Molotov was broken.
As a determined revolutionary, he could face death without fear, remain unbending; but as a husband and father, he couldn't bear to think about the inhuman tortures his wife and daughter might suffer in that hell.
Seeing Molotov crying so hard he was barely recognizable, Wilhelm scoffed inwardly. Did he understand what they call karma, what goes around comes around?
After a hysterical bout of crying, Molotov slumped into the sofa like a wilted eggplant.
"It seems Mr. Molotov has come to his senses? If you're worried about your daughter's safety, we can bring her to Germany for protection."
Hearing Wilhelm mention his daughter Svetlana, some color returned to Molotov's face.
"Of course, we'll do it secretly, stage a fire or a car accident, and swap her out—it's not difficult."
Molotov opened his mouth, looking like he wanted to speak but hesitated, finally managing to say after a long while, "Really? Can you guarantee Svetlana's safety?"
"Certainly." Wilhelm said earnestly. "I never shortchange friends of the Empire. I can assure you that no matter what happens in the future, your daughter will live a safe and stable life. Now, I want to know what agreement Britain and the Soviet Union have signed?"
Molotov was a bit puzzled and pointed at the newspaper. "Don't you already know everything?"
"These are just guesses by the intelligence department; there's no concrete evidence."
"These guesses are quite accurate." Molotov then detailed the secret agreement between Britain and the Soviet Union.
"So that's how it is. Ha, Churchill really went all out." Wilhelm couldn't help but sigh. India was known as the "jewel in the crown" of the British monarchy, and they were willing to cede even this jewel—this was like a desperate act. Unfortunately, the Soviet Union was not up to par, still struggling in the Finnish battlefield.
"You two take your time to chat." With that, Wilhelm left the meeting room and went back to his bedroom for a good night's sleep.
Early the next morning, Reinhard came to report. "Your Highness, Molotov wants his daughter to be brought to Germany as soon as possible."
Wilhelm nodded. "No problem. Contact Natasha to arrange it. What else did he say?"
Reinhard was visibly excited. "He said a lot, but he knows so much that we can't cover it all in one go."
As soon as Reinhard left, Ribbentrop arrived. "Your Highness, Britain wants to send an envoy."
"Oh?" Wilhelm raised an eyebrow. "Is Churchill finally willing to pay the 50 tons of gold 'peace talk fee'?" This fool Churchill, rather than paying 50 tons of gold for peace talks, would give Spain 200 tons, and now he can't hold on anymore? "Tell them the 'peace talk fee' has gone up; we won't talk for anything less than 100 tons of gold." Once Northern Ireland is recaptured, Britain will be completely trapped; at that point, even 1000 tons of gold wouldn't interest him in negotiations.
Ribbentrop's expression was somewhat odd as he said, "They didn't mention gold. The envoy is Queen Elizabeth."
"Queen Elizabeth?" Wilhelm was taken aback, pondered for a while, then nodded. "Order the V1 and V3 bases to take a day off."
Meanwhile, the Irish army finally launched an offensive against Northern Ireland.
With the British having withdrawn their forces from Northern Ireland to the mainland, the Irish advance was quite smooth.
However, although they did not encounter resistance from regular troops, they were still harassed by scattered remnants.
As the armored units marched towards Armagh County in Northern Ireland, three elderly men with white beards were in a pile of weeds on the outskirts, fiddling with a 2-pounder "pompom" gun, with three Lee-Enfield rifles beside them.
The 2-pounder "pompom" gun originated from the WWI-era Mk II 40mm autocannon, which in a sense was an upscaled version of the Vickers machine gun. By WWII, the design of the Mk VIII hadn't changed much. This gun was considered a disgrace among 40mm autocannons in WWII, with a short barrel, low muzzle velocity (less than 600 m/s for early Mk II, around 730 m/s for the WWII Mk VIII), light shell weight, and insufficient power. Its 14-round belt-fed firing capacity was also just so-so, nowhere near the Bofors 40mm autocannon, only slightly better than the German 37mm hand-cranked gun.
The three old men methodically unpacked the ammunition box, loaded the magazine, and held their breath as they waited for the approaching armored units. When the tanks were about 300 meters away, they aimed at the side armor of one of the tanks and fiercely pulled the trigger.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
Armor-piercing rounds flew across the flat field at speeds invisible to the naked eye, hitting the Jackal tank.
However, the shells hit not the vulnerable side armor but the sturdiest front armor of the turret. With a sharp "ping... chirp," the shells bounced off in all directions, disappearing into the distance.
"Enemy attack! Three o'clock direction!!"
Although they weren't part of the German Wehrmacht, these were seasoned fighters from foreign legions. Facing this sudden ambush, they did not panic. Several pairs of eyes had spotted the smoke from the 2-pounder when it fired, and immediately, various calibers of infantry fire were directed towards the shrub. Leaves and branches danced in the barrage, quickly exposing the 2-pounder hidden in the grass.
When the fourth shell failed to fire after the first three from the 2-pounder, one of the old men cursed, "Damn, a dud!"
As they were fumbling with the dud, a "Cheetah" self-propelled anti-aircraft gun from the side of the armored column had already turned its turret towards them.
Boom! Boom! Boom! Boom!
The thin shield of the 2-pounder was instantly shredded, and fearsome firepower repeatedly swept over the area until the target was confirmed destroyed.
A jeep cautiously approached the weed pile, and after several soldiers carefully checked the surroundings, they returned to report, "Sir, just one 2-pounder gun and three old men, all turned into a beehive."
The officer spat disdainfully and ordered, "Continue forward!" Such harassment tactics had been encountered many times during the French campaign, usually ending in tragedy for the gunners, who, aside from earning admiration for their courage, typically lost their lives on the spot.
The armored units entered Armagh, which was almost a ghost town. They did not linger, heading straight for Belfast, 50 kilometers away, the capital of Northern Ireland.
The entire area of Northern Ireland is just over 14,000 square kilometers; if everything went smoothly, Ireland could be unified within three days.