World War: Battleship Arms Dealers

Schmidt peered through his telescope at the British fleet's position. A column of water was rising—but it was too far away. The closest was 800 meters from the Queen Elizabeth, and the furthest was over 1,200 meters.

800 meters.

That's the limit of error.

"Keep loading!" he roared. "Second round, fire!"

Another salvo.

This time it was slightly better. Two near misses landed 300 meters to the starboard side of the Queen Elizabeth, but still missed.

Schmidt put down his binoculars and clenched his fist.

Technological gap.

He had learned this term when he was in military school. Back then, the professor was talking about the Russo-Japanese War and the advantages of dreadnoughts over pre-dreadnoughts. He sat in the audience taking notes, thinking that it was all history and had nothing to do with modern naval warfare.

Now he knows.

Technological gaps never disappear. They simply appear in different forms on different battlefields.

The 305mm guns of the German König-class battleships were designed in 1908. That was nine years of technology. At that time, they were the most powerful naval guns in the world, capable of penetrating the armor of any active battleship at a range of 20,000 meters.

But it is now 1917.

The British Queen Elizabeth-class destroyers were equipped with 381mm guns, designed in 1913. Those four years saw a qualitative leap in artillery technology: stronger propellants, heavier projectiles, and flatter trajectories.

Four years, eight years of design time difference, on the 23,000-meter-deep sea, became a difference between life and death.

"General!" the lookout's voice came from above, "The third salvo is coming down!"

Schmidt looked up.

Through the skylight at the top of the bridge, he saw a dozen or so black dots falling from the sky. The dots grew closer and larger, gleaming with a deathly light in the sunlight—

"Evade!" he roared. "Hard to starboard!"

The King was turning wildly on the sea.

But it was too late.

The first shell landed fifty meters to port. A jet of water shot into the sky, obscuring the entire view from the porthole.

The second missile landed behind the stern, creating a huge wave that caused the ship to rock violently.

The third one—

It hit directly.

Schmidt felt the floor beneath his feet suddenly tremble, and he almost fell. He grabbed the edge of the chart table to keep his balance.

Then an explosion was heard.

That was the most terrifying sound he had ever heard in his thirty-four years of military service. It wasn't a loud bang, but a tearing sound. The sound of metal being ripped apart, like a giant beast tearing at another with its teeth. The sound came from deep within the ship, penetrating the deck, penetrating the bulkheads, penetrating the eardrums, and piercing directly into his brain.

"Hit on port!" the damage control team's report came through the loudspeaker, their voice shrill and distorted. "Port aft secondary gun deck! Fire! Flooding!"

Schmidt rushed to the port window.

He saw it.

Flames were spewing from a breach about three meters in diameter on the port aft side of the HMS King. Thick smoke billowed from the breach, dispersed by the sea breeze, leaving a black trail on the hull. The steel plates at the edge of the breach were twisted and deformed, like a torn can.

The damage control team is rushing in. The water hoses are already connected, and white jets of water are shooting towards the flames.

But the second shell landed.

This time it hit below the bridge.

The explosion nearly knocked Schmidt to the ground. He braced himself with his hands, feeling the world spinning around him. His ears were ringing, and he couldn't hear anything. His vision was blurry, and he could only see something red moving around—it was blood.

He struggled to his feet and stood up, leaning on the chart table for support.

The bridge was completely unrecognizable.

All the portholes on the port side were shattered, shards of glass littering the floor. Documents on the chart table were scattered everywhere by the shockwave. A staff officer lay motionless in a corner, blood streaming from his forehead. The communications officer crouched in front of the communications station, shouting into the microphone, but Schmidt couldn't hear a thing.

He staggered to the porthole.

On the sea, the British fleet was still firing. The muzzle flashes in the sunlight, like the blinking eyes of death.

The fourth salvo is now landing.

Twenty-three thousand meters away, the Caesar was burning.

Colonel Raeder stood on the bridge, watching his warship being torn apart piece by piece.

He was at the port observation port when the first shell hit him. The shockwave from the explosion threw him three meters away onto the chart table, breaking two of his ribs on the corner. When he got up, his mouth was full of blood.

But he couldn't care less about any of that.

He rushed to the porthole and saw a three-meter-long gash torn open on the port side of the Caesar. Seawater was rushing in, and several damage control crew members had already jumped into the breach, trying to plug the flooding with a shim. But then a second shell landed.

This time it hit below the bridge.

The explosion blew up the radio room. Thirteen communications soldiers were killed instantly—Radell saw their bodies thrown onto the deck, some missing arms, some missing legs, some missing everything, just a bloody mess.

"Damage control report!" he roared, his voice hoarse from the blood in his throat.

The damage control captain's voice, distorted, came through the megaphone: "Severe flooding on the port side! Three compartments are flooded! The pumps are operating at full capacity, but the flooding exceeds the displacement! The ship is listing three degrees to port!"

Redel rushed to the inclinometer.

The pointer is pointing to three degrees. It's still slowly increasing.

Three and a half degrees. Four degrees.

"Close all watertight doors on the port side!" he roared. "Flood the starboard side to balance the ship!"

The order was given. The damage control team frantically turned the valves, flooding the ballast tanks on the starboard side. Three thousand tons of seawater poured into the starboard side, the ship's list slowly stopped, and then began to recover.

Four degrees. Three and a half degrees. Three degrees.

Redel breathed a sigh of relief.

Then the third shell fell.

This time it hit the aft deck.

The explosion blew off the Caesar's aft main gun turret—the massive 600-ton steel tower was thrown into the air by the shockwave, then slammed heavily onto the deck, rolled twice, and finally got stuck on the edge of the stern, half suspended in the air and half on the ship.

Raeder looked at the turret through the porthole. Its gun barrels were twisted and deformed, pointing towards the sky like a dying hand.

That was the most important of the Caesar's four main gun turrets. Without it, the Caesar's firepower was reduced by a quarter.

But what's even more terrifying is that the ammunition compartment is located right below the turret base.

If the ammunition compartment is detonated—

"Damage control team!" he roared. "Flood the aft ammunition magazine! Immediately!"

A response came from the megaphone: "Water is being added! But the rate of water intake—"

Before he could finish speaking, another round of shells rained down.

This time, the bullet hit the midsection of the ship.

The Caesar trembled violently, like a giant beast whose heart had been pierced. Raeder grabbed the chart table to keep from falling. He heard the sound of metal tearing from deep within the hull; it was the keel groaning, the welds cracking, the sound of a 45,000-ton behemoth dying.