The Twilight of Empire: Starting from Dunkirk

Chapter 131 The water in the Mediterranean is about to boil.

June 9, 1940, 08:30, City of London, Threadneedle Street, Stirling House.

The mornings in the City of London are typically characterized by a precise yet monotonous rhythm.

At 8:30 a.m., it was time for black bowler hats, long-handled umbrellas, and the Financial Times. Thousands of bankers, stockbrokers, maritime lawyers, and actuaries would pour along the damp cobblestone streets into the granite buildings surrounding the Bank of England.

The air here is constantly at a suffocating concentration; greed knows no bounds. Here, war is merely a variable. Death is simply a statistic.

But today, that balance has been broken.

"Boom—Boom—"

Four Bedford military trucks, painted in matte military green, roared with the rough strain of their diesel engines, and in a tactical assault, forcibly cut off a group of dozens of stock traders crossing the road.

The sound of the brakes was sharp and piercing.

The large military tires left two black marks on the wet asphalt road before stopping directly in front of the huge glass door of the Sterling Building.

The canvas awning was lifted, and 120 fully armed soldiers jumped out of the carriage.

Among the onlookers, there were naturally some sharp-eyed individuals who immediately noticed that the new group was different from the soldiers who had been on the street before.

In the past week, the streets of London have been crowded with expeditionary forces evacuated from Dunkirk. Most of them have lost their rifles, are ragged, and have unfocused eyes. They are huddled in street corners smoking damp cigarettes and trembling nervously at the sound of air raid sirens.

But the unit in front of us is completely different.

One hundred and twenty men, all wearing complete sets of individual combat gear. They wore standard P37 combat uniforms and MKII Tony helmets pulled low to the ground. Their ammunition pouches were bulging, and their entrenching tools and canteens moved without making any unnecessary clanging noises.

Gun oil, added wet mud, and old bloodstains of indistinguishable origin had congealed into a black crust on their cuffs. Logistics supplies were limited, prioritizing only the officers attending the banquet; the soldiers couldn't be dressed in brand-new, crisp uniforms like Ryder or McTavish. However, this filthy attire wasn't slovenly, but rather proof of battle experience. Through these marks, the onlookers immediately recognized this as an elite force that had crawled out of piles of corpses.

That was the Coldstream Guards, one of the oldest infantry regiments in the British Empire.

Their eyes held no terror of routed soldiers, only a chilling stillness. As they scanned the impeccably dressed gentlemen around them, their pupils were devoid of warmth. They weren't looking at their compatriots, but rather scrutinizing moving targets; given Young Master Sterling's order, they were ready to fire on anyone before them. Now, driven by instinct, ingrained in their muscles, they began subconsciously searching for the bayonet's entry point between their collarbones and ribs.

"Establish a perimeter cordon and set up barricades."

"Second row, block off the side doors and fire exits. No one is allowed to leave."

"Third row, follow me into the lobby to control the elevator shaft and telephone exchange room."

Major Ryder jumped out of the jeep, not carrying a cane like a young master, but instead holding a Lee-Enfield No. 4 rifle with a bayonet fixed.

The order was given, brief and forceful, without any unnecessary words, whistles, or shouts; only the sound of 120 pairs of iron-plated military boots hitting the ground simultaneously.

Click—click—click—

The synchronized clanging of metal instantly drowned out the noise, and the gentlemen carrying briefcases around them instinctively took a step back in alarm.

The security chief of Sterling Building—a retired Army captain—rushed out with several security personnel.

The Sterling family doesn't keep idle people, and this security guard is certainly not blind.

He instinctively wanted to step forward and yell, the words "Who the hell dares to cause trouble on Sterling family turf?" were already on the tip of his tongue, but he swallowed them back down the next second. Because he saw clearly the Cold Creek Guard insignia on Major Ryder's collar.

That's the unit where my young master serves!

His gaze swept over the gleaming bayonet, his Adam's apple bobbed violently, and his spine tensed instinctively—a ingrained, instinctive reaction to danger. As a veteran, he was all too familiar with that aura: the lingering smell of blood, the indifference to life.

If we don't give way, they really will pull the trigger.

A black Rolls-Royce Phantom Type I sedan stopped in the clearing cleared by the soldiers. The engine was not turned off, and the V12 engine maintained a low idling sound. The driver got out of the car and opened the rear door.

A gleaming black military boot stepped onto the ground.

Arthur Sterling stepped out of the carriage, dressed in a dark green brigadier general's uniform. Although the crown and gold star on his shoulder insignia were temporary ranks granted during wartime, in London at this time, the rank signified absolute authorization for violence. He was not wearing gloves and leaned on his ebony cane. His face was still somewhat pale, his cheekbones prominent, and his deep-set eyes were a pair of icy blue, suggesting he had not slept well.

He first stood on the steps and surveyed the crowd of onlookers. Those bankers who were usually aloof and arrogant all avoided his gaze at this moment.

Arthur straightened his collar.

There was no "security guard blocking the way and slapping him in the face" drama. Such scenes only exist in third-rate novels when faced with absolute power. Upon seeing the true head of the Sterling family before him, the building's security supervisor snapped to attention and gave a crisp military salute.

Arthur entered, tapping his cane on the marble floor.

Tap. Tap. Tap. The sound echoed in the hall.

"Ryder." Arthur stopped, without turning around. "Cut off all external communication lines to the building. Including the telegraph lines."

"Only one dedicated line will be maintained in the top-floor conference room."

"Tell Reuters and the BBC that I will make an important statement at the entrance of the building in ten minutes."

"Yes, sir."

Arthur stepped into the elevator, Sergeant McTavish following behind, and pressed the button for the top floor. The elevator doors slowly closed, shutting out the world filled with bayonets and fear.

The top floor of Sterling Tower, the highest point of power, is also the closest place to German bombers.

Huge steel-framed floor-to-ceiling windows occupy the entire wall, but at this moment, in order to cope with the strict lighting regulations, the heavy dark green velvet curtains are drawn tightly, completely isolating the interior from that sinking world.

Arthur walked to the window and reached out to lift a corner of the curtain.

The glass was covered with woven kraft paper tape in a star pattern to prevent shattering, cutting across the gray domes of the Bank of England and the Royal Exchange outside the window.

In the boardroom, around a twelve-meter-long oak conference table, sat Stirling Heavy Industries' directors and executives.

There were only eighteen people in total.

However, they controlled 30% of the British Empire's shipbuilding capacity and 15% of its arms supply.

But at this moment, they are like a group of prisoners awaiting sentencing.

The chair that originally belonged to Executive Director Harold Sterling was empty. This made everyone uneasy.

Although Winston Churchill had invoked the highest level of wartime censorship in an attempt to block everything that happened at the hotel the previous night because it would cause unnecessary panic among the general public, in the City of London, a power center where information is more valuable than gold, there are no secrets that stay hidden forever.

Or perhaps Churchill intended this to be a show for these powerful figures; he wanted to make an example of them.

Therefore, even the most obtuse and peripheral board members could smell the blood-stained wind: Harold was finished late last night.

It wasn't a resignation, nor a transfer, but a "purge".

Some said they saw the MI5 black sedan in that block; others swore it was a military police escort vehicle; and there were even more rumors circulating in private—Harold never left the room, he had been secretly executed, and his body had long been sunk to the bottom of the Thames.

And all of this points to one name—Arthur Sterling.

The atmosphere in the meeting room was extremely tense. The directors looked at each other, frantically searching their minds for memories of this "young master." However, the more they pieced together the information, the more confused they became.

They discovered that they didn't know their new owner at all.

"Isn't he just a playboy who coasts through Eton?" someone speculated. "The intelligence says he went to France just to get some prestige—"

"Gilded?" another director interrupted with a sneer. "Have you ever seen anyone go to a hellish place like Dunkirk for gilding and come back alive? And then casually kill Harold?"

Various absurd and terrifying speculations spread across the long table: some said he was a "cleaner" secretly trained by Churchill, specializing in doing dirty work; some said he had gone mad on the French front; some even suspected that the one who returned was not Arthur at all, but a butcher with the surname Sterling.

The sound of neatly packed military boots came from downstairs; the telephone line had been cut, and they were trapped here.

"We need to calm down—" CFO Peters tried to quell the situation. "We are legitimate board members. We hold shares. Even the old Earl can't just do whatever he wants—"

Bang! A loud crash shattered his self-comfort as two heavy, carved mahogany doors were simultaneously pushed open. Two Cold Creek Guard soldiers, each over 1.9 meters tall, strode in, their Thompson submachine guns cocked and raised, positioned on either side of the doors.

Arthur walked in without taking off his military cap.

He walked straight to the empty main seat.

All the directors instinctively stood up. The chairs scraped against the floor with a harsh noise. No one dared to speak first. They looked at Arthur, at this young man who, just three months ago, was a playboy, but now reeked of blood.

Arthur did not sit down. He leaned his cane against the table, then slowly removed his military cap and placed it on the table. Then, he placed a black velvet box in front of him, opened it, and took out the griffin seal with a solid gold handle.

thump.

The seal slammed onto the table with a dull thud.

"Sit down," Arthur said.

The board members then sat down hesitantly. Peters' hands were trembling, and he knocked over the water glass in front of him.

"I know what you're thinking." Arthur looked around. "You're wondering where Uncle Harold went."

"You're thinking, will you be the next one to disappear?"

The meeting room was deathly silent; no one dared to respond.

Arthur took two lists out of his briefcase, one in red and one in green.

Harold Sterling was relieved of all duties last night for alleged serious wartime economic crimes and assisting enemy countries in acquiring strategic materials.

"He is currently undergoing a special interrogation by MI5 at the Tower of London," Arthur casually summarized the situation.

It's not a family feud, it's treason.

Upon hearing this, everyone present felt a chill run down their spines.

"Now, let's clean up the mess we left behind." Arthur's finger pressed on the red list.

"Peters," Arthur called out the first name.

Financial Director Peters shuddered, nearly slipping off his chair. He was Harold's confidant and had helped Harold falsify accounts numerous times over the years.

"I—I am here."

"You're fired." Arthur didn't look at him, he just stared at the list.

"In last year's financial statements, you helped Harold conceal three transfers totaling £12. The whereabouts are unknown."

.

"Now, you have two choices." Arthur looked up, his eyes icy. "First, pay off these debts, then take your severance pay and get out of here. Buy a farm in the countryside, and never let me see you in London again."

"Secondly, I'll call the military police in from outside. You and Harold will be cellmates."

Peters' face turned deathly pale, and his lips trembled.

"I—I choose number one. I choose number one! I'll write the check right now!" He didn't even dare to argue.

Trying to reason with this madman is tantamount to suicide.

"Very good. Next."

"Jones, Deputy Head of Purchasing."

"Human Resources Director, Smith." — Arthur rattled off eight names in one breath.

These men were all Harold's cronies, pure sycophants, embezzlers, and cronies. There was no trial, no hearing, no union involvement. Arthur used the simplest and most brutal method—pay up and get out, or go to jail—to purge half the board in ten minutes.

The eight men left the conference room like stray dogs under the watchful eyes of the soldiers, and the air instantly felt much fresher.

The remaining ten people looked ashen. Most of them were managers with technical backgrounds or those in charge of specific business operations. Although they had also been promoted by Harold, they had been marginalized or relegated to simply working because they didn't know how to cultivate relationships.

Now, they feel they're doomed.

Arthur's finger moved to the green-covered document. He opened it and his gaze fell on a bald, middle-aged man wearing thick-rimmed glasses and a wrinkled Brazilian suit.

The man was wiping his sweat with a handkerchief, and in front of him was a blueprint tube that had been crumpled and deformed.

"Williams," Arthur called out his name.

Williams, the chief engineer, shuddered. He stood up, his knees hitting the table with a loud thud.

"Yes, sir!"

Williams' voice was tinged with fear. He was a key technical employee whom Harold had personally promoted. Although he hadn't embezzled, he felt he would definitely be purged at this time. After all, "a new emperor brings a new court." He was already mentally planning how to take that blueprint tube with him; it was his life's work, the blueprints for a new riveting technique.

"Sit down," Arthur said.

Williams hesitated for a moment, then hesitated to sit down.

Arthur opened the file.

"I've reviewed your records. In 1938, you submitted a proposal to the board regarding improvements to the hydraulic riveting process for ship hulls."

"The key is to replace the pneumatic riveting gun with high-pressure hydraulic clamps. This could increase the structural strength of the hull by 30% and reduce labor time by 40%." Arthur looked up at him. "But Harold rejected it." "The reason is that the initial equipment investment is too large. It would require purchasing twenty Siemens hydraulic presses made in Germany."

Williams swallowed hard; this was a "political mistake."

"Yes—yes. Mr. Harold said—that it was too expensive. And the board at the time didn't think it was necessary to pursue such a high level of intensity." He forced himself to lower his head, preparing to receive the termination notice.

"Is the plan still there?" Arthur pointed to the blueprint tube in his arms.

Williams instinctively hugged the drawing tube tighter.

"Yes. I've been working on it privately. Even if we can't buy German equipment, we can build our own hydraulic press. Just give me—"

"Approved," Arthur interrupted him.

Williams suddenly looked up, his glasses sliding down to the tip of his nose.

"Wh-what?"

"I said, it's approved." Arthur looked at him, his eyes no longer showing the indifference he had shown Peters, but instead filled with focus and respect.

"As for the Germans' Siemens? That kind of sophisticated but delicate junk, let them keep it for themselves."

9

Arthur chuckled coldly, pulled a stack of crumpled letters from his pocket, and casually tossed them onto the mahogany table. The papers contained hastily sketched mechanical diagrams in charcoal and pen—drawn by hand the night before, aided by RTS and drawing upon his memories from the future, after countless mental breakdowns.

Although the lines are rough, the core hydraulic transmission logic is very clear, which is an industrial achievement that transcends this era.

"This is what I came up with in the trenches on the French front. It's not very precise, but the core principles are all here. Filling in the details is your engineering department's job. If you can't even understand this, get out of Sterling Building."

Williams carefully picked up the papers, and after just one glance, his pupils contracted sharply. It was—a completely new hydraulic steering design?

"Did Harold think it was too expensive? Or that the development cycle was too long?"

Arthur lit a cigar, and through the smoke, his eyes were more greedy than a capitalist's, more dictatorial than a warlord's: "The finance department will open a separate black account for you. I'll give you three times Harold's budget. Not enough? Then five times it will be."

Money is just a number to me; what I want is steel.

"But I have one request."

Arthur pointed to everyone's heads: "Next Monday. I want to see the first prototype running at the Liverpool shipyard. Not blueprints, not models, but a real, functional machine that can be mounted on a warship."

"This—this is impossible, young master. Just purchasing hydraulic pumps would cost—" Williams tried to argue.

I don't want to hear excuses.

Arthur leaned forward abruptly, his imposing aura, honed in the Dunkirk purgatory, instantly locking the entire conference room in place: "No spare parts? Then steal them. Smuggle them. Buy them on the black market. If all else fails, dismantle the building's elevator hydraulic system, even dismantle my Rolls-Royce!"

"Remember, we are racing against the German Stuka."

"Now, get to work."

Williams's mouth dropped open. He had worked at Sterling Heavy Industries for twenty years and had never seen a boss like this before.

During Harold's era, every budget required seven layers of approval, and they would even sacrifice safety margins to save a penny. Every technological innovation was seen as a "waste of money." Now, this brigadier general's son, rumored to be the "Butcher of Calais," has given him what he's always dreamed of: trust, resources, and respect for technology.

Williams' chest heaved violently, his passion as an engineer overpowering his fear of power.

He suddenly felt his eyes getting hot, and he straightened up abruptly. This time, his legs didn't tremble.

"Yes, sir! As long as the funds are in place, I'll do it even if I have to sleep in the workshop!" Williams' eyes reddened, the look of someone willing to die for a friend.

Arthur nodded.

He then turned to the remaining nine people.

"You are the same."

"I don't care who promoted you. Nor do I care how many gifts you gave Harold in the past."

2

"As long as your hands are black, not dirty."

"I'll use you all."

Arthur stood up, casting a huge shadow over the conference table.

"From this moment forward, Sterling Industries is no longer a publicly traded company with the aim of generating profit."

1

"We are part of the war machine."

"Our product is not a commodity. It's a weapon."

"Profit margin is no longer the key performance indicator. Delivery speed is."

Arthur put on his military cap.

"Everyone to your positions. Now, I'm going downstairs to deal with those pesky stocks."

At 9:15 a.m., in front of Sterling Building.

Outside Major Ryder's cordon, a large crowd had already gathered. There were reporters with cameras, stockbrokers with keen business sense, and a large number of ordinary citizens who had come to watch the military blockade.

Rumors are spreading among the people.

"I heard Harold ran away?"

Is Sterling Heavy Industries going bankrupt?

"I still have two hundred shares of their stock. Should I sell them?" Panic was spreading. Just fifteen minutes after the London Stock Exchange opened, Stirling Heavy Industries' share price had already fallen by 3%. Without intervention, it could crash today.

The gate opened, and Arthur Sterling stepped out. He didn't use the side door, but stood directly on the steps of the main entrance, behind him were two rows of heavily armed Cold Creek Guards soldiers.

All the camera flashes went off instantly, and white smoke from burning magnesium powder enveloped the scene.

"General Sterling! What does it mean for the military to take over the building?"

"Where has Mr. Harold gone? Is the board undergoing a purge?"

"With the stock price falling, is Sterling Industries facing a bankruptcy crisis?" The reporters bombarded him with questions.

Arthur raised his cane and pressed it down. He didn't need to bring his own megaphone; the aura he brought back from the battlefield instantly silenced the noisy crowd.

"Mr. Harold Sterling has resigned from his position as executive director due to health reasons." Arthur's voice was calm and powerful, carried throughout the City through the microphone the BBC had placed to his lips.

"From this day forward, I, Arthur Sterling, officially take over Sterling Heavy Industries."

A commotion broke out in the crowd.

A Financial Times reporter mustered his courage and asked loudly, "General, you are a soldier, not a businessman. In this time of war, such drastic management turmoil will cause investors to lose confidence. Everyone is selling stocks—"

"Sell-off?" Arthur sneered, stepping forward to the microphone.

He didn't answer the business questions; he went straight into battle mode.

"Are you worried about stocks? Worried about dividends?" Arthur's gaze swept across the crowd. "I have some news for you. Just yesterday, Erwin Rommel's 7th Panzer Division broke through the Somme line."

"Guderian's tanks are speeding toward Paris."

"The French are finished."

The crowd erupted in uproar, and the panic intensified.

"When Nazi tanks roll into London, your stock certificates will be worthless!" Arthur suddenly raised his voice, which boomed through the crowd. "When the Gestapo storms the Bank of England, the numbers in your accounts will be meaningless!"

"Harold knows how to make money. But he doesn't know how to win a war." Arthur gestured to the soldiers behind him. "Look at them! These are the Coldstream Guards! These are brothers from the 51st Highland Division!"

"In Calais, we faced an enemy ten times our size. We didn't have enough anti-tank guns, nor enough ammunition. We held off Rommel for two whole days with Molotov cocktails and bayonets!"

Why?

"Because we have no way out!"

Arthur gripped his cane tightly, as if it were a sword.

"I took over Stirling Heavy Industries not to raise the stock price. Not to give you dividends."

"It's for building tanks! Building airplanes! Building cannons!"

"It's so that the next commander like Major Ryder will have anti-tank guns when facing German tanks, instead of having to use his soldiers' lives to pay the price!"

"From this day forward, Sterling Industries will be the arsenal of the British Empire."

"We will be an impregnable fortress."

"Every pound of money invested in Sterling Heavy Industries becomes a bullet that pierces the skull of a Nazi!"

Arthur looked at the stockbrokers with a determined gaze.

"You're asking me if this stock is worth buying?"

"I'll tell you."

"This is not an investment. This is a war bond."

"This is betting on your own freedom."

"If Britain loses, we will all die. If Britain wins—" Arthur paused, a slight smile playing on his lips, "Stirling Industries will be the forgers of a new world."

A deathly silence fell over the scene, then a roar erupted from the crowd: "Well said!"

"Kill the Nazis!"

"I'll buy! I won't sell anymore! Give me another 500 shares!"

Emotions were ignited.

In this darkest hour, what the British need is not shrewd businessmen, but mad heroes.

Arthur's words struck a chord deep within the fear and pride of every Englishman, elevating the mundane business of "buying stocks" into a patriotic act of "fighting the Nazis."

Ten minutes later, the London Stock Exchange released the latest news.

Sterling Heavy Industries' stock price stopped falling and started to rise. As the speech was broadcast throughout the city, countless ordinary citizens—housewives, retired workers, small shop owners—flocked to the stock exchange.

They waved their banknotes and shouted that they wanted to buy "Stirling's heroic company." The stock price began to soar, not because the fundamentals had improved, but because all of Britain had pinned its hopes on this man.

This is called the star effect; this is called national destiny.

Arthur stood on the steps, looking at the bustling crowd.

The bells of the financial district rang, accompanied by the almost hysterical cheers of the fervent believers—the sound of money flowing into their pockets.

He won this battle in London's concrete jungle.

But there was no smile on his face. His blue eyes reflected not the champagne bubbles, but only the burning map.

He didn't linger for even a second in the sunlight that symbolized victory. Instead, he resolutely turned around, wrapped his black trench coat tighter, and walked back into the enormous, all-encompassing shadow of Sterling Tower.

time does not wait.

Arthur knew perfectly well that while he was winning over these capitalists with checks and intimidation, the world across the Channel was collapsing. Rommel's "devil's army" was cutting open the belly of France; the bearded madman was revising his speech for his military parade at the Eiffel Tower.

But it's not just them.

The flames of war are about to be ignited in the southern Alps.

The speculator in Rome couldn't sit still any longer.

Now that the lion had already bitten its prey's throat, the vulture wanted to pounce on it immediately to devour the carrion.

"Prepare the car, let's go to the Admiralty."

Arthur's voice echoed in the empty hall, as cold as ice: "The water in the Mediterranean is about to boil."

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