The Twilight of Empire: Starting from Dunkirk

Chapter 137 Shockwave

June 10, 1940, 2:30 PM, Rome, Italy, Palazzo Venezia.

At this moment, the night sky over Rome was being shattered by beams of light from hundreds of searchlights.

This was not for air defense, but for celebration.

Just hours earlier, leader Mussolini had stood on that famous balcony, facing 100,000 enthusiastic people, and announced the start of the war to the world.

The second-floor hall of the Venetian Palace is like an erupting volcano, where alcohol and power intertwine.

This place was a gathering place for high-ranking members of the Fascist Party, commanders of the Blackshirts, government ministers, celebrities and dignitaries, as well as envoys from the Axis powers.

Champagne, caviar, and cigars.

The band was playing Verdi's Aida, and the cheerful rhythm masked the occasional air raid siren coming from afar outside the window—which people assumed was a drill.

Benito Mussolini, dressed in an elaborately designed Imperial Marshal uniform, his chest adorned with medals, held an expensive crystal wine glass and was surrounded by a group of sycophantic followers.

He reveled in the feeling of being surrounded by admirers; excitement and alcohol flushed his face slightly. His chin was held high, a signature gesture to project an air of unwavering resolve and arrogance.

"The British?" he shouted at a German diplomat, his tone full of contempt and disdain. "They are a rotting corpse. With just a push, the entire British Empire will crumble like a house of cards. The Mediterranean? That's our inland lake. From tonight onward, the Royal Sea will not dare to set foot there."

,””

German Ambassador to Italy, Hans Georg von Mackensen, stood to the side, holding a slender wine glass, and smiled apologetically.

Beneath this thin layer of disguise, deep contempt was hidden in those blue eyes.

As a typical Prussian nobleman, he looked down on the group of noisy, flamboyant Latins who treated war like an opera. In the officers' club in Berlin, they privately mocked Mussolini as a "clown in an ill-fitting uniform" and the Italian army as "peasants who are good for nothing but cooking pasta and running away."

He was in a difficult position about the task assigned to him by the head of state, but there was nothing he could do. Mackensen was a career diplomat and, more importantly, a realist.

He was well aware that although the bald dictator in front of him looked ridiculous, the fleet he held in his hands was the real deal.

Six battleships, dozens of cruisers, and hundreds of submarines.

Compared to the German Navy, which suffered heavy losses in the Norwegian campaign and was almost completely depleted of its surface forces, the Italian Royal Navy (Regia Marina) had truly enviable figures on paper.

If the Führer's future ambitions are to be directed toward the North African desert, and if German armored forces are to cross the Mediterranean to sever the lifeblood of the British Empire, then the Germans will have no choice but to hold their noses and rely on these Italians to control the seas.

This fleet is a tool of the Empire. Even if the hand wielding the tool is a fool, the tool itself remains sharp.

Thinking of this, Mackensen suppressed the sarcasm on his lips and put on a sincere expression.

"You're absolutely right, leader." Mackensen bowed slightly, giving a standard Prussian nod, his tone full of flattery, as if he truly believed Mussolini was a reincarnation of Caesar.

"The steel of the Third Reich combined with the will of Rome is an invincible sword. Those British are outdated; the Mediterranean should be your backyard, and can only be your backyard."

He raised his glass in a toast to Mussolini, subtly concealing the barely perceptible sneer in his eyes.

"For the unbreakable friendship of the Axis powers. For the destruction of the British Empire."

"Cheers."

A burst of laughter and applause erupted around them.

"Long live the leader!"

"Long live the new Roman Empire!"

"Let's march on London!"

The lobby door was suddenly pushed open, not in a polite manner, but rather violently slammed open. The heavy oak door slammed against the wall with a loud bang, and the music stopped abruptly.

All eyes turned to the doorway.

If anyone else had dared to so rudely spoil the leader's enjoyment, they would probably have been completely removed from the Roman register the next day.

But the intruder possessed dual immunity based on blood ties and power; he was Count Galeazzo Ciano.

He was Mussolini's son-in-law and Italy's foreign minister, one of the very few in the empire who dared to look the leader in the eye.

The nobleman, who had been so elegant and impeccably groomed just moments before, now looked like a man who had just crawled out of his grave. His tie was askew, his expression terrified, his forehead covered in cold sweat, and he clutched a crumpled telegram tightly in his hand.

His eyes no longer held their former shrewdness, only pure, primal fear.

Ignoring the surprised looks around him, Ciano stumbled through the crowd and headed straight for Mussolini. He nearly slipped on the smooth marble floor, but he paid no heed to tidying his appearance.

"Galeazzo?" Mussolini frowned, extremely displeased with this mood-splitting behavior. "What are you doing? Don't you want to drink a toast to the Empire's victory?"

Ciano rushed to his father-in-law, but stopped at the last step.

His gaze instinctively swept over the German ambassador, Mackensen, who was smiling and holding a wine glass beside him. His professional instincts as a foreign minister told him that this devastating scandal could not be immediately revealed to allies—especially the Germans, who had always looked down on the Italian army—and he knew it was a domestic scandal, a festering sore that had to be kept hidden.

He looked at Mussolini, opened his mouth, tried to lower his voice, and even reached out to pull Mussolini to a corner of the hall for a private report.

"Say what you have to say right here!" Mussolini shoved his son-in-law's hand away, shouting under the influence of alcohol, and even frowning in displeasure at being interrupted from his speech.

"What are you up to, acting all sneaky? These are all brothers from the Axis powers! Our comrades! In this room, we have no secrets from the representative of the Third Reich!"

Ciano was taken aback.

He looked at his father-in-law, whose face was flushed and who was arrogant, and then at Mackensen, who had a half-smile on his face. A sense of despair, like "what's the use of trying?" welled up in his heart.

Yes, what is he trying to hide? What's the point of trying to make up a corpse? The fire in Taranto could probably be seen even by a blind man, and the Royal Navy's telegram may have already been broadcast in London.

This is no secret; it'll be tomorrow's headline news.

Since the leader wants to show honesty to the Germans, let him show it to his heart's content.

"Alright." Ciano stopped trying to hide it, his tone crisp and decisive. "Leader—"

"Taranto————"

"What's wrong with Taranto?" Mussolini asked impatiently, waving his hand as if his son-in-law was reporting on the celebrations over there. "You mean the celebrations over there? I know, they're celebrating too. I even had two hundred cases of champagne sent over so they can revel in it."

"No." Ciano shook his head, his eyes almost overflowing with despair, a fear of reality utterly collapsing. "There's no celebration."

"Taranto—it's gone."

The hall fell silent instantly.

The German diplomats' smiles froze on their faces, and the Blackshirts' high-ranking officials stopped talking.

"What nonsense are you spouting?" Mussolini's smile vanished, replaced by an offended anger. "What do you mean, 'gone'?"

Ciano held up the telegram with trembling hands. It was a top-secret, urgent message just sent by the Naval Staff. Mussolini recognized every word on it, but when put together, it was enough to completely shut down his brain.

"Taranto was attacked. Just ten minutes ago, the Admiralty confirmed the final damage report." Ciano's voice trembled, but he had to say it, even if Mussolini would shoot him on the spot. "The British—the Royal Navy. They attacked Taranto tonight."

"After the air raid ended—they brought in the battleships."

"The battleship 'Graf Cavour' was torpedoed and sank."

"The battleship 'Littorio' was sunk after being hit by a torpedo."

The battleship "Caio Duilio" was sunk by torpedoes.

"The flagship 'Vittorio Veneto' has been severely damaged by the battleship's main guns and is no longer combat-capable."

"The heavy cruiser 'Fum' was hit in its ammunition magazine while launching a counterattack from port; there were no survivors."

Ciano swallowed hard, his voice choked with emotion as he looked at Mussolini: "Leader. Just three hours after you declared war..."

"More than half of our main fleet has been turned into scrap metal."

"The rest is also unusable. The port facilities are completely destroyed. Dry dock No. 3 was bombed. The oil depot is burning, a huge fire—it's said that the flames can be seen even from Naples."

*Snap!* A crisp cracking sound.

The crystal wine glass in Mussolini's hand fell to the marble floor and shattered. Golden champagne splattered onto his black riding boots like a puddle of urine.

"Impossible—" Mussolini took a step back and bumped into a long table full of food.

"This is impossible! The British Mediterranean fleet is in Alexandria! How could they have arrived in such a short time—"

"This is a sneak attack! This is a despicable sneak attack!" Mussolini suddenly erupted. His broad face instantly turned purple, veins bulging, and he snatched the telegram, tearing at it frantically as if it were Churchill's face, Cunningham's face.

"Shameless! Vulgar! Despicable Anglo-Saxon pirates!" he roared in the hall. "War without a declaration?"

"I've already declared war! But they—they actually dared to attack? With battleships? With planes?" He was now slurring his words and incoherent.

"Where are my anti-aircraft guns? Where is my air force? Where is Balbo? Where are those radars that boast they can swat down flies?! Didn't our intelligence say the Mediterranean Fleet was still in Egypt?"

No one dared to answer.

The generals and ministers, dressed in their splendid uniforms, all lowered their heads, trying to shrink themselves into the shadows.

Because they knew that anyone who spoke at this time would be in big trouble; they didn't have Ciano's get-out-of-jail-free card.

The leader had just promised the people a "new Roman Empire" and "Mediterranean hegemony." In just three hours, that promise was shattered by the British with 15-inch shells and 18-inch torpedoes.

"That's hundreds of thousands of tons of steel!" Mussolini grabbed his hair, his voice turning from a roar to a wail. "That's the nation's savings of twenty years! That's my fleet!" He slumped into his chair, his once upright body seemingly aging ten years in an instant.

He remembered what Sterling had said on the BBC just a few hours earlier.

He thought it was a joke at the time, but now he realizes it was a verdict.

Inside the banquet hall, the band stood frozen, bewildered. The unfinished rendition of "Aida" now sounded like an absurd elegy.

22:30, London, UK, Admiralty Building, basement operations room.

Unlike the false prosperity of Rome, filled with opera and champagne, there was only one sound in the Admiralty operations room buried deep beneath London: the monotonous hum of radio receivers and the dull buzzing of giant ventilation fans.

There is no music here, and certainly no caviar or champagne.

First Sea Secretary Dudley Pound was staring intently at the huge Mediterranean nautical chart on the wall.

He had been here all day, and his eyes were bloodshot, a sign of chronic sleep deprivation.

But he dared not sleep.

Tonight, he is waiting for news from two people.

One is Andrew Cunningham, the current commander of the Mediterranean Fleet, who was Pound's old partner and his successor.

When Pound stepped down as commander of the Mediterranean Fleet, he personally handed the fleet over to Cunningham, knowing that the Scotsman had an even more frenzied desire to attack than he did.

The other was John Tovey, the vanguard squadron commander, whom Pound called the "Bulldog," a madman who had dared to use cruisers as destroyers in numerous previous exercises.

When these two get together, they either create miracles or bankrupt the Royal Navy.

"Is there a signal?"

This was his tenth inquiry in the past sixty minutes.

Even someone as composed as him couldn't help but stare intently at the enormous wall clock. Each tick of the minute hand felt like a pounding on his nerves.

According to the battle schedule, the die of fate has been rolled. At this moment, the fleet has only two states: either it is on the retreat route, full of glory, or it has been completely buried at sea, making the "Mediterranean Fleet" a historical term tonight.

"Still listening, sir. But—" The communications officer hesitated for a moment, as the Warspite remained silent.

If they fail, or are completely wiped out, there may never be a signal again.

Before he could finish speaking, the dedicated teletype machine in the corner suddenly started beating wildly.

Rat-a-tat-tat-tat-tat—the rapid, pounding sound sounded like machine gun fire in the quiet operations room.

"Flash! From HMS Warspite!" The decoder jumped up, his hands trembling as he tore off the long strip of paper. All the staff officers held their breath, instinctively holding the paper in their hands, while Pound's fingers gripped the corner of the table tightly.

"Read it," Pound said, uttering only one word.

The decoder took a deep breath, glanced at the document, and then his voice became extremely excited: "To the Navy."

"The trial has concluded."

"Battle results confirmed: Battleship Cavour sunk. Battleship Littorio sank. Battleship Duilio sank. Flagship Veneto disabled."

The heavy cruiser Fiume was executed.

"The port facilities have been destroyed. Our fleet suffered no losses and is returning to port."

'

—Cunningham.

Dead silence. A second of dead silence.

Immediately afterwards, the entire underground operations room erupted in cheers that had been suppressed for a long time. Some people threw their hats at the ceiling, some pounded their fists on the table, and some even hugged their stubble-faced colleagues and laughed.

Pound did not cheer.

He let out a long breath, as if a huge burden had been lifted. His lips twitched slightly before he revealed an extremely ugly smile.

"Those two bastards—" he muttered under his breath, but his tone was full of pride. "I knew they could do it."

Then, he picked up the red marker on the table.

His hands were steady, even though they had been trembling slightly just a minute before.

He walked to the chart and, at the location of "Taranto," drew a large, bold red X. The bright red ink smeared across the chart. Then, next to the red X, Pound wrote a footnote in neat, cursive script: "Italian Navy: Cancelled."

"Gentlemen," Pound said, turning around and throwing down his pen.

Even amidst the cheers, his voice remained incredibly powerful.

"I think we can report to the Prime Minister now."

"The Mediterranean shipping route has been opened."

"Notify all escort fleets that, starting tomorrow, the escort level for merchant convoys transiting the Mediterranean to Suez will be downgraded to Level 2. We no longer need to detour around the Cape of Good Hope."

"Also," Pound glanced at the decoder, "call Cunningham back: Well done, Andrew. You were right, we want more than just victory, we want utter annihilation."

10 Downing Street, the Prime Minister's official residence.

Winston Churchill did not sleep either.

He was wearing a silk bathrobe, a cigar dangling from his lips, and a glass of brandy in his hand, sitting in front of the fireplace.

Opposite him sat Arthur Sterling.

Arthur came directly from the BBC, still wearing his work clothes that smelled of engine oil and coal dust. But in this room filled with the aroma of top-quality cigars, his attire seemed both out of place and perfectly fitting.

The phone rang, and Churchill grabbed the receiver with the speed of a boxer.

"I am Churchill."

"Is it confirmed?"

"How many? Say it again?"

"Very good. Excellent."

"Tell Cunningham for me: if he's in London, I'll kiss him on the cheek. Tell him well done. Give all the combatants double rum rations. Also, I want to give special commendation to Lieutenant General Tovey, whose performance in the night battle was like that of a true Nelson."

Churchill put down the phone.

He turned around and looked at Arthur, a bright, childlike smile appearing on his usually tense bulldog face.

"Arthur," Churchill raised his glass, "we knocked out Mussolini's teeth with that slap."

Arthur smiled, raised his glass, and lightly clinked it against the Prime Minister's.

Compared to Churchill's ecstasy, his reaction was only a predictable calm.

This is not surprising.

Regardless of the historical cause and effect, just over an hour ago, he was still spectating in an RTS game.

He witnessed the entire massacre from a godlike perspective—from the angle at which Williamson dropped the first torpedo, to the course of Tovey's destroyers as they stormed into the harbor, and even the turret fragments that flew when the USS Fiume exploded. He saw it all clearly.

It was a spectacular micro-management performance.

But he didn't say anything. He was an audience member and a director behind the scenes, but he didn't want to steal the actors' spotlight.

The specific details will be left for Andrew Cunningham to write in his memoir, *A Naval Career*, after the war.

Sailor (Odyssey)

"This is just a trailer, Prime Minister."

"The real show is yet to come. Without naval cover, the Italian troops in Libya are lambs to the slaughter. General Wavell can begin his operation."

"How's it going with the BBC?" Churchill asked.

"It's in an uproar." Arthur pointed out the window. "Even in this soundproofed room, I can hear what's going on outside."

Indeed, on the streets of London at this time, despite it being late at night and despite the blackout regulations, the cheers that could not be suppressed were spreading.

The BBC broadcast a special news release half an hour ago: "The Royal Navy's Mediterranean Fleet launched a devastating attack tonight on the Italian naval base in Taranto. Several capital ships have been confirmed sunk or heavily damaged. This is an immediate response to the declaration of war by the Mussolini fascist regime."

This statement is extremely damaging.

Just hours earlier, all of Britain had heard Arthur's sarcastic remark on the radio: "The Royal Navy will make you pay for today's declaration of war. Perhaps tonight."

At the time, many people thought it was just a harsh remark to boost morale, or even a boast that politicians often use.

Who would have thought that this was actually an accurate tactical forecast!

In the pub, the British public, who had been worried about "another enemy," were completely excited.

Some people rushed into the street, waving newspapers.

"That Sterling wasn't bluffing! He said he'd blow it up, and he really did!" "Let that bald, fat guy die!"

"Long live the Royal Navy!"

"Let's teach the Italians a lesson!"

The psychological impact of this is enormous.

Since the Battle of Norway, the British people had lived in the shadow of defeat, and the impending collapse of France only fueled their despair. But tonight, Arthur and Cunningham delivered a resounding victory, proving to everyone that the British Empire was not old. The lion still had its fangs, and it was fiercer, more precise, and more unreasonable than ever before.

Arthur walked to the window, pulled back a corner of the curtain, and looked at the occasional flashlight beams on the dark street outside.

"The people need more than just victory, Prime Minister," Arthur said softly. "They need revenge."

"Tonight, we gave them our revenge."

Churchill watched Arthur's retreating figure, his gaze piercing through the rising smoke from his cigar, becoming somewhat unfathomable.

Although Cunningham commanded the fleet and Williamson launched the torpedoes, Churchill knew very well that the logic of politics was never distribution according to work.

After tonight, Arthur Sterling's prestige in Britain will have no ceiling.

He has transcended the realm of an industrial giant and a rising star in the military.

He is being transformed into a symbol, a synonym for "inevitable victory".

The public would fervently idolize the man who sentenced Mussolini to death on the radio and actually carried it out within three hours—a ruthless war prophet whose words carried the weight of his conviction.

But there's nothing wrong with that.

In this darkest hour, the British Empire needed more than just coal and steel; it needed a new symbol of faith to fill the void of fear within. They needed a living hero, an undeniable victory.

As long as we win, it doesn't matter who stands on the pedestal.

"The Mediterranean water really did boil," Churchill exhaled a smoke ring, "but we boiled it."

At the same time, in Brüde-Pesch, Belgium, Wolfsburg, the home base of the Little Mustache.

The armored tracks of the German Wehrmacht are crushing all resistance on French soil, and the fall of Paris is inevitable.

Little Mustache was in a great mood.

In his command post in Brü-de-Pesch, he had already begun to envision the historic scene in his mind: a few days later, he would stand in Trocadero Square, with the Eiffel Tower as a backdrop, striking a conqueror's pose, and have his personal photographer, Hoffmann, take a picture that would be remembered for generations.

Until Yodl walked in with that damn intelligence report.

Prior to this, Mussolini had been filled with contempt for his opportunistic act of declaring war at this critical juncture.

But he tolerated this despicable act. After all, from a grand strategic perspective, this vulture was useful. The massive Italian navy could serve as a competent watchdog, keeping a close watch on the British fleet in the Mediterranean.

As long as those battleships remain afloat, they will provide a crucial maritime barrier for the future German armored forces to intervene in North Africa and sever the vital arteries of the British Empire.

This is a sure-fire way to make money.

"My lord," Yodl's face was grim, as if he had swallowed a dead fly, "news from Rome. It concerns Taranto."

The man with the mustache was drinking his special herbal tea, not paying much attention.

"What's that fat guy bragging about now? Did he say his fleet has already reached Malta?" the mustache mocked.

He always looked down on the fighting capabilities of the Italian army, regarding them only as a tool to contain Britain.

"No, Your Excellency." Yodl placed the report on the table. "Just two hours ago, it was confirmed by multiple sources that the British Mediterranean Fleet launched a surprise attack on Taranto."

"The Italian Navy—its main force was completely wiped out."

The teacup in the bearded man's hand froze in mid-air, his blue-gray eyes fixed on Yodl, as if he had heard a joke that wasn't funny at all.

"Say it again?"

"The main force is wiped out, Your Majesty," Yodl repeated, forcing a smile. "According to our naval liaison officer, three battleships are sunk or grounded, and the flagship is severely damaged. The port facilities of Taranto have been destroyed. The Italian Navy will be unable to conduct sea operations for the next six months to a year. They have completely lost control of the sea."

Clang! The teacup was slammed to the ground. The man with the mustache jumped to his feet, trembling with extreme anger.

"Useless! A bunch of useless trash!" The mustachioed man began pacing back and forth in the hall, his signature roar shaking the map table.

"I knew it! I knew these Latinos couldn't be trusted!"

"They can't even keep an eye on their own bathtubs!"

"I gave them steel, I gave them coal, and this is what they gave me? A bunch of clowns in ill-fitting shoes!"

Little Mustache's anger stemmed not only from the incompetence of his allies, but also from his strategic passivity.

His original plan was to use the powerful Italian navy to tie down the British Mediterranean fleet, thereby forcing Britain to divert its forces to defend the Suez Canal and relieving pressure on the English Channel. This would have made his "Operation Sea Lion" much easier.

But now, the Italian navy has become scrap metal overnight, which means that if the British wanted, they could even free up the Mediterranean fleet and redeploy it to defend the homeland!

"Cunningham—" The mustache suddenly stopped, his eyes turning sinister, "And that Arthur Sterling who was yelling on the radio."

"I underestimated them."

Keitel cautiously interjected, "Your Führer, it seems the British haven't lost their fighting spirit because of the situation in France. On the contrary, their aggression has intensified. This tactic—it's extremely radical. Completely unlike their previous conservative approach. They've launched a war without declaration, and their methods are incredibly cruel."

"Cruel?" the mustache sneered. "This is war! Isn't this our usual way of thinking? Only the victors have the right to define cruelty!" But he quickly regained his composure. As a political animal, he keenly sensed the danger.

The British Empire has changed. The Britain that used to only appease and issue protest notes is gone. In its place is a madman holding a knife, ready to stab people at any time.

"We can't count on the Italians anymore." The man with the mustache walked to the map, his gaze falling on the desert in North Africa. "If the British completely control the Mediterranean, they'll poke us up from Italy's weak underbelly."

"We need to send people to help those idiots."

"Where is Rommel?" the mustache suddenly asked.

"He is commanding the 7th Armored Division, which is advancing towards Cherbourg."

"Have him prepare." The mustachioed man pointed to the location in Libya. "Once things are settled in France, I might need him to teach the Italians how to fight. Form a legion—let's call it the 'African Legion.'"

June 11, 14:00 (Tokyo time), Seto Inland Sea, Hashirajima anchorage, Combined Fleet flagship "Nagato".

Unlike the hustle and bustle of Europe, here there is only the monotonous sound of waves crashing against steel.

The Japanese Imperial Combined Fleet lay quietly anchored in the bay.

The atmosphere in the spacious commander's office of the battleship "Nagato" was solemn and dignified.

Commander-in-Chief of the Combined Fleet, Admiral Isoroku Yamamoto, was sitting at his desk.

His left hand, with only three fingers, rested on a top-secret intelligence report that had just been delivered. Opposite him stood a young naval lieutenant commander—Minoru Genda, a staff officer of the First Air Fleet.

For some reason, they received the news a few hours later than Little Mustache.

"Did you see it?" Yamamoto asked.

"I've seen it, sir." Genda Minoru's eyes were filled with confusion and bewilderment. "A detailed battle report sent back by the Imperial military attaché in Rome."

Regarding Taranto.

"Tell me your thoughts."

Genda Minoru walked up to the huge nautical chart hanging on the wall.

But he wasn't looking at the Mediterranean Sea; he was looking at the Pacific Ocean.

"Incredible," Genda Minoru said truthfully. "It's not just about the results, it's about the tactics."

"The water depth in the port of Taranto is only 12 meters. According to our common sense and that of navies around the world, an aerial torpedo dropped in such shallow water would sink directly into the silt due to excessive kinetic energy upon impact. Usually, a depth of at least 30 meters is required for the torpedo to level off."

"But the British did it."

Genda Minoru pulled a sketch from the folder. It was drawn by intelligence personnel based on the wreckage of an unexploded British torpedo that had been salvaged. Although it was blurry, the structure was clear.

"The secret is here." Genda Minoru pointed to an inconspicuous device at the tail of the torpedo. "They added a simple stabilizing fin to the torpedo's wooden tail fin and connected it to the elevator with a steel wire."

"This rudimentary device forces the torpedo to level off quickly after entering the water. The immersion depth is controlled to within 10 meters."

"This is a brilliant design. Simple, cheap, but deadly."

Yamamoto Isoroku did not speak. He stood up, walked to the porthole, and looked at the huge fleet anchored outside.

"Shallow water torpedo—" Yamamoto muttered to himself.

He turned around and stared intently at Minoru Genda.

"Genda-kun".

"If it could be done in Taranto—" Yamamoto's finger traced an arc in the air, pointing to a point in the east, "then, could it be done at Pearl Harbor?"

Genda Minoru's body jolted. Pearl Harbor. That was the base of the U.S. Pacific Fleet. The water depth was also only about 12 meters.

For a long time, the Japanese Navy believed that it was impossible to attack Pearl Harbor with torpedoes and that the only option was horizontal bombing. However, the hit rate of horizontal bombing was too low. But now, the British had shown them through actual combat: this lock had a key.

"Yes, we can." Genda Minoru made up his mind. "If the British can do it with those biplane canvas planes, our Type 97 Kate carrier-based attack aircraft, equipped with modified torpedoes, can certainly do it even better."

"We can even go further." Genda Minoru's mind was already conceiving the scene: not only torpedoes, but also the astonishing "ultra-low altitude penetration" and "nighttime surprise attack".

"Arthur Sterling—" Yamamoto Isoroku murmured the name, "that Englishman. He not only helped the British win this battle, but also inadvertently taught us the most important lesson."

Isoroku Yamamoto walked up to the world map, his gaze sweeping across the Pacific Ocean.

The gears of history have sped up.

"The British have awakened this dormant technology. And we—" Yamamoto's eyes turned cold, "we will use this technology to end that giant in the Pacific."

June 11, early morning. (European time)

When the sun rises again, the world will have changed.

In Rome, cleaners are sweeping up shards of glass from the floor of the Palazzo Venezia.

Mussolini locked himself in his study and refused to see anyone.

In London, The Times' front page headline read in large bold letters: "Trial is coming: Mediterranean fleet strikes Italy hard."

Arthur's photo and Cunningham's photo were published side by side in the most prominent position.

In Berlin, Little Mustache was ordering the General Staff to reassess the feasibility of Operation Sea Lion, as the aggressiveness displayed by the British Navy made him uneasy.

In Tokyo, the torpedo design bureau at the Yokosuka Naval Arsenal received a top-secret order to immediately begin the Type 91 aerial torpedo improvement project, codenamed "Shallow Water Modification".

Although the smoke of battle in Taranto has cleared, the shockwaves it generated have only just begun to sweep across the globe.

Arthur Sterling sat in his office, looking out at the London morning mist.

He certainly did not collude with the enemy, nor did he send any technical drawings of shallow-water torpedoes to Tokyo.

But he knew those Easterners too well. Compared to the Italians who were still weeping over their losses, the Japanese naval attaché in Rome was probably already using a magnifying glass to search for the secret of "shallow water torpedoes" between the lines of the battle report.

As for that torpedo that most likely remained embedded in the Taranto mud and failed to explode due to mechanical failure—that was a "textbook" of war probability theory for Yamamoto Isoroku.

He wouldn't mind if the Japanese learned this trick.

On the contrary, he was looking forward to it.

Because on the other side of the ocean, that sleeping giant needs to be stabbed more painfully and wounded more deeply.

Only if the flames of Pearl Harbor burn brighter than ever before, only if the U.S. Pacific Fleet sheds more blood, will those arrogant Yankees bow their heads and offer even more expensive bargaining chips to win the friendship of the British Empire.

This is a necessary sacrifice.

And this is just the beginning.

He personally toppled the first domino, and from then on, the world will follow his script, heading towards an even more insane and thorough destruction and rebirth.

"Good morning, world," Arthur said softly, picking up his coffee.

There is a chapter during the day.