World War: Battleship Arms Dealers

"Yes," Trotta noted, "but that would increase the cost by thirty percent..."

“Money is not the problem.” Tirpitz finally raised his head, his eyes tired but determined. “The problem now is whether we have enough time. The Emperor won’t wait two months, he doesn’t even want to wait two weeks. So we can only delay as much as possible while preparing for the worst.”

He took a folder from the drawer and handed it to Trotta: "This is the 'Emergency Fleet Deployment Plan.' If Berlin really issues a mandatory order for us to attack, then execute this plan."

Trotta opened the folder and quickly browsed through it. The contingency plan was very detailed, covering everything from departure time, route selection, and reconnaissance deployment to countermeasures in the event of an encounter with the British fleet. But the further he read, the more grim his expression became.

"Marshal, this...this is practically a suicidal mission." Trotta's voice trembled slightly. "Your plan is for the fleet to set sail at night, take advantage of the fog to cross the central North Sea, launch a harassing bombardment of the British east coast, and then return before dawn. But if Jellicoe's main force catches up with us..."

"Then let's fight a rearguard action, and then retreat in a dispersed manner," Tirpitz said calmly. "At least that way we can say 'the navy has launched an attack,' which gives Berlin an explanation. And the real losses may be less than in a head-on battle."

He walked to the window and looked out at the still thick fog.

"This is a political mission, Trotta, not a military one. The Emperor wants a performance, a gesture. So I'll give him a performance, but I'll make sure it doesn't destroy the entire fleet."

A knocking sounded on the door, rapid and urgent.

"Come in."

The door opened, and there stood the communications officer from headquarters, a young second lieutenant, pale-faced.

"Marshal, urgent telegram from Berlin. His Majesty the Emperor... His Majesty requests your immediate reply to confirm whether the fleet can complete preparations within two weeks to execute the 'decisive strike operation'."

Tirpitz and Trotta exchanged a glance. It had finally happened.

"Understood." Tirpitz nodded. "You can go out now. I'll get back to you in ten minutes."

The lieutenant saluted and left, gently closing the door behind him.

A few seconds of silence filled the office. Trota looked at the old marshal, awaiting his decision.

Tirpitz returned to his desk, sat down, and picked up his pen and telegram paper. He thought for a full minute, then began to write:

"To His Majesty the Emperor: All officers and men of the High Seas Fleet are making every effort to repair and prepare for battle. The current progress of the repairs on major ships is as follows: HMS Frederick the Great is expected to be back to combat readiness in four weeks, HMS Seydlitz in six weeks, and HMS Derfflinger has been confirmed sunk… Based on the current situation, the earliest time for the fleet to be fully combat ready is six weeks from now. In the meantime, the submarine force will continue to intensify its harassment efforts to contain British naval power. Your loyal servant, Tirpitz."

After he finished writing, he read it carefully and then signed his name.

"Six weeks," Trotta said softly. "His Majesty won't be satisfied."

"But he can't find a reason to refute it." Tirpitz handed the telegram to Trotta. "Every point is factual and supported by data. Unless he's willing to admit he doesn't understand the navy, he'll have no choice but to accept this timeline."

"And what about the attendant...?"

"Tell him the fleet is preparing at full speed, but it will take time." Tirpitz stood up. "Take him to the dry dock, let him see the damage to the 'Frederick the Great' with his own eyes, and see how the workers are working in three shifts to repair it. Then, book him a first-class train ticket back to Berlin tonight."

Trotta nodded with a wry smile, took the telegram draft, and turned to leave.

Tirpitz was alone in the office again. He went back to the window; the fog was beginning to dissipate, and the warships in the harbor were gradually revealing their clear outlines. Each of those steel behemoths represented twenty years of German effort, and each carried the lives of thousands of sailors.

Now, he must walk a dangerous tightrope between the emperor's pressure and his professional judgment.

Outside the window, a U-boat had completely sailed out of the harbor and disappeared into the distant sea. That's the real weapon now, Tirpitz thought. Not those huge, expensive battleships that were utterly vulnerable against Jellicoe.

But the emperor didn't understand, or rather, didn't want to understand.

All he needed was one victory, a victory that would allow him to be cheered on by the crowd from the balcony of Sanssouci Palace.

Even if the price of victory is the destruction of the entire fleet.

Scapa Flow Naval Base, Scotland.

The morning light pierced through the perpetually gloomy clouds over the North Sea, spilling onto the calm surface of the harbor. Twenty-four dreadnoughts stood in neat columns, their anchor chains dangling into the deep water, only faint wisps of smoke rising from their chimneys—the boilers were running at low power, ready to set sail at any moment.

The battleship "Iron Duke" was the fleet flagship.

Admiral John Jellicoe stood on the bridge, binoculars in hand, carefully observing the anti-submarine nets and patrol boats at the harbor entrance. He was fifty-six years old, his hair was gray, but his posture was still upright, and his dark blue admiral's uniform was crisp and without a single wrinkle.

"The weather is fine." First Sea Lord Vice Admiral Frederick Study walked up to him, holding a cup of hot tea. "Visibility is over ten nautical miles, wind speed is force 3, and the sea is calm. If the Germans come out today, it will be a good day for battle."

"They won't come out." Jellicoe lowered his binoculars, his tone certain. "Sher isn't a fool. In the Battle of Jutland, they achieved some tactical successes, but their strategy was a complete failure. Now their fleet is badly damaged and needs at least two months to recover."

Study took a sip of tea and remained silent. He knew that Jellicoe's judgment was almost always correct—this admiral, known for his caution and precision, was perhaps the best fleet commander in the history of the Royal Navy, and the one who best understood the complexities of modern naval warfare.

"But their submarines have come out." Jellicoe turned and walked to the chart table. "Three more merchant ships were sunk last night, all on the Atlantic route. Klose is getting bolder and bolder."

A chart of the North Atlantic was laid out on the chart table, with the locations of merchant ships sunk in the past month marked by red pins. The pins were densely packed, mainly concentrated on the routes to the west and southwest of England.

"The Admiralty has requested that we send more destroyers to escort them," Study said, setting down his teacup and pointing to the nautical chart. "But the problem is, if we divide our forces for escort, the main fleet's surveillance capabilities will be weakened. What if Scheer launches a sudden attack..."

“He won’t,” Jellicoe reiterated. “Not for at least six weeks. But the concerns of the civilian officials at the Admiralty are valid—shipping losses are too great, and the Treasury is already complaining about soaring insurance rates. The Prime Minister called me personally yesterday to ask if there was anything I could do.”

Study gave a wry smile. Politicians are always like this: they want the fleet to protect shipping, yet they also want it to be ready for a decisive battle at any moment, as if warships could magically split in two.

"So what do we do?"

"Proceed according to plan." Jellicoe drew several circles on the chart. "The First Battle Fleet will remain in Scapa Flow, maintaining combat readiness. The Second Battle Fleet will rotate to Rosyth Harbor for rest and resupply. All light ships—cruisers and destroyers—will be divided into three groups, taking turns escorting the transport convoys. Each group will escort for two weeks, then return to port for rest and resupply."

He paused, then added, "Tell all captains that escort duties are the priority, but if they encounter the main German fleet, disengage immediately and report to us. We don't want small-scale skirmishes; we want a decisive battle."