World War: Battleship Arms Dealers

HMS Conqueror sank. HMS Repulse sank. HMS Renown sank. HMS Centurion heavily damaged, HMS Revenge heavily damaged, HMS Royal Oak heavily damaged, HMS Sovereign heavily damaged. HMS King George V was hit by seven bullets, its speed dropped to sixteen knots, and two fires were burning on board.

The twelve capital ships fought for three hours, three of which sank, five were severely damaged, and the remaining four were also damaged.

The opponent was merely two Lanfang warships.

No, they are not rivals.

It's bait.

Jericho finally understood.

From the very beginning, this was a trap.

Those two unflagged Lanfang warships were bait. They deliberately sailed out of port slowly, deliberately did not fly their national flags, and deliberately appeared completely unprepared, waiting for him to give the order to open fire.

And he actually gave the order.

"General," Chief of Staff Crowley's voice came from behind, hoarse and barely audible, "the reinforcement fleet has arrived. Three Revenge-class and two Queen Elizabeth-class. They're asking whether to pursue the Germans?"

Jericho did not answer.

Pursuit?

What are you chasing?

Chase after those two fully revived Bismarck-class destroyers? Even with fire control radar, a speed of 30 knots, and 380mm main guns?

Should we still pursue those two Lanfang warships, even though they've been under attack for three hours and are currently being rescued by the Germans?

You caught up, but then what?

Another match?

How many more ships will be lost?

Should we let the Germans and the Lanfang people fight side by side again?

"General," Crowley asked again, "Should we pursue them?"

Jericho finally spoke.

"No pursuit," he said, his voice hoarse and unlike his own. "Call back. Rescue the people who fell into the water. Retreat to Mumbai."

Crowley hesitated for a moment: "General, the reinforcement fleet just arrived, and we still have..."

"What do we have left?" Jellicoe turned to look at him, the light in his eyes extinguished. "We still have eight damaged warships and five fresh troops. The Germans have two fully-equipped Bismarck-class destroyers. Even if we catch up, even if we win—and then what?"

He walked to the window and looked at the two German warships in the distance.

"Then, Lanfang will formally declare war," he said. "Four Bismarck-class battleships will sail out of Dubai. The 50,000-ton behemoth under construction will be commissioned ahead of schedule. The entire Indian Ocean and Atlantic Ocean will be under their control."

He paused for a moment: "Then, what will we use to fight?"

Crowley fell silent.

Jericho closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

"Give the order," he said, "to retreat."

At 10:00 a.m., Zhang Zhen slowly opened his eyes in the medical room below the bridge of the Huaihe ship.

He lay on a stretcher, covered with a blanket. The wound on his forehead had been bandaged, and the wound on his left arm had been treated. A German military doctor sat beside him, taking his blood pressure.

"General, you're awake," the military doctor said in broken English.

Zhang Zhen nodded and tried to sit up. The military doctor quickly pressed him down: "Don't move, you've lost too much blood, you need to rest."

"Where is my ship?" Zhang Zhen asked.

The medic paused for a moment, then said, "The Huaihe is still there. The German damage control team is working on it, and the flooding has been brought under control. Your ship... will survive."

Zhang Zhen breathed a sigh of relief and lay back down on the stretcher.

He looked around. The infirmary held a dozen or so wounded soldiers, some Lanfang sailors, others German sailors. Some were groaning, some were unconscious, and some were staring blankly at the ceiling.

A young sailor lay on a stretcher beside him, his left leg wrapped in thick bandages, blood seeping through. He saw Zhang Zhen looking at him and forced a smile.

"General," he said, "we won, didn't we?"

Zhang Zhen looked at him, at that youthful face.

The child looked to be under twenty years old, with bright eyes and a youthful innocence still lingering on his face.

"We won," Zhang Zhen said. "We won."

The young sailor smiled, a very happy smile.

"That's good," he said, then closed his eyes and fell into a deep sleep.

Zhang Zhen looked at him and remained silent for a long time.

One hundred and twenty-seven people were killed in action.

Three hundred and four people were seriously injured.

That was the price paid for the Huaihe River.

But he knew the price was worth it.

Because the whole world will see those photos. They will see the first moment the British opened fire, the images of shells landing on the Huaihe, and the figures of Lanfang sailors fighting amidst the flames.

That's evidence.

That was the reason for declaring war.

That is--

victory.

At 11:00 a.m., Scheer met Zhang Zhen in the captain's cabin of the Bismarck.

Zhang Zhen was carried over on a stretcher by German sailors. His injuries were too severe to remain on the Huaihe—the medical facilities there were inadequate. Scheer ordered him to be transferred to the Bismarck to be cared for by German medics.

Zhang Zhen lay on the stretcher, looking out at the captain's cabin.

The room wasn't large, but it was very tidy. There was a chart table, a few chairs, a bookcase, and a round porthole. Sunlight streamed in through the porthole, casting bright patches of light on the floor.

Scher sat next to him, holding a cup of coffee.

"General Zhang," Sher said, "you're a tough guy."

Zhang Zhen smiled but didn't say anything.

"Three hours," Scheer continued. "Two ships against twelve, fighting for three hours. One sunk, three severely damaged, countless others wounded. And then they were still alive."

He paused for a moment: "I've been in the navy for thirty years, and I've never seen a battle like this."

Zhang Zhen looked at him.

"General Sher," he said, "if you don't come, we'll die."

Scher shook his head.

"We're late," he said. "We kept you waiting for three hours. It's my fault."

Chang Chen smiled again.

"It's not too late," he said. "It's just right."

Scher paused for a moment, then smiled.

He stood up, walked to the window, and looked at the two Lanfang warships being towed outside.

The Huaihe and Zhujiang were sandwiched between the Bismarck and Tirpitz, moving slowly westward at a speed of twelve knots. The Lanfang damage control team and the German damage control team were working side by side, making every effort to repair the damage.

"General Zhang," Sher suddenly asked, "why are you doing this?"

Zhang Zhen did not answer immediately.

He remained silent for a long time, then said, "Because we need a reason."

Scher turned to look at him.

"What reason?"

"The reason for declaring war," Zhang Zhen said, "The Grand Commander said that Lanfang cannot declare war on the British without a cause. That would give the Meilika people an excuse to unite with the British against us. But if we are the ones being attacked by the British..."

He paused for a moment, then continued, "That's self-defense. The whole world will be on our side."

Scher remained silent for a few seconds.

He remembered what Chen Feng had said at the meeting, the reporters, and the two warships that weren't flying flags.

Every step was meticulously calculated.

"General Zhang," he said, "your commander-in-chief is a terrible man."

Chang Chen smiled.

"Terrible?" he said. "No, reliable."

He closed his eyes, his voice growing softer and softer: "With him here, Lanfang... won't lose..."

Scher looked at him, at that tired face.

Then he went over and gently pulled the blanket up a little.

"Go to sleep," he said. "You've done what you were supposed to do."

Zhang Zhen did not answer.

He was already asleep.