World War: Battleship Arms Dealers

On the seventh day after the Bismarck rounded the Cape of Good Hope, the sea was as calm as a mirror.

Scheer stood by the porthole on the starboard side of the bridge, a cup of cold coffee in his hand. He had been standing there for four hours, from four in the morning until eight in the morning, without moving.

The coffee was brought by the watchman half an hour ago, but he didn't drink a drop. Not that he didn't want to, but that he forgot. His brain was filled with numbers—speed, fuel, ammunition, distance—leaving no room for taste.

"General," the voice of Lieutenant Colonel Fritz Brunk, the naval commander, came from behind, "we have entered the Arabian Sea. Our current position is XX degrees XX minutes North latitude and XX degrees XX minutes East longitude."

Scher turned around and walked to the chart table.

The navigator's finger touched the coordinates that had just been marked, then slid to the right along the nautical chart: "Four hundred nautical miles east of here is Karachi. Six hundred nautical miles west is the Gulf of Aden. North—"

His finger stopped on an area marked "Persian Gulf": "It's the Strait of Hormuz."

Scher leaned down, his gaze moving along the flight paths.

The Arabian Sea. The throat of the Indian Ocean. The British maritime lifeline.

"General," the naval officer continued, "according to pre-war intelligence, more than sixty percent of Britain's wheat and wool shipped from Australia to its homeland, tea, jute and rubber shipped from India, and oil shipped from the Persian Gulf will pass through this sea area."

He looked up: "This is the British's Achilles' heel."

Scher nodded.

He recalled what Zhang Zhen had said two weeks earlier in the captain's cabin of the Huaihe: pointing to the nautical chart, "The attack on British supply lines is not limited to the North Atlantic."

Now he understands.

The North Atlantic has escort fleets, patrol aircraft, and a dense network of bases. But that's in Europe, on Britain's doorstep. The Arabian Sea is different. It's 5,000 nautical miles from the British mainland, with weak escort forces, sparse bases, and—

Scher's gaze fell on the inconspicuous label in the lower right corner of the chart.

Dubai.

Lanfang's Dubai.

That's the closest major port to this area. If supplies are needed, in case of an emergency, if...

He didn't think any further.

"Give the order," he straightened up, "to reduce speed to fifteen knots. Destroyers, spread out and expand the search area. We're not looking for warships, we're looking for merchant ships."

The order has been issued.

The engine room's reply came through the loudspeaker: "Speed ​​has dropped to fifteen knots. Main engine operation is stable."

A loudspeaker outside the bridge sounded, instructing the destroyer squadron to adjust its formation.

Scheer walked back to the porthole and raised his binoculars.

In the footage, four destroyers are slowly spreading out. Z-10 is five nautical miles to the left and forward, Z-12 is to the right and forward, and Z-15 and Z-18 are on the flanks. They spread out like hounds, leaving four white contrails on the sea, gradually disappearing into the distant morning mist.

The sun rose in the east.

The sunrise over the Arabian Sea is different from that of the Atlantic. The sunlight here is more intense, the sea is bluer, and there's a subtle, almost imperceptible heat in the air. Standing by the porthole, looking at the golden-red sea, Scheer suddenly recalled the mornings in Kiel.

The sunrise there is hazy, the sea is leaden, and the air is cold and frigid, a peculiar quality unique to the North Sea.

That's home.

He shook his head, banishing the thought from his mind.

Now is not the time to be homesick.

"General," Major Hans Meyer, the watch officer, approached, "Radar room reports that there are no large targets within the current scan range. There are several small vessels, all more than twenty nautical miles away, possibly fishing boats."

Scher nodded.

Fishing boat.

This shows that this sea area is not empty. Where there are fishing boats, there are merchant ships. Where there are merchant ships, there is prey.

"Stay on high alert," he said. "Notify the destroyers to report any incidents immediately."

"Yes."

The bridge fell silent. Only the low hum of air flowing through the ventilation ducts and the distant sound of waves lapping against the hull could be heard.

Scher returned to the chart table and glanced once more at the chart covered with dense pencil lines.

The Arabian Sea.

300,000 square nautical miles.

It's big enough to hide two warships.

That's enough to keep the British up at night.

At 9:00 AM, news came from Z-10.

"General! Z-10 reports!" The communications officer's voice was a full octave higher than usual. "Several ships spotted to the due east! Like a merchant convoy!"

"Z-10, report details."

"General, due east, about twenty-five nautical miles away. At least ten ships of varying sizes, it should be a merchant fleet. They're flying... I see them, they're British merchant flags!"

Twenty-five nautical miles.

At a speed of fifteen knots, it would take one hour and forty minutes.

"Maintain surveillance, but don't reveal your presence," he ordered. "We're coming right away."

He put down the telegram and turned to face the bridge.

"All fleet, heading 090, speed 25 knots. Signal the Tirpitz: target due east, merchant convoy. Encircle the left flank, don't let them escape."

The order has been issued.

The Bismarck's speed began to climb rapidly from fifteen knots. Seventeen knots, twenty knots, twenty-three knots, twenty-five knots.

The ship was trembling—not a normal tremor, but the kind of exhilarating tremor that emanates from deep within the keel during a full-speed sprint. The black smoke billowing from the funnels drew an ever-longer trail across the sea, like an arrow shot due east.

Thirty minutes later, the lookout's voice came through the loudspeaker:

"Visual contact! Due east, multiple ships—at least fifteen! Confirmed to be merchant ships!"

Scheer raised his binoculars.

In the shot, a string of black dots appeared on the sea surface. They weren't in the neat formation of warships, but rather scattered outlines of various sizes—cargo ships, oil tankers, and a few small vessels that looked like frigates.

He counted them.

Twelve. Fifteen. Maybe more.

"Tirpitz reporting, has reached the left flank position," the communications officer's voice came through.

Scher nodded.

Two Bismarck-class ships, one on the left and one on the right, were like two lions flanking their unsuspecting prey, approaching them.

The distance is decreasing. Twenty-five nautical miles, twenty nautical miles, fifteen nautical miles.

At 15,000 meters, the merchant fleet finally spotted them.

Through his binoculars, Scheer saw the largest cargo ship—estimated to be 12,000 tons, flying a large red merchant flag—frantically blaring its horn. The horn's sound could be heard several nautical miles away, low and desperate.

Then the entire fleet erupted in chaos.

The cargo ships began to turn, trying to scatter and escape. Some went east, some south, and some even north—completely disoriented, huddled together like a flock of frightened sheep, blocking each other.

"General," the gunner's voice came through the loudspeaker, "they're sending messages. At least three ships have raised their radio antennas; distress signals have definitely been sent out."

Scher was silent for a second.

Expected.