The Twilight of Empire: Starting from Dunkirk

Chapter 134 Gray Ghost

June 9, 1940, 23:30, Alexandria, Egypt, Headquarters of the Royal Navy Mediterranean Fleet.

The night breeze in Alexandria was not gentle.

It carries with it the scorching dust of the Sahara Desert, the exhaust fumes from burning heavy oil, and the high salinity and humidity of the Mediterranean Sea, making it suffocating.

That was the smell of the eve of war.

The port was under Level 1 blackout, with no searchlights or navigational beacons, plunging the entire port area into a deathly darkness to prevent attacks by Nazi air force and submarines.

But under the faint starlight, one could vaguely see those huge and menacing black silhouettes inside the breakwater. They were the backbone of the British Empire in the Mediterranean, the last iron gate that kept this sea from being encroached upon by the Axis powers.

The Royal Navy Mediterranean Fleet.

Dozens of warships were quietly moored in their berths.

The flagship HMS Warspite's imposing superstructure stood like an iron castle on the calm water. The muzzles of its four twin 15-inch (381 mm) main guns, covered with heavy canvas, cast long, tombstone-like shadows in the moonlight.

Not in the air-conditioned, carpeted shore command building in Alexandria, but in the commander's living quarters of the HMS Warspite.

The steel plate beneath my feet was vibrating slightly, a vibration transmitted from the auxiliary equipment and generator.

Although the beds here aren't as comfortable as those in the command post on shore, the air here carries the unique scent of highly volatile fuel oil, paint, and gunpowder—the smell of a warship, and also the most comforting smell for Cunningham.

The 67-year-old sailor was not asleep at this time as usual. He was wearing a faded summer khaki uniform, with one of the top buttons undone, revealing his rough neck covered with sunspots. The skin was formed by decades of sea winds, dry and tough like old tree bark.

He held an extinguished briar pipe in his hand, his thumb unconsciously rubbing the carbonized wood grain along the edge of the bowl.

Although the blinds were drawn tightly shut, blocking out the moonlight of Alexandria, Cunningham could still feel the pulse of this 3-ton behemoth. Whether the opponent was the Nazis or a group of Roman clowns about to take the stage, he was prepared.

He would rather use his 15-inch main guns to "negotiate" with the other side than diplomatic rhetoric, given a single order.

Now, he awaited the inevitable order. It was an unspoken understanding. Despite the thousands of kilometers separating them, and despite the perilous state of his homeland, he remained convinced that Churchill, the former First Lord of the Admiralty on Downing Street, would not turn a blind eye to the escalating situation in the Mediterranean.

Cunningham could even picture the fat man not sleeping, but pacing back and forth in the underground operations room like a bulldog, looking for an opportunity to tear the Italian's throat.

The ticking of the clock on the wall was amplified infinitely in this deathly silent room, pounding at the nerves.

Knock knock knock.

The knocking sounded softly, even cautiously, but it was exceptionally clear in my ears.

"Enter."

The confidential staff officer pushed open the door and entered. His face appeared somewhat pale under the dim light of the desk lamp, and a fine layer of sweat appeared on his forehead. In his hand, he held a newly printed telegram.

"Sir. Urgent telegram from London." The staff officer's voice was low, but Cunningham's eyes lit up.

"Red urgent. Directly from the Admiralty's underground operations room. Jointly signed by First Sea Lord Field Marshal Pound and the Prime Minister."

.

Cunningham jumped to his feet, the chair scraping against the floor with a screeching sound.

He grabbed the telegram; there was no need for a codebook, as it was already decoded plaintext after two verifications. The telegram was extremely short, lacking the diplomatic language commonly used by politicians, such as "in view of—," "considering—," or "in order to maintain—."

Only cold, hard war orders, reeking of bloodshed:

致：地中海舰队总司令坎宁安上将，根据可靠情报（来源等级：AIpha），义大利王国将于6月10日18：00正式向我宣战。内阁已批准审判行动」（0perationJudgment）。

You are authorized to strike immediately, preemptively. Target: Taranto. —Winston Churchill/Dudley Pound Cunningham stared at the paper for a full ten seconds.

His gaze lingered for a long time on the lines "strike immediately" and "preemptive strike".

Then, a smile slowly appeared on his always stern, weathered face. It wasn't a gentleman's smile; it was the expression of a shark smelling blood in murky water.

"Finally—" Cunningham picked up a match from the table, struck it with a "hiss," and the small flame illuminated the cold light in his eyes.

He relit his pipe, took a deep drag, and exhaled a thick cloud of smoke.

"These London politicians have finally taken the chains off our necks."

He'd wanted to beat up those Italians for a long time.

Watching them swagger across the Mediterranean, watching them recklessly transport supplies to Libya, watching their planes circle over Malta—for Cunningham, who had spent his entire life making a living at sea, this was worse than death.

He was always an offensiveist; in his view, the navy's purpose was to attack, not to be a floating gun emplacement in damned ports—something only the German bathtub fleet would do.

Now he can unleash his full potential, sparing no expense and using any means necessary, which suits his taste perfectly.

"Pass on the order." Cunningham glanced at the clock on the wall.

23: 45.

His voice regained the commander's coldness and precision.

"There's no need to sound the battle alarm. I don't want the people at the Italian consulate to know what we're doing, nor do I want spies to judge our movements by the sound of the alarm."

"Send the messenger to the dock on foot. Use light signals—even a flashlight."

"Summon all capital ship captains. Commanders of battleship, aircraft carrier, and cruiser squadrons."

"Twenty minutes later, in the officers' conference room on the USS Warspite."

Cunningham grabbed the military cap hanging on the coat rack, put it on his head, and pulled the brim down low.

"Tell them to bring their best combat staff. We're going hunting."

June 10, 1940, 00:15, Battleship Warspite, Officers' Meeting Room.

The air is murky.

More than twenty senior Royal Navy officers were crammed into this not-so-spacious cabin. The atmosphere was oppressive, but extreme oppression breeds excitement.

This place brings together the full essence of the Mediterranean Fleet.

Captain Dennis Boyd, captain of the aircraft carrier HMS Illustrious, stood at the chart table, next to the commander of the aircraft carrier HMS Eagle, and the captains of the battleships HMS Malaya and HMS Sovereign.

As the host, the captain of the USS Warspite was standing guard at the entrance.

Beside Cunningham sat the man with the steely jaw—Vice Admiral John Tovey, the deputy commander of the Mediterranean Fleet.

Every word spoken here can determine the life or death of thousands; every decision made here will change the color of the Mediterranean.

But at this moment, most of them were disheveled; some hadn't even had time to change out of their pajamas and had just run over wearing heavy military overcoats; some even had shaving cream foam on their faces. A look of astonishment was written on everyone's face.

Such an emergency call in the dead of night, especially one that must be made "face-to-face" and cannot be communicated by phone, usually means two things: either the German paratroopers have already landed in Cairo, or we are finally about to stab the Italians in the back.

The sound of military boots rang out as Cunningham strode into the conference room. Everyone stood up, the sound of leather shoes clicking on the floor in unison.

"Sit down." Cunningham didn't waste any words. He didn't even go to the podium, but went straight to the huge Mediterranean nautical chart hanging on the wall.

He held a pointer in his hand, as if he were holding a naval command sword.

"Gentlemen. To make a long story short," Cunningham turned around, his gaze sweeping across each face. "According to reliable intelligence from London, that Roman clown is going to declare war tomorrow at six o'clock in the afternoon."

A low hum filled the conference room, which was expected, given the already clear situation. But no one thought it would happen so quickly; everyone thought Mussolini would at least wait until the fall of Paris.

The initial shock lasted only a second, quickly replaced by a frenzied excitement. No one felt panic; on the contrary, the cramped cabin was filled with a palpable euphoria.

The Mediterranean, this "bathtub," was too cramped and too comfortable, not only rusting the armor of the warships but also nearly rusting their nerves. Boilers shut down, cannons covered in dust—such days were worse than death in battle for the Royal Navy.

Tovey even laughed out loud.

He was fed up with this life of just waiting around. He had publicly complained that if the Navy didn't let him fire, he would apply to be transferred to the Home Fleet—even if it meant piloting a cruiser.

For him, hunting down the Germans in the raging waves of the North Sea was a million times better than letting his battleships rot in Alexandria.

A warship that doesn't fire has only two fates: some people treat it as a floating hotel to pass the time, enjoying afternoon tea and the sea breeze; but in the eyes of the soldiers, it is an expensive steel coffin weighing 30,000 tons.

Clearly, Tovey felt this place was more like a graveyard, burying not corpses, but ambitions.

"We don't intend to wait for him to hand over the declaration of war."

"I'm not planning to wait for that clown to finish performing his ridiculous gestures on the balcony."

Cunningham slammed his pointer heavily onto a point on the map, a point located at the heel of the Italian peninsula, an inner harbor surrounded by land.

Taranto.

"We need to go here."

"Destroy his entire fleet before he finishes his speech."

This statement caused an uproar in the conference room. After a brief silence, doubts immediately arose.

“But, sir,” Colonel Griffiths, in charge of fleet intelligence, frowned, flipping through his notebook, “this is an extremely risky and hasty decision. We don’t have the latest aerial reconnaissance photographs. The last high-altitude reconnaissance photograph of Taranto was taken two months ago by a stray French reconnaissance plane.”

"We don't know the extent of their mine protection network deployment, nor do we know the exact berths of their battleships. A blind attack could result in them running into air defense or mine protection nets."

Another destroyer captain also raised objections, pointing to the depth markings on the nautical chart: "Moreover, according to our research, the water depth in Taranto harbor is only 12 meters. Whether it's the large berth (MarGrande) or the small berth (Mar...

(Piccolo), the water depth is severely insufficient. A conventional 18-inch aerial torpedo, when dropped, needs a depth of at least 20 meters to level off. At that depth, the torpedo will embed itself directly in the silt.

"That's technically not feasible, sir. Unless we use magnetic mines, but that takes time to deploy."

"Quiet," Cunningham promptly silenced his subordinates' chatter. He took a sealed manila envelope from Tovey.

The file folder was thick, sealed with a red top-secret sealing wax stamp with the code name "Operation Judgment".

"No need for a detailed, ad-hoc reconnaissance." Cunningham tore open the file folder.

With a "clatter," he spread a stack of high-resolution black-and-white photographs and labeled nautical charts on the table.

The photos are shockingly clear; you can even see the coal piles on the dock and the sailors' uniforms drying on the battleship deck.

Although Cunningham didn't say it explicitly, the high-ranking officials present all knew that this was a jigsaw puzzle pieced together bit by bit by MI6 and the Naval Intelligence Agency (NID) over the past six months through various covert channels—including bribing Italian Navy personnel, submarine periscope reconnaissance, and high-altitude reconnaissance.

Clearly, London had long wanted to take action against these Italian bastards.

"The Italians are so lazy," Cunningham sneered, pointing at the photo. "Their warships are moored in almost the same positions for millennia. The newest, the Littorio and Vittorio Veneto, are always docked at berths 3 and 4 in the outer harbor of Mara Grande."

"The old-fashioned 'Count of Cavour' was always docked at the entrance to the inner harbor."

"Look here," Cunningham said, pointing to the lightning protection netting. "They don't even bother to put it up at night. They think it's safe as long as they haven't declared war. The netting only covers less than a third of the area."

Cunningham looked at Colonel Boyd on the "Radiant".

"As for the problem of torpedoes getting stuck in the mud..."

"The technology sector in London has already provided a solution."

Cunningham pulled a blueprint from the bottom of the file folder.

"A special stabilizer was added to the wooden tail fin of the Mark XII torpedo. It was connected to the elevator with a steel wire."

"This allows the torpedo to level off quickly after entering the water, preventing it from diving too deep. The descent depth can be controlled to within 10 meters."

"Although we'll need to do some temporary modifications on the aircraft carrier in a little while, it will be sufficient."

Cunningham surveyed his surroundings, his gaze resolute.

"This operation requires our full commitment. We're no longer emphasizing single-ship assaults; those are gentlemanly duels. I want you to unleash a bloodbath."

The task force consists of the following ships:

"First, the main strike group. The newly arrived, state-of-the-art aircraft carrier, HMS Illustrious. She has an armored flight deck; that's our iron fist. Carrier air squadrons 813, 815, 819, and 824 will take off from here."

"Second, reinforce HMS Eagle. Although she's slow, her boilers are old, and even her smokestacks are still belching black smoke, every extra aircraft means one more torpedo. Send both of her squadrons to HMS Illustrious as a second wave of attack."

"Third, the finishing blow group: the battleships HMS Warspite and HMS Malaya."

Cunningham glanced at Tovey, who nodded at him.

"If the airstrikes don't sink them, or if any escapees try to leave port, your 15-inch main guns are responsible for sending them back to the seabed."

"Fourth, the cover group. The third cruiser squadron and the destroyer group are responsible for perimeter security, especially anti-submarine warfare."

"To cover our tracks." Cunningham's eyes narrowed, the look of a seasoned hunter. "The fleet's departure is ostensibly a routine nighttime exercise in the Eastern Mediterranean."

"Once out of port, absolute radio silence must be maintained. The fuses on the transmitters must be removed. All radio equipment must be sealed up."

""

"We're going to disappear at sea for 18 hours."

"Until our 'Swordfish' flew right over their heads."

"Any more questions?" Cunningham asked his captains.

No one speaks.

The planned attack position from Alexandria to the sea off Taranto is nearly 500 nautical miles in a straight line. In the middle, it not only has to cross half of the Mediterranean Sea, but also carefully avoid the reconnaissance network that Italy has laid in the Dodecanese Islands.

Even with the old USS Eagle's boilers glowing red and the entire fleet racing at a maximum speed of 24 knots, this long death march would still take at least eighteen hours—meaning they would have to walk a tightrope to arrive precisely at the last minute before the declaration of war took effect, leaving no room for error.

All the officers stood up straight.

The astonishment in their eyes had vanished, replaced by the solemnity and excitement of professional soldiers. This sentiment had flowed in the veins of the British Royal Navy for three hundred years—the pirate gene inherited from Drake and Nelson.

When the enemy thinks they are safest, plunge a knife into their heart.

"Very good." Cunningham straightened his military cap.

"Gentlemen, go and prepare."

"Get the boilers heated up. Make sure the pilots have a good meal."

"Tonight, we're going to catch ghosts."

There were no ship horns, no lights, and even the sound of the anchor chain turning was deliberately suppressed.

The massive ship sliced ​​through the black sea, creating white waves, before being swallowed by darkness.

The flagship HMS Warspite led the way, followed by the massive aircraft carrier HMS Illustrious and the somewhat clumsy, aging carrier HMS Eagle.

Further on were two battleships and a long line of cruisers and destroyers.

This massive fleet, like a flock of gray ghosts, silently slipped into the depths of the Mediterranean. The sea was eerily calm, with only the gurgling of the propellers churning the water.

Inside the hangar of the HMS Illustrious, ground crew were busily at work. Mechanics were attaching torpedoes to biplanes—Fairey Swordfish—that looked like they'd been stolen from a World War I museum.

These aircraft have canvas skin, open cockpits, and non-retractable landing gear.

It flies slowly and low, with a top speed of only 220 kilometers per hour, earning it the nickname "Stringbag" from pilots.

.

In today's world where Spitfire fighters are so common, they look like living fossils.

But tonight, they are the scythe of death.

A gunner, sweating profusely, crouched at the tail of a torpedo, wrench in hand. He carefully secured a makeshift wooden frame to the torpedo's horizontal tail fins, then connected it to the control surfaces with steel cables.

This is the "shallow water stabilizing fin" that Cunningham mentioned. It looks rudimentary, even somewhat comical, like a child's toy.

But this piece of wood will determine the success or failure of tonight.

"Be careful," the sergeant beside him whispered. "That thing is worth more than your life. If the angle is even slightly off, the torpedo will smash into the mud like a rock."

On the deck, the sea breeze howled.

The fleet adjusted its course in the darkness and headed northwest at full speed.

Target: Taranto. Distance: 470 nautical miles. This "Grey Ghost" fleet, carrying the vengeful spirit of the British Empire, is approaching the unsuspecting Italians.

June 10, 1940, 17:50, Rome, Italy, Piazza Venezia.

In stark contrast to the deathly silence of the Mediterranean, Rome at this time was in a state of near-manic clamor.

Piazza Venezia was packed with people. One hundred thousand fascists in black shirts, mobilized students, workers, and forcibly organized Roman citizens filled the ancient square.

On this day, the temperature in Rome reached a scorching 32 degrees Celsius. The smells of sweat, garlic, and leather fermented in the air, making one feel dizzy.

Wagner's "Ride of the Valkyries" and the Italian fascist party anthem "Giovinezza" played on a loop from huge loudspeakers, making the windows of the surrounding buildings vibrate. Countless red, white, and green tricolor flags and flags bearing fascist symbols tumbled in the heat, like a red ocean.

People are waiting. Waiting for that person to appear. Waiting for the one who will lead them into the "New Roman Empire".

At exactly 18:00 PM, the famous floor-to-ceiling window on the second floor of the Palazzo Venezia opened.

Benito Mussolini came out.

He wore his iconic fascist militia marshal uniform, his chest adorned with medals, and a decorative dagger at his waist. His bald head gleamed in the setting sun.

He did not speak immediately.

He stood with his hands on his hips, legs apart, chin held high, striking an arrogant pose. Like a statue, he looked down at the crowd of people below, who seemed like ants, reveling in the thrill of trampling hundreds of thousands of people under his feet.

"Leader! Leader! Leader! (Duce! Duce! Duce!)" Thunderous cheers erupted in the square.

The sound waves crashed against the walls of the Venetian palace like a tidal wave, and even the Tiber River, several kilometers away, seemed to tremble.

Mussolini was enjoying this moment; it was the pinnacle of his power.

He raised his right hand in a standard Roman salute. The cheers subsided instantly, demonstrating his absolute control over the crowd.

He leaned closer to the microphone, his expression contorted and exaggerated.

"Fighting men! Warriors of land, sea and sky!" Mussolini's voice echoed across Italy via radio waves, reaching London and the radios of the Cunningham fleet sailing at sea.

"The legion of the Blackshirt revolution! Men and women of the Italian Empire!"

"Listen! This is the moment! This is the moment that will decide our destiny!"

"This moment! This irreversible moment! Has already resounded in the skies above our motherland!"

Mussolini brandished his fists as if he were shattering an unseen enemy.

"We have decided to declare war on England, and war on France!"

"We will break the chains of the Mediterranean! We will suffocate those corrupt democracies that try to strangle the Italian people's living space!"

"Our conscience is clear!"

He paused for a moment, waiting for the cheers to subside.

"Our fleet! The mighty Royal Italian Navy! It is the sword of the Roman Empire!"

"It is ready! It will cut off the British supply lines! It will turn that arrogant island nation into an isolated island! We will make the Mediterranean Sea our inland lake again!"

Mussolini was lost in his own fantasy, in which the British were already a corpse awaiting its demise. The French were already kneeling and begging for mercy. He only needed to send a few ships to Tunisia and Egypt to plant his flag, and he would get the biggest slice of the pie at the peace conference. He was even already planning the route for the victory parade.

Unbeknownst to him, just as he was shouting "powerful navy," hundreds of kilometers south of Rome, the aircraft carrier "Illustrious" had already turned against the wind, and the navigator looked at the anemometer, which showed a wind speed of 30 knots on the deck.

The conditions are perfect.

The engines of the first Swordfish torpedo bomber, the Bristol Pegasus, roared to life, the propellers spinning like an invisible barrier in the setting sun.

June 10, 1940, 18:10, Portland Square, London, Broadcasting House.

Compared to the frenzy in the Roman Forum, the Broadcasting House in London appeared remarkably calm, even somewhat deserted.

Studio B2 on the second basement level.

There were no cheering crowds, only thick soundproof walls, a red "Live Broadcast" indicator light, and a silver microphone.

Arthur Sterling sat in front of the microphone.

He had just rushed back from Birmingham and hadn't even had a chance to go home for a meal.

He didn't change out of his overalls, which were stained with engine oil, and even had several streaks of coal dust on his face.

But this doesn't affect his aura.

On the contrary, this outfit made him appear more powerful as a "people's leader" in subsequent news photos. He looked like a warrior who had just come off the production line, rather than a politician sitting in an office.

The director opposite him made a hand gesture, counting down: 3, 2, 1.

The red light is on.

"Good evening, Britain." Arthur's voice carried through the radio waves to every pub, every air-raid shelter, and every home in the British Isles. His tone was relaxed, completely devoid of the tension one would expect when facing a new enemy nation declaring war.

"Just ten minutes ago." Arthur picked up a newly received telegram, a transcript of Mussolini's speech that the BBC's surveillance department had just transcribed.

"Our friend in Rome," said Mr. Mussolini, delivering a brilliant speech from the balcony of the Palazzo Venezia.

"He said he would break the chains of the Mediterranean. He said he would declare war on us."

Arthur chuckled softly, a laugh filled with disdain and even a hint of pity.

"I don't know what you all think. But to me, it sounds more like someone who's not fully awake talking in their sleep."

"Mr. Mussolini declared that his navy was ready." Arthur leaned closer to the microphone, his voice becoming clearer and more penetrating.

"Here, as someone who frequently deals with steel, I have a small suggestion."

"I suggested he first check whether the boilers on his beautiful battleships were actually heated up."

"After all, declaring war is a game for warriors, not a circus clown's show."

People across Britain were stunned as they listened to their radios.

They were used to Chamberlain's lukewarm tone and Churchill's Shakespearean seriousness. But no one had ever spoken in such a sarcastic, almost thuggish, tone on official broadcasts.

But this is just right for my taste!

In the bars of the eastern district, dockworkers began to laugh and chatter, some raising their glasses to clink against the radio. In the air-raid shelter, a woman who had been nervously holding her child also showed a hint of a smile.

"A bald, fat Sobian native who struggles to fight even with a spear." Arthur continued, each word like a slap in the face, precisely striking the fascist dictator.

"Now you want to carve up the British Empire?"

"What does he take us for? The antelopes he chases on the African savanna?"

"No." Arthur's voice suddenly turned serious. The lighthearted banter vanished, replaced by a solemnity and gravity, the tone he used only when facing Guderian's tank formation.

"We are lions."

Even a wounded lion is not something a vulture can provoke.

"The British Empire has always been hospitable."

"If the Italian fleet really dares to leave port. If they really dare to point their cannons at our merchant ships."

"We will welcome them with the most enthusiastic 'gun salute'."

Arthur glanced at his watch: 18:15 PM. The first wave of attack aircraft should have already taken off from the "Radiant" by now.

"Here, I want to make a promise to the leader in Rome, speaking into the microphone." Arthur's voice suddenly became somewhat mysterious, as if he were recounting a prophecy that was about to come true.

"The Royal Navy will make you pay the price for today's declaration of war."

"Moreover, the price will come much sooner than you imagine."

"Maybe tonight. Maybe when you drink that celebratory champagne."

The live stream has ended, and the red light has gone out.

Arthur leaned back in his chair, let out a long sigh, and rubbed his temples.

The continuous high-intensity work made him feel a little tired, but his spirits remained high.

Outside the studio, BBC staff and reporters who had rushed over, led by Major Ryder, burst into applause.

They were moved by the speech.

"Well said, General Sterling!"

"Kill Mussolini! Let him see what we're made of!"

"Sink Veneto! Send them back to their homeland!"

On the streets of London, public sentiment was ignited.

People came out of their homes, waving their fists and shouting that they would drive the Italians into the Mediterranean to feed the fish. Arthur's name was being sung on every street corner.

But this is merely a morale boost.

Whether it was ordinary people on the street, members of parliament in Westminster Palace, or even the director of the BBC, everyone thought it was just a "political rhetoric" used by Arthur to stabilize public sentiment.

This was just a passionate speech, wasn't it?

After all, how could anyone actually wipe out the enemy on the very night the war was declared? The Royal Navy isn't a god; even the closest Mediterranean Fleet couldn't instantly teleport to an Italian port hundreds of kilometers away.

No one knows the truth.

Aside from Churchill underground, there's Grand Admiral Pound, and Arthur sitting in the studio right now.

Arthur stood up and picked up his ebony cane. He ignored the reporters outside who wanted to interview him, simply waving his hand to indicate his refusal.

He walked to the window at the end of the corridor, and although it was also covered by a black cloth, he still stared in that direction.

That's the south direction.

He was looking at his watch; it was 18:20 PM.

The radio silence was lifted, and he could see the friendly units. Although he wasn't in command of this battle, he was thoroughly enjoying the spectating experience. In his mind, the tactical map of the RTS system was flashing.

On the deep blue Ionian Sea, twelve blue dots were detaching from the deck of the "Radiant." That was the 813th...

Along with the "Swordfish" of Squadron 815. They were carrying 18-inch torpedoes with wooden stabilizing fins, flying slowly at 85 knots, skimming the black waves, toward the northern port of Taranto.

That's not rhetoric. That's an irreversible reality that's happening right now.

That was the first, but certainly not the last, "return gift" the British Empire gave to this speculator—wrapped in an 18-inch iron bar and explosives.

Arthur gestured for Ryder to fill the glass; the golden champagne swirled in the glass, reflecting the coldness in his eyes.

He faced southeast, the direction of Rome, and also the direction of Taranto, and slowly raised his glass.

Enjoy your stage, Benito.

"Your fleet has two hours of life remaining."

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