The Twilight of Empire: Starting from Dunkirk

Chapter 177 The Weight of the Crown and the Expedition Through the Yellow Sands

It had been raining all night at Southampton Naval Base.

The icy sea wind, carrying rain, pounded against the breakwater, shattering into white foam. Huge ocean-going transport ships, like silent steel behemoths, lay dormant beside their deep-water berths.

Along the waterline edge of the hull, the mottled anti-rust paint is exposed as the waves rise and fall.

On the dock, the harsh sound of metal scraping against metal rose and fell, as more than a dozen heavy steam cranes were running at full power, their thick steel cables taut and their winches groaning.

One after another, A15 "Meteor" medium tanks were slowly lifted by the crane's boom, suspended in mid-air, and then precisely lowered into the bottomless hull of the transport ship.

The searchlights pierced through the rain and shone on the armor of the tanks.

There is no reflection.

Before leaving the factory, Sterling Heavy Industries' paint shop worked overnight to apply a highly textured "desert yellow" paint job to them. The iconic 78mm sloped armor on the front of the vehicle body displays a pure industrial brutality aesthetic under strong light.

Arthur stood in the rain.

He didn't use an umbrella, letting the rain slide down his dark gray military overcoat.

Beside him, Colonel Ryder held a waterproof cardboard box and quickly checked the shipping manifest with a pencil.

"Eleventh batch, the last four vehicles." Ryder wiped the rain off his face and reported loudly to his superior, "One hundred and thirty sets of spare track pads, thirty spare parts for Merlin-modified Y12 diesel engines, five thousand 6-pounder tungsten-core armor-piercing rounds, and eight thousand high-explosive rounds. All loaded, sir."

Arthur didn't look at the list; his gaze was fixed on the Meteor Tank being hoisted up.

A plume of black smoke suddenly shot out of the exhaust pipe.

The tank driver was clearly a novice. When reversing into the lifting platform, he released the clutch too quickly, and the 600-horsepower V12 diesel engine roared violently. The heavy vehicle lurched backward, and the tracks crushed a precast concrete slab at the edge of the dock.

"Turn off that idiot! Put it in neutral!" The dock dispatcher waved his red and blue signal lights and yelled.

Arthur's eyes remained expressionless.

He simply listened quietly to the roar of the engine.

This sound was completely foreign to the armored forces of the British Empire. They were used to Matilda's slow infantry escort, and to the fragile armor and constantly malfunctioning suspension of the Crusader tanks.

But these Meteor tanks were different. They were monsters he had forced the underground arsenal to squeeze every last drop of production capacity out of the blueprints. This was the first great gift he had prepared for Rommel.

Close your eyes.

The RTS sand table unfolded instantly in Arthur's mind, but soon his thoughts transcended the 15-kilometer distance limit, constructing a grand strategic route map spanning half the globe.

The red and blue lines of deduction intertwine in the darkness.

According to the Admiralty's initial plan, the convoy would depart Southampton at 3 a.m., escorted only by two Royal Navy destroyers into the Atlantic Ocean.

But Arthur rejected him without hesitation.

This was the first shipment delivered to the North African battlefield since he took charge of Sterling Heavy Industries. There was no room for error, and it certainly couldn't be allowed to sink into the Atlantic Ocean to feed the fish.

He gave Admiral Jean-Sullivan a direct order: Jean-Sullivan must personally lead a team, deploying two Dunkerque-class battleships and six destroyers, to protect the transport ships in the very center of the fleet.

This massive fleet will enter the Atlantic Ocean, round the Bay of Biscay, force its way through the Strait of Gibraltar, and then be met by the Mediterranean Fleet.

He began to calculate the time, speed, and probability of a submarine threat.

Axis submarine activity in the Mediterranean is becoming more frequent.

If the convoy maintains an economical speed of 12 knots, it will reach the waters off Malta in 14 days. That is within the operational radius of the Italian Navy. Although the threat posed by the Italian surface fleet has significantly decreased due to previous attacks, there is still a 15 percent chance that the transport convoy will be attacked by air or torpedoes.

Arthur quickly calculated in his mind.

Based on the chassis dimensions of the Meteor Tank and its combat weight of 28 tons, a standard 10,000-ton ocean-going transport ship could forcibly cramm 40 tanks into its hold under extreme conditions.

But Arthur simply crossed out the fully loaded plan with a red pen.

Putting all the tanks on one ship was an extremely foolish move; a single torpedo from a German submarine would have been enough to send them all to the bottom of the sea.

He mandated that each transport ship could carry a maximum of fifteen Meteor tanks, with the remaining draft tonnage filled with relatively lightweight ammunition boxes, clothing, and anti-aircraft gun parts. This partially loaded configuration not only maintained the transport ships' freeboard at a relatively safe height but also significantly increased the overall economical speed of the formation by one and a half knots, greatly reducing exposure time in submarine-threatening waters.

Tonight, the 120 tanks on the dock were evenly distributed and loaded into eight transport ships.

From the issuance of the loading order on October 24th to today, October 27th, a full three days have passed. This also means that seventy-two hours have passed since Wavell in Cairo received the telegram that "the new equipment has begun loading."

Arthur split the eight transport ships into two separate squadrons.

The first batch of four transport ships was escorted by Admiral Jean Sue's French Navy.

The second batch of four transport ships was escorted by a destroyer squadron from the Royal Navy's Home Fleet.

The two fleets will depart one day apart, enter the Atlantic Ocean, round the Bay of Biscay, and force their way through the Strait of Gibraltar.

Based on a sea speed of half a month, as long as they are not bogged down by German submarine packs, the first batch of Meteor tanks will arrive in Alexandria around November 10th.

On the mental map, Arthur marked several of the most vulnerable positions on the outer perimeter of the formation. Axis submarine activity in the Mediterranean was becoming more frequent, and he could accept the loss of up to thirty tanks, or two ships, as long as the remaining ninety tanks could safely and on time reach Alexandria and be handed over to the 7th Panzer Division.

The 7th Panzer Division now possesses only its ineffective light cruiser tanks, captured Italian tin cans, and a few Matildas. O'Connor is advancing triumphantly on the front lines, herding tens of thousands of Italians towards Tripoli like ducks. But at the end of that long supply line, Rommel's 5th Light Division is already unloading.

"Hopefully, we can get these steels into O'Connor's hands before Rommel delivers his fatal blow." Arthur opened his eyes, raindrops dripping down his cold, hard jawline.

A military jeep screeched to a halt in front of Arthur, its tires splashing mud onto the boots of the guardsmen.

A royal communications soldier, soaking wet, jumped off the vehicle, not even bothering to wipe the mud off his helmet, and ran straight to Arthur, standing at attention and saluting.

"General Sterling! An urgent order from Buckingham Palace!" The communications officer handed over a moisture-proof and waterproof envelope stamped with sealing wax.

Ryder stepped forward, took the envelope, checked that the seal was intact, and handed it to Arthur.

Arthur used his gloved fingers to pry open the seal. Inside was an exquisitely crafted parchment invitation, its edges gilded, and carrying a faint scent of lavender. This fragrance seemed utterly jarring against the backdrop of the docks filled with the smells of diesel fuel and the sea.

"Windsor Castle. Eight o'clock tonight." Arthur glanced at his watch. It was six o'clock in the evening.

"Get the car ready." Arthur stuffed the invitation into his pocket and turned to walk toward the bulletproof Rolls-Royce Phantom parked in the shadows.

"Sir, the final seal for the loading operation hasn't been confirmed yet—" Ryder followed behind, asking for instructions.

"The rest is up to you. Tell the captain I need to see their wake in the English Channel before dawn tomorrow. If there's a delay, I'll put him in court." Arthur opened the car door and got into the back seat.

The doors of the bulletproof limousine slammed shut, completely shutting out the hustle and bustle of the dock.

The engines started smoothly, and the convoy left the port, heading north.

The interior of the carriage was dimly lit. Arthur took off his military overcoat, which was soaked with the smell of engine oil and rain, and tossed it aside. He pulled down the windshield curtain and turned on the reading light in the back seat.

A servant in the front row handed him a warm, damp towel. Arthur took it and vigorously wiped his hands, neck, and cheeks.

The stickiness of the engine oil gradually faded, revealing a pale and angular face.

He opened a specially made leather trunk next to him, inside which was a Savile Row tailcoat, perfectly pressed without a single wrinkle, a pure white silk shirt, and a handmade bow tie.

In the back seat of the speeding car, Arthur began to change his clothes methodically. As a socialite in London, this was his daily routine; he had to switch back and forth between different occasions and different identities.

He took off his already soaked military overcoat and put on a snow-white silk shirt. He skillfully tied his bow tie and put on a perfectly tailored tailcoat. Finally, he took out a sterling silver lion emblem brooch from a small velvet box. The roaring lion was exactly the same as the heavy badge on his right index finger that symbolized the family's authority.

He carefully pinned the brooch to his left lapel.

Ten minutes.

When he leaned back in his leather seat, the arms dealer who had commanded heavy industrial capacity on the muddy docks had vanished, replaced by an impeccably elegant British aristocrat.

The convoy drove into the edge of London.

Arthur turned his head and looked out the window through the bulletproof glass. The rain had stopped, and the beams of anti-aircraft searchlights swept back and forth through the thick clouds, but the German bombing intensity had clearly decreased considerably, with only a few symbolic bombs being dropped over the strait.

But as the convoy left London and entered the country roads of Berkshire, the scenery changed dramatically.

The hedges lining the road were neatly trimmed, and the distant village was serene. There were no shell craters, no rubble, no smoke of gunpowder. The flames of war seemed to have been abruptly kept dozens of miles away by some invisible class barrier.

Ahead, the magnificent silhouette of Windsor Castle emerged in the night.

Towering towers and sturdy city walls—unlike the main city, there are no blackouts here. Huge crystal chandeliers stream through tall floor-to-ceiling windows, casting their light unrestrainedly onto the smooth gravel driveway.

The convoy stopped in front of the main entrance.

Two royal guards, dressed in bright red uniforms and wearing towering bearskin hats, stepped forward and opened the car door.

Arthur stepped out of the car. His leather shoes made a crisp sound on the gravel. He straightened his cuffs and stepped onto the red-carpeted steps.

The melodious strains of a Mozart string quartet drifted out from behind the half-open oak door.

Arthur recalled his brief encounter with Elizabeth.

At that time, the young princess who inspected the disaster area, with a touch of girlish curiosity and anticipation, hinted that she hoped to privately invite him to Windsor Castle for afternoon tea and listen to him talk about the breakout battle on the French battlefield.

Arthur took it as a joke.

But Arthur didn't expect that the two would meet again so soon, and that there was no personal element involved at all.

The moment you step into the banquet hall, a warm breeze carrying the aromas of Havana cigars, expensive perfumes, and roasted veal hits you. The hall floor is covered with heavy Persian carpets, and the walls are adorned with huge oil paintings of monarchs from various dynasties.

Dozens of cabinet ministers, Royal Navy admirals, high-ranking air force officers, and hereditary nobles were gathered in small groups. They held crystal glasses filled with high-aged sherry and conversed in hushed tones. This small group at the very top of the power pyramid of the entire British Empire had all gathered here tonight.

They appeared here, their faces devoid of the panic they had felt while hiding in the air-raid shelter, and lacking the weariness of dockworkers Arthur had previously observed. They were discussing red wine and the fox hunting season in the Scottish Highlands.

Arthur stopped at the entrance, his gaze quickly sweeping across the entire area.

First Lord of the Navy Alexander, Air Force Bomber Commander Porter, and even MI6 Director Menzies, who rarely attends such occasions, were all smoking pipes in a corner.

But none of this made Arthur stop.

His gaze swept across the crowd and landed on the seat at the far end of the long table, closest to the head of the table.

An old man was sitting there.

The old man was dressed in an extremely formal black suit, his chest adorned with various medals from the early British Empire. He did not hold a wine glass; his hands were folded, and beside him lay a silver lion-head cane. His back was ramrod straight, his breathing steady and powerful, his broad chest...

The skeletal structure made the dress look extremely full.

Time may have turned his hair white, but it has not left any signs of decay on the old man's body.

His eyes remained as sharp as a knife.

That was Earl Sterling, Arthur's father, and the previous and de facto head of the Sterling family.

Since Arthur returned home, the old Earl has entrusted him with the daily management of Stirling Industries, but he has never relinquished his seat in the House of Lords.

However, he rarely attends social dinners in London, spending most of his time in seclusion at his estate.

But Arthur had seen it all clearly as he walked through the hall: both Pound and Porter, carrying their wine glasses, moved with extreme restraint as they passed the end of the long table. The nobles who controlled the imperial war machine looked at the old man with undisguised awe.

Today, he not only came, but also sat on the left side of the throne, which belongs to the king.

Arthur's pupils contracted slightly.

He was mentally rehearsing it.

If it were merely to recognize his contributions in the Battle of Britain or to commemorate the Dunkirk evacuation, the Ministry of Munitions or the Minister of Defence would have sufficed.

Even Churchill could have solved the problem by offering him a glass of brandy at 10 Downing Street.

He used Windsor Castle and put on a full-fledged royal banquet, which even alarmed his father.

This was a meticulously planned "Feast at Hongmen".

Arthur strode toward the end of the long table. Along the way, nobles and generals stopped to converse and raise their glasses in a toast to the young brigadier general who was currently the most prominent figure in the British Empire.

Arthur nodded in response with an impeccable smile, but his steps did not falter in the slightest.

He walked up to the old count and bowed slightly.

"Father."

The old count didn't look up; his withered fingers gently stroked the head of the pure silver lion.

Arthur straightened up and looked at his father's profile, which was covered with age spots.

"The fear stems from insufficient firepower. If they are afraid, it means I haven't built enough tanks."

The old count finally raised his head, his still clear and sharp eyes fixed on Arthur.

"Weapons in the hands of the state are called confidence. Weapons in the hands of an uncontrolled family are called a threat." The old count raised his cane and tapped it lightly on the thick carpet. "Tonight, put away your arrogance. Whatever His Majesty proposes, you can only say 'yes.' Stirling Heavy Industries cannot exist independently of the monarchy."

Arthur stared blankly at his father's calm, serious old face, then inwardly scoffed.

That's utter bullshit.

For centuries, the Sterling family's survival strategy has always prioritized family interests above all else. The British Empire was merely a host from which the Sterling family drew sustenance. The old man deliberately uttered this high-sounding rhetoric, with no intention of admonishing himself; it was purely a political show, specifically intended for the group of cabinet ministers and royal spies around him who were listening intently.

Even at this moment, with all the dignitaries within a ten-meter radius holding wine glasses and staring intently at the oil paintings on the wall or the patterns on the carpet, no one dared to glance in their direction. Yet, the old count still performed this act flawlessly.

Arthur had just opened his mouth, ready to cooperate with the old man and finish this charade of feigned loyalty.

Before he could utter a sound, the oak double doors on the other side of the hall were forcefully pushed open by two servants.

"His Majesty the King has arrived!"

The emcee's loud voice echoed throughout the hall, the string quartet immediately stopped, and everyone put down their glasses, stood at attention, and faced the door.

King George VI, dressed in his crisp Royal Navy Admiral uniform, entered the hall. His steps were somewhat slow, and his face showed the pallor of a long illness. But he still tried his best to straighten his back and maintain the dignity befitting a monarch.

Behind him followed a girl in a light blue dress.

The girl was petite, her head bowed, her hands gripping the hem of her skirt tightly, appearing extremely awkward. This was Princess Elizabeth, only fourteen years old, first in line to the British throne.

Arthur's gaze lingered on the girl for half a second before he quickly looked away and bowed slightly in respect.

The girl's eyes lit up when she saw Arthur standing next to the old count.

The banquet officially began.

The long table was laden with silver cutlery and an extremely lavish spread of food. In a time when strict rationing was being implemented for ordinary people, the roasted veal and fresh oysters flown in from the Mediterranean stood out starkly.

But nobody really put their mind to the food.

The sound of cutlery clattering against the silver plate was exceptionally clear in the oppressive atmosphere.

Arthur cut off a small piece of beef, put it in his mouth, and chewed slowly. His gaze remained level with the table, neither looking at the king sitting in the main seat nor at Porter opposite him.

After the main course was cleared away and the waiters filled everyone's glasses with port, George VI picked up his glass.

The hall fell into a deathly silence.

The king stood up, took a deep breath, and habitually pursed his lips, trying to overcome the stutter that had tormented him for half his life.

"Gentlemen—" The King's voice echoed in the empty hall, as he tried to enunciate clearly, "In the past few months, the British Empire—has undergone an unprecedented test. German bombs have fallen on our cities, and our fleet has bled in the Atlantic."

The king glanced around the table, his gaze finally settling on Arthur.

"But we did not fall. In the mud of France, Cold Creek Guards and the 51st Highland Division were brought back intact. Over British airspace, Merlin engines allowed our Spitfires to tear through the enemy's bombing net. And all of this—"

The king held his wine cup and tilted it slightly toward Arthur.

"All credit goes to the Empire's most outstanding industrialist and its most steadfast and wisest commander. Lord Arthur Sterling."

Everyone turned to Arthur at the same time and raised their glasses.

"Respect to General Sterling."

Arthur immediately stood up, raised his glass, and toasted the king, saying, "All for the Empire, Your Majesty."

He took a small sip of his drink and was just about to sit down.

"The British Empire needs the steel of the Sterling family," the King continued without sitting down. He put down his wine glass, placed his hands on the table, leaned forward slightly, and stared intently at Arthur with his pale eyes. His stutter miraculously disappeared at that moment.

"But what the Empire needs even more is to forever bind this power to the crown."

The air in the hall seemed to freeze for a moment; all breathing ceased, and even the waiters in the corners stood frozen in place.

The king turned his head and looked at Princess Elizabeth sitting behind him.

The girl's body trembled slightly, but she did not look up, still staring at the tips of her shoes.

"The Sterling and Windsor families have a long and intertwined history. At this critical moment for the empire, I need that connection to become inseparable." The king's voice became extremely authoritative; this was no longer a compliment, but an unyielding political decree.

"Lord Arthur Sterling. I have decided to betroth Elizabeth, the first in line to the throne of the Empire, to you."

These words were like a bombshell, exploding in the ears of every cabinet minister and senior general.

Everyone present was astonished.

Someone gasped.

To marry the future Queen to a powerful general who commands a large army and controls more than 60% of the empire's heavy industry capacity? This means that the Sterling family will not only gain immunity from death, but will also openly and directly encroach on the highest power core of the British Empire.

But this is also the most vicious shackle.

Once he accepts this marriage, Arthur Sterling will no longer be an independent warlord; he will become a complete vassal of the royal family. His arsenal will become the private property of the royal family, and his army will lose the power to be mobilized independently.

This is clearly Churchill and the royal family joining forces to buy up the entire Sterling family's fortune with a future crown.

Arthur stood still, his fingers gripping the stem of the crystal wine glass tightly.

The light shone on his profile, revealing no emotion whatsoever.

In my mind, RTS has gone out of control, and all tactical simulations have been forcibly interrupted.

At this moment, countless thoughts were racing through Arthur's mind.

reject?

If he refuses the King on this occasion, the Earl will strip him of all his inheritance rights as head of the family the next morning. MI5 will immediately seal off the arsenal beneath London. And in the future, command of the 7th Armoured Division will naturally be transferred to Montgomery, and the one hundred Meteor tanks he loaded onto the ship in Southampton will become someone else's achievements.

accept?

The royal family's gaze will be all-encompassing; his every word and action will be magnified, and even the production output of a single screw on the production line will have to be reported to the cabinet.

A brief silence fell over the hall.

Arthur did not reply immediately, but subconsciously turned his gaze to the old count at the end of the long table.

The old count remained seated, his hands clasped together on his cane, unmoved.

He simply met Arthur's gaze and narrowed his eyes slightly.

But that's enough.

Arthur instantly understood the meaning behind this banquet.

A royal marriage of the century could never be a surprise attack on such a occasion. A public refusal would be a major blow to the dignity of both the Royal Family and the Sterling family. This must be a pre-arranged deal between the old man and the King, and tonight's event is merely a political show for the entire British elite.

Why act?

The Sterling family's wealth is enough to make anyone envious. However, the Sterling family is currently small in number; the old Earl has begun to gradually retire over the past month, and Arthur could go to war at any time. The family has not yet established a successor.

Within the cabinet and the military, countless greedy eyes are eyeing this piece of meat, ready to pounce and tear it apart at any moment when the family makes a mistake.

By publicly tossing the crown, the king ostensibly bound Arthur to marriage, but in reality, he was providing the Sterling family with an impenetrable royal cloak. This served as a deterrent to any powerful figures with ulterior motives: Sterling Heavy Industries was now royal. Anyone who dared to touch it would be committing treason.

Arthur's gaze swept across the long table and landed on the girl who kept her head down. The fourteen-year-old princess already bore the weight of the empire on her tender shoulders.

He loosened his grip on the wine glass.

Slowly step back half a step and move aside from the dining chair.

Then, he straightened up and put his legs together. The heels of his military boots clicked together, making a very crisp "click" sound.

He raised his right hand, drawing a perfectly precise arc across his chest, and gave an impeccable military salute to the king on the throne.

"The Sterling family's loyalty is as enduring as the steel of the Empire."

Arthur's voice echoed in the hall, steady, firm, and impeccable.

"I am deeply honored to accept this honor, Your Majesty. But I have a small request."

The king narrowed his eyes slightly: "Speak."

"Her Highness is still young. Out of respect for the dignity of the royal family and for Her Highness personally, I humbly request that the formal wedding be postponed until Her Highness comes of age." Arthur paused, his gaze naturally sweeping over the assembled cabinet ministers. "Until then, as a soldier, my energy will be entirely devoted to the battlefield of eliminating the Empire's enemies."

The diplomatic language was impeccable, giving the royal family face while demonstrating the responsibility of a tough soldier.

The king's tense shoulders finally relaxed.

He gave a slightly approving and satisfied smile, and picked up his glass again: "As you wish, Lord Sterling."

The cabinet ministers in the hall breathed a sigh of relief. Immediately following, a torrent of enthusiastic and flattering applause and toasts erupted. Those politicians whose eyes had previously held calculating glints now looked at Arthur with nothing but awe and deep apprehension.

Arthur sat back down in his chair. He looked at the piece of roast beef on his plate, which was starting to get cold.

The legitimate royal power of the British Empire was finally completely merged with the capital of Sterling Heavy Industries.

He knew very well that with the royal family's backing, he would be free from any constraints in the military and the cabinet. He could then extend his reach even deeper without any further hindrance.

The yellow sands of North Africa still awaited those Meteor tanks, while Rommel's armored forces advanced toward Alexandria.

Arthur picked up his glass and brought it to his lips.

"I'll come back and settle this score with you after I drive Rommel's Afrika Korps out of the desert," he thought to himself.

The crystal chandelier still shone brightly. The world outside the window was still ablaze. But within this opulent castle, the future of the British Empire had already been forcibly rewritten at this dining table.

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