The Qing Dynasty is about to end

Chapter 951 Erdezi, turn back! The outside is full of NATO forces!

April 1884, 10 Downing Street, London.

The mist over the Thames, carrying dampness, slowly seeped into the tightly closed windows of the wartime cabinet meeting room at 10 Downing Street. Prime Minister Gladstone pushed open the heavy, ornate door, a telegram clutched between his fingers, his grey-blue eyes gleaming with excitement in the candlelight. His leather shoes clattered heavily on the Persian carpet, each step seeming as if he were stepping on the coffin lid of the German Empire.

"Gentlemen," his voice was deep and powerful, as if squeezed from the depths of his chest, "good news! Hong Tiangui has been crowned in St. Louis!"

The atmosphere in the meeting room immediately became lively.

America has a new emperor! This is fantastic news!

The pen in the hand of Prince George, Duke of Cambridge, Commander-in-Chief of the Army, clattered onto the document, and the furrowed brows of First Lord of the Admiralty, Hugh Childs, instantly relaxed. Gladstone raised the telegram, letting the parchment flutter in the air: "The Eastern Federation is furious. They have announced a general mobilization—the world's third-largest industrial nation will smash the hammers of Germany and the Taiping Heavenly Kingdom for us!"

The applause began sparsely, then erupted like thunder. Foreign Secretary Lord Granville rose slowly, smoothing out non-existent wrinkles on his tailcoat. His gaze swept over each cabinet member present, finally settling on the map of Europe on the wall. “The People’s Commissar for Foreign Affairs of Red France, Karl Moore, will arrive in London next week,” he said with the composure of a victor, “to sign the treaty for joining the North Atlantic Alliance.” He paused, a cold smile playing on his lips. “The promise of the Russian Tsar has also arrived: the Russian Empire will never withdraw from NATO. Now, Russia is NATO’s most steadfast member.”

Prince George, Duke of Cambridge, suddenly slammed his knuckles on the table, his Hanoverian accent filled with deep-seated hatred: "Ha ha, that old bastard William..." His gaze swept across the German Empire, surrounded by red markers on the map, "To the east lies Tsarist Russia, to the west France, and to the north and south are the Royal Navy's blockade lines! His empire is already a prison!"

This duke's Kingdom of Hanover chose the wrong side in the Franco-Prussian War, siding with Austria, and was subsequently wiped out by Prussia! Although he had his cousin, Queen Victoria, to protect him, he still harbored deep resentment!

Amidst the uproar of laughter, Gladstone raised a hand to stifle the commotion. The Prime Minister's smile vanished abruptly, replaced by a cold, iron-like expression: "We should still give Emperor Wilhelm one last chance." His finger traced Berlin on the map, "If he remains obstinate—" He paused, emphasizing his words, "the British Empire will dismember his German Empire with its own hands!"

One week later, at the Berlin Royal Palace.

Kaiser Wilhelm I sat gauntly on his gilded throne, the firelight from the fireplace flickering across his deeply lined face. Prince Arthur, the British envoy, stood bowed, his face contorted with apprehension. “Your Majesty,” his voice choked, “if Germany continues its hostile stance towards Red France… the embargo on nitrates will take effect tomorrow.”

"An embargo?" The old emperor suddenly grabbed his silver cane and slammed it on the floor, sparks flying from the inlaid gems. "Tell Gladstone! The German army can make Paris kneel three times!" His chest heaved violently, his white beard trembling as he pointed eastward. "As for saltpeter... Germany's warehouses are already overflowing with enough explosives to flatten Europe!"
If Britain insists on being at war with Germany, then starting tomorrow, the shipyards in Hamburg will begin producing battleships capable of crushing the Royal Navy!

Prince Arthur bowed deeply and backed away from the palace. From the shadows, the Iron Chancellor Bismarck slowly emerged, followed by Chief of the General Staff Moltke and First Lord of the Admiralty Caprivie. The expressions on the three faces were identical—solemn and unyielding.

"The worst has come," William I sighed, his eyes closed, his aged hand stroking the armrest of his throne.

“No, Your Majesty.” Bismarck bent down to pick up his cane, his movements as gentle as if handling a sacred relic. “The worst thing would be to perish along with the Austrian Empire.” He unfolded a parchment map, its dark border stretching from the North Sea to the Adriatic. “Now, eighty million Germans are here!”

The Kaiser turned to look at the Chief of the General Staff Moltke and the First Minister of the Navy, Admiral Kaprivi.

Marshal Moltke's hawk-like eyes swept across the map, and his pencil drew a blood-red arrow along the Rhine River: "With His Majesty's mobilization order, four million troops can be assembled within three months, of which three and a half million can be used on the western front!"

Caprivi unfolded a roll of blueprints still smelling of ink: "Through these past few months of technical exchange, we've obtained the blueprints for the 'Qianlong'-class battleships, and the analysis report on the 'Tianjing' being hit has also been sent along—it's extremely valuable information." He took a photograph from a file folder showing a shell penetrating a steel plate and placed it before the Emperor. "This ship sank three British battleships in the Indian Ocean and once fought five against one! And we possess all the technology to build it, even better! We've mastered the technology for 305mm rapid-fire guns! In just 18 months—a 20,000-ton ironclad behemoth will be facing off against the British battleships in the North Sea!"

Bismarck whispered, "Regarding diplomacy with Russia... perhaps we can give the Tsar one last chance." "No need!" the Emperor suddenly roared. "Alexander III is a fool. The biggest fool in Europe! Half his ministers and nobles are spiritual French, and his intellectuals consider everything French to be truth. With such a national situation, he still dares to ally with Red France! He's simply insane! I don't negotiate with madmen! Prime Minister, contact Istanbul immediately—establish a German-Austrian alliance!" He gritted his teeth, "The British can blockade us, and we can blockade Russia. Let's see who can hold out the longest!"

A cold wind from the North Sea swept through the shipyards of Kiel. Admiral Kaprivi strode across the oil-stained steel plates, his boots echoing dully on the iron deck. Before him stood the fully fitted armored cruiser HMS Teutonic Knight—a steel behemoth with a standard displacement of 14200 tons, its two twin 210mm main gun turrets on the bow appearing menacing under the dark clouds.

“General,” the shipyard director removed his steam-smoked glasses and pointed to the armor belt amidships, “150mm Krupp carburized steel, installed at a 12-degree angle, equivalent to 180mm of vertical protection. It can withstand 305mm armor-piercing rounds at a range of 9000 meters!”

Caprivi nodded slightly, his gaze sweeping over the Zeiss rangefinder atop the bridge. Beside him, Rear Admiral Tirpitz—a rising naval talent who had only just emerged in 1884—was sketching in his notebook with a pencil: "Baltic commerce raiding requires more flexible tactics." His words were brimming with confidence: "The Russian armored cruisers don't exceed 18 knots, while our 'Teutonic Knights' can reach 24 knots, just like the Taiping Heavenly Kingdom's 'Jingyuan' class. We can escape British battleships by relying on high speed, while the British 'Typhoon' class, although capable of 25.5 knots, has too weak firepower and armor; it's no match for the 'Teutonic Knights.'"

“But the British Invincible-class battlecruisers had 305mm main guns and speeds exceeding 25 knots,” said Captain von Spee, the first captain of the Teutonic Knight. “If we encountered one, there would still be danger.”

Kaprivi suddenly sneered, pulling a nautical chart from his briefcase: "If it dares to enter the Baltic Sea, its doom is nigh." His fingertip pointed to the Copenhagen Strait. "The Denmark Strait is only four nautical miles at its narrowest point, a crucial route for merchant ships heading to St. Petersburg." Three interception routes were marked in red on the parchment: "Three Teutonic Knight-class destroyers will take turns attacking, coordinated with submarine reconnaissance and ambushes—"

“A submarine?” Tirpitz raised an eyebrow.

“A new toy from the Brandenburg Machine Works,” Caprivie took the model from his adjutant, the bronze propeller of the iron-hulled submarine gleaming in the sunlight. “30 meters long, propelled by Daimler gasoline engines, batteries, and electric motors, with an underwater speed of 6 knots, and capable of carrying six 450mm torpedoes.” He turned the model to reveal the ram at the bow. “It’s equally effective at sinking merchant ships. But for now, it’s our secret weapon, used to ambush the ‘Invincible’ class.”

In addition, we can also lay mines outside the Gulf of Riga and the Gulf of Finland!

The sea breeze suddenly intensified, scattering the trial flags flying at the stern. Caprivi pressed his cap against his shoulder and looked out at the gray sea: "Tell His Majesty that in six months, the Baltic Sea will become a graveyard for British and Russian merchant ships."

Spring rain pattered against the glazed tiles of the Wu Prince's Mansion in Tianjing City. Luo Yaoguo pushed open the carved wooden window, and a wave of damp heat, carrying the fragrance of lotus blossoms, rushed in. Baron Ketteler, the German ambassador to the Taiping Heavenly Kingdom, sat upright, the double-headed eagle emblem on his Prussian blue uniform gleaming in the candlelight.

"Your Excellency," Luo Yaoguo said, stroking the celadon teacup, "I heard that the Berlin Zoo has a new South China tiger?"

Klind's beard trembled slightly: "It was transported from Yunnan in your country, and His Majesty is very pleased with it." He put down his teacup and went straight to the point, "Our country hopes to conclude a Holy Alliance with your country—to jointly confront the British Empire's maritime hegemony."

Luo Yaoguo looked at the Pacific Ocean chart hanging on the wall. The Taiping Heavenly Kingdom's red flag had been planted in Hawaii, while the British red and blue Union Jack was still all over the Indian Ocean. He suddenly chuckled: "Last year's Battle of Malacca, the British nautical charts captured by our army showed"—his finger swept across the Andaman Islands—"their patrol fleet in the Persian Gulf consisted of only a few old ironclad warships."

Klind's pupils suddenly contracted.

“Three months later,” Luo Yaoguo took out a draft treaty written in Chinese, German, and Turkish from his desk, “two ‘Jingyuan’-class armored cruisers will escort six fast transport ships carrying saltpeter to Basra.” He unfolded the draft treaty, “on the condition that the Ottoman Empire recognizes the Taiping Heavenly Kingdom’s special interests in the Persian Gulf.”

"Special interests? The Persian Gulf?" Baron Ketteler really didn't understand what was so special about the Persian Gulf. Sand?
“Yes!” Luo Yaoguo nodded. “It’s the Persian Gulf!”

(End of this chapter)