Reincarnated as the Crown Prince-Chapter 33: A Tour to the New Dreadnought

A week later

The salt wind of the harbor cut sharp against the morning sun as the royal motorcade approached the massive drydock at Cádiz. Seagulls wheeled overhead, and the sound of forge hammers and hydraulic lifts echoed through the coastal shipyard. Smoke trailed in spirals from distant chimneys, and everywhere, men in naval blue bustled—welding, hoisting, measuring, adjusting.

But the true marvel stood docked before them.

A leviathan of steel, freshly painted in muted gray and black, its armor plating gleamed beneath the light. Her hull cut like a blade through the water even while idle, and atop her superstructure, massive gun turrets lay still like sleeping giants. This was the INS Resolución, the first completed dreadnought of Aragon.

Regent Lancelot stepped out of his motor carriage in full dress uniform—navy with silver trim, matching the naval colors. His cloak fluttered behind him as he walked across the pier, flanked by aides and guards.

At the gangway, waiting with a stern expression, stood Admiral Sebastian de Castro.

"Regent," the admiral said with a salute that was crisp, if not warm.

"Admiral," Lancelot returned the gesture with ease. "Is she ready?"

"She’s seaworthy. Gunned. Armored. And to my eternal shame," de Castro admitted, looking up at the battleship, "you were right."

Lancelot offered a faint smile. "You were right too, five years ago. If I had given you ships of the line, we’d have a fine-looking museum fleet."

The admiral’s lips twitched, but he said nothing.

They ascended the ramp to the deck, where a fresh contingent of sailors—flawless in posture and discipline—stood at attention.

"Permission to board?" Lancelot asked, more out of ceremony than necessity.

"Granted," de Castro nodded. "Welcome aboard Resolución."

The deck was broad and layered with anti-skid plating. Ahead, the twin 13.5-inch gun turrets loomed like thunderheads. Each turret housed two massive cannons—smoothbore, recoil-dampened, capable of firing a 560-kilogram shell over 25 kilometers with precision.

"She carries five of those turrets, fore and aft," the admiral explained. "Ten primary guns, all centerline-mounted for maximum broadside efficiency. Secondary armaments include sixteen 6-inch casemates for frigate deterrence, and four torpedo launchers—two port, two starboard."

"She’s not just a beast," Lancelot said as they walked. "She’s fast."

"Thanks to your damned turbine engines," the admiral muttered. "Three Parsons-type turbines, direct-drive, linked to four screws. Top speed of twenty-one knots, even under full load. Nothing in the Francois or Oroskan navies can catch her. Not to mention the fact, not even their cannonball can hurt her."

They reached the conning tower—a high, armored command post with panoramic viewports and reinforced steel shutters.

"She can take punishment?"

"Fourteen-inch armor belt amidships, tapering to eight toward the bow and stern," the admiral said. "Deck armor is six inches thick. Turrets have twelve. Bridge is protected by a citadel capsule, with triple-redundant communication tubes running down to the fire control systems below."

"And range?"

"Fuel capacity of 3,000 tons of coal, with bunker capacity to supplement. We estimate she can sail from Cádiz to Greenland and back on a single fill—twice that with auxiliary supply ships."

Lancelot nodded with approval. "Let’s see the fire control center."

They descended through armored hatches and narrow ladders until they reached the fire control deck—a small, fortified chamber deep within the ship’s heart. Inside, rangefinders, gyrocompasses, and analog fire-calculation tables buzzed with quiet potential.

"Our gunnery officers are trained on a central plotting system," said the ship’s executive officer, a sharp-eyed lieutenant named Ortega. "We track enemy bearing, speed, and heading using stereoscopic rangefinders and electric timers. Gun corrections are relayed automatically to the turrets via signaling lamp or intercom."

"You built a floating gunnery fortress," Lancelot murmured, impressed.

"No," de Castro said, crossing his arms. "You did."

Their next stop was engineering. The temperature spiked as they approached the belly of the ship. Steam hissed from pressure valves. Massive pistons churned, and the low rhythmic thrum of turbines could be heard beneath steel floors. Engineers wiped soot from their faces as they adjusted levers and consulted brass gauges.

"Boilers are fired by stoker-assisted systems," the engineering chief explained. "We use a coal-fed, high-efficiency furnace developed by Alcira Foundry under Lady Mirena’s guidance. Pressure is steady at 250 psi."

The admiral interjected. "One sailor can now do the work of three."

They passed through the crew quarters—spartan but sanitary. Rows of hammocks, polished lockers, and a mess hall with steel tables and magnetic trays. A small infirmary with an autoclave and surgical tools showed the influence of modern medicine.

"Capacity?" the regent asked.

"Officers: thirty. Enlisted: nine hundred. We can accommodate marines for amphibious assault as well—up to two hundred more in converted cargo spaces."

"And how many more of her class are in construction?"

"Four more dreadnoughts," de Castro replied. "Two at Ferrol. One here in Cádiz. The last at Barcelona’s new slipway. All will be complete within fourteen months, assuming the steel arrives on time."

Lancelot paused before one of the ammunition lifts—a vertical conveyor that carried shells from the secure hold below to the loading chamber behind the guns.

"Have we tested her under live fire?"

"A demonstration is scheduled for next week. We’ll shell an uninhabited islet in the Gulf. High command and foreign observers will attend."

Lancelot looked at the polished hull, the massive guns, the maze of steam and steel that stretched beneath his boots.

"Good, before we join the war, our counterparts should know what to expect from Aragon, especially from her navy."

The admiral studied the regent for a long moment. The same young man who once denied him sail and wood had given him steel and thunder.

"I was wrong about you," de Castro said at last. "When you killed the ships of the line, I thought you were blind to tradition."

"I wasn’t blind," Lancelot said. "I just refused to worship it."

They emerged once more onto the deck, where the Aragonese flag flew proudly from the mast.

As they stood overlooking the sea, the admiral asked, "And when do we test her in battle?"

Lancelot’s expression hardened.

"Soon. Marseille will need fire support. The Republic’s southern coast is weak—but they’ll fortify fast once they see us coming. That’s when Resolución makes her name."

"She’ll be ready."

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