The Twilight of Empire: Starting from Dunkirk

Chapter 176 The Ruins' Surface and the Underground Abyss

The air raid sirens over London had just stopped, their lingering echoes among the ruined buildings, dragging out an irritating buzz.

A thick fog, thick with acrid smoke and dust, swallowed the ruins of the financial district in the early morning. The once bustling Victorian-era streets were gone, charred brick walls teetering on the brink of collapse, and massive craters brutally severing tram tracks. Broken underground pipes gushed muddy water, carving murky trenches into the streets, the surface littered with scraps of wood, charred paper, and other unidentifiable debris.

Arthur Sterling stepped out of the car, his expensive leather shoes crunching as they sank into the shattered glass and rubble.

He wore a dark gray, high-end cashmere overcoat, the hem neatly trimmed and spotless, his tie impeccably tied, and his silver lion-head cane tapped rhythmically on the muddy ground.

Colonel Ryder lagged half a step behind him, surrounded by a ring of fully armed Cold Creek Guards soldiers. The soldiers carried Lee—

Enfield rifles and Sterling submachine guns, their bayonets gleaming coldly in the mist, kept civilians and dust-covered firefighters at bay.

Ahead on the street, dozens of heavy trucks bearing the Sterling Heavy Industries logo were struggling to crawl through the craters.

The truck's engine roared dully, spewing thick black smoke from its exhaust pipe. Inside the open cargo bed, heavy machine tools were secured with thick hemp ropes. The surfaces of those tools were covered in rust and grease, and even fragments of broken metal could be seen at the meshing of the gears.

Outside the cordon, a group of reporters held heavy cameras, their flashes poised to go off in the morning mist.

They pushed forward desperately, like hounds that had smelled blood.

Arthur stopped and looked at several workers covered in mud who were using crowbars to load a damaged lathe onto a truck.

He took off his calfskin gloves and handed them to Ryder beside him, then stepped into the ankle-deep mud and walked straight to the workers.

The lead worker was an old man in his fifties, his face covered in soot, his rough hands gripping a crowbar tightly. He seemed somewhat at a loss when he saw Arthur approaching.

Arthur extended his clean white hand and grasped the old man's greasy hand, then patted the old man's shoulder with his other hand.

He smiled, trying to appear as gentle as possible while exuding strength.

"The Empire will not forget your sweat." Arthur looked into the workers' eyes, his voice deep and powerful, making sure the reporters on the periphery could hear him. "The German bombs may destroy our factories, but they cannot destroy the gears that keep the British Empire running. Every screw, every steel plate, is a cornerstone of our counterattack."

The flashbulbs went off wildly, freezing the moment in white light.

The head of the Sterling family, the youngest general, the pillar of industry, and the beacon of the empire, stands shoulder to shoulder with workers amidst the ruins, resolutely carrying out the emergency industrial relocation. Tomorrow's front-page headline has been decided.

The spotlights flashed wildly, but Arthur maintained a polite smile, though his gaze was slightly lowered.

In my mind, a 15-kilometer radius RTS tactical map silently unfolded.

White dots representing civilians were densely packed outside the cordon, interspersed with blue friendly markers representing the Guardsmen. However, within this seemingly safe expanse of color, a bright red dot suddenly flickered.

He was less than five meters away. Right at the very front of the cordon.

The owner of the red dot pushed forward, held up a notebook bearing the Daily Mail logo, and asked loudly, "General Sterling! Rumors are circulating that Sterling Heavy Industries suffered heavy losses in last night's bombing, with its core production line being devastated. Will this affect the frontline armored units' re-equipment plans?"

Arthur looked at the reporter wearing a bowler hat and with an anxious expression.

Red hostile unit. A remnant of the appeasement faction, or a dog kept in London by Berlin.

Arthur turned to face the camera. He slowly removed his military cap and tucked it under his arm. The composure on his face vanished, replaced by a sudden somber and sorrowful expression.

The noise at the scene quieted down.

"We did indeed experience a disaster last night," Arthur said in a low, measured voice. "Armor assembly plants number three and five were hit by two bombs, and our core production lines suffered unprecedented damage. Even more heartbreaking is that fifteen brave workers lost their lives on duty."

He paused, closed his eyes, as if trying his best to control his emotions.

A barely perceptible gleam of ecstasy flashed in the eyes of the reporter in the felt hat, and his pen flew across the paper.

"But!" Arthur's eyes snapped open, his voice rising sharply and striking everyone present. "If Berlin thinks a few tons of explosives can break the backbone of the British Empire, they are sorely mistaken! Factories destroyed, we rebuild from the ruins; machine tools blown up, we hammer them down! Armor deliveries to the front lines may face temporary difficulties, but our workers are working day and night to repair the equipment!"

He clenched his right fist and swung it forcefully in mid-air.

"Blood debts must be repaid in blood! Tell the Germans that every brick they destroyed will become an armor-piercing shell fired at their tanks!"

Thunderous applause erupted from all sides. The friendly journalists were flushed, their eyes burning with a burning desire for revenge. The owner of the red dot closed his notebook with equal satisfaction; he had obtained the intelligence Berlin desperately needed: Stirling Heavy Industries' production capacity was paralyzed, hindering the British army's re-equipment efforts at the front.

Both parties were very satisfied.

Arthur ignored the follow-up questions, put on his military cap, nodded to the workers, and strode back to the car.

The car doors closed, the engines started, and the convoy slowly drove away from the ruins.

The grief on Arthur's face vanished the moment the reporter's camera disappeared completely from the rearview mirror. He leaned back in his leather seat, pulled a silk handkerchief from his breast pocket, and vigorously wiped his face.

The oil stains left glaring black marks on the pristine white handkerchief.

"That old-fashioned drilling machine is a junk from 1890, isn't it?" Arthur asked, his voice flat as he looked out the window at the receding street scene.

Colonel Ryder, sitting in the passenger seat, turned around: "Yes, sir. It was hauled from a scrap yard downstream on the Thames. Reporters don't understand these things; they only see big trucks moving lumps of iron around."

Arthur took out a clean pair of leather gloves and put them on: "That Daily Mail reporter with the bowler hat, have MI5 keep an eye on him. Don't arrest him right away, wait until he sends the intelligence back to Berlin before making a move."

Ryder paused, his hand instinctively going to his holster: "A spy?"

"I suppose so." Arthur leaned back in his chair, straightening the hem of his coat. "It also makes those idiots in the cabinet think we're bleeding too, so they'll be more willing to approve the subsequent war budget. Most importantly, it makes the Germans think our production capacity is paralyzed, so Rommel can confidently extend his supply lines in the desert. As long as they're happy."

A few blocks away, the convoy turned and drove into the entrance of an abandoned subway station heavily surrounded by sandbags and barbed wire. This was once an abandoned station on the Victoria Line, now completely under military control.

The military police at the gate, carrying Bren light machine guns, immediately straightened their chests and saluted upon seeing the license plate, then pulled up the roadblock.

Arthur stepped out of the car, ignoring the military police's salute, and walked straight into the dimly lit passageway. Ryder followed closely behind.

The elevator's metal railings were pulled up. With a dull mechanical creak, the car began to descend.

Ten meters. The sound of the wind and the faint sirens were completely blocked by the thick layer of soil. Twenty meters. The air became stuffy, and the change in air pressure made the eardrums throb slightly. The strong smell of engine oil, burnt rubber, and ozone rushed into the elevator car through the ventilation ducts. Thirty meters. The elevator suddenly stopped, and the metal guide rails made a screeching sound.

The pneumatic iron gate in front slid open to both sides.

The deafening roar of machinery instantly assaulted everyone's eardrums. Even Ryder, who was used to the firepower of the battlefield, couldn't help but frown slightly and instinctively tighten his grip on the sidearm at his waist.

There was absolutely no "emergency relocation" here.

More than three years ago, while Britain was still indulging in the illusion of appeasement, the Sterling family's construction team, at the Earl's behest, had quietly hollowed out this complex underground network of pipes. The Sterling family always leaves themselves an escape route. The scrap metal being hauled away by trucks on the surface is merely a smokescreen to deceive others.

This is the true core of Stirling Heavy Industries—a steel abyss buried deep underground.

Arthur stepped out of the elevator and stood on the high metal mesh walkway, overlooking the vast underground industrial city.

Countless high-powered arc lamps illuminated the vast underground space as bright as day. As far as the eye could see, countless precision lathes, large forging presses, 3,000-ton hydraulic presses, and aircraft engine assembly lines stretched as far as the eye could see, forming an endless steel column.

Those truly expensive pieces of equipment, representing the highest level of industrial technology in the British Empire, have long been established here and are operating at full capacity 24 hours a day.

More than two thousand workers, clad in oil-stained work clothes, moved about on trembling steel plates. There was no sunlight, no day and night, only the ceaseless assembly line and the deafening sound of forging.

Arthur's gaze swept downwards.

A heavy-duty gantry crane is lifting a turret weighing several tons and slowly lowering it onto the vehicle chassis. The locating pins are precisely inserted, and several welders immediately step forward, their welding torches spitting out blinding blue sparks as they firmly weld the thick, homogeneous steel armor together.

That's the A15 Meteor medium tank being assembled.

Arthur tapped his fingers lightly on the metal railing, his mind drifting to the battle map of North Africa.

One hundred and twenty Meteor tanks have already set off with the transport convoy, and they will cross the Mediterranean under the escort of the Free French Navy.

In the original history, this number of armored troops would have been enough to utterly defeat the Italians during Operation Compass.

But under his intervention, the course of history has already shifted.

Due to his formidable tactics displayed at Dunkirk and the Battle of Britain, as well as his early introduction of the sloped armor concept, the pressure on Berlin increased dramatically. Guderian and Manstein would absolutely not stand idly by while the British gained a generational advantage in armor.

Recently intercepted telegram fragments by the intelligence agency show that German defense companies are working overtime like crazy, and the testing cycles for improved versions of the Panzer III and IV tanks, and even some more advanced heavy armor projects, are being significantly shortened.

Meanwhile, Arthur also received news that Rommel might have already arrived in Tripoli. The man known as the "Desert Fox" had reached Africa earlier and faster than historical records suggest. Although only a light division had arrived in North Africa so far, he would certainly receive more resources as the war progressed.

Arthur knew exactly what he had up his sleeve.

He possesses a 15-kilometer RTS "God's-eye view." Within this range, any enemy infiltration, ambush, or firing position deployment is exposed. He can perform extremely precise platoon-level tactical micro-management, utilizing terrain cover to execute perfect ambushes and reverse-slope firing.

However, micro-management requires having a sufficient number of troops.

If, within his micro-management range, the enemy has five times the number of tanks, and their armor is so thick that even a 17-pounder cannon cannot penetrate it, then no matter how he maneuvers, the final result will only be that he will be mercilessly overwhelmed by the steel torrent.

Ultimately, tactics come down to a direct clash between strategy and production capacity.

"War is all about logistics; it's about who can deliver more steel to the enemy faster," Arthur thought to himself.

The vast deserts of North Africa are devoid of muddy trenches and dense forests, offering only flat seas of sand and deadly heat. They are the perfect arena for armored forces.

If the goal is to completely bury Rommel in North Africa and ensure that the British Empire's oil lifeline in the Middle East is not cut off, then 120 tanks alone are far from enough.

He needed five hundred, a thousand, or even more. He needed the tracks of the Meteor tanks to crush every desert road, and the shells of the 17-pounder anti-tank guns to rain down on the German armor.

Production Director Sinclair came running over, interrupting Arthur's thoughts.

He wiped the sweat from his brow, clutching a thick stack of production reports, and shouted at the top of his lungs to drown out the surrounding noise: "Boss! The suspension systems for the first batch of Meteor Tanks are all off the production line, and the hull assembly is four hours ahead of schedule!"

Arthur walked along the narrow path, his leather shoes tapping on the metal mesh, the sound quickly swallowed up by the noise below.

"Where's the engine?" Arthur asked the core question directly, without even looking at the reports.

"The family's aviation plant in Derbyshire is facing a bottleneck in delivering Meteor engines," Sinclair reported loudly from behind. "The plant manager there said that the Ministry of Aviation just issued a direct order, forcibly diverting most of the production lines to produce Merlin engines for the Spitfire fighter. Our armored division's share of modifications has been cut by twenty percent."

Arthur stopped and turned to look at Sinclair, his eyes indifferent.

"That's the Department of Aviation's problem, not mine." Arthur's voice was exceptionally clear amidst the roar of machinery, revealing the absolute toughness of a family head. "You immediately connect to the plant manager's office at the Derbyshire branch via encrypted intercom. Tell him exactly that the Sterling family pays his salary, not some Air Force bureaucrat in Whitehall. If he dares to deliver one less Meteor engine than I need, I'll personally stuff him into the three-thousand-ton hydraulic press."

Arthur slammed his cane against the metal mesh walkway. "The British Empire needs not only firepower from the sky, but also heavy armor capable of charging through the desert. Let the air force cry to Churchill about their engine shortages; my tanks must be running on time. Anyone who dares to touch my production line, I'll snap their neck."

"Yes, sir!" Sinclair swallowed hard, his back instantly soaked with cold sweat, and immediately memorized the instruction.

Arthur continued forward. The underground space's ventilation system was already operating beyond its capacity, with huge exhaust fans emitting a dull hum, but it still couldn't completely remove the suspended metallic powder and pungent sweaty smell from the air.

On a forging production line below, several young workers, shirtless, were using pliers to clamp red-hot track plates and placing them under a hydraulic press to shape them. Their muscles trembled, and sweat streamed down their backs, pooling into a dark patch at their waistbands.

"The ventilation ducts got clogged twice again yesterday," Sinclair said in a low voice, looking at the workers. "The workers have to work sixteen hours a day in this environment. Seven people have already collapsed on the assembly line this week. Sir, everyone's physical strength has reached its limit. Could we arrange for three shifts to shorten the working hours a bit?"

Arthur stopped.

He leaned on his cane, his hands clasped together, looking down at the workers struggling in the heat and noise. His face was expressionless, devoid of pity or the hypocritical concern of a capitalist.

"Sinclair," Arthur turned to the production director, "do you know how many people the German bombs killed in East London last night?"

Sinclair paused for a moment, then shook his head.

"Four hundred and thirty-seven people," Arthur reported a precise number, "many of whom are the wives, parents, and children of these workers."

He raised his cane and pointed to the steel behemoths taking shape on the assembly line below.

"The Germans bombed their houses and killed their families. Their anger and desire for revenge were far stronger than their physical exhaustion."

"Tell the finance department that, starting today, all workers on the front lines of the underground arsenal will be paid triple overtime pay."

If someone faints, carry them out, give them sugar water and a heart stimulant, and once they wake up, they come back to work. As long as they're not dead, they have to stay on the assembly line.

Sinclair opened his mouth, seemingly wanting to refute this cruel exploitation, but under Arthur's cold gaze, all the words stuck in his throat.

"Compassion can't stop the Prussian armor-piercing shells." Arthur put away his cane. "I don't need to know how tired they are, I just need to know if the track plates will be assembled on time by tomorrow morning. I don't need to see tired faces, I just need to see tanks that can fire."

Arthur turned around and continued walking into the deepest part of the underground factory.

"The Germans made them homeless, so I'll give them the tools of revenge. Pushing the factories to their limits isn't just about winning, it's about survival. Tell everyone that production capacity is the only truth. Without production capacity, we..."

In North Africa, they would be stuffed into body bags.

Colonel Ryder followed behind Arthur, looking at the mountains of ammunition boxes and rows of gleaming cannon barrels on both sides.

He knew all too well that the head of the Sterling family was exploiting the entire empire's war potential in an extremely cruel yet incredibly efficient way.

At the end of the underground passage is a command center that has been specially soundproofed.

The heavy blast-proof door closed, completely isolating the outside noise of machinery. The command room was so quiet that only the ticking of the clock on the wall could be heard.

A huge map of the North African campaign hung on the wall, stretching from Alexandria in Egypt all the way to Benghazi and Tripoli in Libya. The map was covered with red and blue pins representing the forces of both sides.

Arthur took off his cashmere coat, tossed it onto the sofa, and walked to the map.

Lieutenant Jeanne was already standing by the table. She was wearing a crisp new Free French uniform and holding a newly deciphered intelligence telegram in her hand.

"Sir." Jeanne saluted and handed over the telegram. "Just arrived from Bletchley Park. We can confirm that the German 5th Light Division has completed its assembly in Tripoli. Intelligence indicates that Rommel has not adopted a defensive posture as General Vivier predicted; he is frantically looting all the fuel trucks in the port. Just as you said, his armored regiment may leave the coastal road at any time and enter the southern desert."

Arthur took the telegram, glanced at it, and a cold smile curled at the corner of his mouth.

Sure enough, the Desert Fox's intuition remained sharp. Rommel saw through the weakness of the British army's overly long supply lines and prepared to launch a deep penetration operation.

"Any response from Wavell and O'Connor?" Arthur picked up a red and blue pencil and drew a huge red arrow on the map, pointing directly at the British flank in the southern desert.

"The Cairo command believed that the terrain of the southern desert was too harsh for the German armored forces to maintain logistical support in that environment, and they judged that Rommel was just making a feint," Jeanne reported truthfully.

"Foolish." Arthur threw the pencil on the table.

He knew these old-fashioned generals all too well. They always used World War I thinking to measure the mobility of armored forces. In the original history, O'Connor's underestimation of the enemy and misjudgment led to him being captured by a small group of lost German scouts during the retreat, nearly causing the collapse of the British Middle East defenses.

This time, Arthur will not allow this to happen again.

"Imagine a signal." Arthur placed his hands on the chart table, his eyes fixed on the blue marker representing the 7th Armored Division.

Jeanne immediately picked up a pen and paper, ready to take notes.

"To General Wavell, Cairo Middle East Command. The first batch of 120 Meteor tanks delivered by Sterling Heavy Industries must be concentrated in the 7th Armored Division as the sole strategic reserve for the entire army, as instructed by the War Department. They are strictly prohibited from being dispersed to infantry divisions for defensive support."

Arthur spoke very quickly, without pausing at all.

But the way his fingers tapped the edge of the chart table betrayed his inner concerns. Although he was currently a figurehead in London, with even Churchill relying on his armored production capacity and strategic planning in cabinet meetings, and with actual command of the Cold Creek Guards, the French 12th Motorized Infantry Division, and the Scottish 51st Highland Division, his power was even greater than that of the Commander-in-Chief of the Home Garrison. Not to mention his influence in the Navy and Air Force.

But Wavell and O'Connor on the other end of the telegram were different; they were veterans who had gone to Africa long ago.

These two men were used to giving orders in the colonies; they were powerful regional officials, and their personalities were stubborn and arrogant. They would most likely just scoff at the tactical warnings they issued to a young man in an air-raid shelter thousands of kilometers away.

But Arthur decided to do everything he could, to the best of his ability. As for whether the other party could stand up for themselves, that would depend on their fate and luck.

"Furthermore, keep a close eye on the southern desert direction. Rommel's 5th Panzer Regiment is very likely to completely abandon infantry cover and use pure armored formations to outflank the enemy. Once the German movement is detected, the 7th Panzer Division must immediately abandon its current positions, retreat eastward to the Selum line, lengthen the German supply lines, and use the armor advantage of the Meteor tanks for mobile defense."

Jeanne finished taking notes and looked up: "Sir, General Wavell is unlikely to readily accept your tactical advice. After all, he is the supreme commander of the Middle East theater, while your current position is only—"

"Whether he listens or not is his business, whether I issue the order or not is mine," Arthur interrupted Jeanne. "If he does as I say, the 7th Panzer Division can knock Rommel's teeth out at Selum. If he doesn't listen—"

Arthur straightened up, walked to the liquor cabinet by the wall, and poured himself a glass of whiskey. The amber liquid swirled in the glass.

"If he doesn't listen and causes a collapse at the front, that's when he'll be out of office. Churchill has long been dissatisfied with the situation there and is just looking for an excuse to reform the command system in the Middle East. If Wavell makes a mistake, the House of Commons will tear him to pieces."

Arthur tilted his head back and downed the whiskey in one gulp. The spicy liquid flowed down his throat, dispelling the slight chill of the basement.

"At that time, I can rightfully take over the 7th Armored Division, and even the entire Eighth Army."

Colonel Ryder stood to the side, listening to Arthur's undisguised plan to seize power, a cold sweat creeping down his back. This man wasn't just scheming against the Germans, but also against his own people.

"Sir, if the front lines really collapse, can we still hold Egypt? Once the Suez Canal is lost, our shipping routes in the Far East will be cut off," Ryder couldn't help but ask, voicing his concerns.

Arthur turned around and looked at Ryder with deep eyes.

"Therefore, we need production capacity." Arthur's fingers tapped heavily on the table. "As long as these underground production lines keep running, as long as the Meteor Tanks keep emerging from the tunnels, and as long as we hold an absolute advantage in steel, even if Rommel drives his tanks to the walls of Alexandria, I can smash him back into the sea with tons and tons of shells."

He walked to the map, traced his finger across the Mediterranean Sea, and stopped at the location of Tunisia.

"Our goal is not to defend Egypt, but to completely drive the Axis powers out of Africa. I want to turn Rommel's armored forces into a pile of burning scrap metal, and I want to control the entire North African coastline."

Arthur closed his eyes. In his mind, the RTS God-view map covering a fifteen-kilometer area was slowly...

Unfold. Although the map currently only shows the London Arsenal, he knows that soon it will be covered by the scorching yellow sands of North Africa.

In that desert, he will use micromanagement and production capacity to win this war that will determine the fate of the British Empire.

"Jeanne." Arthur opened his eyes again.

"Yes, sir."

"Contact David Sterling. Ask him how his Special Air Service (SAS) is progressing with training in the Scottish Highlands. Tell him to keep training going; he doesn't have much time left. I need his squad ready to deploy to Cairo at any time and infiltrate behind enemy lines."

"Ryder".

"Sir."

"Go and urge Sinclair; I want to see the tracks of the second batch of fifty Meteor tanks roll over the port ramp within three days."

Arthur straightened his cuffs and put his gloves back on.

"The war machine has been started, and anyone who tries to stop the gears from turning will be crushed into mincemeat." He pushed open the blast door and stepped back into the deafening roar of the machinery.

The flickering lights on the assembly line cast his shadow long. In this sunless, underground abyss, the fate of the British Empire...

Yun was being forcibly pushed in another unknown direction amidst the sound of hammer blows.

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