The Qing Dynasty is about to end

Chapter 997 This is the final gamble
February 12, 1887, Beihai Park, morning mist.

On the bridge of the Royal Navy battleship HMS Majesty, Admiral Fisher's knuckles were white from gripping his brass binoculars tightly. The thick fog of the Skagerrak Strait, like a soaked blanket, stitched the sea and sky into a grayish-white chaos, reducing visibility to less than 1000 yards.

"Still no sign of the German fleet?" His voice was filled with disbelief.

Navigation Commander Williams shook his head: "The patrol destroyer 'Lightning' has sent a signal that only three German light cruisers have been spotted on the east side of the strait. They immediately turned and retreated after encountering our vanguard."

Fisher's brow furrowed deeply. This was highly unusual—the Germans couldn't possibly be unaware of what this transport fleet meant to a crippled Russia. As he turned, the heels of his boots scraped against the floor, and his finger jabbed heavily at Wilhelmshaven: "The movements of the main force of the High Seas Fleet?"

“The last reliable intelligence was 72 hours ago,” Captain Parker, the intelligence officer, pushed up his gold-rimmed glasses, the lenses reflecting the flickering light of the kerosene lamp. “All six Nassau-class ships are anchored in Wilhelmshaven, with their boilers cold.”

An eerie silence fell over the bridge, broken only by the hissing of the steam pipes and the intermittent ticking of the telegraph machine. Fisher felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end—this unsettling calm was more unsettling than encountering the entire German fleet.

"Order the escort fleet to maintain a speed of 12 knots," he finally broke the silence, his voice sounding like it was being squeezed from his lungs. "Main fleet to maintain a distance of 20 nautical miles, all ship gun positions to be on high alert."

Two hours later, at the entrance to the Baltic Sea.

"Smoke column! A large smoke column has been detected in the northeast direction!"

The screeching of lookout Jackson pierced the muffled silence of the bridge of the battlecruiser HMS Repulse. Vice Admiral Sebastian Williams dashed to the starboard window, the adjustment ring of his brass binoculars clicking in his hand. In the dissipating fog, a blurry black silhouette emerged on the distant horizon—at least twenty plumes of smoke, like spears of hell, pierced the leaden sky, the outlines of tall triangular masts faintly visible.

"My God!" Chief Artillery Officer Anderson gasped, nearly dropping the rangefinder in his hand. "Is that the main German fleet?"

Sebastian Williams did not answer. His retina reflected the gradually clearing outlines—the distinctively Russian blunt bow, the chaotic layout of the funnels, and the iconic sloping masts—a memory suddenly flashed back to the model he had seen years earlier at the St. Petersburg Naval Shipyard.

"It's the Russian fleet!" the communications officer of HMS Majesty, the flagship of the British Home Fleet, suddenly shouted, and the telegraph machine began to rattle wildly. "They've sent an identification signal!"

The cipher trembled as he read the message: "'Peter the Great' to its British allies: By order of the Tsar, we are coming to their aid. The German fleet's whereabouts are unknown. Please remain vigilant. — Nikolai Ivanovich Crado."

Fisher suddenly laughed out loud: "The Tsar has actually staked everything on this?" He turned to his adjutant, the gold thread on the cuff of his uniform gleaming in the kerosene lamp. "Signal the escort fleet to enter the Baltic Sea as planned. Target: St. Petersburg."

An hour later, in the southwestern waters of Gotland.

As the British armored cruiser HMS Typhoon sailed side-by-side with the Russian ship Rurik in the waves, the sailors on both ships smiled at each other across the sea, dozens of meters away. The Russian sailors wore patched-up woolen uniforms, yet they had polished the teak decks until they were reflective; the British sailors, on the other hand, were surprised to find that the Russian warships' side armor was covered with rough repair marks, and that the seams of the steel plates still bore traces of gunpowder that had not been properly cleaned.

In the officers' mess hall of the battleship "Peter the Great," Admiral Cladow was pouring vodka for Fisher with trembling hands. "We've been lying in ambush here for three days," he said, his bloodshot eyes gleaming with fanaticism, his heavily accented Slavic English slurred under the influence of alcohol, "His Majesty the Tsar said that even if it costs us the entire Baltic Fleet, we must get the supplies back to St. Petersburg!"

Fisher noticed the sandbags and first-aid kits piled up in the corner of the restaurant, and the bloodstains on the wall that hadn't been wiped clean—clearly, this was a fleet undergoing the test of war!
He took a sip of his strong liquor and suddenly asked, "What's been going on with the Germans lately?"

“An unusual silence,” Admiral Claddo said in a low voice, exhaling a puff of vodka. “Ever since the ‘Pomerania’ left Danzig last week, the entire German fleet has been like it’s been devoured by the devil.”

Fisher's fingers tapped unconsciously on the oak tabletop. It was too quiet, eerily quiet.

Meanwhile, at an altitude of 3000 meters.

The German airship LZ-7 hovered silently above the clouds, its aluminum frame covered in ice crystals. Major Commander von Richthofen, the observer, recorded the formation of the British fleet through a specially made high-powered telescope from Zeiss. His boots sank into the frosty aluminum floor, and his breath condensed into frost on the eyepiece.

“Confirmed: 4 Invincible-class, 4 Majestic-class, 4 Dauntless-class, and 2 Orion-class,” he told the shivering radio operator, his voice trembling slightly with excitement. “All have entered the Baltic Sea.” The operator’s wool-gloved fingers flew across the Morse key, sending radio waves through the clouds to Wilhelmshaven, 300 kilometers away. The radio equipment in the airship pods was Siemens’ latest product, with an astonishing effective range of 350 kilometers.

William Harbor Naval Command, that same evening.

As Tirpitz took the telegram, a hunter's smirk crept across his lips. He turned to face the generals in the operations room, his long, thin shadow cast on the oak floor. "Gentlemen," his voice hoarse with excitement, "the British have taken the bait."

In front of the huge nautical chart on the wall, the staff officers quickly adjusted the model representing the fleet. The massive fleet model, consisting of six Nassau-class battleships, four Scharnhorst-class armored cruisers, and more than twenty auxiliary ships, was being moved to the Norwegian coastline.

“Notify the 17th Mountain Corps,” Tirpitz said, donning his Prussian pointed helmet, the metal insignia gleaming in the gaslight. “Operation ‘Northern Hammer’ is now commenced. Within seventy-two hours, I want to see the Black Eagle flag atop the towers of Trondheim Fortress!”

The bridge of the HMS Dignity in the Baltic Sea.

Fisher watched the Russian fleet and the British transport-escort group gradually disappear into the distance, and suddenly felt a strange sense of unease. He turned to the navigator: "Send a telegram to the Admiralty immediately to inquire if there are any abnormalities in the North Sea."

“Three telegrams have already been sent.” The communications officer was pale. “General, there’s a situation! All the German radio stations along the North Sea coast are keeping silent, which is highly unusual.”

Fisher flung open the cabin door, and the Baltic wind, carrying ice pellets, rushed into his face. On the northeastern horizon, the last rays of the setting sun were being swallowed by rolling dark clouds. He suddenly realized—the British Empire might have made a grave mistake.

February 14, 1887, Port William, 3 a.m.

The searchlights in the harbor cast pale beams of light through the thick fog, illuminating the steel bow of the battleship "Frederick the Great". On deck, sailors worked silently, the hissing of steam pipes and the creaking of winches particularly jarring in the minus fifteen degree air.

Chief of Naval Staff Tirpitz stood on the dock, his breath condensing into tiny ice crystals on his meticulously manicured beard. He stared at the Lange pocket watch in his hand, a gift personally bestowed upon him by the Emperor last year; with each tick of the second hand, his heart pounded faster.

"Report! All ships are ready to set sail!" the adjutant said in a low voice, as if afraid of alerting the British spy ship thirty nautical miles away.

Tirpitz nodded, his gaze sweeping over the steel behemoths moored in the harbor—the main gun turrets of the six Nassau-class battleships slowly rotated, the smokestacks of the four Scharnhorst-class armored cruisers emitted pale blue smoke from specially made low-smoke coal, and on the sixteen troop transports, soldiers of the 17th Mountain Corps were inspecting Mauser rifles.

"The British?" Tirpitz asked, his eyes still fixed on his pocket watch.

“Radio intercepts show,” the intelligence officer flipped through his notebook, “that the main force of the British Home Fleet has penetrated deep into the Baltic Sea and is less than fifty nautical miles from Gotland.”

Tirpitz's lips curled into a slight smile. This was a very, very good start!
At 4:00 AM sharp, with a piercing blast of the ship's horn, the "Frederick the Great" slowly departed from the dock. On the bridge, Admiral von Knorr, the fleet commander, traced his leather glove across the nautical chart, his fingers moving to the Norwegian coastline before finally stopping at Trondheim.

"Head northwest at 14 knots," he ordered. "The entire fleet shall remain radio silent."

The entire fleet slipped into the thick fog of the North Sea like ghosts. All ships turned off their navigation lights, relying solely on gyrocompasses and mechanical depth sounders for navigation. Sailors were forbidden from speaking loudly, under penalty of court-martial. In the boiler room of the Scharnhorst, stokers were shoveling specially formulated low-smoke coal into the furnace; this fuel, specially produced in the Ruhr region, reduced smoke emissions by 80%.

In the officers' mess hall of the Scharnhorst, General von der Goltz, commander of the 17th Mountain Corps, was sketching on a map with red and blue pencils. The parchment chart marked every coastal artillery position in Trondheim harbor—the result of two years of surveying by German spies.

"Six 210mm coastal defense guns," the captain pointed to the location marked with a red circle on the map, "but our inside man has taken control of the telegraph station, and the Norwegians will not receive any warning."

Goltz sneered, stroking his neatly trimmed beard: "So what if they know? The Norwegian army has fewer than 20,000 men in total, half of whom are stationed in the Arctic Circle, equipped with Mauser rifles that were finalized in 1871. With such a small force, they can't possibly stop the unification of Europe!"

(End of this chapter)