Trench Bolts and Magic

Chapter 70 Fleet Deployment
In the early morning in Port Montana, before the sun has fully risen, a thick sea fog shrouds the entire port, making even the distant lighthouse appear somewhat blurry.

On the dock, rows of huge black silhouettes stood silently; they were the sleeping steel behemoths—the warships of the Saxon Empire's Mediterranean Fleet.

The entire port was eerily quiet, with only the rhythmic lapping of the cold waves against the steel hulls and the monotonous, regular chiming of the distant lighthouse.

On the bridge of the Moltke-class battlecruiser HMS Goeben, the flagship of the Mediterranean Fleet, watch officer Lieutenant-Captain Muller was using cup after cup of piping hot coffee to fight off the drowsiness brought on by his all-night watch.

This is his cup, I wonder how many cups it is.

But that didn't matter anymore. He looked out the porthole at the vast expanse of white, thinking that in a little over an hour, he could hand over his shift and go home for a good night's sleep.

Suddenly, the microphone behind him beeped rapidly, and Muller instantly snapped back to reality, quickly walking over and grabbing the receiver.

"Bridge, please speak."

A voice, barely containing tension, came from the other end of the receiver: "This is the radio room. We have received an urgent telegram from the Naval General Staff."

"Confirm sender authentication code?"

Muller tensed up instantly, because normally the messages from the Naval General Staff were sent to the Mediterranean Fleet Command.

In situations where the message is sent directly to the ship, it usually means that the fleet commander happens to be on board, and the General Staff is in a hurry to contact him directly.

Meanwhile, Admiral Spee, commander of the Mediterranean Fleet, was indeed resting on his newly replaced flagship.
This is also his personal habit; whenever he changes flagships, he stays on the new ship for a period of time.

"Authentication code verified. Confirmed to be sent directly from the Operations Department of the Dresden Naval General Staff," the officer in the radio room replied.

“I’ll send someone down immediately, no, wait.” Captain Muller changed his mind. “I’ll come down myself.”

After hanging up, Muller looked at a sailor on duty on the bridge: "Please have Colonel Richter come to the bridge immediately and tell him that we have received an urgent telegram from the Naval General Staff."

The sailor immediately obeyed the order and went to inform the Mediterranean Fleet Chief of Staff to come to the bridge.

Meanwhile, Muller quickly arrived at the radio room below the bridge.

The tension in the confined space was almost palpable, with two radio operators working with the duty officer, whose fingers flew across the codebook, converting numbers into text.

Sweat dripped from the forehead of the duty officer responsible for translating telegrams, but he was completely unaware of it.

"How much longer?" Muller asked.

"Last group, Captain."

The officer on duty didn't even look up, his pencil swiftly tracing across the specially made telegram paper.

When the last word was written, the duty officer picked up the telegram, took a deep breath, and solemnly handed it to Muller.

"【Top Secret - Swift】"

To the Commander of the Mediterranean Fleet:

Due to a change in the war situation in the Kingdom of Aragon, His Majesty has authorized the Mediterranean Fleet to immediately depart port for combat patrols, awaiting further instructions.

Alfred von Tirpitz, Chief of the General Staff of the Imperial Navy
February 11, 1914, 2:0500

After reading the telegram, Muller felt he could clearly hear his own heartbeat. He turned and rushed out of the radio room, running back to the bridge as fast as he could.

Fleet Chief of Staff Colonel Richter had arrived on the bridge. He was sleepy-eyed but alert. Müller walked up to him and handed him the telegram without saying a word.

The latter's pupils contracted sharply as he read, and a moment later he let out a barely audible gasp: "My God!"

After reading the telegram repeatedly, Richter looked up at Muller and asked, "Is the Commander still resting?"

"Yes, he should be resting in his cabin at this time, Colonel."

Richter nodded, then said something to a sailor, who immediately turned and left.

Not long after, the adjutant of Admiral Spee, commander of the Mediterranean Fleet, appeared on the bridge, his uniform so neat it looked as if he had never taken it off.

"Captain Hassell" Richter handed him the telegram: "Urgent telegram from the Naval General Staff, must be delivered to the Commander immediately."

Hassell took the telegram and placed it in the telegram folder in his hand, then nodded solemnly: "Yes, Colonel."

The passageway from the bridge to the commander's cabin seemed several times longer than usual, and Hassell could hear his own footsteps echoing in the corridor.

The sailors on guard duty outside the commander's cabin saw the telegram folder in his hand, immediately stepped aside silently, and gently knocked on the cabin door.

However, there was no response.

Hassell and the sailor exchanged a glance, then stepped forward and knocked again, this time with a more determined sound.

A muffled question came from inside the cabin: "What is it?"

"Commander, I apologize for disturbing you. But we have received an urgent telegram from the Naval General Staff."

Hasel pushed open the door and entered, turning on the small light beside the door as he went.

Admiral Maximilian von Spee, commander of the Saxon Navy's Mediterranean Fleet, had sat up in bed. His gray hair was slightly disheveled, but his eyes were fully awake.

Without asking any questions, he reached out and took the telegram. In the dim light of the cabin, he only glanced at it before suddenly standing up from the bed.

"Sound the emergency anchor-raising alarm! Raise the signal flags on the mainmast and summon all captains to the flagship for a meeting!"

"At the same time, notify all ships to immediately begin pressurizing their boilers!"

A series of commands were issued clearly and decisively from his mouth.

"Yes, Your Excellency!"

Captain Hassell immediately saluted, then quickly turned and ran to the bridge to relay the fleet commander's orders.

Soon, the piercing sound of the ship's horn shattered the tranquility of the harbor, waking the entire slumbering fleet from its slumber.

On a hammock aboard the armored cruiser 'Scharnhorst', Chief Engineer Carl Borg was snoring loudly. When the piercing alarm whistle of the emergency anchor-raising siren pierced through the decks and reached his ears, he almost instinctively leaped from the hammock, his body slamming heavily onto the cold deck.

The chief engineer wasn't even fully awake yet, and his hands were already groping for his boots.

"Damn it! What happened?" he muttered, but his movements didn't stop.

"All personnel in position! Boil the boilers! All engine room crew, get to your posts immediately!"

As he roared, he rushed down the narrow ladder and into the maze-like depths of the warship.

When he entered the engine room, a wave of heat hit him, and only the explosion-proof lights cast a dim yellow glow in the pervasive oil mist and mineral dust.

Huge steam pipes, wrapped in thick asbestos insulation, crawled across the ceiling and walls like giant pythons.

Despite using heavy oil boilers, the warships of the Saxon Empire Navy still use mixed oil boilers, with two stokers on duty, roughly pulling open the boiler doors one by one.

The scorching red light instantly illuminated their faces, which were glistening with sweat and slag.

They also used shovels to frantically throw processed pyroxene ore into the furnaces that were not yet completely extinguished.

Besides using the 'crude oil' extracted from pyroxene ore through dry distillation, after special treatments such as crushing and washing, pyroxene ore can still be used directly as fuel, enabling boilers to reach maximum pressure in a very short time.

"How much pressure are we under right now?" Borg yelled at an engineer who was operating a valve.

"Sir! Only 50! Just enough to maintain basic power generation on board!"

A marine engineer shouted his reply, but his voice was muffled by the roar of the machinery.

"I want 300! You must get 300 within an hour!"

Borg knew very well that, following the normal procedure, it would take at least four hours to get the boiler from cold start to full pressure.

However, according to the basic regulations of the Imperial Navy, unless it is a ship undergoing maintenance or major repairs, the boilers of other warships moored in the harbor have never been allowed to be completely extinguished, precisely to deal with the current situation.

So he believed that his group of young men, and the 'young lady' at their feet, could do it.

The warship deck was also a scene of bustling activity.

The boatswain, whose voice was louder than the ship's whistle, was directing the sailors to operate the huge anchor winch.

The heavy iron chains rattled as they were pulled up section by section from the warm waters of the Mediterranean, bringing with them large patches of seaweed and silt.

"Hurry up! You bunch of slow-moving snails! His Majesty the Emperor is watching us!"

Meanwhile, in the operations room of the flagship 'Goburn', Admiral Spee was standing in front of a huge nautical chart.

The captains of the Mediterranean Fleet ships had arrived one after another by transport boat and were now surrounding him with serious expressions.

Outside the portholes, thick black smoke and white steam began to billow from the smokestacks of the warships, like awakened beasts breathing rapidly.

"Gentlemen," Admiral Spee's voice was not loud, but it reached everyone's ears clearly, "we have just received orders from the Naval General Staff and His Majesty the Emperor to depart port immediately."

He pointed to the contents of the telegram, "The telegram mentions the war in the Kingdom of Aragon. My personal judgment is that His Majesty the Emperor hopes that our Saxon navy will first demonstrate a stance to the Britannias through combat patrols."

“Of course,” he said, his eyes sharpening, “if the Britannians get carried away, this could very well turn into a real war.”

The captains exchanged glances after hearing this, and then the captain of the lead ship of the Moltke-class battlecruiser, the HMS Moltke, spoke up:

"Commander, if we enter combat patrol mode, not only the Britannians, but also the Gauls and even the Pope's fleet should react."

"The Austro-Hungarian navy will also respond to the joint defense treaty and be deployed," an officer added.

"That's right~"

General Spee nodded, then continued:
"Although Marshal Tirpitz did not say it explicitly in the telegram, I have already understood his meaning. As long as we and the High Seas Fleet take a tough stance and stir up the waters even more, then the Britannians will have to seriously consider the risks of war."

“After all, the Gauls would be more than happy to stab them in the back,” added the captain of an armored cruiser.

A barely suppressed smile immediately appeared on the faces of everyone in the operations command room.

If the cooperation between the Britannians and Gauls during the previous Moroccan crisis had given Saxon naval officers a sense of walking on thin ice, then...

In the past two years, the "friendship boat" between the two sides has sunk at a visible speed due to conflicts of interest in overseas colonies.
The pressure on Saxony has been greatly reduced, and the Gauls have begun to do everything they can to 'make trouble' for the Britannians. The Gallic navy has even made several visits to the ports of the Saxon Empire.

After explaining some more details to the others, Admiral Spee pointed directly to a route on the nautical chart with his pointer.

"Now I order: the reconnaissance fleet will act as the vanguard, set sail first, and advance along this route to search for the enemy."

"The main fleet followed, departing the port in 'sequence three' formation and rendezvousing with the reconnaissance fleet in the designated waterway."

The ship captains quickly jotted down the orders in their notebooks, and no one raised any questions.

Years of rigorous training and countless drills have given them an intimate understanding of the process.

"Alright, gentlemen, return to your warships."

General Spee concluded by saying:
"In an hour, I want to see the last ship of the fleet sail out of this port. God bless Saxony."

"Yes, Commander!"

The captains saluted in unison, then quickly turned and left, boarding their respective transport boats and returning to their warships.

An hour later, the morning mist at the port gradually dissipated.

Emerging from the morning mist, the Saxon Empire's Mediterranean Fleet, like steel behemoths awakening, sailed away from Montana harbor one after another amidst deafening blasts of their ship horns.

The marines at the port did not exercise any control over the surrounding area, and the warships did not attempt to conceal their movements; they simply sailed in a grand procession toward the Mediterranean.

　Regarding the protagonist's disappearance... emmmmm, didn't he appear yesterday?

　　Perhaps it's just my personal style, and since this book is also a small-group story, it's impossible to focus solely on the main character.
　　
　
(End of this chapter)