The Twilight of Empire: Starting from Dunkirk

Chapter 145 Forced Patriotism—Only the Dead Have the Right to Surrender (Part 2)

P.S.: Chapter 138, "The Ghost of Paris," added an interaction between Guderian and Rommel, which included the previous note. Those interested can go back and take a look; it won't affect the subsequent plot.

June 23, 7:00 AM, London, top-floor office of Stirling Heavy Industries.

A black and white photograph sat on Arthur Sterling's desk.

It was a faxed photograph sent back overnight by a journalist from a neutral country. Although the photo was somewhat blurry, the figure was still clearly visible. The man with the mustache was dancing. The comical leg-raising motion was frozen on the film, making him look like a frog being electrocuted.

David Sterling sat on the sofa, toying with his gleaming Sterling submachine gun; he absolutely adored this big toy. He leaned closer to look at the photo and let out a snicker.

"Look at this little mustache. He dances like a circus clown. If this is the ruler of Europe, then God's taste is truly terrible."

Arthur, dressed in a dark silk robe, held a cup of unsweetened black coffee. He stood before the enormous French windows, gazing at the London sky filled with air raid pylons. The morning mist hadn't yet dissipated, casting a somber gray shadow over the entire city.

He turned around, walked to the table, and picked up the photograph. His face was expressionless. There was no anger, no fear, not even contempt, only a bottomless indifference, like a surgeon looking at an X-ray of a malignant tumor.

"Jump, Little Mustache," Arthur's calm voice echoed in the empty office. "Jump a few more times before your legs break."

He casually tossed the photo onto the table and looked at Warrant Officer McTavish, who had been standing at the door acting as both bodyguard and personal butler.

"Let Ryder, de Gaulle, Jeanne, and Jeanne come in."

A few minutes later, the four people walked in.

Charles de Gaulle was still wearing his French military uniform, but his expression was more somber than a few days earlier. Major General Jeanson wore his ill-fitting British major general's uniform, his left arm still in a sling, and his weathered face was filled with murderous intent.

Jeanne stood behind Jeanson. Arthur had been so busy these past few days that he hadn't taken her with him, just letting her rest at Sterling Manor because she looked really haggard.

Ryder, the newly appointed special operations commander by Arthur, stood quietly to the side.

Arthur made no small talk; he didn't even offer them a seat. He opened a drawer, took out two folders, and tossed them onto the mahogany desk.

The folder on the left is blue, and the one on the right is bright red, both stamped with "Top Secret".

"Just now, we not only received photos of Little Mustache dancing, but also intelligence. He's drooling over the ports of Toulon and Oran in the Compiègne forest." Arthur's fingers moved back and forth between two folders, glancing back and forth at the three Frenchmen in front of him.

"Since the Vichy government has already signed a contract of servitude, selling their souls to the devil, then we must help them."

"I'm free."

Arthur deliberately emphasized the term "Vichy government" to separate it from the "French government."

"Here are two options. You can choose one."

Arthur pointed to the blue folder.

"Plan A: A Triumphant Return"

"This is your chance. Just like I told Charles before, use all your connections—radio, private letters, even send agents infiltrate. Persuade Darlan, turn those captains against their cause. Tell them that if they don't sail to England or Martinique, they're helping the Nazis kill people."

"Of course, if they are willing to raise the flag of Free France or the Royal Navy within the stipulated time, I will provide them with escort, supplies, and even a resettlement allowance for each person."

Then, Arthur's finger moved to the red folder, and his voice turned cold.

"Plan B: Scorched Earth Operation, also known as Ballista Operation or Watchdog Operation."

"If Plan A fails within the stipulated time, or if they refuse to respond." Arthur opened the red folder, which contained rows of port maps marked in red, taken by reconnaissance planes and filled with bombing coordinates.

"The Royal Navy will be fully deployed. Fleet H and the Mediterranean Fleet will jointly blockade the Mediterranean. We will destroy all port facilities in Åland, Toulon, and Dakar."

"And any warship that is still afloat and flying the tricolor flag, whether battleship or destroyer, will be considered part of the German Navy's reserve force and will be completely sunk if it does not surrender."

David Sterling whistled, breaking the silence.

"We're going to take action against the French? They're our allies."

The atmosphere in the room instantly tensed. De Gaulle's cheek muscles twitched, and Major General Sen clenched his intact fist, his nails digging deep into his palm. Jeanne bit her lip, her face pale.

Although they hated the Vichy government, firing on their own compatriots and personally sinking their own country's fleet was a huge psychological taboo.

Arthur turned his head, the firelight from the fireplace illuminating half of his face, making him look unpredictable, half gentleman and half demon.

"Until yesterday, they were indeed allies."

Arthur picked up the photo of the little mustache dancing and threw it into the fireplace. The flames instantly engulfed the dancing figure; the paper curled, turned black, and finally turned to ashes.

Arthur looked at the photograph turned to ashes, then raised his head and stared coldly at de Gaulle.

"Since Little Mustache wants those ships, if you can't get them back, I'll turn them into coral reefs on the seabed. That's what I call a fair trade."

"I will not gamble the fate of the British Empire on Darlang's conscience."

De Gaulle took a deep breath, looking at the blue folder and then at the red folder.

He knew this wasn't a choice; it was an ultimatum. But he was a proud man, and he tried to grasp at the last straw.

He reached out with trembling hands and pressed them on the blue folder.

"I will try." De Gaulle's voice held a stubborn edge. "I will use the BBC radio, I will shout myself hoarse into the microphone. I will appeal to them, I will appeal to their sense of honor. I don't believe Darlan will really hand over the fleet to the Germans."

Upon hearing this, Arthur smiled.

It wasn't a smile of admiration, but a mocking and cold laugh. He shook his head, extended a finger, and gently shook it.

"No, Commodore," Arthur's voice carried a lecturing tone, "the microphone is for politicians. If you really want your fleet back, you can't hide in a London recording studio."

Arthur took a step closer and looked directly into de Gaulle's eyes.

"You have to go and get it yourself."

"You have to personally go up to the decks of those warships, even hold a gun, point it at the heads of those hesitant captains, and tell them which way to sail."

De Gaulle was stunned; he clearly hadn't expected Arthur to make such a request.

"Go in person? Where to? Oran? Or Karl?"

"Wherever the ship is, that's where you'll be." Arthur turned his gaze to Lieutenant Jeanne beside him. "And you, Lieutenant. You're coming too."

Jeanne paused for a moment, then immediately stood at attention: "Yes, sir. But I'm just a lieutenant—"

“Precisely because you’re a lieutenant,” Arthur interrupted her, his tone stern. “The generals go deal with the other generals, negotiate with those old fogies obsessed with politics and rank. And you, go deal with the sailors.” Arthur pointed out the window. “Those in the holds tending the boilers, those on deck cleaning the gun barrels—some of them don’t listen to de Gaulle’s broadcasts, and they don’t care about Darlan’s orders. But they will listen to you. Tell them what happened in Berg, tell them how the SS treated prisoners of war.” Arthur’s eyes sharpened. “If the generals won’t set sail, then let the sailors tie them up and set sail themselves.”

De Gaulle and Jean-Jacques looked at Arthur in shock.

This move is too ruthless; it's inciting a mutiny.

But Arthur ignored their expressions. He straightened the collar of his robe and looked at de Gaulle with a playful expression.

"You didn't expect to be able to return to your homeland so soon, did you, Charles?"

""

Arthur patted de Gaulle on the shoulder, like the devil tempting mortals.

"Imagine standing on the bridge of your flagship, with the Royal Navy's massive cannons behind you and your former subordinates before you. You return as conqueror and savior, forcing them to make the right choice—" Arthur's lips curled into a smile. "That feeling must be incredibly cool, right?"

De Gaulle remained silent.

His Adam's apple bobbed, a flash of shock crossed his eyes, and then a flame ignited within them.

That was the flame of ambition. And the flame of a soldier.

He was very interested.

Arthur didn't give him time to think. He glanced at his watch; it was 7:15.

"Very well. Since you're not saying anything, I'll take that as your agreement."

Arthur looked at McTavish.

"Prepare the car. We're heading to the Admiralty."

He turned around, picked up the ebony cane, and slammed it heavily on the ground.

"Let's go, generals, and the lieutenant too. We need to talk to Marshal Pound and his old fogies about how to send you back home."

08:30, London, Whitehall, Admiralty bunker.

In the wartime cabinet's highest command center beneath Whitehall, the air was stiflingly stuffy. There were no windows, only the buzzing ventilation ducts overhead and dozens of pale incandescent bulbs casting a ghastly white glow. The walls were covered with huge nautical charts, densely marked with every shipping route in the Atlantic and Mediterranean, the location of every escort convoy, and those chilling black skull and crossbones symbols representing the presence of German submarines.

But today, all eyes are on a corner of the Mediterranean: Oran, and the naval port of Mers-el-Kébir next to it.

Before that enormous nautical chart, First Sea Lord Marshal Dudley Pound was on the verge of exploding.

The usually composed old sailor's face was now flushed red. He clutched a newly delivered memo in his hand and slammed it against the chart table, the loud noise silencing the surrounding staff officers.

"This is madness! This is playing with the fate of the British Empire!" Pound's roar echoed in the enclosed concrete room.

He turned and stared intently at Winston Churchill, who sat silently at the end of the long table, cigar in hand, before turning his anger toward Arthur Sterling, who had just entered the room.

Arthur deliberately didn't wear his brigadier general's uniform. In a hierarchical place like the Navy Department, a brigadier general was only entitled to stand at attention and be scolded; he had no right to interfere with the First Sea Lord's decisions.

But his identity was different now. He wore a dark gray double-breasted trench coat, the collar still damp with the chilly morning mist of London. He leaned on his ebony cane; he represented not the army, but the Sterling family.

He was a tycoon who controlled the lifeline of the British Empire's military industry, the de facto owner of the Royal Navy's shipyards, and the biggest "financial backer" and "executive director" behind the fleet.

The Army Brigadier General could not rescind the orders of the Admiral of the Navy, but Arthur Sterling, or rather the old Earl behind him, could.

He strode into the conference room, followed by Charles de Gaulle with a somber expression, Major General Jeanne, and Lieutenant Jeanne, who seemed somewhat out of place.

"Arthur!" Pound was unusually angry with Arthur, not even caring about the man's status as the new head of the Sterling family. "What do you take the Admiralty for? Your private casino? You want to send these few men to Oran to bring that fleet back? Do you know what that means?"

Pound grabbed a pointer and slammed it hard against the location of the port of Mirskebil.

"Look here! If you're a complete novice, let me teach you how to read a nautical chart!"

"Here lie the Dunkerque and the Strasbourg! Two high-speed battlecruisers, each over 35000 tons full-load displacement and armed with 330mm main guns! They were designed to hunt down German pocket battleships, and their speed reaches 30 knots!" Pound's voice was excited. "30 knots! On this planet, apart from the HMS Hood, no capital ship in the Royal Navy can catch them! If your negotiations fail, if that old fox Darlan is stalling for time, if these two ships break out of the harbor and enter the Atlantic—"

Pound paused for a moment, the meaning of which was self-evident: we would never catch up with them again.

"If they head to neutral countries, or are merely fleeing, that would be fine. The real fear is that they might obey Nazi orders and indiscriminately attack our escort fleets. If that happens, Britain's maritime lifeline will be cut off in just one month. We will have to divert half our forces from the Home Fleet to pursue them, while the German landing fleet will then swagger across the English Channel!"

Pound threw his pointer on the table with a sharp "snap".

"My plan is Operation Catapult—tomorrow morning, while they are still at their berths and their boilers are off, we will launch a surprise attack using the overwhelming firepower of Fleet H. Destroy them all in the harbor within half an hour! This is the only way to guarantee zero casualties for the Royal Navy and to completely eliminate the threat!"

"And you, Sterling, do you want us to give up the advantage of surprise? You want us to go knocking on doors and have coffee with those French generals who were surrendering to the Germans yesterday? That's suicide! That's a crime against the Royal Navy!"

The air in the conference room seemed to have been sucked out instantly, and silence enveloped everyone. All eyes were focused on Arthur.

Marshal Pound looked at the rising star of the Empire leaning on his cane before him. The rage in his eyes had vanished, replaced by a deep weariness and a sense of absurdity, like watching a mischievous child playing with fire next to a powder keg.

He was very close to Lord Stirling and had watched Arthur grow up.

In his view, Arthur's suggestion was simply childish nonsense, and he could understand Arthur's "naivety".

He was the First Sea Minister, not a bloodthirsty butcher. To fire upon his French comrades who had fought alongside him just yesterday, to issue kill orders to those French admirals he knew, would earn him the lifelong infamy of a "traitor" in naval history.

If he had a choice, he would have preferred to avoid this infighting more than anyone else.

But he had no choice. He was responsible to the Royal Navy and to the survival of the British Empire.

Once this fourth-largest fleet in the world stormed out of port, once those two high-speed battleships and dozens of destroyers cut off the Atlantic shipping lanes, Britain would starve within three months. Rather than risk the destruction of the entire nation and gamble with the conscience of the French, he preferred to bear the infamy and turn them into scrap metal in the port.

This is the coldest, but also the most rational, optimal solution.

Churchill remained seated in the shadows, the smoke from his cigar obscuring his expression. But his bloodshot eyes...

His tired eyes, like those of a bulldog, were fixed on Arthur, waiting for him to speak.

As prime minister, he doesn't need a conscience; all he needs is control of the seas. He cannot afford to lose the oceans.

Arthur slowly walked to the chart table. He first bowed to Pound, then looked down at the map, which was covered in red and blue pencil marks, and reached out to gently pick up the pointer that Pound had thrown away.

"Are you finished, Uncle Pound?"

This affectionate address startled Pound, instantly extinguishing half of his anger.

"Hmph!" Pound turned away and said no more.

"Now that your introductory naval tactics lesson is over, perhaps we can talk about the real strategic logic." Arthur raised his head, his eyes showing no disrespect, and began to state the facts. "I'm not here to listen to you teach me how to fight, Uncle. I'm here to tell you that if we don't do this, even if we win this battle, the British Empire will have lost."

Arthur raised his head and scanned each of the naval officers present.

"Marshal Pound, your tactical analysis is perfect. Mathematically, you are correct. A surprise attack can indeed destroy these ships at minimal cost." Arthur once again addressed him as "Marshal."

"But strategically, you are wrong. Terribly wrong." Arthur pointed his pointer at the North African coastline, then across the entire French colony. "If you open fire tomorrow morning and kill thousands of French sailors who were our allies yesterday, then by tomorrow night, the Vichy government will have gone from neutral to our complete enemy."

"Have you considered the consequences?" Arthur stared intently at Pound. "The angry French will open all their bases in North Africa to the Germans. Dakar, Casablanca, Tunisia—if the Germans attack Africa, they will no longer need to make the long march along that coastal road; they will have direct logistical support from all of French North Africa, and they can source resources locally."

"By then, the Royal Navy will indeed have annihilated the world's Fourth Fleet," Arthur sneered, "but what we'll face is the fall of the entire Mediterranean and the nightmare of having to attack every single French colony. How many more soldiers will we lose? 100,000? Or 200,000?"

Pound was stunned. He was a pure sailor, and he only stared at the ship, while Arthur stared at the entire chessboard.

"So, I'm not here to argue with you about these few ships." Arthur slammed a document—a modified version of the "Reverse Ballista" plan—in front of Pound. "We need those ships. Or at least, we need to prove to the world that we did our best. Even if it really comes to the point where we have to open fire, we need to pin the blame for 'betraying our allies' firmly on Darlan and the Vichy government, not on the British Empire."

"That's impossible." Pound flipped through the plan, his brow furrowed, but his tone was noticeably less forceful than before. "Send de Gaulle to negotiate? What if Jean-Sullivan (commander of the French fleet in Mirsk-Bille) refuses? What if he directly detains de Gaulle as a pledge of allegiance to the Germans? In that case, we would still have to open fire, and we would lose all the initiative. The home fleet would have to face the risk of a battle line confrontation with the French Navy. The loss of any capital ship would be fatal for us."

“We’re not here to beg, Marshal.” Arthur turned and pointed to David Sterling and Ryder, who had been standing in the shadows. “The negotiations are just a cover. This is a Trojan horse.”

Arthur walked up to the massive map of Oran Harbor's defenses and began to break down his plan in detail.

"In addition to warships, there are a large number of supply ships and auxiliary vessels in this port. We should take advantage of this."

Arthur pointed to de Gaulle and Jean-Jacques.

"General de Gaulle and General Jeanson will enter the port aboard the destroyer HMS Foxhound as special envoys of the British Empire. They will carry a personal letter from Prime Minister Churchill, as well as my checkbook. We will give the French three options:"

Continue to fight alongside us.

Escorted by the Royal Navy, the ship sailed to a British port.

Escorted by the Royal Navy, the ship was to be sailed to the French West Indies (Martinique) or the United States, where it was disarmed in a neutral port.

"This is all old news," Pound interrupted impatiently, his fingers tapping heavily on the table. "What if they refuse? What if General Jean-Sur not only refuses but also detains de Gaulle and Jansen as a token of their allegiance to the Germans?"

"Besides, how can you guarantee the Germans haven't arrived yet? What if the port of Oran has already been taken over by the German Air Force?"

"That's why we need to hurry, Marshal." Arthur walked to the large map of North Africa and pointed with his cane at the location of the port of Oran. "According to the latest intelligence from MI6, the delegation of the German Armistice Commission is crossing Spain. Their train is expected to arrive in 72 hours. That means the port is still under French control. This is our last window of opportunity."

Arthur turned around and looked at David and Ryder, who instinctively stood at attention.

"As for your concerns—those are for ordinary diplomats. But this time we're sending in more than just diplomats."

He pointed to the two people standing in the shadows.

"Charles de Gaulle and Jeanson boarded the destroyer HMS Foxhound; it was a gesture of respect to the French, a courtesy of the British Empire."

"And David Sterling's SAS Special Operations Team, and Colonel Ryder's entire company of Cold Creek Guards elite troops—nearly 150 fully armed elites, plus tons of C2 plastic explosives and weapons." Arthur looked at Pound and held up three fingers. "Uncle Pound, I need submarines, at least three submarines, to complete this underwater force projection."

"I need naval support. I need the main force of the First Submarine District Fleet to participate in this operation." Arthur's fingers tapped heavily on the table as he recited the expensive list, including the HMS Pandora.

Pandora, HMS Parthian, and HMS Phoenix

).

"These three large mine-laying submarines. Only they have the space to hold these hundred-plus people and their rubber assault boats." Arthur lowered his voice slightly. "If this plan goes through, they will infiltrate the harbor perimeter tonight and lie in wait silently in the blind spot of the breakwater."

"While de Gaulle was negotiating in the captain's cabin, my commando team would take advantage of the darkness, paddling in rubber boats through gaps in the breakwater, and lie in ambush under the flagship's bridge and outside the officers' lounge."

“If Jean Sue wants to be a hero, wants to detain the negotiators—” Arthur made a throat-slitting gesture, devoid of any emotion, “David will charge in with 150 submachine guns and turn this into an armed rescue. We’ll get de Gaulle out, and while we’re at it, we’ll kidnap that commander who wants to surrender and take him back to London.”

“We even have an easier plan.” Arthur looked at Pound and smiled. “Just take out those officers who insist on surrendering, and the rest will naturally refuse to surrender.”

"If any captain wants to surrender, let him die in the line of duty," then let the first mate take over. If the first mate also wants to surrender, then it's the second mate's turn. This continues until we find someone willing to fire on the Germans."

"That's called forced patriotism," Uncle Pound said, adjusting the collar of his trench coat. "At this point in time, only the dead have the right to surrender."

"Of course, the British Empire is peace-loving, and we don't want any bloodshed." Arthur turned his gaze to Lieutenant Jeanne. "While the generals are arguing in the flagship's conference room, Lieutenant Jeanne goes to the docks to meet with the boatswains and petty officers."

"The French fleet officers may want to surrender, but most of the lower-ranking sailors hate the Germans. They'll explode if someone sets a fire." Arthur stared intently at Jeanne. "Tell those sailors that if they don't come with us, their next meal will be a bullet in a German POW camp. If necessary, incite them to mutiny and seize the armory."

At this point, Arthur looked at David, nodded, and then handed the position to him.

David Sterling stepped forward, placed a tactical briefing on the table, and saluted the generals.

"If negotiations break down, or the French try to set sail," the SAS founder grinned bloodthirstyly, "I'm not going to fight them hand-to-hand. My men will storm the bridge and engine room. Take control of the commander, destroy the hydraulic rudder system. We're going to seize the ship, not to negotiate."

Pound was stunned.

He looked at the two Sterling lunatics in front of him—one leaning on a cane, speaking calmly, and the other holding a strangely shaped submachine gun, his face full of excitement, as if he could already smell the gunpowder.

In his eyes, these two "nephews" were not proper army officers at all, but two pirate captains who had just received letters of marque from King George. The blood of the Sterling family had never flowed with ink, but with gunpowder.

Sending submarines to infiltrate naval ports, small groups of troops to forcibly seize ships, and even planning to kidnap an active-duty fleet commander —

This completely deviates from all orthodox tactics taught at military academies, and even throws the Geneva Conventions on the ground and tramples them.

It sounds as crazy as the ramblings of two drunken sailors in a Portsmouth pub, audacious to the point of being absurd.

But amidst this frenzied tactical maneuvering, Pound felt a long-forgotten chill creep up his spine. It wasn't fear, but a surge of adrenaline. It was the long-dormant offensive instinct of the Royal Navy.

In this era of war where even victory is calculated and everyone is careful not to make mistakes, this reckless, victory-seeking style of fighting is like a shot of strong liquor, instantly igniting the gunpowder in the old sailor's veins that was about to cool down.

"Damn it—" Pound took a deep breath, his previously furrowed brows relaxing, then he gave a wry smile, "This sounds—definitely much more exciting than the ballista plan that only throws bombs."

"But the risk is too great," Pound muttered to himself. He had already acknowledged the feasibility of Arthur's plan, and now he needed Arthur to provide an insurance plan, or rather, to give him a way out.

"If a firefight breaks out in the harbor, the Foxhound will be blown to pieces by French coastal artillery."

"Therefore, we need Fleet H to provide cover for us." Arthur looked at Churchill; this was the final decision-making moment. "Deploy Vice Admiral Somerville's Fleet H off the coast of the harbor. All 15- and 16-inch main guns should be aimed at the harbor. If our men fail to control the situation within the allotted time, or if the French open fire—"

Arthur paused for a moment: "Then blow up every ship in the harbor, that French navy that only wants to surrender, along with my men, along with David and de Gaulle."

Churchill remained silent for a long time.

He slowly turned his head, his deep-set eyes piercing through the swirling smoke to look at David Sterling. That was Arthur's cousin, a member of the Sterling family. If the plan failed, he would be the first to be sacrificed.

David, however, remained expressionless, showing no fear whatsoever.

Faced with this almost suicidal order, the SAS commander didn't even blink. He simply brought his feet together and gave Churchill a standard military salute.

Snapped.

The sound of military boots striking the ground was crisp and resolute. There was no rebuttal, no fear, not even a trace of hesitation. It was as if Arthur hadn't just told him to go to his death, but rather to participate in an ordinary hunt.

De Gaulle and Jean-Jacques, standing to the side, remained silent throughout.

No one raised any objections.

At this gamble, they had already considered themselves the chips that had to be paid. If their deaths could prevent the French Navy from falling into Nazi hands, if their blood could wash away the shame of the Vichy government, then this was the highest destiny for a soldier.

They even had to be grateful to Arthur.

Churchill looked at Arthur, then at de Gaulle.

Finally, the prime minister stubbed out his cigar in the ashtray and stood up.

"Give him 48 hours, Pound." Churchill's voice hardened. "If we can get those ships back, even just half of them, we'll have won. If not—then let them become coral reefs. But I don't want history books to read that we fired the first shot in the back of our allies before we even tried everything."

Once permission was granted, the atmosphere in the meeting room quickly shifted from arguing to tactical planning. A group of staff officers gathered around the chart table, scrutinizing each of the French Navy's capital ships as if they were forensic pathologists dissecting corpses.

Mers-el-Kébir is of utmost importance here.

In addition to the two troublesome Dunkerque-class battlecruisers, there were also two older Brittany-class battleships: the Brittany and the Provence.

Although these two old ships have a speed of only 20 knots, they are still equipped with 10 340mm main guns. If used as floating gun emplacements, they would pose a significant threat to the Gibraltar fortress. They are planned to be prioritized for defection.

If they resist, the H fleet's torpedo bombers will be the first to attack their propulsion systems.

Meanwhile, the French battleship "Lorraine" and several cruisers were anchored in Aleandria. Given that it was Admiral Cunningham's territory, and that Cunningham had a good personal relationship with Fleet Commander Godfrey, Arthur suggested forbidding a military takeover and instead forcing them to disarm by cutting off their supplies and water. This suggestion was quickly approved.

However, as everyone's gaze moved south along the African coastline and stopped at the port in West Africa, the air in the meeting room became even more tense.

Target Two: Dakar (Target Code: The Cardinal)

Marshal Pound pressed his finger heavily on the red dot, as if it were a tumor on a map.

"Compared to the four ships in Oran, this is the real nightmare."

The Richelieu is moored there. It is the crown jewel of the French Navy, with a full-load displacement of 45000 tons. Two massive quadruple 380mm main gun turrets stand on its foredeck—making it one of the most heavily armed warships in the world.

"This ship must die," Pound said, his voice tinged with deep dread. "It's 95% complete, almost fully combat-ready. If it's allowed into the Atlantic, no Royal Navy ship can take it down one-on-one. HMS Hood is too old, HMS Nelson too slow. Unless we tow out HMS King George V, which is still being fitted out, the Atlantic will be its hunting ground."

Arthur looked at the reconnaissance photograph.

The warship sat silently in the tropical harbor, its cannons raised high, exuding a suffocating sense of oppression.

Arthur was captivated. She was so beautiful; she was the pinnacle of industrial art, and destroying her would be a sin.

"No." Arthur shook his head, his tone still firm even under Pound's murderous gaze. "Dakar is too far. Fleet H is too far away, and that port has a well-developed coastal defense system. A direct assault would be suicide."

Pound said eagerly, "Then we can mobilize the HMS Hermes aircraft carrier!"

It's near Freetown, and although it's just an old-fashioned light aircraft carrier, all we need to do is send a Swordfish to break its propellers—

"Put the phone down, Marshal." Arthur raised his hand, stopping Pound from issuing the attack order. "We don't need torpedoes, and we don't need bombers; those are the worst options."

Arthur pointed to the sailors in the photo.

"This ship is the pride of the French. If we blow it up, we will truly have a blood feud with the entire French Navy. At that point, those who originally wanted to surrender will also side with the Germans in order to seek revenge."

"Then what do we do? Watch it leave port?" Pound questioned.

"It won't side with the Germans, I guarantee it. We can't control that place, and neither can the Germans." Arthur was certain. "To deal with the Richelieu, we don't need gunpowder, we just need people's hearts."

He looked at Pound with a prescient confidence in his eyes.

"Send the intelligence agents there. Activate all our undercover agents in Dakar and stuff gold bars and false intelligence into that port."

"Go and turn their chief engineer against them, bribe their dockworkers, and spread rumors among the sailors that the Germans are going to tow it to Kiel for dismantling."

Arthur tapped lightly on the bridge of the warship with his fingers.

"If you can throw the crew of this ship into disarray, it's a floating prison. I believe in the sailors on board. They may be confused now, but their blood is hot. Just give them a little time, a little push from within—"

Arthur raised his head and delivered his final verdict, his tone even carrying a hint of anticipation for the future: "This ship will one day fly the Lorraine Cross and become our most powerful ally. So, leave it alone. Let the agents muddy the waters and let it rot in the harbor, unable to leave. That's enough."

Looking into Arthur's determined eyes, Pound hesitated for a moment, then finally sighed and put down the phone.

"Okay. But what if it moves even slightly—"

"It can't move," Arthur interrupted him again, "unless it's for the purpose of returning to France."

Finally, it was Casablanca and the Jean Bart. When the finger moved to Casablanca, everyone stopped.

There, a special ship was moored: the Jean Bart. It was the second ship of the newest Richelieu-class battleships in France, with a displacement of 45000 tons and designed to be equipped with eight 380mm guns.

It was a masterpiece of French industry, but unfortunately, it was premature. To evade the Germans, it was forced out of the Saint-Nazaire shipyard when it was only 75% complete. It currently only has one quadruple main gun turret installed; the other four guns haven't even been installed yet, and much of the power equipment is makeshift.

"This ship is a problem," Pound said, frowning. "It's practically useless now, but its hull is intact. If the Germans get their hands on it, tow it back, or even repair it on the spot, it will be a far more formidable opponent than the Bismarck before it was even launched."

Arthur looked at the photo of the ship, then turned to look at de Gaulle.

"Charles, this ship must die." Arthur's voice left no room for negotiation. "It can't be moved, towing it back is too slow, it's practically a sitting duck for German submarines. Besides, Casablanca's defenses are very robust, H..."

It would be very difficult for the fleet to destroy it without incurring a huge cost.

De Gaulle looked at the photograph, and like the lead ship Richelieu, it represented the future hope of the French Navy.

His hands were trembling.

For a soldier, personally ordering the destruction of his country's most advanced warship is a pain no less than cutting off a piece of his own flesh.

"It only has one turret—" de Gaulle tried to argue.

"The Germans will load it with the rest," Arthur interrupted him coldly. "Or they'll turn it into a floating battery to blockade the Strait of Gibraltar." Arthur moved closer to de Gaulle. "If it can't fight for France, let it die at France's hands. Better than flying a swastika. What do you say, Brigadier General?"

De Gaulle closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

A few seconds later, when he opened his eyes again, the hesitation in them had disappeared, replaced by a resolute determination to save his life by cutting off his arm.

"You're right." De Gaulle's voice was pained, but his words were clear. "Since we can't take it with us, let's destroy it." He pointed to Casablanca on the map. "I don't want to see it destroyed by British shells; that would be a disgrace. I'll take the 12th Motorized Division to—and deal with it."

"We will blow up its propeller shaft, blow up its main gun hydraulic crane, and pour cement into its boilers," de Gaulle said through gritted teeth. "I will turn it into a pile of scrap metal, and even if the Germans get it, they can only sell it as scrap steel."

Arthur nodded, a hint of approval in his eyes.

"Very good. That's what a leader should be like."

Once the tactics were determined, the entire Admiralty began operating at high speed, like a sophisticated war machine. Everyone knew they were racing against time.

Intelligence indicates that a delegation from the German Armistice Commission is transiting through Spain and is expected to arrive at North African ports on June 28 to take control.

Once the German delegation boarded those warships, once the Nazi boots stepped onto the decks of the French battleships, it would all be over.

This meant they had to finish all of this before the Germans took over the port.

There is no turning back, and there is no second chance.

Although Marshal Pound still had significant concerns and the plan was too hasty, as a soldier, his ability to execute orders was astonishing once they were given. A series of top-secret telegrams were sent from the bunker's communications room to Gibraltar and Portsmouth.

Operation codename: "Operation Catapult — Reversed".

D-Day: June 27, 1940.

H-Hour: 07:00 AM (delivering the ultimatum).

Deadline: 17:30 PM.

The order to assemble Force H has been issued. This special task force, formed specifically to counter the French fleet, is commanded by Vice Admiral James Somerville and is assembled in Gibraltar.

Its lineup is truly impressive:

Flagship: Battlecruiser HMS Hood. This was the pride of the Royal Navy and one of the most powerful warships in the world.

Battleships: HMS Valiant and HMS Resolution.

Aircraft carrier: HMS Ark Royal.

Meanwhile, in the most secretive submarine dock at the Portsmouth naval base, a silent war preparation is underway.

There were no massive cranes roaring; only tense and oppressive whispers.

Three massive P-class submarines—the Pandora, the Parthian, and the Phoenix—are quietly semi-submerged in this berth covered by a tarpaulin.

The resupply operation was entirely manpower-driven. A human conveyor belt composed of soldiers was passing those deadly toys one by one into the narrow torpedo hatches: crates of Thompson M1928 submachine guns, Stirling submachine guns that Stirling Heavy Industries had just mass-produced, and Bren light machine guns powerful enough to create a metal storm in the corridor. There were also more insidious items—C2 plastic explosives codenamed "Nobel 808," and several sets of high-powered broadcast amplification equipment for psychological warfare.

In the dockside changing room, a "transformation" of identity is underway.

The soldiers of the Cold Creek Guard changed into the distinctive dark blue serge combat uniforms and white canvas belts of the Royal Marines.

This camouflage is not just for warmth, but also a tactical deception.

In the cramped, swaying cabins, the army's khaki was too conspicuous, the color of invaders; while the navy's dark blue would make it easier to confuse the enemy in the chaotic boarding battle, causing the panicked French sailors to hesitate for a second before pulling the trigger.

In such close-quarters combat, that one second can be the boundary between life and death.

These soldiers are quickly adapting to their new identities, including how to locate the engine room in the pitch-black lower deck, how to eliminate enemies around a corner with a grenade in a one-meter-wide corridor, and how to silence the operators in the control room with a bayonet without damaging the instrument panel.

David Sterling was standing on the slippery deck of the Pandora, inspecting a special piece of equipment:

Magnetic adsorption mines.

These mines have a powerful magnet at the bottom, allowing them to attach to any steel hull.

"These things aren't for blowing up shipwrecks," David explained to Ryder beside him. "If we absolutely have to do it, our men will dive down and attach these little cuties to the warships' rudders and propeller shafts. Once detonated, those big guys will just spin around in place, becoming fixed targets for Fleet H."

Ryder looked at the dark entrance of the submarine, then at the more than one hundred menacing soldiers behind him.

"One hundred and fifty people crammed into these three iron pipes? This journey is not going to be comfortable."

"It's better than dying on the beach." David patted Ryder on the shoulder and was the first to crawl into the hatch, which reeked of diesel fuel and battery acid. "Come on, Colonel. Let's prepare a big gift for the French."

June 23, 18:00, Portsmouth Naval Base, Secret B3 Pier.

As the sun set, a thin mist enveloped the sea. On the dock, cranes were hoisting the last batch of weapons crates labeled "diplomatic supplies" into the hold of the USS Foxhound.

De Gaulle put on a brand new brigadier general's uniform.

Although his military rank was temporary, and although he had been sentenced to death by the Vichy government, he stood tall at this moment, as if the whole of France stood behind him.

Despite his arm injury, Rear Admiral Jean-Pierre insisted on keeping his sword hanging at his waist. In his other hand, he carried a leather trunk filled with a list of naval contacts he had accumulated during his thirty years of service in the French Army—his weapon for turning old comrades against their allies.

Lieutenant Jeanne stood at the back of the line, her hair cut short, making her look like a tomboy. In her pocket were several forged letters from soldiers, intended as tear gas to sway the sailors.

Arthur stood on the dock, his trench coat fluttering in the sea breeze. He uttered no grand pronouncements, nor did he offer any of the insincere embraces typical of politicians. He walked up to de Gaulle and straightened his slightly crooked lapel insignia.

"Remember, Ciel," Arthur's voice could be heard clearly amidst the sound of waves crashing against the shore, "when you step into that harbor, you will have only two identities."

He looked into de Gaulle's eyes.

"You're either Moses who brings them home, or Death who sends them to hell. Don't be a third one. Don't be Hamlet who hesitates."

De Gaulle nodded.

"I understand. If blood must be shed, it is for the rebirth of France."

Arthur then looked at David Sterling.

The SAS commander was grinning as he patted the Sterling submachine gun at his waist.

"Don't make things too ugly, David," Arthur instructed. "Try not to kill anyone. Those sailors might become our comrades-in-arms in the future."

"Sure, man," David shrugged. "Unless they fire first. Then I can't guarantee their heads will still be on their necks."

In the final moments before boarding the ship, Marshal Pound privately approached Arthur.

The old sailor looked at the sea gradually disappearing into the twilight in the distance, and at the lone destroyer, a fierce glint flashed in his eyes.

"Arthur, I've staked the honor of the Royal Navy and the lives of tens of thousands of men in Fleet H on your table," Pound's voice was icy. "I'm giving you this final warning. At 5:30 PM on June 27th. If those French ships are still in port and haven't raised the Free French flag, or are attempting to storm out and attack my fleet—"

"I will give the order. I will have the HMS Hood open fire." Pound turned and stared intently at Arthur. "Then, don't blame me for blowing up everyone on board, including De Gaulle. For the survival of the British Empire, I will show no mercy."

Arthur did not avoid Pound's gaze. He took out a silver cigarette case from his pocket and lit a cigarette. The light illuminated his indifferent face.

"If that moment truly comes, Marshal." Arthur took a deep breath and exhaled a cloud of grayish-white smoke.

The smoke dissipated quickly in the sea breeze.

"Don't be stingy with ammunition."

This counts as two chapters. That's eight chapters today. If I have time tonight, I'll write two more chapters to reach my KPI of ten chapters. Brothers, please support me with your monthly tickets and rewards!

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