World War: Battleship Arms Dealers

Salman stared intently at Chen Feng. Then he made a gesture, and the tribesmen behind him dismounted from their camels and came to his side. More than twenty men, ranging in age from sixteen to sixty, stood on the scorching sand, dressed in identical white robes.

“Mr. Chen,” Salman said, his voice carrying far on the hot wind, “we Bedouins have a tradition. When two tribes form an alliance, they slaughter a camel together and share its flesh and blood, symbolizing a bond of life.”

He pointed to the busy Chinese workers on the construction site in the distance:

"You are building iron ships, we are herding camels. You live in stone houses, we live in wool tents. You worship ancestors, we worship Allah. It looks completely different."

"but--"

He patted his chest:

"We all want a better life for our children and grandchildren. We all want to survive in the desert. We all want to be respected, not pitied. In these things, we are the same."

Chen Feng felt a tightness in his throat. He took a deep breath, the hot desert air scorching his trachea.

"Elder Salman," he extended his hand, "welcome to Lanfang."

The two hands clasped together again. This time Salman gripped them tightly, his rough palms like iron clamps.

"So, about the land..." Chen Feng said.

"The land is yours now." Salman released his grip. "But we have one condition—once the shipyard is built, you must reserve fifty jobs for my people. Not charity jobs, but jobs where they can truly learn skills."

"One hundred," Chen Feng said. "And I'll have a reservoir built next to the dock, with water brought in from the Persian Gulf. Your camels and people can get water for free."

Salman's eyes lit up. In the desert, water is more precious than gold.

"And another thing," Chen Feng continued, "I will have the hospital send a medical team to your camp once a week for free."

This time, Salman's tribesmen murmured amongst themselves. Several young men exchanged excited glances.

"Mr. Chen," Salman's voice was a little hoarse, "you have earned the respect of me and my people. From now on, your affairs in this desert are our affairs."

He turned and spoke something to his people in Arabic. His words were rapid, with an ancient rhythm. Then all the people—including Salman himself—faced Mecca and began to pray.

Chen Feng and Uncle Wang waited quietly. The prayer lasted for five minutes, and under the midday sun, the figures in white robes cast short shadows on the sand. After the final "Amin," Salman turned around with a relaxed smile on his face.

"Alright. Now we can talk about the specifics. How deep should the dock be dug? How many workers are needed? When can my people begin work?"

Chen Feng smiled too. He took out the blueprints from the jeep and spread them out on the sand. The two men, from completely different cultural backgrounds, squatted on the scorching sand and began discussing concrete grades, pile depths, and worker schedules.

The wind blew, stirring up sand and dust, which gently covered the edges of the blueprint.

But the lines on the blueprint are already deeply imprinted in the memory of this desert. (Time jumps are starting; I doubt you want to see the construction scenes in between.)

February 21, 1909, 10:00 AM.

The locks of the fifth dry dock slowly opened, and the sound of seawater rushing in was like the breathing of a giant. The Provence, the last of the Courbet-class battleships ordered by the French Navy, was about to embark on its maiden voyage.

The reviewing stand was packed with people. The French delegation was on the left, Lanfang officials on the right, and in the middle were the invited ambassadors and journalists from various countries. Chen Feng and French Navy Minister Dubois stood in the front row, both dressed in formal attire, but in starkly different styles—Dubois wore a dark blue French naval officer's uniform, his chest adorned with medals; Chen Feng wore a dark gray Zhongshan suit, the only adornment being a pen tucked into his left breast pocket.

"Mr. Chen," Dubois said in English with a heavy French accent, "I must admit that when I first met Mr. Wang Wenwu in Paris three years ago, I thought his claim of 'delivering five main warships in three years' was a pipe dream."

"And now?" Chen Feng asked, his gaze fixed on the giant ship that was slowly rising in the dock.

"Now I believe it," Dubois paused, "and I'm starting to worry—worry about the Germans. How much higher are the performance parameters of the two 'Kaiser-class' ships they ordered compared to the 'Courbet-class'?"

Chen Feng smiled slightly: "Your Excellency, client information is confidential. But you can rest assured that 'Guba-level' fully meets the contract requirements, and in some aspects even exceeds them."

"for example?"

"For example, the welding process. The contract requires a watertight standard of no leakage for twelve hours, but the actual test result was seventy-two hours."

Dubois raised an eyebrow. He was a veteran of the navy and knew what that meant—better survivability, longer service life, and lower maintenance costs.

"Is this your new technology? A segmented construction method?"

"Yes. But the specific details..." Chen Feng made an apologetic gesture, "are also confidential."

Dubois smiled, a smile of understanding: "I understand. Well then, let's talk about the next order. The French Navy needs more advanced warships, preferably... oil-fired boiler versions."

"We're already developing it," Chen Feng said, "but the price will be higher than the 'Courbet' class."

"As long as performance improves by 40%, money is not an issue," Dubois said in a low voice. "The Germans are expanding too fast in the North Sea; we need to balance things. And you... seem to be the only ones who can provide a solution in a short time."

The conversation paused here. The "Provence" was now fully afloat, and tugboats began to slowly tow it out of the dry dock. The hull slid across the water, leaving a broad wake. Sunlight shone on the brand-new armor plating, reflecting a cold, metallic sheen.

On the bridge, the French captain and the Lanfang officials stood side by side. According to procedure, Lanfang was responsible for towing the warship to a deep-water anchorage, where final equipment adjustments and weapons tests would be completed before the formal handover.

"Mr. Chen," Dubois suddenly said, "there's something I'd like to ask you privately."

"Speaking."

"If... I mean if, France and Germany were to clash again, would Lanfang remain neutral?"

The question was direct and dangerous. Chen Feng paused for a few seconds, carefully choosing his words:

"Your Excellency, Lanfang is an Asian country. The conflict in Europe is not our conflict. Our warships will only be deployed to protect our own citizens and interests."

"But what if the conflict affects your trade? For example, a German submarine attacks a merchant ship bound for France, and there might be goods from Lanfang on board, or... citizens of Lanfang?"

Chen Feng turned his head and looked Dubois in the eye for the first time. There was no probing in the eyes of the French Navy Minister, only serious concern. He was earnestly considering the possibility of war and preparing for that day.

"Your Excellency Minister," Chen Feng said slowly, "Lanfang's position has always been consistent: we do not seek war, but we are not afraid of war either. If anyone threatens our citizens, our merchant ships, or our legitimate interests, we will take all necessary measures."

He paused, then added:

"But for now, we prefer to resolve issues through trade and cooperation rather than gunfire and bloodshed. That's why we are willing to sell our most advanced warships to all friendly countries, including France."

The subtext is clear: as long as you pay and follow the rules, we can cooperate. As for war—that's a last resort.

Dubois nodded, seemingly satisfied with the answer. He looked back at the "Provence" as it was leaving the dock, his gaze becoming profound.

“You know, Mr. Chen,” he said with a nostalgic tone, “my father fought in the Franco-Prussian War. In 1870, during the Battle of Sedan, he was an artillery lieutenant. After France’s defeat, he wrote in his diary: ‘We lost not because our soldiers weren’t brave, but because our guns were inferior.’”

He paused for a moment, then continued:

"Since then, France has spent thirty years rebuilding its army. But just when we finally had equipment comparable to Germany's, technology advanced again—dreadnoughts appeared, then dreadnoughts, and now super-dreadnoughts. The arms race is like a race without an end; if you stop to catch your breath, you'll be left behind."