1885, I came to save Greece

Chapter 242 Shipping and National Destiny

On the other end of the phone, in Athens' most exclusive private club.

Antonio Petaras was sipping an expensive glass of French brandy, chatting and laughing with several bankers. His smile froze when the waiter handed him the private telephone line.

He went into an empty lounge and answered the phone.

Upon hearing the Crown Prince's brief command, Petaras felt his silk shirt instantly soaked with cold sweat.

He hung up the phone without pausing for a moment. He didn't even say goodbye to the bankers who were still waiting for him before grabbing his coat and striding out of the club.

Once seated in his carriage, he didn't send the driver home, but instead gave the order in an unquestionable tone.

"To Piraeus Port! As fast as possible!"

The carriage sped through the streets in the dead of night, Petaras leaning back in his velvet seat. He felt no fear. On the contrary, his eyes gleamed with the frenzied glint of a gambler betting everything.

He understood that this was the Crown Prince's ultimate test for him.

The navy cannot cross the red line, but the crown prince did not say that his merchant ships could not.

This was not only a high-risk smuggling operation, but also an opportunity given to him by the Crown Prince that would completely bind the fate of the Petalas family to the future King of Greece and the destiny of the nation.

If he wins, he will be a founding father of a new era.

If they lose, the Petalas family will be removed from the Greek pantheon.

The carriage stopped in front of the Petalas Shipping Company warehouse in the port of Piraeus.

The harbor was still brightly lit late at night. Petaras didn't go to his luxurious office, but went straight to the bustling dock. He summoned his five most trusted captains, his brothers-in-arms who had followed him from a small fishing boat to where they were today.

In a warehouse filled with the smells of fish and diesel, Petaras spread out a nautical chart.

"Gentlemen, we have a new business opportunity." He lowered his voice. "We need to ship a special shipment of 'flour' and 'olive oil' to Crete."

The captains exchanged glances; they were all seasoned veterans of the sea, and instantly understood the true meaning of "flour" and "olive oil".

An old captain with one eye spoke up: "Boss, the British fleet has blockaded the southern shipping lanes. Their cruisers are much faster than our ships."

“I know.” Petalas’ finger traced a strange curve on the nautical chart. “So we won’t go in a straight line. We’ll head east first, into the Cyclades, and then, using the cover of night and the islands, we’ll head south. This is a smuggling route that I bought at great expense from the oldest sailor in the Aegean Sea; the British charts don’t show this route.”

He looked up at his captains.

"I need you to prepare immediately. Open all those 'specially made compartments' we left under the ship for the navy to smuggle weapons. Loading must be completed before midnight."

The captains didn't ask any more questions, nodded emphatically, and turned to leave.

A massive, clandestine shipment unfolded rapidly under the cover of night.

Huge sacks bearing the logo of the "Athena Flour Company" were hoisted into the ship's hold by workers using pulleys. These sacks contained not a single grain of flour, but were instead stuffed with brand-new Mauser rifles tightly wrapped in tarpaulins and boxes of gleaming yellow bullets.

Sealed wooden barrels, claiming to contain top-quality extra virgin olive oil, were carefully rolled into the hold. Inside the barrels, however, was not a drop of oil, but rather disassembled mountain howitzer parts coated with rust-resistant oil.

These goods were enough to instantly arm the rebels on Crete, who were armed with old-fashioned firearms and farm tools, into a modern army.

The operation required absolute secrecy and efficiency. Petaras knew that his own manpower was far from sufficient. He needed a more reliable, loyal, and powerful organization.

He walked into a small tavern by the dock, which was the port branch of the "Greek Workers' Welfare Association".

He found the branch leader, Stavros Vlahopoulos, a veteran who had lost a leg in the war.

Petalas didn't waste any words and placed a bronze plaque engraved with the royal emblem on the table in front of Stavros.

"The Crown Prince's secret order," Petaras said succinctly. "I need the port to be blind and deaf tonight. I also need a hundred of the most reliable, tight-lipped, battle-hardened, and fearless 'guards.'"

Stavros picked up the bronze medal and ran his rough fingers along its patterns. A fanatical light flashed in his one intact eye.

Without saying a word, he picked up his cane from the table and stood up.

"Leave it to me."

The limping veteran's mobilization ability exceeded Petaras's expectations. In less than half an hour, all the foremen from other shipping companies on the dock were "invited" to the tavern for drinks. The port police were also "coincidentally" led to the other side of the city by a group of drunken sailors.

The entire Petalas shipping terminal was emptied.

Stavros personally selected one hundred workers who had served in the army. They were the association's most loyal members and held an almost religious adoration for the crown prince who had given them work, dignity, and hope.

He stood before these silent yet resolute workers, leaning on his cane, his voice booming like a bell.

"Brothers! His Highness needs us!"

"We're not going to smuggle, we're not going to make money! We're going to deliver something! To deliver our own Greek weapons to our brothers in Crete!"

"The settlement allowance for this voyage is equivalent to your lifetime's salary! I will personally distribute it to your families!"

He paused for a moment, then slammed his cane heavily on the ground.

"But more important than money is that we must use our own hands to bring freedom to Crete!"

"For His Highness! For Greece!" a worker shouted, raising his arm.

"For Greece!"

The "escort team" of one hundred workers roared with a fury even louder than that of a regular army.

The darkest hour before dawn.

A dozen or so cargo ships flying the Petaras family's merchant flag silently, like ghosts, sailed away from the port of Piraeus.

Their logbooks clearly recorded their destination—Alexandria, Egypt. The cargo manifest listed flour and olive oil.

After the fleet sailed out of Greek territorial waters and completely disappeared from the sight of the coastal patrol boats.

Two red signal lights were raised on the flagship that was leading the way.

Led by the pilot ship, the entire fleet turned around without hesitation and sped south towards Crete along the carefully calculated deadly route that avoided the British naval patrols.

The sea breeze caressed Petaras's face as he stood at the bow of the ship, gazing at the unfathomable darkness to the south.

Behind him was an army disguised as flour.

Before him lay the rise of Greece and an abyss.