The Qing Dynasty is about to end

Chapter 957 Moltke's Plan
10 Downing Street, London.

The flames in the fireplace illuminated Prime Minister Gladstone's calm, expressionless old face.

His wartime cabinet members sat around a heavy oak table, the air still thick with a barely concealed sense of defeatism. Sir Hacker, the chief secretary, gently placed a newly translated telegram before the Prime Minister; that thin piece of paper, yet brimming with the powerful force of English winning philosophy!

Gladstone pushed up his gold-rimmed glasses, his sharp gaze sweeping over every word as if trying to extract every bit of the sweetness of victory. He slowly raised his head, his eyes behind the lenses flashing with a long-lost, almost piercing light that broke the silence in the room.

"Gentlemen," his voice, though not loud, carried an undeniable force that pierced through the smoke, "this is news of victory from the Pacific."

Everyone seemed to hold their breath for a moment, and all eyes turned to focus on them.

"Our ally—the United States Navy Pacific Fleet, under the exceptional command of Vice Admiral George Dewey," Gladstone's tone rose, carrying a deliberately suppressed fervor, "launched a surprise attack at dawn seven days ago, and with thunderous force, captured the strategic stronghold of the Hawaiian Islands—the entire island of Maui—in just seven short days!"

A suppressed gasp and the sound of chairs shifting filled the air. First Lord of the Admiralty, Hugh Childs, straightened up abruptly, his eyes gleaming with a fierce light, as if it were the Royal Navy of the British Empire, not the American forces, that had captured Maui.

Gladstone pressed his hands down to signal silence, but the sense of victory in his voice was even stronger: "What does this mean? It means that the center of gravity of the Pacific theater will inevitably shift northward from the waters off Port Moresby in the South Pacific to the Hawaiian Islands! Whether or not the Taiping Heavenly Kingdom's Admiral Huang Chengzhong can ultimately recapture the lost territory in the Second Hawaiian Campaign, or merely pin Dewey's fleet there in a war of attrition," he paused deliberately, emphasizing his words, "our Australian fleet will gain at least twelve precious months as a result!"

These "twelve months" were like a curse, causing everyone present to glow with a rosy light.

Gladstone's voice suddenly rose, carrying an almost prophetic certainty: "And by 1885, gentlemen, the true blade of the Imperial Navy will be unsheathed! Our 'Dreadnought'-class battleships and 'Invincible'-class battlecruisers will begin to enter service in large numbers! They will completely end the brief advantage that the Taiping Heavenly Kingdom Navy established in the Pacific with ships such as the 'Hailong' and 'Qianlong'!"

He strolled to the huge world map on the wall, his finger pointing heavily to the British Isles: "Not only that! The successor to the Dreadnought-class, the Hercules-class battleship with a standard displacement exceeding 20,000 tons, will also begin construction this year!" He turned around, his gaze sweeping over the crowd, his expression resolute: "Even more exciting is that the development of the 13.5-inch (343 mm) giant guns is nearing completion! The Hercules-class will be equipped with five twin-mounted 13.5-inch turrets! This will be the most powerful sea fortress ever built by mankind! Its birth will completely herald the end of the Taiping Heavenly Kingdom's naval era! The Pacific Ocean will once again be under the control of the Royal Navy!"

Thunderous applause erupted in the conference room, lasting for a long time. Everyone saw the dawn of victory; the heavy shadow of war seemed to have been torn open by this series of good news.

Gladstone waited patiently for the applause to subside, a confident smile spreading across his face: "And another crucial diplomatic victory! Mexican President Díaz has already signed a secret agreement to join the North Atlantic Treaty! In three months, the Mexican army will fight alongside the United States army against the Western American Empire rebels entrenched in California! The stalemate on the Western Front is about to be broken!"

Another round of even more enthusiastic applause and low cheers followed.

As the applause subsided, Foreign Minister Earl Granville asked with a hint of caution, "Your Excellency, regarding the news of Mexico's accession to NATO... should it also be released to the press? That seems overly sensitive..."

“Yes! Of course!” Gladstone interrupted him without hesitation, his voice resolute. “Not only must we tell the press, but we must let the whole world know! We must use the torrent of public opinion to completely crush Diaz’s pitiful room for maneuver! We cannot leave him even the slightest chance to play both sides! We must firmly bind him and Mexico to our war machine! Let Berlin, let Nanjing, let San Francisco see clearly that Mexico’s choice is the choice of the British Empire-led order!”

Berlin, the Royal Palace.

Unlike the fervent atmosphere of the wartime cabinet in London, the atmosphere of the Imperial Conference at the Berlin Palace carried the characteristic Prussian austerity and precision. Emperor Wilhelm I, with his white hair and beard, sat regally in the main seat, exuding the purest "Aryan winning mentality" in every gesture. The young Prince William stood beside him, his sharp eyes filled with a thirst for victory. Chancellor Bismarck, with his signature pipe dangling from his lips, his eyes deep and unfathomable amidst the swirling smoke, stood solemnly. Army Minister Fritz and Navy Minister Caprivi stood on either side, like statues cast in steel.

This was an "Aryan Winning Conference" belonging to the "Holy Alliance"—the German Empire was about to step into the battlefield of world war, and everyone longed for the favor of the goddess of victory.

Prime Minister Bismarck rose first, bowed to the Emperor, and said in a steady and powerful voice: "Your Majesty, confirmation has arrived from Istanbul and Mexico City. Sultan Abdul Hamid II of the Ottoman Empire and President Díaz of the Republic of Mexico have both clearly stated that they will stand firmly on the side of the 'Holy Alliance' and fight to the end against the corrupt and decadent Anglo-American-Russian-French bloc!"

The old emperor nodded slightly, a barely perceptible hint of satisfaction flashing in his eyes. The geographical location of the Ottoman Empire and Mexico was crucial, a strategic pass controlling the Black Sea and a land bridge to Asia—for the German Empire, which was facing a naval blockade, a railway from Berlin to Basra, coupled with crucial supplies delivered there by the Taiping Heavenly Kingdom via armored cruisers and fast merchant ships, would be ideal.

Meanwhile, another power controlling vast amounts of silver and a shortcut to the Pacific Ocean—the Western American Empire—is currently vying with the United States of East America for control of the Nicaragua Canal. If Mexico joins the Holy Alliance, the battle for the Nicaragua Canal will soon end in a victory for the Western American Empire.

At that time, the naval fleets of the Taiping Heavenly Kingdom and the Western American Empire would be able to enter the Caribbean Sea and the Atlantic Ocean—even just a commerce raiding fleet would cause the British Royal Navy a great deal of trouble, thus greatly reducing the maritime blockade faced by the German Empire.

War Minister Frith followed up with his report, his tone crisp and decisive, characteristic of a soldier: "Your Majesty, in accordance with your orders and the General Staff's plans, the first contingent of 2000 of the Empire's most elite military advisors arrived secretly in Constantinople a week ago. They are taking full control of the core command positions and training system of the Ottoman army, ensuring that His Majesty's army will deliver a heavy blow to the invading Russian bear on the upcoming Caucasus and Balkan fronts! We will use the sword of Prussia to tame the Sultan's Janissaries." "Very well," Wilhelm I's voice was aged yet clear. "Let the Russians bleed in the mountains of Anatolia and the muds of Bulgaria, and our Eastern Front will be secure."

First Lord of the Navy, Caprivi, stepped forward, his report bringing good news from the Pacific: "Your Majesty, the key node in the Pacific theater has been firmly grasped! Under the command of Lieutenant General Luo Xinhua, the Pacific Fleet of the United States, together with its elite 4th Brigade, has successfully encircled Blenca Bay, a key town at the western entrance of the Nicaragua Canal! The crucial node of the canal route has been cut off!"

According to the latest intelligence, the main force of the US Eastern Pacific Fleet has been forced to retreat to Christmas Island Atoll, and its supply and reinforcement routes via the canal have been completely blocked! Dewey's victory on Maui is now a lost cause!

"Oh?" Prince William couldn't help but exclaim softly, his young face filled with excitement. The strategic significance of cutting off the canal was no less than that of occupying an island.

Kaprivi continued, "The Luo brothers' actions were precise and deadly, perfectly executing the 'noose plan' jointly devised by our General Staff and the American Empire (this is gilding Moltke's old face). Now, the noose around the neck of the US East Pacific Fleet has tightened."

The old emperor turned his gaze to Moltke: "Chief of the General Staff, what about the Western Front? What gift have we prepared for Paris?"

Field Marshal Moltke stood up and walked to the huge sand table of the European theater. His movements were steady and powerful, every detail exuding a confidence honed through countless trials. He picked up his slender baton and pointed to the long, winding blue strip on the Franco-German border marked "Karl Mohr Line."

“Your Majesty, Your Highness, Your Excellencies,” Moltke’s voice was not loud, but it carried a cold, penetrating force, “After repeated simulations and intelligence verification, the General Staff has formulated a new operational plan against France—the ‘Blitzkrieg Paris’ plan.”

The command baton glided precisely across the Belgian territory on the sand table, avoiding the main body of the exceptionally fortified Karl Mohr Line, built along the Vosges Mountains in the southern part of the Franco-German border. "According to our precise intelligence, the French have concentrated over 70% of their defensive forces and their strongest permanent fortifications in the southern section of the line, in the Lorraine region west of the Vosges Mountains. Their objective is clear: to prevent our army, and our allies—the remnants of the Bonaparte dynasty—from launching a direct attack on Paris from the south."

The command baton then abruptly shifted northward, focusing on the relatively flat and open area along the Franco-Belgian border: "On the northern line of the Karl Mohr Line, in the vast plains bordering France and Belgium, the French defenses are relatively lax. They seem to believe that Belgian neutrality and the possibility of British intervention are sufficient to act as a barrier." A cold smile curled at the corner of Moltke's lips. "This will be a fatal miscalculation for the French!"

The tip of the baton drew a powerful arc across Belgium before piercing deep into northern France: "The core of our 'Mooch Plan' is: to use our main force to pass through neutral Belgium! Under strong diplomatic pressure and political guarantees, we will quickly traverse Belgian territory, concentrate the Empire's most elite armored assault forces and cavalry groups, and after completing our assembly on the Belgian plains, forcefully tear open the relatively weak link in the Karl Moor Line from the northern flank!"

His command baton slammed heavily onto the model of the flat fields of northern France on the sand table: "Once the breakthrough is successful, we will deploy three of our most elite armored assault divisions, five fully manned cavalry divisions, and at least 70 well-equipped and highly motivated infantry divisions! Like an iron torrent, we will unleash our power across the flat, open plains of northern France! We will crush everything in our path and march straight towards Paris! Any French troops that attempt to stop us will be utterly crushed by this unparalleled force!"

Moltke raised his head, his gaze sweeping over the crowd like a hawk's before finally settling on the Emperor: "Your Majesty, according to the most precise calculations and war game simulations, from the first day of the attack, our army will only need 39 days—yes, just 39 days—to advance from the border to the gates of Paris! Our forces will be aimed directly at the heart of France!"

The meeting room was silent, save for Moltke's steady voice. 39 days! This number was like a curse, carrying a suffocating sense of oppression and an unquestionable authority.

Emperor Wilhelm I remained silent for a full half minute, a piercing light flashing in his cloudy eyes. He slowly rose to his feet, his aged body seemingly infused with new strength. He walked to the sand table and gazed at the exquisite model representing Paris.

“39 days…” The old emperor’s voice was deep and firm, carrying an unquestionable determination, “I have approved the General Staff’s plan.”

He turned around, his gaze fixed intently on Marshal Moltke: "When can we launch the attack?"

Marshal Moltke stood tall, like a javelin: "Your Majesty, everything is ready! The ideal window of opportunity for launching the attack is September 3rd or 4th, 1884! At that time, the weather will be favorable for our army's rapid maneuver. The French harvest begins in September, and according to custom, soldiers from the countryside in the French army will be given 1-2 months of leave to go home and help with the harvest. Therefore, in early September (the harvest time varies from place to place, and so does the leave time), the actual number of French troops will be the smallest."

“September 3, 1884…” The old emperor repeated the date, as if trying to etch it into his very bones. He slowly raised his head, looked out at the gray sky over Berlin, and a smile that was almost benevolent, yet utterly ruthless, appeared on his lips: “Very well. Then, Marshal Moltke, I command you to use your sword to pave the way for Paris for the Empire.”

He paused, his voice carrying an undeniable expectation, yet also like a cold decree:

"I hope to spend Christmas in Paris this year."

(End of this chapter)