World War: Battleship Arms Dealers

At 10:15 a.m., the telegraph operator received an encrypted telegram. Harris decoded it and found only one sentence: "The time is ripe. Execute Plan B."

He stared at the paper for a long time, then slowly folded it and put it in his pocket.

"Notify 'Warning'," he told the communications officer. "Sonar has detected a suspicious contact at bearing 270, five nautical miles. We will proceed to verify. Order the convoy to maintain course and speed; we will return within an hour."

"Captain?" the communications officer hesitated. "The sonar didn't report anything..."

"Execute the order," Harris said in a flat voice.

The signal lights flashed, conveying the message to the "Warning". Both destroyers turned simultaneously, accelerated westward, and quickly disappeared from the convoy's sight.

On the flagship of the NY-107 fleet, the "Ocean Merchant," Captain Thomas frowned as he watched the destroyer sail away.

"They just left like that?" the first mate said in disbelief. "In this kind of water?"

Thomas didn't answer. He walked to the chart table and looked at the markings indicating submarine activity areas. 35 degrees west longitude, 45 degrees north latitude—this was one of the most dangerous areas in the mid-Atlantic, where German submarines frequently ambushed transatlantic convoys.

"Signal to ask," Thomas said.

The signal lights flashed, but there was no response. The two destroyers had disappeared into the rain.

"Maintain formation, full convoy to level one alert," Thomas ordered. "Double the lookouts, watch for any periscopes or torpedo wakes."

The convoy continued sailing eastward. Without the sonar protection of the destroyers, they were like blind people walking in the dark, unaware of which direction danger might approach from.

At the same time, at a depth of sixty meters underwater.

The U-36 submarine hovered silently below the thermocline, its diesel engines shut down, the entire vessel in a state of silence. This was the German Navy's newest ocean-going submarine, with a submerged displacement of 1200 tons, equipped with six torpedo tubes, and capable of carrying sixteen torpedoes.

Captain Karl Muller sat in the command center, staring at the sonar screen. At thirty-two, he was already an experienced submarine commander, having sunk submarines with a total displacement exceeding 80,000 tons.

"Surface target, bearing 085, distance approximately 10,000 meters, multiple targets, estimated speed 10 knots," the sonar operator reported.

"What's the escort situation?"

"There were two destroyers earlier, but... they just turned and left. The convoy is now unescorted."

Muller frowned. This didn't make sense. In such dangerous waters, why weren't the merchant convoys escorted? Was it a trap? Or British negligence?

He raised the periscope and slowly ascended. The lens broke through the sea surface, and in the rain, he saw the outlines of a line of merchant ships—eight ships, lined up in two rows, a standard transport formation. There were indeed no destroyers.

"God," the first mate whispered, "they're going to their deaths."

Muller rotated the periscope, carefully searching the sea surface. There was no black smoke from the smokestacks, no high-speed wakes, and indeed no escort ships.

"Calculate the attack parameters," he ordered. "The targets are the lead ship and the third and fifth ships. We need to take out their command ship and two large cargo ships in one go."

Inside the torpedo compartment, the sailors began their work. Torpedoes were loaded into the launch tubes, gyroscopes were set, and depth settings were established. All the movements were quiet and swift, actions these men had repeated hundreds of times over the past two years.

"Launch tubes one, three, and five are ready."

Muller raised the periscope again. Seven kilometers away, target's course stable. Perfect attack conditions.

But he hesitated. As a professional soldier, he instinctively sensed something was wrong. It was going too smoothly, unrealistically so.

"Captain?" the first mate asked, looking at him.

Muller recalled the orders he had received before setting sail: "Be cautious when attacking the Merica convoy unless it is clear that it is carrying war materials or is escorted by warships." But the convoy in front of him was clearly not escorted, and judging from the waterline, it was carrying a large load, which was very likely war materials.

More importantly, he recalled the rumors circulating in the base: the Merika were considering entering the war. If the Merika joined the war, Germany would lose. And perhaps striking at the Merika's shipping routes would make them think twice before entering the war?

Conflicting thoughts battled in his mind. Reason told him to retreat and report the anomaly to his superiors. But a soldier's instincts—and the aggressive drive honed during two years of submarine warfare—urged him to open fire.

"Target confirmed to be loaded with war materials," he finally said, more like convincing himself, "Execute the attack."

"Yes, sir! Launch tubes ready... Launch one! Launch three! Launch five!"

The submarine shuddered slightly three times. Three torpedoes were launched from the tubes, leaving white trails as they hurtled toward the target at thirty-five knots.

On the sea, the lookout on the "Ocean Merchant" spotted the torpedo's wake when it was 2,000 meters away.

"Port side! Torpedoes! Three!"

The alarm blared. Captain Thomas rushed to the bridge and saw three white streaks of water rapidly approaching. He immediately ordered a hard starboard turn, but the cargo ship, laden with goods, turned slowly.

The first torpedo hit the middle of the ship.

The explosion was deafening, and hundreds of kilograms of high explosives tore a huge hole in the waterline. Seawater rushed in, and the ship began to list rapidly.

The second torpedo struck the third ship, the "Atlantic Glory," in almost the same spot. That ship was carrying cotton, and the explosion caused a fire, sending thick smoke billowing into the sky.

The third torpedo went slightly off course, grazing the bow of the fifth ship, the "Free Trader," without hitting it.

But two hits are enough.

The Merchant of the Seas sank within fifteen minutes. Captain Thomas was the last to leave the bridge; he stood on the tilting deck, watching his ship slowly sink into the icy waters of the Atlantic. Lifeboats had been lowered, but some were damaged in the explosion, and few were usable.

Worse still, the cotton fire on the Atlantic Glory went out of control, turning the ship into a giant torch. Crew members jumped overboard, but many were trapped in the flames.

整个船队陷入混乱。剩下的船只开始紧急转向，试图躲避可能的下一次攻击。无线电员疯狂发送求救信号：「NY-107遭潜艇攻击！位置北纬45度12分，西经35度08分！两船沉没！急需援助！」

Debris, oil slicks, and struggling victims float on the surface of the sea. In January, the water temperature in the North Atlantic is close to freezing, and victims can only survive for a maximum of twenty minutes.

Muller watched it all through the periscope. He felt no joy of victory, only a cold emptiness. As a soldier, he had completed his mission. But as a human being, he knew he had just killed at least a hundred complete strangers.

"Dive to a depth of 100 meters, quiet heading 270," he commanded.

U-36 dived into the deep sea, leaving behind death and destruction on the surface.