The Qing Dynasty is about to end

Chapter 979 Air Raid? Is it even feasible?

Over Port Moresby, March 12, 1886.

The clouds hung low over Port Moresby like a thick layer of cotton. The light reconnaissance airship Swift III, launched from the British airship mothership HMS Skylark (converted from the merchant ship Queen Orient), was floating silently at an altitude of 3,500 meters.

Inside the airship, Navy Lieutenant James Wilson held up his binoculars, his fingers turning slightly white from the effort. Through gaps in the clouds, he saw the steel behemoths anchored in Harbor Moresby—four enormous, black vessels, their chimneys emitting wisps of smoke, like four sleeping beasts.

“My God,” Wilson muttered, “those guys are bigger than Orion.”

Jack Brown, the Australian driver next to him, leaned over and squinted at it: "Lieutenant, that should be the Taiping Army's 'Qianlong II', with a standard displacement of 22,000 tons. It participated in the attack on Port Moresby last year."

Wilson's Adam's apple bobbed. He had never seen such a huge warship—longer than Britain's newest Orion-class, with four twin-gun turrets standing on its wide deck, the gun barrels at least 305 millimeters thick.

“Four big fish,” Wilson said through gritted teeth, “just lying there in the harbor, completely unguarded. If only my airships could be armed with bombs,” he slammed his fist on the bulkhead, “but those old fogies of Whitehall would rather throw money into more battleships than equip an airship with a single bomb!”

Telegraph operator Tom Harper looked up: "Lieutenant, shall we send a message?"

Wilson took a deep breath: "Send. The telegram reads: 'Four enemy capital ships spotted in Moresby Harbor, confirmed to be Qianlong-class battleships II. Also detected are four Donghai-class armored cruisers, four Jinshan-class light cruisers, and over ten county-class destroyers. No large transport ships were seen, presumably already out of port.'"

The airship's engines hummed softly, and radio waves pierced through the clouds, heading towards the "Skylark" a hundred nautical miles away. Wilson watched Port Moresby recede into the distance, a sense of powerlessness welling up inside him—such a perfect target, yet he could only watch helplessly.

Deep in the Coral Sea, the Royal Navy's Australian fleet.

On the sea, a massive fleet was sailing eastward in battle formation. At its core, sixteen battleships were arranged in two columns, their smokestacks belching dozens of black trails across the azure sky, like a giant comb slicing across the sea.

On the bridge of the flagship HMS Orion, Sir William Horatio Key stood with his hands behind his back by the window. His gaze swept across the orderly steel formation on the sea—a massive fleet consisting of sixteen warships, eight armored cruisers, and dozens of light cruisers, destroyers, and other auxiliary vessels, the last trump card of the British Empire in the Pacific.

“Spectacular, isn’t it?” Chief of Staff Major General Montagu walked up to him. “Sixteen capital ships, the most powerful strike force in the entire Southern Hemisphere.”

Sir Key did not answer. Forty-eight hours earlier, his fleet had just finished resupplying at Nouméa in French Caledonia and was now speeding toward Port Moresby.

“Sir,” Montague handed over a telegram, “the reconnaissance report from the ‘Skylark’.”

Sir Keith quickly scanned the telegram, his brow gradually relaxing. When he saw "four Submarine II battleships," the corner of his mouth twitched slightly.

“Sixteen against four,” Montagu’s voice was tinged with suppressed excitement, “and they’re in the port, they don’t even have room to maneuver.”

Sir John Key walked to the chart table and pointed to the location of Port Moresby. This was not a bay with a narrow mouth and a large belly, but an open anchorage—the Taiping warships had nowhere to hide.

“Order Lieutenant General Fisher,” Sir Key’s voice suddenly turned sharp, “to lead the fast formation ahead—Invincible, Hurricane, and Typhoon classes, all join the fast formation, advance at full speed, and blockade the perimeter of Port Moresby.”

Montagu quickly jotted down notes: "The main formation will follow?"

“Yes. The Orion and four Dreadnoughts form the first battleship, and the Majesty and Duncans form the second battleship.” Sir Key drew an arc on the chart with his finger. “We’re going to blast them into scrap metal like target practice.”

The officers on the bridge sprang into action, and the telegraph room crackled with the clatter of keyboards. Sir Keith looked out the window; the main guns of the sixteen battleships slowly turned, their dark muzzles pointing northeast—where the main force of the Taiping Heavenly Kingdom's South Pacific Fleet was obliviously awaiting its doom.

At the same time, at an altitude of 3,500 meters, the Taiping Army's "Honghu No. 7" airship.

Captain Li Yuanhong lowered his binoculars and rubbed his sore eyes. Through the gaps in the clouds, he could see clearly—the entire British fleet in Australia, like a group of sharks smelling blood, was rushing towards Port Moresby at full speed.

“At least sixteen capital ships and eight armored cruisers,” he whispered, “and a bunch of cruisers and destroyers.”

Telegraph operator Huang Daiwen had already prepared the transmitter: "Captain, shall we send a message?"

Li Yuanhong nodded, his gaze still fixed on the massive fleet on the sea: "Issue: 'The enemy's main fleet has reached the southern Coral Sea, coordinates 15 degrees 20 minutes south latitude, 148 degrees 45 minutes east longitude, heading northeast, speed 18 knots. It includes no fewer than sixteen battleships, no fewer than eight armored cruisers, and more than ten light cruisers.'"

As the airship's engines hummed, another radio wave pierced through the clouds, heading towards the "Tianhai" a hundred nautical miles away. Li Yuanhong sighed, looking at the British fleet's orderly formation, the cannons gleaming menacingly in the sunlight. They were going to fight to the death!

“What a pity,” he muttered to himself. “If only those Swallows were here.” He drew a dive path in the air with his hand. “A few squadrons could have blown these iron turtles to smithereens.”

Huang Daiwen smiled wryly: "Those 'swallows' can't fly that far; their maximum range is only 400 kilometers."

"That thing, once loaded with a bomb, can only fly a maximum of 200 kilometers!"

Li Yuanhong corrected him and raised the binoculars again.

The British fleet had changed formation, with four long battlecruisers leading a group of cruisers breaking away from the main force and speeding northeast at at least 24 knots—towards Port Moresby.

"Send a second telegram," Li Yuanhong's voice suddenly became urgent, "'The enemy's fast attack formation has broken away from the main force, including four battlecruisers and several armored cruisers, with a speed of over 24 knots, and is expected to arrive at Moresby within six hours. Immediate preparations for battle are recommended.'"

He lowered his binoculars; silence reigned inside the airship. Three thousand five hundred meters below, the steel behemoths that would determine the Pacific's dominance were hurtling towards the crossroads of destiny.

Port Moresby Airport, March 12, 1886.

Admiral Luo Xinhua, commander of the South Pacific Fleet, stood on the newly built airport runway, the warm sea breeze blowing in his face. He squinted at the JH-01 "Flying Swallow" biplane being pushed out by ground crew not far away—although the name of the aircraft sounded impressive, its fuselage was just a wooden frame covered with canvas, the wings were fixed with steel cables, and the engine nacelle was exposed, making it look like a dragonfly that had been skinned.

"Big brother, this thing is much better than an airship!" Luo Xinhua's third brother, Luo Xinbei, who had just been transferred from the Taiping Heavenly Kingdom, excitedly patted the wing. His mixed-race face was particularly striking in the sunlight, and his blue eyes shone with a clear light, making him look like a recent college graduate (he had indeed just graduated from the Taiping Heavenly Kingdom Naval Staff Academy). "With two 25-kilogram bombs on it, one dive would be enough to make the British battleships suffer!"

Luo Xinhua didn't say anything. He squatted down and poked the wing with his finger—the canvas made a muffled "plop plop" sound.

"That's it?" He looked up at his third brother. "You naval air force call this a 'secret weapon'?"

"Don't underestimate it!" Luo Xinbei pulled a crumpled blueprint from his pocket. "Old Dou designed it; he says it's for future naval warfare."

“Old Dou once said that humans could go to heaven and pluck the moon from the sky.” Luo Xinhua interrupted him, stood up and dusted off his hands. “This thing, with bombs on it, can’t even fly two hundred nautical miles. How are we going to fight the British fleet?”

Just then, his adjutant, Tsubaki Onodera, came running up, his military boots making a series of rapid thuds on the track.

"Report!" Onodera stood at attention and saluted, beads of sweat still clinging to his forehead. "A call from the Tianjing: the Honghu 7 has spotted the main British fleet, 280 nautical miles away, approaching Port Moresby!"

Luo Xinhua's face instantly darkened. He turned to look at the horizon—it was empty, but death was hurtling toward the port at a speed of over 20 knots.

"Sixteen battleships, eight armored cruisers," he muttered to himself, then suddenly turned to Luo Xinbei, "Can your 'Flying Swallow' carry bombs?"

"Yes!" Luo Xinbei, full of youthful confidence, puffed out his chest. "Each aircraft can carry two 25-kilogram bombs, and the airport currently has sixteen."

"Thirty-two small firecrackers to bomb a battleship?" Luo Xinhua sneered. "Do you know how thick the Orion's armor is? At least 305 millimeters!"

Luo Xinbei panicked: "We can blow up their deck! Blow up the chimney! Blow it up!"

"Report!" Another communications soldier ran up. "The British fast formation is approaching at 24 knots and is expected to engage the enemy in ten hours!"

Luo Xinhua turned abruptly, the sea breeze ruffling the hem of his military uniform. Staring at the few rudimentary "Flying Swallow" aircraft, he suddenly asked, "What is the maximum combat radius?"

"With ammunition on," Luo Xinbei swallowed hard. "80 nautical miles."

"80 nautical miles," Luo Xinhua quickly calculated in his mind. "The British fleet's rapid formation will be about 80 nautical miles off Port Moresby in 10 hours. Your planes..."

Luo Xinbei immediately patted his chest and said, "Boss, my naval air force will lead the charge. Although 25-kilogram bombs won't sink the capital ships, they'll definitely leave them all wounded!"

(End of this chapter)