World War: Battleship Arms Dealers

He walked up to Scheer, looking him straight in the eye: "Formulate your plan. Package it as 'seeking engagement with the enemy's main force,' but in the specifics, make it clear that the objective is 'to lure and annihilate the enemy's vanguard fleet.' I will adjust the wording appropriately when reporting to the Emperor."

Scheer understood what he meant. It was deception, but also the only way to save the fleet.

"Does Hipper know?" he asked.

"You go talk to Franz," Tirpitz said. "He's the one in charge, he needs to know the whole truth. But for the others—including most of the officers in the fleet—let them believe it's a great decisive battle. Morale needs that kind of story."

Scheer nodded. He felt a heavy weariness. As a soldier, he longed for battle, for victory. But as a commander, he was even more aware of the weight of responsibility—the lives of more than 40,000 sailors were in his hands, and the entire naval power of Germany depended on his decisions.

"When?" he asked.

"Within three days," Tirpitz said. "The Emperor can't wait. The victory celebrations on the Eastern Front have just ended, and he needs news of naval success as well. The sooner the better."

"Then I'll head back to Wilhelmshaven now." Scheer stood up. "Let's work out a detailed plan with Hipper. How many ships do we need?"

"Everything that can go to sea," Tirpitz said. "If we're going to put on a show, let's go all the way. The main fleet should all be out in port, ready for a decisive battle. That's how we'll convince the British that we're serious."

Scher saluted and turned to leave. As he reached the door, Tirpitz called him back.

"Reinhard".

Sher turned back.

The old marshal stood by the window, sunlight shining from behind him, his face hidden in shadow.

"Bring the children back," Tirpitz said, his voice a little hoarse. "Bring back as many as possible."

Scher was silent for a few seconds, then nodded, pushed open the door and left.

In the corridor, Scheer's footsteps echoed on the empty marble floor. He walked quickly, the sound of his military boots striking the ground rapid and firm, as if trying to suppress the unease in his heart with this rhythm.

At the corner of the stairs, he encountered a young major. The major immediately stood at attention and saluted: "General!"

Scher stopped and looked at the young man. He was no more than thirty-five years old, with blond hair neatly combed back and blue eyes that gleamed with excitement.

"You work at the Admiralty?" Scheer asked.

"Yes, Admiral! Intelligence Section, responsible for the North Sea." The major's voice was full of pride. "I just finished compiling the latest report on British fleet movements. They've been very active lately, and they're probably planning something big."

Scher's heart skipped a beat: "What's your name?"

"Karl von Müller, General!"

Von Müller. Scheer remembered the name—a naval family; his father was a retired cruiser captain, and his brother served as gunnery officer on the HMS Derfflinger.

"What do you think of the upcoming operation?" Scheer suddenly asked.

The major's eyes lit up even more: "We're finally going to strike, Admiral! The entire fleet has been waiting for this day! Let's teach the British a lesson and show them who owns the North Sea!"

His enthusiasm was almost overflowing. Scher looked at his young and excited face and thought of himself thirty years ago—when he also believed that courage and determination could overcome everything.

"What if... what if we encounter the main British fleet?" Scheer asked. "They outnumber us."

"Then let's fight!" the major declared without hesitation. "German sailors are of higher quality than the British! Our gunnery is more accurate, and our warships are more advanced! Nelson wasn't outnumbered at Trafalgar, but he won!"

Scheer nodded. He didn't correct the young man—he didn't tell him that Nelson's victory wasn't due to simple courage, but to brilliant tactics and the opponent's folly. Nor did he tell him that modern naval warfare was completely different from the age of sail.

"Keep a good job, Major." Scheer patted him on the shoulder. "The Navy needs passionate people like you."

"Yes, General!" The major saluted again, his face beaming with a sense of mission.

Scher continued down the stairs. Reaching the lobby on the first floor, he saw a huge oil painting hanging on the wall—the Hall of Mirrors at Versailles, where the German Empire was proclaimed in 1871. In the painting, Bismarck, Moltke, and Wilhelm I stood together, with a unified Germany behind them.

At that time, Germany did not have a navy, at least not a decent one. The seas were British territory.

Forty-five years later, Germany possessed the world's second-largest navy, enough to challenge that century-old hegemon.

But the price of the challenge may be everything.

Scheer walked out of the Admiralty building. His adjutant and driver were already waiting at the door.

"To the train station." Scheer got into the car. "The fastest train to Port William."

"Yes, General."

The car drove through the streets of Berlin. Scher looked out the window at the city—bustling, orderly, and vibrant. The cafes along the street were full of people, the shop windows displayed goods, and mothers pushed strollers in the park.

All of this is built on a fragile balance. If the fleet loses, this balance will be broken.

The British might tighten the blockade, further reducing Germany's imports of food and raw materials. Soldiers at the front would lack ammunition, and civilians at the rear would go hungry. The balance of the war would tip completely.

"We can't lose," Scher muttered to himself. "No matter what, we can't lose."

The car arrived at the train station. As Scheer boarded the special train, the sun was setting in the west, turning the sky blood red.

The train started moving, heading north, towards Wilhelmshaven, towards the fleet and destiny that awaited it.

Sanssouci Palace.

Wilhelm II stood on the balcony, a glass of champagne in his hand. He had just finished a small victory banquet to entertain several generals returning from the Eastern Front. At the banquet, the generals recounted how the Russians had been routed, how the German army had pursued them, and how the Japanese soldiers had "weared down the enemy like locusts."

The emperor listened with great pleasure. He loved stories of victory, especially those of Germany.

"Your Majesty," the attendant announced softly, "Marshal Tirpitz requests an audience."

"Let him in," Wilhelm II said, his tone light and cheerful.

Tirpitz entered the room. He had changed into a formal marshal's uniform, his chest adorned with medals. But the Emperor noticed that the old marshal's expression was not relaxed.

"Alfred!" Wilhelm II raised his glass. "Come, a toast to the victory on the Eastern Front! A toast to the courage of the German soldiers!"

Tirpitz took the wine glass handed to him by the servant, mechanically raised it, and took a small sip.

"Your Majesty, I just spoke with Admiral Scheer," he said, setting down his wine glass, "about the naval sortie plan."