World War: Battleship Arms Dealers

Reporter Fang was still taking pictures. His camera lens was pointed at the British fleet, and the shutter kept clicking. His face was covered in ash, and his eyes were red, but his hand was very steady.

"Reporter Fang," Zhang Zhen walked over, "how many photos have you taken?"

Reporter Fang looked up: "Eight rolls of film, General. Every minute has been filmed since the start of the battle."

Zhang Zhen looked at him, at those bloodshot but still focused eyes.

"Protect those film reels," he said. "They're evidence. If... if we can't go back, find a way to bring them back. The President is waiting."

Reporter Fang was taken aback.

"General," he said, "you..."

Zhang Zhen did not answer.

He turned and walked back to the porthole, continuing to watch the British warships getting closer and closer.

"Order all battle stations," he said, "to prepare for the final battle."

There was a moment of silence on the bridge.

Then, one reply after another came through the megaphone:

"Turret A received!"

"Damage control team received!"

"Engine room received!"

"Medical team received!"

The sounds were all calm, eerily calm.

That's the kind of peace that only those who have accepted their fate can have.

Zhang Zhen suddenly recalled Chen Feng's words: "There are eight hundred Lanfang sailors on the Huaihe. They will all die—maybe today, maybe tomorrow, maybe in this battle. But they still went."

Yes, they went.

They knew they might die, but they went anyway.

Because Lanfang's future needs someone to fight for it.

Zhang Zhen gripped the window frame tightly, then released it.

He glanced at the nautical clock—8:45 a.m.

Forty-five minutes remain until the Bismarck appears.

Forty-five minutes.

Can the Huaihe ship hold out for forty-five minutes?

he does not know.

But he knew he had to persevere.

At 8:50 a.m., the Pearl River finally sank the Counterattack.

After being hit by eight 380mm shells, the battlecruiser finally gave way. The hull broke apart, and it slowly sank to the bottom of the sea. Only oil slicks and debris remained on the surface, along with dozens of life rafts crammed with British sailors.

Zhou Zhenguo had no time to celebrate.

"Sir!" the lookout's voice changed. "Port! HMS Conqueror and HMS Revenge are approaching! Starboard! HMS Ramirez and HMS Royal Oak are coming too!"

Zhou Zhenguo turned around and looked around.

Four British warships are closing in from four directions.

"Speed!"

"Twenty sections, General!"

Twenty sections. There's no escaping it now.

Zhou Zhenguo gritted his teeth.

"Main guns, prepare!" he roared. "Target—the Conqueror! Concentrate fire! Sink it!"

The Pearl River's three remaining main guns simultaneously turned and aimed at the approaching Conqueror.

The distance is 16,000 meters.

"put!"

Six shells flew out of the cannon.

The Conqueror was also firing. Its three main guns—the forward guns had already been destroyed—were simultaneously firing, and six 381mm shells flew toward the Pearl River.

Forty seconds later, both players hit the target simultaneously again.

The Conqueror was hit, flames spewed from the breach, and thick smoke billowed out. Its speed dropped from twenty-six knots to twenty-two knots.

The Pearl River was hit again on its starboard side. The shell penetrated the secondary gun deck and exploded inside the ship. The ship shuddered violently, and its speed dropped from twenty knots to eighteen knots.

"Damage Control Report!"

"General! The flooding on the starboard side is worsening! Three compartments are flooded! The drainage pumps... the drainage pumps are overloaded and burned out!"

Zhou Zhenguo's heart sank.

The drain pump burned out.

This meant the flooding was out of control. In twenty minutes, the Pearl River would lose its combat capability due to excessive flooding. In forty minutes, it would sink.

"General," the adjutant's voice trembled, "we..."

Zhou Zhenguo ignored him.

He walked to the porthole and looked at the Huaihe River, which was still smoking in the distance.

The situation was even worse for the Huaihe. Its speed had dropped to below fifteen knots, its bridge was almost completely destroyed, and flames were everywhere on its deck. But it was still fighting, and its only remaining main gun was still firing.

Old Zhang thought, "If you're still playing, I can't stop either."

"Order all positions," he said, "to keep firing. Fire until the last shell."

There was a moment of silence on the bridge.

Then the reply came from the microphone: "Yes."

The Pearl River's main guns fired again.

Six shells flew toward the Conqueror.

At 9:00 a.m., the Huaihe was on the verge of collapse.

The speed dropped to fourteen knots. Seven compartments on the port side flooded, and the ship began to list slightly—three, four, five degrees. The flames on the deck had spread to below the bridge, and the damage control team was desperately trying to put out the fire, but the fire was getting bigger and bigger.

Zhang Zhen stood on the bridge, holding onto the window frame to keep his balance.

His vision blurred, a symptom of excessive blood loss. But he couldn't fall—he was the commander, and he had to watch the ship fight to the very last moment.

"General!" the adjutant rushed over, "You must go to the infirmary! Your wound—"

Zhang Zhen waved his hand to interrupt him.

"Need not."

He gazed at the British warships in the distance. Eight, eight left. They were still firing, the muzzle flashes shimmering in the sunlight like countless falling stars.

"Where's the Pearl River?"

The adjutant reported: "The Pearl River is still fighting. They... they sank the Counterattack, but they're almost done for themselves. Their speed has dropped to seventeen knots, and their drainage pumps have burned out."

Zhang Zhen nodded.

He turned around and looked at the reporters.

Reporter Fang was still taking pictures. His camera lens was pointed at the British fleet, and the shutter kept clicking. His three companions were also taking pictures, of the flames on the deck, of the sailors fighting the fire, and of the wounded lying in pools of blood.

"Reporter Fang," Zhang Zhen walked over, his voice hoarse, "Do you have enough film?"

Reporter Fang looked up, his eyes red-rimmed: "Two more rolls, General. Enough to shoot until the very last moment."

Zhang Zhen nodded.

He walked to the chart table—the table had been bombed beyond recognition, but the chart of the Arabian Sea was still there. He bent down and looked at the markings on it.

The location of the Huaihe ship is XX degrees XX minutes north latitude and XX degrees XX minutes east longitude.

The British fleet was positioned in all directions.

The location of the Bismarck—

not yet.

But he knew they were coming.

I will definitely come again.

"General," the adjutant suddenly pointed southeast, "look!"

Zhang Zhen suddenly looked up.

To the southeast, two faint plumes of smoke appeared on the sea surface.

It wasn't the thick smoke from burning ships, but the black smoke billowing from the smokestacks when warships are sailing at full speed.

The column of smoke grew thicker and closer.

Then, the silhouette of the ship appeared.

Two enormous battleships, with long hulls, tall bridges, and those iconic twin 380mm gun turrets—

Zhang Zhen gripped the window frame tightly.

coming.

finally come.

Meanwhile, on the bridge of HMS King George V, the lookout's voice changed:

"General! Smoke screen spotted to the southeast! Two—two large warships!"

Jericho whirled around and raised his binoculars.