Chapter 653: A Shared Destiny
General Winter left in disappointment.
Upon returning to Antwerp, he sent a telegram to the Naval Minister:
"We all know Charles will never sell this kind of technology.
If we held a gun to the enemy's head, we could seize his bag of gold and everything he owns without worry.
In that situation, we'd never agree to let him use the gold to buy the gun.
So, neither will Charles."
At that moment, Belfort hadn't slept for three days and nights.
Reading the telegram, he could only nod helplessly:
"Looks like we'll have to find our own way to catch up with Charles."
His gaze drifted to the window of the war office building.
Snow was still falling over London's skyline, and the thick fog showed no sign of lifting.
Winter was far from over—it felt as though a fiercer storm was brewing.
…
Albert I was quite pleased with the outcome of his visit.
On the way back to Hasselt, he even hummed a tune in the car.
"Do you know, Major General?" he said proudly to Eden.
"For nearly a century, Belgium has been trying to maintain a balance among the great powers—Holland included.
Now, those days of trembling diplomacy are finally coming to an end!"
He had grown weary of pretending to smile while balancing between powerful nations, and of enduring their condescending gazes.
(Note: Belgium gained independence from the Netherlands in 1830; by the time of this story, 86 years had passed.)
"Yes, Your Majesty," Major General Eden agreed sincerely.
"Becoming allies with Charles is the wisest decision we've made."
Standing by Charles's side might not have turned Belgium into a grandmaster on the geopolitical chessboard, but they were no longer just a pawn.
One day, if Belgium fully adopted Charles's defense system and could withstand threats from the three major powers,
then no one would dare see Belgium merely as a stepping-stone.
"No!" Albert I corrected.
"Not allies—friends, Major General.
The most reliable and trustworthy friend we have!"
…
Vice Admiral Gepratte still insisted on keeping his command post at Antwerp Airport—right beneath Charles's own office.
Technically, now that the North Sea campaign had ended, he had no need to remain at the airport.
He was used to sea air and watching warships in port,
and the noise of planes taking off and landing at the airport was unbearable—it left his ears ringing and even gave him headaches.
Still, he refused to move to the harbor, even though it wasn't far away.
"This isn't just about operational coordination," Gepratte explained to a staff officer who tried to persuade him.
"It's about tactics—even strategy.
Besides, we need to get used to aircraft. Not just used to them—we need to understand them."
Aircraft might become everything.
Gepratte stood by the window, staring blankly at the fighter planes taking off and landing outside.
He felt a growing unease.
He came from a long line of naval officers—his grandfather had even commanded sailing warships under Napoleon.
Since childhood, he had been taught:
"The navy is everything. It determines a nation's strength and prosperity. No military branch can surpass it.
Your life's goal should be to become an excellent naval commander—and be proud of it."
But now, he realized that might not be true.
The air force was rising.
In front of it, the navy seemed increasingly powerless.
Warships could sail at most thirty knots—about 50 kilometers per hour—
but aircraft could easily reach over 100 or even 200 km/h.
And while ships could only see about 40 km ahead, planes at high altitude could spot warships over 100 km away.
Ships lacked initiative in battle.
They could only wait, passively, for aircraft to attack.
Planes, on the other hand, could strike or retreat at will.
Gepratte's heart was filled with unwillingness.
He repeatedly ran simulations in his mind, trying to find a way for the navy to defeat the air force—or at least find a viable future for naval power.
But every scenario collapsed under scrutiny.
In the end, he sighed and muttered:
"Charles is right. Air superiority decides everything—especially at sea."
In land warfare, things like smoke, forests, trenches, and tunnels could reduce the impact of aircraft.
But on the flat, open ocean, warships were little more than floating targets.
With a heavy heart, Gepratte turned and walked to the communications room.
He ordered the operator:
"Send a telegram to the Brest Shipyard: 'Charles will fund the construction of ten new destroyers for our navy.
Please send personnel to Antwerp as soon as possible to begin negotiations.'"
…
Brest Shipyard.
Three days had passed since Charles's victory in the North Sea.
Wells's initial euphoria had cooled.
He was now overseeing the installation of echo sounders on destroyers.
The 1,000-ton "Adventure-class" destroyers were facing a dilemma:
Their displacement was fixed.
With guns, torpedoes, crew, and supplies already pushing the limits,
adding the echo sounders and support equipment meant something else had to go—possibly even torpedoes.
"We need more funding," Wells muttered while staring at the blueprints.
"We need to build bigger destroyers if we want to meet modern combat requirements."
But he wasn't hopeful.
Most of the military budget was going to the army for the war against Germany.
The navy had little money to begin with.
And the naval minister planned to retreat to Toulon, shifting focus away from the Atlantic.
Even two completed battleships had been reassigned to Toulon.
(Note: During WWI, France completed three battleships and two destroyers. The three battleships belonged to the Bretagne-class, started in 1909. The French navy pooled resources to complete them, hoping they would influence the war.)
Even Charles's recent victory in the North Sea changed little.
The stubborn naval minister would continue pouring funds into battleships.
And once the final Provence-class ship was done, it would be sent to Toulon as well.
Just then, Wells's secretary came running, gasping for breath.
"Sir—good news!"
"Another victory?" Wells asked without looking up.
That didn't mean much.
The naval minister wouldn't change his strategic stance.
He believed the North Sea and Atlantic belonged to Britain,
and that any French naval involvement was a wasteful struggle.
"No, sir," the secretary replied.
"It's a telegram from Vice Admiral Gepratte. He says Charles will fund the navy's construction of ten new destroyers."
Wells snapped his head up.
"You—you're serious?"
"Absolutely, sir," the secretary replied.
"Gepratte has also informed the government and requested that these destroyers be assigned to the Brest fleet."
"Fantastic!" Wells cried out.
"Ten ships! Do you know how much money that is?
And more importantly, this is just the beginning—a very good beginning!"
Wells was a businessman.
He knew that if the Brest fleet began competing with the Royal Navy for dominance,
then orders would flood into the Brest Shipyard.
Rather than being left behind because of the minister's "strategic direction,"
the shipyard would thrive.
It wouldn't decline—it would rise again.
That's why Wells and Gepratte were a shared destiny—and that was the foundation of their mutual trust.
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