World War: Battleship Arms Dealers

The evening of June 2.

The Bismarck sailed slowly south at ten knots. Five kilometers to its right and aft, the Tirpitz was also moving as slowly as a wounded beast. The four destroyers, spread out on either side, were moving even slower—they had just received fuel from the capital ships and needed time to digest it.

Scheer stood by the porthole, watching the sunset slowly sink below the horizon.

It's been four days.

It has been four days since those two telegrams were sent.

The German Admiralty's reply arrived the same day—"Received. Your Majesty's commendation. Keep it up." That was all.

There has been no response from Lanfang so far.

Perhaps they won't respond. Perhaps they don't care about the lives of the two German warships at all. Perhaps what Chen Feng wanted was simply for Germany and Britain to wear each other down, so he could reap the benefits.

Scher shook his head.

No. If Chen Feng truly didn't care, he wouldn't have said those things to Wilson in Hawaii. He wouldn't have let Little say "Have a safe trip" when they parted in Dubai. He wouldn't...

He suddenly recalled what Little had said when he saw him off: "The world is vast. The Pacific Ocean is even larger. Vast enough to hold the navies of two nations."

Now, the Atlantic Ocean is also very large.

Is it big enough to accommodate two wandering warships?

he does not know.

"General," the watchman's voice came from behind, "29% fuel remaining. Tirpitz 25% remaining. At current speed, it can continue sailing for approximately..."

"I know," Scheer interrupted him.

Of course he knew. He calculated those numbers ten times a day; they were etched into his mind.

Twenty-nine percent. At a speed of ten knots, it could run... He didn't continue calculating. It wouldn't have mattered anyway, because there was no direction.

Southward? What's to the south? I don't know.

Eastward? To the east lies Africa, but the British are waiting there.

Go west? South America is to the west, but that's too far.

Northwards? The British blockade line lies to the north.

There is no direction.

"General," the naval commander said softly, "we..."

Scheer turned around and looked at the young face. The navigator was only twenty-seven years old, his face still bearing a youthful innocence. His home was in Kiel, and a fiancée was waiting for him in Hamburg.

"Wait a little longer," Scheer said.

The navigator paused for a moment, then asked, "What are you waiting for?"

Scher did not answer.

He looked out the porthole at the unfathomable darkness, at the starry sky, and at the Southern Cross rising from the sea.

[At this point, I hope readers will remember our domain name: 10 ...

Red Sea, February 27

There was no fog in the Red Sea.

There was sunshine. There was heatwave. There was scorching heat so intense you could fry an egg on the deck.

On the third day after the fleet entered the Red Sea, the temperature rose to thirty-eight degrees Celsius. The sea was like a huge, reflective blue steel plate, without a breath of wind. The sun rose in the east and set in the west, and for the dozen or so hours in between, it was an endless scorching heat.

The crew members took off their shirts, working on the deck in thin undershirts. The sweat evaporated before it could even drip, leaving a layer of salt residue on their skin. The officers no longer demanded impeccable discipline—in this weather, survival was victory.

Young sailors on the destroyer even secretly climbed onto the deck, intending to jump into the sea for a swim. They were scolded by the captain – the Red Sea has sharks, and quite a few at that.

Zhang Zhen stood on the bridge of the Huaihe ship, looking at the nautical chart.

The bridge had a ventilation system, making it five or six degrees cooler than the deck, but it was still stuffy. He was wearing a short-sleeved shirt with the collar open, and sweat was still pouring down his forehead.

"How much longer until we reach the canal entrance?" he asked.

The navigator wiped his sweat and pointed to the nautical chart: "We should reach the outskirts of Suez Port by tomorrow evening. If all goes well, we can enter the canal the day after tomorrow morning."

Zhang Zhen nodded.

He paused for a few seconds, then said, "Draft a telegram."

The communications officer picked up his notebook.

"To the Lanfang Consulate in Cairo, and forward to the Egyptian authorities." Zhang Zhen paused. "The Lanfang Navy's ocean-going training fleet, consisting of the 'Huaihe' and 'Zhujiang' ships, along with auxiliary vessels, plans to transit the Suez Canal on the morning of March 1st. Please grant them passage. This fleet will abide by the canal's neutrality rules, refrain from any military activities during its transit, maintain zero elevation for all turrets, and will not take off or land aircraft or conduct any radio transmissions."

He thought for a moment and added, "Respectfully submitted by Rear Admiral Zhang Zhen, Fleet Commander."

The communications officer finished writing and looked up: "General, shall we send it?"

Zhang Zhen looked out the window at the blinding blue sky.

Once this telegram is sent, the British will know. London will receive the news within hours, Jellicoe will see it, the Prime Minister will see it, and the intelligence services will see it. Then they will discuss it, speculate, worry, and become nervous.

But he has to send it.

Because that's the rule. Passing through the Suez Canal requires prior application; otherwise, it's considered illegal passage, and the British have grounds to intercept you.

He didn't want to give the British any reason.

"Send it," he said.

The communications officer pressed the telegraph button. The beeping sound echoed in the bridge, like a heartbeat.

Thirty seconds later, the telegram was sent.

Zhang Zhen looked out the window without saying a word.

He recalled Chen Feng's words: "Let the British know. Let the whole world know. Open and aboveboard, honorable and upright."

Yes, it's aboveboard and aboveboard.

Let them know that the Lanfang fleet is going to the Atlantic for training.

Let them guess, let them doubt, let them lose sleep.

But that made them afraid to take action.

"General," the naval officer asked softly, "do you think the British will let us pass?"

Zhang Zhen turned around and looked at that young face.

"Yes," he said. "They wouldn't dare refuse."

The navigator paused, then asked, "Why?"

Zhang Zhen did not answer directly. He walked to the porthole and pointed to the boundless sea outside.

"Because this is international waters," he said. "Because we are a neutral country. Because our ships are stronger than the rest of theirs. Because they are unsure what we are up to."

He paused, then continued, "Because everyone knows that if Jerry Kirby turns against us now, those four Bismarck-class ships will sail out of Dubai and join the Germans."

The navigator remained silent for a few seconds.

"So," he said, "the British have no choice but to put up with it?"

"Endure it." Zhang Zhen nodded. "Grit your teeth and endure it. Curse as you endure it, and make way for us as you curse."

The navigator thought for a moment, then suddenly smiled.

"Then we're pretty bad."

Zhang Zhen looked at him, a smile appearing on his lips.

"Not bad," he said, "but smart."

A suppressed laugh rang out from the bridge.

Outside the window, the sun continued to scorch the Red Sea. The sea was as calm as a mirror, reflecting the purplish-blue sky.

The fleet sailed forward at fifteen knots, the waves cleaved by the bows leaving two white trails on either side of the ships before quickly disappearing into the blue background.

Ahead, the Suez Canal is getting closer and closer.

The telegram was delivered at nine o'clock in the morning.

High Commissioner Sir Reginald Wingate is having breakfast—fried eggs, bacon, toast, and a cup of black tea brought from London. This is a habit he has maintained for five years in Egypt; no matter how hot the weather, breakfast is always English.

The adjutant placed the telegram beside him, then stepped back and waited.

Wingate picked up the telegram, took a sip of his tea, and began to read it.

He frowned slightly after reading the first line.

After reading the second line, he put down his teacup.

After reading the third line, he looked up at his adjutant.

"Are the Lanfang team going to the Atlantic Ocean for 'long-distance training'?"