World War: Battleship Arms Dealers

"General!" The officer stood at attention and saluted.

Jericho nodded, preparing to leave, but then stopped.

"What's your name?"

"James Carter, General. Lieutenant, Operations Staff Officer."

How old are you?

"Twenty-two years old, general."

Twenty-two years old. Jericho looked at that young face and thought back to when he was twenty-two. Back then, the world was vast and the future was long.

"Lieutenant Carter," Jericho said, "do you think we'll win?"

The young officer paused for a moment, then puffed out his chest: "Of course, Admiral. The Royal Navy has never lost."

Never lost.

Yes, after Trafalgar, the Royal Navy never lost a major naval battle. A century of undefeated record, a century of maritime dominance.

Now, this record will be put to the test.

"Very good." Jericho patted him on the shoulder. "Keep that confidence."

He walked down the stairs and out of the Admiralty building.

The London night sky was starless, with low-hanging dark clouds, and it looked like it was really going to rain.

Jericho looked up at the sky and took a deep breath.

The cold, damp air filled my lungs.

Then, he got into the car.

"Back to the apartment," he told the driver.

The car drove into the night. Jericho leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes.

Tomorrow, the war will enter a new phase.

Tomorrow, the Royal Navy will sail toward its destiny.

And he will bear all the consequences.

Whether good or bad.

Regardless of life or death.

This is his responsibility.

Berlin, Naval Headquarters building, Chief of the General Staff office.

June sunlight streamed through the tall windows, casting bright dappled patterns on the polished oak floors. But the atmosphere in the room was as cold as winter.

Marshal Tirpitz stood by the window, his back to the room. He had been standing there for ten minutes, motionless, like a frozen statue.

Behind him, Admiral Reinhard Scheer, Commander-in-Chief of the High Seas Fleet, sat on a sofa with his hands clasped tightly. The 53-year-old naval commander had the typical features of a Prussian soldier—angular, sharp-eyed—but at this moment his brows were furrowed and his lips were pressed into a hard line.

"He couldn't possibly do that," Scheer finally broke the silence, his voice hoarse. "To take the entire fleet out to fight the British? That would be suicide."

Tirpitz slowly turned around. The sixty-seven-year-old founder of the Navy looked older than his actual age, with deep bags under his eyes and deep, knife-like wrinkles on his forehead.

"His Majesty the Emperor has made his decision." His voice was soft, yet it struck Scherer's heart like a hammer blow. "The victory on the Eastern Front has clouded his judgment. He now believes the German army is invincible—the army has proven it, and now it's the navy's turn."

"But these are two completely different battlefields!" Scheer stood up and walked to the huge map of the North Sea. "On land, we can concentrate our forces to break through at one point. At sea? The British control all the exits to the North Sea; they can assemble anywhere and wait for the enemy to attack. As soon as we leave port, we'll be exposed to their reconnaissance network!"

Tirpitz walked to the liquor cabinet and poured two glasses of brandy. He handed one to Scheer, picked up the other, and downed it in one gulp. The strong liquor burned his throat, bringing a brief numbness.

“I know.” He put down his cup. “I know all the risks. But the Emperor won’t listen. Yesterday at Sanssouci Palace, he spent a whole hour explaining his ‘Naval Trafalgar’ dream to me. He said that Germany needs a naval battle that will go down in history, like Nelson’s defeat of the Franco-Spanish fleet.”

"To go down in history?" Scheer sneered. "If we lose, it will indeed go down in history—as one of the most foolish naval decisions in history."

Silence fell in the room again. Outside the window came the hustle and bustle of Berlin's streets—the clanging of trams, the honking of car horns, the laughter of pedestrians. It was an ordinary summer afternoon, but inside this office, two men were discussing a decision that could change the course of the entire war.

"Reinhard," Tirpitz finally spoke, "what if we must attack—I mean, what if the Emperor's orders ultimately cannot be disobeyed—what should we do?"

Scheer stared at the map. The blue North Sea stretched out on the map like a giant trap. The British mainland stood like a barrier to the northwest, with Scapa Flow, Invergdon, Rosyth... British naval bases marked there, like chains locking the German fleet's passage into the Atlantic.

"We cannot engage in a fleet battle," he said firmly. "That's exactly what the British want. Their numerical advantage is too great—twenty-eight dreadnoughts against eighteen, nine battlecruisers against five. In a head-on collision, we will be crushed."

"So what's your suggestion?"

Scher's finger moved across the map, eventually stopping at a location in the middle of the North Sea.

"A decoy tactic," he said. "Let Hipper's reconnaissance fleet go forward to attack targets along the British coast or merchant routes. The British will certainly send a fleet to intercept them—most likely Beatty's battlecruisers. Then Hipper will fight and retreat, leading them into the area where our main fleet is lying in ambush."

Tirpitz's eyes lit up: "Win a limited victory. Devour a portion of the British fleet, rather than seeking a decisive battle."

"Yes." Scheer nodded. "If we're lucky, we can severely damage or even annihilate Beatty's fleet. That would mean the British would lose four to six battlecruisers, while Hipper's fleet would have five. Even if we suffer losses, the exchange ratio would be in our favor."

He paused. "More importantly, such a victory would satisfy the Emperor's vanity. 'The German Navy has dealt a heavy blow to the British fleet in the North Sea'—that's enough to land on the front page of every newspaper."

Tirpitz was deep in thought. He walked to his desk, opened a drawer, and took out a thick document.

"This is the latest assessment from the intelligence service." He handed the document to Scheer, "The current status, deployment, and commanders' habits of the British Grand Fleet... as well as some radio deciphering fragments."

Scher quickly flipped through the documents. His gaze lingered on one page:

"On June 3, the British battlecruisers HMS Lion, HMS Princess Royal, and HMS Queen Mary completed their repairs and left Rosyth shipyard to return to Scapa Flow... Vice Admiral Beatty has been frequently inspecting the ships recently, and morale is high..."

"Betty," Scher murmured the name, "David Betty. Belligerent, impulsive, craving honor. If he were to pursue Hipper... he would pursue him fiercely."

"That's exactly what we need," Tirpitz said. "An opponent who is impulsive enough, confident enough, and reckless enough. Only then will he not hesitate to chase us into our trap."

Scheer closed the document and looked up: "But that's contingent on the Emperor agreeing to the plan. If he insists we seek out the British main fleet for a decisive battle..."

"Then let him 'think' we're looking for a decisive battle." Tirpitz's lips curled into a bitter smile. "Reinhard, how many years have you and I served in the Navy? Forty? Fifty? We've long since learned how to find that thin line between orders and reality."