The Twilight of Empire: Starting from Dunkirk

Chapter 164 The Rusty Fleet and the Broken-Winged Sea Eagle

Early morning of August 4, 1940, London, 8 Downing Street, the Prime Minister's office.

The damp, cold gray fog seeped into the power center of this ancient empire without leaving any gaps.

Winston Churchill sat behind his large mahogany desk, holding a diplomatic telegram that had just been received by MI6's highest-encryption channel and translated overnight by decoders.

The paper was still warm, and the contents on it caused the prime minister's face, which had been flushed with pride due to his "diplomatic victory," to gradually cool and even turn somewhat unpleasant.

Sitting opposite him, Arthur was slowly adding two sugar cubes to his black tea. The soft, crisp sound of the silver spoon stirring the porcelain cup was the only noise in the deathly silent room.

"Roosevelt was an actuary through and through, and a shrewd businessman who knew how to squeeze every penny out of him. He was disgusting and repulsive."

Churchill slammed the telegram down on the table.

"He did keep his promise, but he shifted all the risks onto us."

Arthur put down his teacup and reached for the telegram. His gaze swept quickly over the carefully worded text, crafted by the State Department in Washington, then he sneered.

As expected.

This is a "bill".

In the first part of the telegram, Washington confirmed that the Chief of Naval Operations had formally signed an executive order for all fifty ships in the ports of Porto, Flynn, and Norfolk (including the Caldwell-class, Vickers-class, and Clemson-class) to be urgently refueled and replenished with fresh water.

This rusty "ghost fleet" will set sail in batches over the next 48 hours, flying the Stars and Stripes towards Halifax, Canada. There, they will lower the American flag and be handed over to the waiting Royal Navy sailors.

This is the "down payment".

It was Arthur Sterling who, through his horrifying simulation of the "European Combined Fleet bombing New York," forcibly extorted an immediate check from Washington. To quell the panic among the East Coast tycoons and to buy himself a safety net, Roosevelt had no choice but to grit his teeth and pay the down payment in full.

However, the devil is in the details.

Arthur keenly shifted his gaze downwards, locking onto the latter half of the telegram—a list of approved industrial supplies for the initial phase of the Lend-Lease Act.

The massive table he originally submitted to Washington was filled with the heavy industrial lifeblood that the British Empire desperately needed: from the high-precision crankshaft grinders of the Cincinnati Milling Machine, which represented the highest level of industrial machine tools, to the high-octane aviation fuel from Texas; from the special seamless steel pipes of the Pittsburgh Steel Complex to the finished truck chassis on the Ford assembly line.

It's not that the war couldn't continue without these American resources. On the contrary, it's a...

A powerful gangster boss is forcibly demanding "security fees" from a wealthy businessman who wants to stay out of the fray.

It's important to understand that compared to those second-rate European countries with poor heavy industry, the British Empire's industrial capacity was by no means inferior. If you include the factories in its colonies of Canada, Australia, and India, which were operating at full capacity, this massive imperial machine was even qualified to compete with the United States in terms of production capacity.

Sterling Heavy Industries' blast furnaces in Sheffield, belching black smoke day and night, produce specialty alloy steels that rival U.S. Steel's Pittsburgh steel mills. Its giant electrolytic aluminum plants in Quebec, Canada, powered by cheap hydroelectricity, are producing aluminum ingots needed to build fighter jets at an even more frenzied pace than Alcoa. Even in the aviation sector, Sterling's Avro and Supermarine companies possess technological reserves in liquid-cooled engines and aerodynamic layouts that completely overshadow and crush their American counterparts like Lockheed or Douglas, who are still tinkering with all-metal passenger aircraft.

What the British Empire lacked was not basic production capacity, but the "time" to transform that production capacity into weapons of mass destruction.

These grinding machines from Cincinnati and machine tools from Detroit were not "aid" to him at all, but rather a complete "free ride".

Since the Royal Air Force lads are bleeding in the skies, and the Royal Navy warships are shielding the Americans from torpedoes in the icy Atlantic, isn't it only fair that the Americans send over the best industrial machines from their factories for free as a form of "protection money in kind"?

Using American machine tools, they processed British artillery shells and then used them to kill the Germans who threatened America.

Perfect logic.

However, this perfect list, which was supposed to be delivered simultaneously with the destroyers, now has most of its core items missing.

The words "Pending" or "Shipping Delayed" were marked in glaring red pen.

The old rogue started plotting with them.

"Those guys in Washington have probably realized what's going on." Arthur tossed the telegram back onto the table, his tone flat, with a hint of regret. After all, no matter how big an empty promise is, it's not as practical as cash in hand.

"They were intimidated by our simulations, but not paralyzed. Simply giving us ships would only guarantee we wouldn't drown, but if they gave us all the industrial raw materials at once, they would lose control of this human shield. The Americans would lose their sense of participation in the subsequent war."

Churchill angrily chewed on his unlit cigar: "This is extortion! They want to see us bleed like gladiators in the Colosseum, and then reward us with breadcrumbs based on how much blood we shed!"

"It can also be seen as a performance evaluation, Your Excellency the Prime Minister."

Arthur stood up, walked to the window, and looked out at the gray London streets.

The US government's subtext was very clear: The fact that they gave you the ships proves you are still a maritime power, capable of maintaining basic escort routes. However, the subsequent supply of heavy industry—which could determine the outcome of the war—would be provided through a performance-based installment payment model.

Arthur turned around, his eyes clear: "Roosevelt needs to see that the British Empire is not only alive," but also killing. He needs to see the Royal Air Force shoot down Göring's bombers like birds; he needs to see our bombers dare to fly across the Channel and drop bombs..."

Throw them into the German industrial areas. Only when we prove ourselves to be a sharp dagger capable of piercing the Nazi heart, and not merely a shield to be beaten, will Washington unlock the remaining warehouses in batches.

"We've become mercenaries doing their war games." Churchill snorted, furious but forced to admit it was a mutually acceptable outcome.

"It's barely fair."

Arthur showed no anger, but rather admiration. "In this dog-eat-dog industrial age, nothing is free. Since the buyers want to see a live-fire demonstration to confirm the return on investment, the Royal Air Force will arrange the grandest weapons show in human history for them."

"We will use the wreckage of the German Luftwaffe to pave the way to the American Treasury."

The English Channel.

In stark contrast to the calculating and anxious atmosphere of 10 Downing Street, the English Channel was shrouded in an eerie and unusual silence.

This airspace, which should have been filled with the screeching of Stuka bombers and the roar of Messerschmitt fighter engines, was now so quiet that even the cries of seagulls could be clearly heard.

At the British radar station on the cliffs of Dover, operators stared in astonishment at the blank cathode ray tube screen.

There were no dense wave crests, nor any huge spots of light representing enemy aircraft formations.

The German Air Force, a war machine that had swept across the skies of Western Europe for the past few months, seemed to have been suddenly pulled out of control.

Power plug.

Across the strait, in Calais, France, lies a German airfield.

Thousands of bombers and fighter planes, painted with the Iron Cross insignia, were parked neatly along the runway, just as Arthur had expected. Ground crew lay idly in the shade of the wings, basking in the sun, while pilots gathered in the mess hall, drinking champagne looted from Paris and discussing the upcoming victory parade in London.

Back at the Führer’s headquarters in Berlin, the man with the mustache was indulging in a grand illusion called a “diplomatic victory.”

That vague diplomatic memorandum, concocted by Arthur Sterling and delivered through neutral channels, was taken by the dictator as irrefutable evidence that the British Empire was about to surrender.

Under his strict orders, Reich Marshal Hermann Göring was forced to halt the massive air offensive codenamed "Eagle Day." The bearded man even ordered the Foreign Office's Protocol Department to prepare the pen for signing the peace treaty in London and began planning his route for the military parade in his Mercedes past Buckingham Palace.

He arrogantly believed that as long as the British were given some face and time to think, these shrewd island shopkeepers would obediently hand over control of the Royal Navy in order to protect their overseas colonies.

This absurd "illusion of peace" has given the Royal Air Force a precious, invaluable respite.

Meanwhile, on this side of the Channel, under Arthur's strict orders, Britain's war machine was running at full speed without a moment's rest.

At aircraft manufacturing plants in Coventry and Birmingham, workers were working in three shifts during a wartime period, with riveting guns churning the assembly lines.

The sounds never ceased, day and night. The Spitfire and Hurricane fighters damaged in the earlier battles were towed into the repair shop overnight. The damaged wings were replaced with new aluminum skins, and the wrecked engines were replaced with high-powered Merlin engines produced by Stirling Heavy Industries.

Every bullet hole that was filled, every fighter jet that taxied back onto the runway, was gathering deadly energy for the coming storm.

The bearded man was waiting for a surrender signature, while Arthur was waiting for the knife to be sharpened a little more.

Bentley Abbey, Middlesex, Royal Air Force Fighter Command.

The heavy concrete explosion-proof door slowly opened, and a cool breeze mixed with the smells of ozone, engine oil, and electron tube cooling rushed in.

Arthur accompanied Churchill into the underground command center of Bentley Abbey, the brain of the British Empire's air defense, located deep underground.

There was no smoke of gunpowder from the front lines here, but a tension even more suffocating than that inside the trenches. In the center of the enormous hall stood a massive map table depicting the British Isles and the English Channel, taking up most of the floor.

Dozens of female auxiliary air force personnel (WAAF) wearing blue uniforms were intently moving wooden blocks representing enemy and friendly aircraft on a map, using headphones and long wooden levers.

This is the central filtration chamber of the heart in the "Dowding System".

General Hugh Dowding, a fighter commander known for his eccentric and stubborn personality, and nicknamed "Old Man" by his colleagues.

Ling was standing on the second-floor circular balcony overlooking the bustling scene below with a stern expression.

"Your Excellency Prime Minister, Mr. Stirling." Dowding turned around, his manners impeccable, but his tone somewhat stiff. The pressure from the German Air Force these past few days had taken its toll on his appearance. "Welcome to my monastery. Although the Germans have given us a few days' leave, I doubt this tranquility will last long."

Churchill leaned on the railing, looking down at the constantly moving wooden blocks and the incessant reports coming through his earpiece.

Somewhat confused: "Is this complicated process really more efficient than having the frontline observation posts call the airport directly?"

"Very effective, Your Excellency Prime Minister. This is a revolution."

Arthur answered him.

He stood by the railing, examining the modern command and control system (C3I) before him with a professional eye full of futuristic vision, a system that even in the 21st century seemed to have a rudimentary form.

"Many people believe our advantage lies in the radio direction finding stations (radar) installed along the coastline," Arthur's voice echoed in the empty command hall. "But radar is just the eyes. Without this filtering room, the chaotic, error-ridden electronic signals transmitted back by the radar are just a bunch of meaningless noise."

Arthur pointed to the busy female soldiers below: "General Dowding's greatest invention is not the hardware, but this information processing logic. He brought together all the radar stations, ground observation posts, and even radio intelligence scattered along the coastline into this one point."

"After being filtered, compared, and corrected by these well-trained minds, a clear enemy aircraft flight path is finally formed on the map, and then uniformly distributed to each fighter squadron. This compresses the chaotic intelligence flow that originally took twenty minutes into four..."

Within minutes.

Arthur turned to look at Admiral Dowding, his eyes filled with undisguised respect: "This means that while the German bombers were still in formation over the Channel, our Spitfires were already in attack positions in the clouds above them. This is the art of slaughter."

For the first time, General Daoding's usually stern and cold face showed a look of "a kindred spirit finding a kindred spirit."

Emoji.

Facing the young brigadier general before him, who was also the Royal Air Force's most steadfast and generous financial backer, Dowding's eyes held less of the wariness one might have towards politicians and more of the absolute recognition one would show to one's kind.

He looked at Arthur and uttered a remark that would make the bureaucrats of the Air Force blush: "In the end, throughout Whitehall and Westminster Palace, all those big shots in suits know how to count planes. The ones who truly understand the strategic value and tactics of the Air Force are your Sterling family."

At this point, the high-ranking general in the British Royal Air Force suddenly straightened his back under the surprised gazes of his staff and solemnly gave a standard military salute to Arthur, whose rank was three grades lower than his.

"This salute is on behalf of the Fighter Command to express our gratitude to you, Brigadier General."

Dowding's voice was sincere: "I heard about what happened in France. If it weren't for you guiding those two flamethrower squadrons, accurately intercepting the German Stuka bombers, and showing those lads the way home—"

Dowding lowered his arm, his gaze intense: "That textbook example of blind spot guidance not only destroyed the German aircraft but also saved the lives of twelve outstanding pilots. For the Royal Air Force today, pilots are more precious than gold. Fighter Command will never forget this kindness."

"It's what I should do," Arthur returned the greeting, then looked at the command system.

"Your command system is revolutionary, but it's not enough."

Arthur's tone suddenly shifted, instantly changing from praise to cold scrutiny.

"General Dowding, as far as I know, the current ChainHome radar system has two fatal blind spots: first, it's practically blind to low-flying enemy aircraft; second, its detection accuracy is too low to guide night fighters for precise interception. If Göring decides to move the bombing to the night, this room will become the deaf man's ears."

Dowding's face darkened. "It's a physical limitation, Mr. Sterling. Existing long-wave radars can't achieve that level of precision."

"Those were the rules from yesterday."

Arthur took out a fist-sized, copper cylindrical device wrapped in velvet from the briefcase in his attendant's hand.

He placed it on the railing of the command platform; the object gleamed with an eerie metallic sheen under the light.

"This is a prototype cavity magnetron that just rolled off the production line at Stirling Electronics Laboratory."

Magnetron).

Arthur's voice wasn't loud, but it struck Dowding like a thunderclap: "It can generate microwaves with wavelengths below 10 centimeters, but with a power a thousand times greater than the vacuum tubes you're currently using. If we install it on radar, we can shrink the antenna to a size that can fit inside the nose cone of an aircraft."

"What does this mean, General?" Arthur smiled at the dumbfounded Dowding. "It means we can not only see Stukas skimming the waves, but we can also mount radar on our fighter planes. Even in the pitch black of night, our pilots can precisely lock onto German bombers from several kilometers away and turn them into fireballs."

"This is the performance review upgrade package I'm sending to the Royal Air Force."

Portsmouth Naval Base, Royal Naval Air Training Ground.

After leaving the high-tech Bentley Abbey, Arthur drove non-stop to the Portsmouth Naval Base in the south.

However, the sight here made him feel a strong sense of physical discomfort.

On the flight deck of the aircraft carrier HMS Illustrious, rows of Fairey Swordfish torpedo bombers, the main active attack aircraft of the Royal Navy's air force, are neatly parked.

A sea breeze blew, and the skin of these biplanes vibrated slightly. The open cockpit, the outdated biplane structure, and even the landing gear that still needed to be secured by steel cables—all of this told one thing: these were living fossils that should be displayed in a museum.

Marshal Pound, who was standing beside Arthur, coughed awkwardly as he looked at Arthur's almost contorted expression. "Arthur, although the Swordfish may seem a bit... traditional, they are extremely reliable, and the pilots love their excellent low-speed handling."

"Reliable?" Arthur sneered, interrupting the admiral without hesitation. "Uncle Pound, if this is the Royal Navy's definition of 'reliable,' then we might as well give our pilots a longbow and a quiver of arrows; that would be far more reliable."

Arthur walked over to a Swordfish and patted its fragile fabric wing, making a dull "thump" sound.

"This is a flying clothes rack, Marshal. It might be able to bully German submarines in the Atlantic Ocean where there is no anti-aircraft fire. But, Uncle Pound, please broaden your horizons, look beyond the Cape of Good Hope, look to the Far East, look to the Pacific Ocean."

Arthur turned around, his expression more serious than ever before: "On that vast ocean, our potential adversary is the Imperial Japanese Navy. According to my intelligence network, Mitsubishi Heavy Industries has already deployed a new carrier-based fighter codenamed 'Zero.' It has a closed cockpit, incredible range, and maneuverability like an acrobat."

"If we send our pilots in these biplane canvas kites that can only travel at a little over 100 miles per hour to engage Zero fighters that can travel at over 300 miles per hour and are equipped with 20mm cannons," Arthur's voice was as cold as iron, "that would be sending the Royal Navy's most valuable elite pilots on a pointless, suicidal charge. It's a crime."

Marshal Pound remained silent.

Although the Navy Department was extremely stubborn, he had already experienced Arthur Sterling's influence in heavy industry the previous night.

Absolute authority in the field.

"What do we need?" Pound asked in a low voice.

"We need flying industrial fortresses, not kite-flying playgrounds."

Arthur pulled out a pre-prepared technical memo from his pocket and slapped it directly onto the wing of the "Swordfish".

"The Navy must immediately cease all procurement of biplanes. Stirling Aerospace will proceed with the development of the next generation of carrier-based aircraft."

Arthur held up two fingers, decisively announcing two codenames: "First, the 'SeaFury' heavy carrier-based fighter program."

Arthur raised his first finger, his eyes filled with absolute adoration for the aesthetics of violence: "Uncle Pound, I want to equip this fighter jet with an extremely powerful heart—the Sterling-Bristol Centaurus, an 18-cylinder radial air-cooled engine. The power must be squeezed out to over 2500 horsepower, coupled with a five-bladed constant-speed propeller; this will be a flying, heavy-duty meat grinder."

Arthur's finger traced a sharp arc in the air: "Its role is that of absolute air superiority and a multi-purpose strike platform within the fleet's defense perimeter. Its all-metal load-bearing skin structure gives it a steel-like frame, and it carries four 20mm Hispano cannons. Its sole purpose is to tear apart the Japanese Zero fighters—those made of wood and aluminum sheets—like shredding paper in low-to-medium altitude dogfights across the Pacific."

"At the same time, it must also possess extremely strong multi-purpose payload capabilities. When the fleet needs to clear the sea surface or cover the landing force..."

When deployed, it should be able to carry 12 60-pound rockets or two 500-pound bombs to conduct devastating dive-bombing attacks on enemy destroyers and air defense positions.

"Second, the 'Firefly' long-range two-seat combat reconnaissance aircraft project."

Arthur held up a second finger, his tone becoming calmer and more profound, precisely slicing through a completely different tactical need: "On the vast Pacific Ocean, the fuel tanks and pilot stamina of a single-seat fighter are often stretched thin. We need a different machine—a two-seat heavy fighter equipped with Rolls-Royce Griffin liquid-cooled engines."

"The Firefly is positioned for long-range fleet air defense and strategic escort. It must have a large internal fuel tank and external fuel tank carrying capacity, as well as a dedicated radar operator/navigator seat."

Arthur looked at Field Admiral Pound and described the future naval warfare: "When our land-based bombers need to attack across the sea, the 'Fireflies' will be their most reliable escorts; when the fleet sails at night, the 'Fireflies,' equipped with airborne radar, will conduct long-range patrols hundreds of nautical miles outside the air defense perimeter. They are the fleet's long-range barrier, the scavengers specifically designed to hunt down enemy reconnaissance aircraft, and, most importantly, the first long-range line of defense to ensure the carrier battle group is not attacked."

"It doesn't need any bomb-carrying capability; its sole purpose is air superiority. It's a pure air superiority fighter."

"We want to turn it into a long-handled hammer specifically for hunting down Japanese warplanes over the Pacific Ocean."

"But for its requirements, four 20mm cannons are not enough. I want to add two more 12.7mm Browning M2 heavy machine guns at the wing roots."

"This is called a hybrid attack."

Arthur made a strangulation gesture with his hands clasped together: "The four cannons are responsible for destruction, while the two heavy machine guns are responsible for providing high-density ballistic coverage and tracer guidance. When it encounters enemy aircraft outside the air defense perimeter, it must possess terrifying firepower capable of destroying them in an instant."

"Even if the cannon's drum magazine runs out, these two well-stocked heavy machine guns will still give our pilots a last resort for self-defense and follow-up fire. A single short burst of fire is a metallic death net woven from high-explosive and armor-piercing incendiary rounds, capable of instantly shattering the Zero into fragments in mid-air."

"As for mobility and speed."

Arthur thought for a moment: "The weight of a two-seater aircraft does affect its turning performance, so tell the test pilots not to engage in low-speed horizontal dogfights with the Japanese; that's suicide. The Firefly's advantage lies in its energy. Leveraging the powerful high-altitude performance and vertical maneuverability of its liquid-cooled engine, it can launch attacks from high altitudes using speeds exceeding 400 miles per hour and terrifying dive acceleration. Hit and run, using its speed advantage to escape, then climb again, then dive again. As for dogfights, that's Sea Fury's job."

"With proper tactics, those light and airy Japanese fighter planes would be torn apart with just one salvo."

"One is responsible for close-quarters combat and violent dismantling, while the other is responsible for long-range hunting and long-distance raids. This is the oxygen that will sustain the Royal Navy in the Pacific in the future."

"Third, and most urgently needed, is the Barracuda torpedo/dive bomber project."

Arthur's gaze swept over the old biplanes on the deck, his tone resolute: "Completely eliminate those canvas-skinned biplanes. The new attack aircraft must be all-metal monoplanes, with a high-wing configuration to ensure excellent downward visibility, and equipped with powerful flaps to support steep dive bombing."

"It must be a versatile vessel, capable of carrying 18-inch aerial torpedoes for surface strikes, and also capable of carrying 1600..."

"I want it to be the Japanese Combined Fleet's most troublesome 'funeral ship,' not like the 'Swordfish,' which could only survive by luck and German anti-aircraft lapses."

Regarding the tactical role of carrier-based attack aircraft, Arthur rejected the US Navy's view of "dive bombing" (Dive Bomber).

The cumbersome doctrine of forcibly separating "Bombing" and "Torpedo Bombing" into two separate models.

The sea breeze howled, making Arthur's trench coat flutter. He stood on the deck of that steel behemoth, with biplanes representing the old era behind him, but his eyes were filled with the flames and smoke of future carrier battles in the Pacific.

"Marshal, please tell the gentlemen in the Admiralty: if they don't want to be sent to the bottom of the ocean to feed the sharks by Japanese bombs in two years, they must sign off on this plan immediately. In order to maintain the Empire's rule in the Far East, we must polish the rusty trident of the Royal Navy once again."

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