The Qing Dynasty is about to end

Chapter 1025 Offensive, Red Lightning!
Atlantic Ocean, waters near the Faroe Islands.

The ten Enterprise-class aircraft carriers of the U.S. First Task Force formed a circular defensive line, their anti-aircraft guns raised, pointing straight to the sky. Suddenly, the shrill roar of engines came from the northwest—twelve Atlantic Sentinel torpedo bombers swooped down like vultures, their silver-gray wings tearing through the clouds.

"Enemy aircraft! Altitude 3000 meters!" The shouts from the observation post were drowned out by the bridge alarm.

These British land-based twin-engine bombers were the latest model of monoplanes, easily outmaneuvering the F4Bs that were intercepting them—biplane, single-engine carrier-based fighters with excellent turning performance, but slow speeds, making them no match for the British "Atlantic Sentinels."

Inside the cockpit of the lead aircraft, Royal Navy Lieutenant Commander James Carter gripped the control stick and shouted at the top of his lungs, "Descend! Prepare to drop mines!"

On the bridge of HMS Enterprise, Admiral Frank Fletcher's knuckles turned white from straining. Through his binoculars, he saw the silver-grey British bombers approaching at alarming speed. "Damn it!" he slammed his fist on the control panel. "All anti-aircraft guns, focus fire! Fighter squadrons, scramble immediately to intercept!"

On deck, ground crew waved signal flags frantically. F4B Wildcat fighter jets roared into the sky. Lieutenant Jack McCarthy gritted his teeth, the icy sea wind whipping against his face, making him shiver.

"Wildcat Squadron, follow me!" came the squadron leader's hoarse command over the headset. Jack pushed the throttle, and the formation of twelve F4Bs quickly climbed. But the British bombers were too fast—these "Atlantic Sentinels" were nearly 100 kilometers per hour faster than the F4Bs, and in the blink of an eye, they broke through the outer defenses.

Major Carter's Atlantic Sentinel formation slid down to 100 meters, its speed dropping to 250 km/h. The moment the torpedo hatch opened, Carter glimpsed the massive silhouette of the USS Yorktown on the sea. "Target locked! Steady—" Before the words were even finished, machine gun fire tore through the air.

Thirty F-4Bs swooped down from high altitude, flames spitting from their noses. 7.7mm bullets pierced the aluminum skin of the Atlantic Sentinels; one bomber's left wing broke off, and it spun and crashed into the sea; another was hit in its fuel tank and turned into a fireball. "Pull up! Damn pull up!" Carter roared, but the formation had become sitting ducks.

Jack McCarthy locked his grip on an Atlantic Sentinel, his thumb pulling the trigger. As the bullet pierced the enemy's tail, he saw the British rear gunner collapse in a pool of blood. "The seventh!" he silently counted the squadron's kills, only to see the remaining eight planes had already dropped their torpedoes—eight white trails of death piercing the port side of the Yorktown.

On the bridge of the HMS Yorktown, Captain William Halsey was sweating profusely. "Hard to port! Full speed reverse!" he roared into the megaphone. The helmsman frantically spun the rudder, and the 1.98-ton steel behemoth struggled to turn. Sailors on deck clung tightly to anchor points, watching the torpedo's contrail draw ever closer.

"Too late!" The lookout's scream ripped through the air. Two torpedoes slammed into the port side, the deafening explosions sending the entire ship reeling. In the flames, a 5-inch anti-aircraft gun was hurled into the sea by the shockwave. Captain Halsey was thrown against the bulkhead, blood trickling from his mouth. "Seal the watertight compartments B through D!" he ordered, spitting out blood. "Damage control team, move out immediately!"

Seawater surged wildly through the breach, and the Yorktown's inclinometer quickly spiked to 15 degrees. In the engine room, Seaman Tom Wilson was knocked down by the sudden influx of water. He struggled to his feet and saw his comrade pinned under a broken pipe. "Hold on!" Tom tore off his belt to use as a tourniquet, but the surging seawater had already reached his waist.

On the bridge, Captain Halsey saw an even more horrifying sight through the broken porthole—a third torpedo was hurtling towards the stern. "Hard starboard!" he shouted hoarsely, but it was too late. With a deafening explosion, the entire stern was lifted up and slammed back into the sea. The main steering mechanism completely failed, and the warship began to spin in circles.

Below deck, chaos reigned in the medical ward. Medic Richard Collins was tending to a sailor wounded in the abdomen when suddenly the ship tilted violently. Medicine bottles fell from shelves, surgical instruments scattered everywhere. "My God!" Collins cried, watching seawater rush in through the cracks in the door, quickly flooding the wounded sailor's bed.

On the flight deck, ground crew chief Michael O'Brien directed the final rescue efforts. He led the sailors in securing the aircraft, which was sliding toward the side, with steel cables, but a lifeboat suddenly broke free, sweeping three sailors into the sea. "Abandon the deck! Evacuate!" O'Brien ordered, his eyes red, while he himself rushed toward the leaking aircraft.

When the British carrier-based aircraft arrived, the battlefield had already become a carnage. Forty Sea Vixen biplane fighters were providing cover for Seagull dive bombers and Swordfish torpedo bombers, but the American F4Bs were all flying low as they were chasing the Atlantic Sentinel.

"God! They're on the chopping block!" British pilot Lieutenant Brown excitedly throttled the accelerator. His Gull dive bomber began its descent from 3000 meters, and the deck of the Lexington became increasingly clear in his sights.

But at the same time, as the surviving Atlantic Sentinel suddenly climbed, the F4Bs following behind also took advantage of the situation and pulled up as well. Jack McCarthy's lead plane just happened to be the first to rush into the British carrier air group, and machine gun fire instantly destroyed a Sea Vixen.

Brown's Gull had just entered its dive trajectory when F4B bullets pierced its wings. He gritted his teeth and continued the dive, finally dropping two 250-pound bombs at an altitude of 800 meters, only to see the deck of the USS Lexington rapidly magnify in his sights. Two fireballs exploded on the flight deck, tearing the teak deck to shreds like scrap paper. On the Lexington, damage control crew member John Miller was thrown off his feet by the blast wave. As he scrambled to his feet, he saw a burning Gull hurtling towards the island superstructure. "Get down!" he yelled, throwing himself onto his comrade as hot metal fragments rained down on the deck.

On the bridge of the USS Enterprise, Admiral Frank Fletcher's fists clenched so tightly they cracked. Through his binoculars, the Yorktown was listing at 30 degrees, flames engulfing its stern—it seemed doomed; the Lexington had a hole in its deck, thick smoke billowing into the sky—at least severely damaged!
"Cruiser, launch seaplanes!" he said in an icy voice. "Follow the returning British carrier-based aircraft—find their carrier!" Ten Curtiss SOC seaplanes were launched from the cruiser and, like hounds, seized the damaged British aircraft fleeing westward.

About an hour later, on the bridge of HMS Enterprise, the telegraph operator suddenly took off his headset, his face pale: "Sir, reconnaissance aircraft report! The British carrier group is retreating northwest at full speed, heading 310, and the distance between us has increased to 220 nautical miles!"

Admiral Frank Fletcher slammed his fist on the chart table. "Full speed ahead? They've got a good run!" He stared at the ink stains, his gums clenching painfully—those damned British had calculated the distance perfectly, they hit and ran.

The roar of landing aircraft echoed from the deck. Through the porthole, Fletcher saw the last F4B wobbling as it hooked onto the arresting cable, its wings riddled with bullet holes. Ground crew swarmed towards the wounded warplane like ants, while further away, the stern of the HMS Yorktown had sunk into the sea, leaving only the twisted flight deck leaning like a tombstone in the waves.

"Pass on the order!" Fletcher's voice was like ice. "After recovering all the aircraft, the entire fleet will proceed to 310 at maximum speed!" He grabbed the communicator and went straight to the engine room: "I don't care how much fuel you burn—you must keep the British on your tail within 24 hours!"

The staff officer hesitated, "Sir, our escort destroyers need fuel."

"Let them follow behind at economical speed!" Fletcher ripped open his collar. "Tell the carriers that are still operational to have all dive bomber squadrons armed with armor-piercing rounds and ready to go!"

On the flight deck of HMS Illustrious, the last Sea Vixen fighter crashed onto the deck, billowing black smoke. The moment the arresting cable snapped, the ground crew blew a piercing whistle, and twenty sailors rushed forward to use their bodies to hold the sliding aircraft back up.

Inside the bridge, Vice Admiral David Beatty drew a sharp zigzag line on the nautical chart with his index finger: "Heading 025, full speed 32 knots. Notify all motherships to disperse and retreat according to Plan Z."

"But there are still 12 carrier-based aircraft that haven't been recovered." The chief of staff was interrupted as soon as he started to speak.

“Sacrificial pawns.” Betty took off his glasses and wiped them, the deep blue of the North Sea region reflected on the nautical chart. “Send them to land in the Faroe Islands.” He turned to the communications officer: “Send a message to the Admiralty: Our fleet has severely damaged two enemy aircraft carriers and is now implementing tactical maneuvers.”

At that moment, a damaged Gull bomber attempted to land on the rocking deck, but lost control and plunged into the sea at the last second. Betty, watching the splash, suddenly whispered to the chief of staff, "Request that Scapa 2 and Faroe Islands continue to send 'Atlantic Sentinels' to attack the US fleet. However, this time, do not carry torpedoes. Whether or not bombs can achieve results is not important; just harass the US fleet."

At noon on April 18, 1914, outside Dunkirk, northeastern France.

Steel tracks rolled across the muddy fields, the roar of diesel engines shaking the earth. More than a hundred "Thunderbolt" heavy tanks formed a wedge-shaped attack formation, their gun barrels like a forest, pointing directly at the northern Belgian border. The tank commanders pushed open the hatches, and the biting spring wind, carrying the smell of engine oil, filled their nostrils.

On the lead T-14 command tank, "Red Thunder," Colonel Jean Laroche's fingertip traced the thick red arrow on the map—like a sharp knife, pressed against the throat of the Liège fortress in Belgium. Suddenly, static crackled through the radio: "Attention! Order from the President of the Supreme People's Council!"

Before the border post, Belgian soldiers watched in horror as the steel torrent surged toward the horizon. Sentry Joseph van der Wiel's legs began to tremble—the bright red slogans on the tan tank turrets gleamed in the sunlight: "Revenge for 1884!"—clearly, the French still remembered the grudge of Belgium secretly allowing Germany passage through their territory in 1884!
"Warning shot!" The Belgian officer's shrill command had barely left his lips when the 75mm main gun of the "Red Lightning" tank erupted in flames. The outpost was reduced to rubble in the explosion, and the surviving defenders scattered in panic. Larroc grabbed the communicator, his voice booming through the external speakers of every tank: "Forward! Crush the land of imperialist Belgium with your tracks!"

(End of this chapter)