpitz slowly sailed out of Dubai Harbor.

Sheer stood on the bridge, watching the city's lights recede. On the dock, Chen Feng still stood there, a tiny black dot.

They turned around, facing the dark sea ahead.

"All fleet, speed twenty knots, heading one‑seven‑zero," they said, "We are heading to the Indian Ocean."

At ten o'clock at night, the Presidential Residence.

Chen Feng sat in the office, three documents laid on the desk.

The first was the mobilization progress of each unit.

Sinai direction: the 1st Mechanized Infantry Division, and the 2nd, 3rd, 7th, 8th, and 9th Divisions have all arrived at Hordassa; Zhao Dengyu sent a message: "Troops have assembled, ready to launch an attack at any time."

Persian Gulf direction: the Wang Guojian, Yang Guoyan, and Fan Pupu divisions have reached the Kuwait border; reconnaissance troops have infiltrated Yilang, and the British Army's defensive deployment has been essentially mapped.

Borneo direction: Zhou Zhen guo has arrived, Zhenyuan and Jiyuan have docked. The Sakura Nation's ten divisions are boarding one after another, expected to complete assembly within three days.

Naval side: over a hundred submarines have all set out, scattered throughout the Indian Ocean. Li Te's ocean‑going fleet has entered the Red Sea, moving toward the designated position.

Everything is progressing according to plan.

The second was the shipyard's assessment report on the Huaihe and the Zhujiang.

"Huaihe: hull structure severely damaged, left side breach requires steel plate replacement, bridge needs reconstruction, both Main Gun turrets require major overhaul, estimated repair time six months. Zhujiang: lighter damage, estimated repair time four months."

Chen Feng signed the report, "Agreed. Spare no expense in the rush repair."

The third was a secret telegram from Washington.

"President Wilson is willing to mediate. Yingguo has authorized Meilika to represent them in negotiations. Conditions: public apology, compensation for losses, some officers to undergo investigation. But they refuse to acknowledge a 'deliberate attack'."

Chen Feng finished reading it and set the telegram aside.

Wang Wenwu pushed the door open and entered.

"President, the Meilika consul has come again. Still wants to arrange a meeting with you."

Chen Feng did not look up.

"Tell him, at ten in the morning, I will meet him."

Wang Wenwu paused, "You have decided to negotiate?"

Chen Feng lifted his head, looking at him.

"Negotiate? No. I intend to tell them to give up that idea."

At four o'clock in the morning, Pier Three.

Repair work continued. Around the breach on Huaihe's starboard side, the deformed steel plates had been cut away, and workers were measuring dimensions, preparing to weld new ones on. The welding torch's sparks shone especially bright in the night, like countless falling stars.

Lin Fusheng stood on the scaffolding, holding a welding torch. He had been working continuously for twelve hours, his eyes gritty as if sand had been poured in them, yet he did not want to stop.

With each weld, he thought of his son.

When Lin Yuan was young, he loved watching him weld ships. Back then he was too short to reach, so he stood beside him, craning his neck to watch. He watched the sparks fly, the steel plates join, a ship slowly taking shape.

"Dad, when I grow up I also want to build ships."

Later he indeed built ships. Not as a welder, but as an engine crew, operating machinery on the ship.

Lin Fusheng welded again. The sparks illuminated his face, a face covered in sweat and unfinished tear tracks.

A young worker beside him shouted, "Master Lin, take a break; you've been at it all night."

Lin Fusheng shook his head.

"Not tired. I must fix it. My son was on it before."

The young worker said nothing further. He also picked up his welding torch and kept working.

In the distance, the sea surface begins to turn pale. Dawn is near.

On the dock, more and more workers start their shifts. When they pass the Huai River, they stop to glance, then silently pick up tools and join the repairs.

No one speaks; only the welding torches hiss—"hiss hiss hiss"—like the singing of metal.

Chen Feng stands by the window of the Presidential Palace, watching the flickering weld light on the dock.

That is the direction of the Huai River.

That is the direction of the Pearl River.

That is where those fallen sailors once served.

He recalls the fifty thousand faces in front of City Hall, recalls Lin Fusheng kneeling on the ground and weeping, recalls Zhang Zhen sitting in a wheelchair watching the Huai River.

"One hundred twenty‑seven people," he says softly. "Did you see? It's getting light."

Outside the window, the sun rises from the sea surface of the Persian Gulf.

Golden sunlight washes over the hull of the Huai River, coating the battered warship in a splendid gold. The bullet holes, the breaches, the twisted steel plates all seem to glow in the light.

On the dock, Lin Fusheng lifts his head and looks at the ship.

The welding torch is still in his hand, sparks still flying.

But he suddenly feels that the ship no longer looks so ruined.

It still exists.

It will rise again.

In the distance, the Bismarck and the Tirpitz have already vanished toward the Indian Ocean. There, She Er leads his fleet, awaiting prey.

Farther away, in Borneo, Sinai, the Persian Gulf, and the Red Sea, hundreds of thousands of Lanfang soldiers are gathering, preparing, waiting for the order.

The war has only just begun.

Chen Feng turns and walks back to his desk.

On the desk lies the appointment request from Consul Meilika.

He picks up a pen and writes a line:

"Tell him: Lanfang accepts no compromise of any kind. Unless the Yingguo kneel, then, we meet on the battlefield."

Then he sets the pen down, walks to the window, and takes one last look at the warship being repaired.

The weld light shines like stars.

Illuminating the dawn.