World War: Battleship Arms Dealers

February 19th, 4:00 AM.

Port William was shrouded in the thickest winter fog in the North Sea. Visibility was less than 100 meters, and the lighthouse in the harbor emitted a pale beam of light every fifteen seconds, illuminating only a flowing, milky-white wall in the fog.

But the crew of the Bismarck and Tirpitz had been up for two hours.

There was no reveille, no announcement. The sailors groped their way into their uniforms in the darkness, folded their hammocks, and ate their last hot breakfast in the harbor. Bread, butter, coffee—the taste was the same as usual, but everyone chewed more slowly than usual, as if trying to memorize the flavor of this meal.

No one spoke in the cafeteria.

It's not about suppression, it's about not needing it.

At 4:30, on the bridge of the Bismarck.

Scheer stood by the porthole, wearing a leather overcoat. The fog was too thick to see the main guns on the bow, let alone the sea surface thirty meters away. But he knew the ship was unmooring—the sound of the steel cables sliding over the bollards, the meshing of the winch gears, and the deep rumble of the tugboat's main engine were like a meticulously choreographed symphony.

"The port mooring line has been retrieved."

"Starboard mooring line has been retrieved."

"The tugboat is in position."

The captain's report came through the intercom, calm, concise, and without any unnecessary words.

Scher said, "Prepare the car."

The trembling of the telegraph bell came from the engine room. The pointer of the main engine tachometer began to move, from zero to thirty, from thirty to sixty. From deep within the hull came that familiar tremor that Scheer knew to the bone—forty-five thousand tons of steel were about to break free from the embrace of the breakwater and sail into that blue expanse that no map could mark.

4:50.

The Bismarck passed the breakwater outside Wilhelmshaven.

Scheer stood at the porthole, watching the lighthouse disappear into the thick fog. He recalled 1905, when he was the gunnery officer on the "Brunschweig," on his first voyage with the fleet. Back then, the lighthouse in Wilhelmshaven wasn't this tall, and the German High Seas Fleet didn't yet have dreadnoughts.

Twelve years.

He had been in and out of this sea area hundreds of times, but never before had he taken such a serious look at it one last time.

Hipper emerged from the chart room, holding the telegram he had just received.

"The support fleet has departed. HMS King, HMS Caesar, HMS Louiseport, and HMS Queen. They are 120 nautical miles behind us, at a speed of 20 knots."

One hundred and twenty nautical miles.

At the Bismarck's speed of thirty knots, it would only take four hours. At the support fleet's speed of twenty knots, it would take six hours.

Scher nodded. This distance was one that he and Hipper had repeatedly calculated—not the shortest distance, but the optimal distance.

If they are too far away, the first strike fleet will be isolated and helpless. If they are too close, the support fleet will be detected by British scouts, losing its tactical surprise.

One hundred and twenty nautical miles.

Four hours on the line between life and death.

It was exactly five o'clock.

The Bismarck's radio room sent its first telegram:

"The First Strike Fleet of the High Seas Fleet has set sail. Flagship: Bismarck, leading Tirpitz and four destroyers. Mission: Enter the North Atlantic and cut off enemy sea lanes."

This telegram was simultaneously sent to Sanssouci Palace, the Admiralty, and the Wilhelmshaven base.

5:15 a.m. Berlin time, Sanssouci Palace.

Wilhelm II did not sleep. He sat in his study with the telegram in front of him and a cup of tea that had long since gone cold.

He picked up the telegram, then put it down. He picked it up again, then put it down again.

Finally, he stood up and walked to the window. Outside, the night fog was still thick; he couldn't see the starry sky, the streets, or the city he had ruled for twenty-nine years.

He suddenly wondered: Did Frederick the Great also stand by the window waiting for the battle report on the eve of the Battle of Rossbach?

He suddenly became uncertain.

At 5:30, the Bismarck passed Heligoland.

The fog is dissipating.

The horizon of Beihai gradually changed from leaden gray to light gray, and then a thin golden edge appeared from the light gray. The morning light seeped out from that crack, not bursting forth, but slowly, bit by bit, peeling the darkness away from the sea.

Scheer stood by the porthole, looking eastward.

He hadn't slept for thirty-eight hours. His eyes were sunken, his cheekbones prominent, and the coffee cup in his hand was cold. But he didn't feel sleepy.

He saw the morning light fall on the main gun turret on the bow of the Bismarck, turning the 380mm gun barrels a pale gold.

He saw the Tirpitz two kilometers away on the starboard channel, its bow cutting through the waves, leaving a long, white trail.

He saw four destroyers, like loyal sheepdogs, spread out in a guard formation on both sides of the main ship.

He suddenly thought: This moment should be captured in a painting.

It's not because of its beauty.

Because after this moment, no one knows whether these warships will be able to see the next sunrise.

It was exactly 7:00.

The radio room sent a second telegram—the first received since setting sail.

Scheer took the telegram and glanced at the paper.

He didn't speak, but handed the telegram to Hipper.

Hipper looked at it and remained silent for a few seconds.

Then he said:

"It seems Chen Feng is really prepared to see it all the way to the last moment."

The telegram contained only one line:

"Lanfang Republic Naval Command: Technical support remains unaffected. The shipyard welcomes German engineers for exchange and visits at any time. Have a safe journey. — Li Te"

No promises. No guarantees.

There was only one sentence: "Have a safe journey."

Scheer folded the telegram and put it in his inner bag.

"That's enough," he said.

He turned to face the chart table and began directing the fleet to turn west.

The dawn had completely pierced the darkness. The North Atlantic stretched out before them, boundless and unfathomable.

There were British transport lines, the destroyer fleet of the Marilyn Monroe, and everything that awaited them.

Meanwhile, 120 nautical miles behind, four King-class battleships were chasing at a speed of 20 knots.

Four hours.

The line between life and death.

Standing on the gantry crane platform of the shipyard's No. 3 dock, Chen Feng could only see two colors: the iron gray of the sea and the leaden white of the sky.

The morning mist rises from the Persian Gulf like countless layers of brine-soaked gauze, layer upon layer, enveloping the port, docks, warships, and oil tanks in a milky white chaos. Only high up—the navigation light atop the gantry crane that never goes out—stubbornly flickers in the mist, like a dying firefly flapping its wings for the last time.

Chen Feng stood here for forty minutes.

Three steps behind him, Wang Wenwu held a thermos, the coffee inside already changed twice, yet still untouched. Li Te stood on the other side, the sea trial progress report delivered at three in the morning between his fingers, the corners warmed by his body heat and slightly curled.

None of the three spoke.

It's not that we have nothing to say.

I don't know what to say—faced with that giant ship slowly taking shape in the morning mist, any words seem superfluous.

The fog is dissipating.

It wasn't blown away by the wind, but evaporated by the heat of the ship itself. In the No. 3 dock, the Nagato's boilers had been burning for twelve hours, and the engine room was conducting its final full-power test before voyage. Steam overflowed from the safety valves, met the cold air, condensed into white mist, and slowly rose along both sides of the hull, like the first breath of some ancient beast awakening.

The bow of the ship is the first part to be revealed.

The sharp, almost arrogant clipper bow, like a battle sword forged from steel, pointed diagonally towards the sea. A sliver of sunlight peeked through the clouds, landing precisely on the top of the bowpost, gilding the metal emblem of the Lanfang naval ensign with a pale gold hue.

Then there's the main gun turret.