World War: Battleship Arms Dealers

The order has been issued.

The alarm didn't sound—that was after the fighting had begun. Now, the entire ship was in a state of silent combat. The gunners were in position, shells were being lifted from the ammunition magazines to the turrets, the fuse handlers were tightening each fuse tube, and the aiming man was pre-adjusting the firing angle based on the distance data provided by the radar.

Everything took place in the dark, as quiet as the prelude to a murder.

It was exactly five o'clock.

The sky began to change color.

It wasn't bright; it was a change from pure black to deep gray. On the eastern horizon, there was an almost invisible light-colored trail, like a pencil lightly drawn on rice paper. The fog was still there, but its density was decreasing, and visibility slowly increased from less than 300 meters to 500 meters, then 800 meters.

The sun will rise in eight minutes.

Looking at the light gray mark, Scher suddenly thought of someone.

Alfred von Tirpitz, the naval admiral, his old superior, the old man who was currently spending the night sleepless in his study at Sanssouci Palace in Berlin.

Before his departure, Tirpitz said to him, "Scher, you are my best general. But being best doesn't mean being lucky. Just because you survived Jutland doesn't mean you won't die next time."

He said, "I know."

Tirpitz remained silent for a long time, then said, "Come back alive."

Now, he stands here, waiting for the sun to rise, waiting for the sea fog to dissipate, waiting for the three British warships to appear in his telescope.

He didn't know if he would make it back alive.

But he knew that when the fog cleared, the world would remember this day.

Vice Admiral Betty had been standing on the bridge of HMS Queen Elizabeth for three hours.

He couldn't sleep either.

From the moment he began preparing to avenge the Hood, he hadn't slept a full night. He would wake up every night to look at the radar screen—

Now, they're in the fog again.

"Radar room reporting." A voice came from behind.

Betty turned around.

The radar officer stood three meters away, his face pale.

"General, contact made. Bearing 260, distance 22,000 meters. Two targets. Characteristic analysis... Bismarck-class."

There was a full three seconds of silence on the bridge.

Then Betty said, "Say it again."

"Two Bismarck-class battleships, bearing 260, 22,000 meters away, are moving toward this ship." The radar officer's voice began to tremble. "They...they are already at the edge of firing range."

Betty didn't move.

In that instant, countless thoughts flashed through his mind: Bismarck-class. Two ships. When did they appear? Why didn't the sonar detect them? Why didn't the lookouts see anything? Twenty-two thousand meters—that's radar range, not visual range. In the fog, the Germans might have seen them long ago.

They have radar.

Intelligence agencies had reported three months earlier that the Bismarck-class destroyers were equipped with new radars capable of detecting targets 20 nautical miles away in any weather.

Many people didn't believe it at the time.

Betty believes it now.

"Send a message." His voice was unexpectedly calm. "To London, to General Jellicoe. The Bismarck and Tirpitz have been spotted at XX degrees XX minutes North latitude and XX degrees XX minutes West longitude, heading southwest at approximately 25 knots. This ship is in contact with the enemy."

The telegraph operator's fingers flew across the keys.

Three minutes later, the telegram was sent.

Three minutes later, confirmation came back from London.

Then came Jellicoe's reply: "The main fleet is on its way. Hold on. Draw the enemy eastward."

Lead eastward.

Betty glanced at the nautical chart and quickly calculated. They were currently about two hundred nautical miles southeast of Iceland. If they sailed east, they would enter the search range of Jellicoe's fleet in about three hours. Those five Queen Elizabeth-class battleships, those 380mm guns, those armor-piercing shells capable of tearing through Bismarck-class armor.

As long as we lure the Germans there.

As long as they are willing to come along.

"All fleet, turn northeast, speed 28 knots," Beatty ordered. "Signal the Courageous and the Glorious: Follow me, maintain formation."

The traffic lights are flashing.

The two Brave-class battlecruisers responded almost simultaneously.

Three British warships turned in the fog, their bows cleaving the waves as they headed northeast.

Betty stood by the porthole, looking at the still-dark fog behind her.

Come, Scher. Follow me.

"The British have changed course," the radar officer reported. "Heading northeast, speed 28 knots."

Scher did not speak immediately.

He walked to the chart table and leaned over to look at the North Atlantic chart covered in pencil lines. The British were currently positioned, their course, their speed—he fed this data into his mind and deduced what might happen next.

Northeast direction.

That's the direction of Jellicoe's Grand Fleet.

The British wanted to lure them there.

"Childish," he said softly.

No one around dared to speak.

Scheer straightened up and walked back to the porthole. The fog was dissipating, and visibility had improved to over 1,500 meters. In another twenty minutes, they would be able to see the three British warships with the naked eye—if the British were still in that direction.

"Give the order," he said. "The entire fleet turns southwest, at a speed of thirty knots."

The navigator paused for a moment, then immediately repeated the order: "The entire fleet turns southwest, speed thirty knots!"

The steering wheel turned. The bow of the Bismarck slowly veered, from due west to southwest. The Tirpitz followed closely behind, the four destroyers adjusting their positions like sheepdogs.

Outside the porthole, the waves were being cleaved by the bow so fast that the spray was already hitting the base of the B turret on the foredeck.

Scher gripped the railing, feeling the tremors of the 45,000 tons of steel beneath his feet.

Thirty sections.

This is the card he left for himself.

The British thought they could easily provoke the Germans with their 32-knot speed. But they didn't realize that the 31-knot speed of the Bismarck-class and the 32-knot speed of the Queen Elizabeth-class were virtually indistinguishable in actual pursuit. Add to that the advantage of radar and armor—

"General," the navigator reported, "the distance is widening. The British are heading east, and we are to the southwest. We expect to lose visual contact in twenty minutes."

Scher nodded.

Let them go. Let them chase after that phantom they can never catch.

When they get tired of chasing him, when Jericho can't find him anymore, when they start to have doubts—that's when he'll turn back.

But now is not the time.

"The Germans didn't follow."

Betty was staring at the projection lines on the nautical chart when he heard this. His hand paused for a moment, then he slowly lowered the protractor.

"What?"

"The Germans have turned southwest, at a speed of at least thirty knots. The distance is increasing."

Betty walked up to the radar screen—he shouldn't have been in the radar room, but he needed to see it for himself.

On the screen, two dots are moving southwest, getting farther and farther apart, and the signal is getting weaker and weaker.

He didn't follow.

Sher was not fooled.