Dry Dock No. 4

One Month Later

The second month of construction did not begin with speeches.

It began with calculations.

Phillip stood on a scaffold overlooking the skeleton of the vessel—steel ribs arched across the dry dock like the bones of some enormous creature rising from the ground. The morning light hit the metal surfaces, painting them in shades of cold silver and warm orange.

Below, the shipyard workers no longer looked confused.

They looked busy.

Organized.

Efficient.

Pairs of riveters moved with practiced rhythm, hammering red-hot rivets into place before they cooled. Naval engineers debated turret ring tolerances with draftsmen from Imperial Dynamics. Foundry operators tested steel hardness using makeshift Rockwell testers built from improvised weights and indentor pins.

Henry stood beside Phillip, coat stained with grease, carrying three ledgers. Not one—three.

"Engine assembly," he said, tapping the top ledger. "Hull plate requisition and delivery schedules. And a third for treasury liaisons and material costs."

Phillip raised an eyebrow. "Which one gives you headaches?"

Henry didn't hesitate. "All of them."

Phillip nodded. That, he expected.

They walked across the dock, passing teams installing transverse bulkheads—reinforced steel partitions meant to compartmentalize the ship so that even if one section flooded, the vessel would survive.

"Ships built like ships," Phillip said quietly, "sink like ships."

Barrett, the master shipwright, overheard him.

"Ships built like fortresses," Barrett muttered, "won't sink at all."

Phillip turned to him.

"No," he said. "They will fight."

Barrett stared at the rising steel frame. Slowly, he nodded.

Engine Works – Week Six.

If the dry dock was the skeleton, then the warehouse was the heart.

Steel parts lay everywhere—piston rods, condenser housings, flywheel castings, and crank webs etched with early machining marks. Malcolm Barron, arms folded, watched workers lower the low-pressure cylinder onto a reinforced base.

Phillip approached.

"How does it look?"

Malcolm didn't look away from the suspended cylinder.

"It looks," he said slowly, "like it wants to move."

Henry blinked. "How does a metal cylinder look like it wants to move?"

Malcolm shot him a look. "When you've spent as long as I have listening to engines, you'll understand."

Phillip examined the cylinder—beautiful in its simplicity, terrifying in its potential. Three chambers, arranged with precision. Exhaust pathways carefully calculated. Valves machined with tolerances so tight, Malcolm swore some of the workers now measured dreams in thousandths of an inch.

"Will it fire?" Phillip asked.

Malcolm nodded slowly.

"Steam it, and it will fire," he said. "Give it pressure—and it will roar."

Hull Assembly – Week Seven.

Arguments had changed.

They were no longer about whether steel could float. Or whether steam could replace sails.

Now, arguments sounded like:

"That turret ring cannot exceed two millimeters of deviation—if it does, the rotation will jam under recoil!"

"No, we reinforce that bulkhead. If a shell penetrates, we do not want fragments ricocheting into the engine compartments!"

"Coal chute access cannot be delayed. A warship that struggles to feed its boilers is a corpse waiting to sink!"

Phillip listened without interrupting.

These were good arguments.

Arguments of belief, not doubt.

At sunset, he walked the full length of the rising hull—past the engine housing, coal bunkers, boiler rooms, ammunition storage, and mess areas. Naval architects had begun designing crew quarters. Officers had started arguing over where to put a chart room.

It felt real now.

A ship was happening.

Not a sketch.

Not a proposal.

A reality.

Commander Vale joined him on the scaffold.

"You've accelerated dockyard output by thirty percent," he said.

Phillip didn't look surprised.

"Engineers work faster," he said, "when they understand what they're building."

"And what are they building?" Vale asked.

Phillip did not hesitate.

"Security."

Trial Fit – Week Ten.

The steam was only for testing—low pressure, carefully monitored—but when the valve turned, and the cylinder moved…

It moved.

The piston rod pushed downward, perfectly centered.

The crankshaft spun—once, twice, three full rotations.

Men who had never seen industrial machinery moved by steam before stared as though witnessing resurrection.

Malcolm grinned wildly.

Henry nearly dropped his ledger.

Phillip stood calm—but his eyes burned with something fierce.

Commander Vale watched, jaw clenched.

"That," he said quietly, "is the sound of every admiral in Europe losing sleep."

Malcolm wiped grease off his brow.

"That, lad," he said, "is the sound of a ship waiting to live."

Dry Dock – End of Month Two.

The ship's frame had shape now.

A bow.

A keel.

Bulkheads.

Compartments.

A ship—not finished, not even half-built—but undeniably a ship.

Riggers climbed over the rising hull, installing external steel plates. Steam cranes creaked. Sparks scattered into the air.

"Eight months left," Henry murmured, flipping through his production schedule. "You think we'll make it?"

Phillip watched the engine housing being lowered onto the reinforced deck foundation.

"We do not finish in eight months," he said.

Henry raised an eyebrow.

Phillip looked at him.

"We launch in eight months."

Henry blinked.

Then slowly—he smiled.

Night at the Dock.

The dockyard didn't sleep.

Lanterns burned into the night. Steel plates clanged into place under moonlight. Apprentices slept beside blueprints. Engineers wrote calculations on crates. Foundry workers brought in freshly cast components—rudder stem, turret bearings, gear housings.

Phillip stood alone under the half-built hull.

Wind carried sounds of hammering, shouting, steam.

Above him, steel beams towered into the night sky.

And for the first time…

Phillip saw it.

Not just a ship.

Not just a weapon.

But the beginning of something much larger.

A future.

A doctrine.

An era.

Henry approached quietly.

"You're not resting?"

Phillip didn't look away from the rising hull.

"Neither is history."

Henry stood beside him.

"It's strange," he said. "Wooden ships feel alive. Beautiful even. But this…"

He gestured to the steel.

"…this feels inevitable."

Phillip nodded.

"Inevitable," he agreed.

"And unstoppable."

Morning — Day Seventy-Four.

A telegram arrived at the dockyard.

It bore the seal of the Admiralty.

Commander Vale read it.

Then he looked at Phillip.

"They want the name."

Phillip paused.

"The ship's name?"

Vale nodded.

Phillip looked back at the hull—silent, unfinished, but already alive.

He did not hesitate.

"HMS Vanguard," he said.

"Because she is not just a ship."

He looked Vale in the eye.

"She is the first."

Vale nodded slowly.

"A fitting name," he said quietly.

"And a warning."

Phillip watched as men continued building—no longer wondering if it could be done.

Only how fast they could finish.

He spoke softly.

"Good."

He looked toward the rising ship.

"Let the world be warned."

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