World War: Battleship Arms Dealers

"We need two days," Howard concluded.

"Okay." Chen Feng gave a clear deadline: "I need a final answer by 5 PM on July 10th. Otherwise, we will seriously consider the German proposal."

After seeing the two consuls off, Wang Wenwu closed the door and let out a long sigh. "President, did Germany really offer 2.8%?"

"Not yet." Chen Feng walked back to his seat and picked up the now-cold tea. "But Major General Müller will be here tonight. He will give it to you."

Uncle Wang brewed another pot of hot tea. Chen Feng, watching the tea leaves unfurl in the cup, suddenly asked, "Wenwu, what do you think the world will be like five years from now?"

Wang Wenwu paused for a moment. "This... is hard to predict. But judging from the current trend, the contradictions among the European powers are deepening. Although the Moroccan incident has subsided, the Germans have lost face, the British are not giving an inch, and the French feel they have won..."

"Yeah," Chen Feng interrupted him, "Everyone feels like they've won, or they feel like they've lost out. If this kind of emotion builds up, it'll explode one day."

He picked up his teacup but didn't drink it; he simply looked at his reflection on the water.

"Five years later, in 1916. If by then Europe is already embroiled in war, who will have the mind to collect these tens of millions of pounds in debt? As for the Kuangfu... by then our Bismarck-class destroyers will have already been in service."

Wang Wenwu's eyes lit up: "So that's why you agreed so readily?"

"It's not satisfying, it's calculating." Chen Feng put down his teacup, took a document from the drawer, and said, "Take a look at this."

After reading it, Wang Wenwu gasped. "Who... did this analysis?"

"I," Chen Feng retrieved the documents and locked the drawer, "So, I agreed to their terms. Five years from now, these terms may just be empty words. But right now, we need those 80 million pounds—40 million for the four Bismarck-class ships. The dry dock expansion will cost 25 million, the steel mill upgrade will cost 15 million…"

He paused, then lowered his voice.

"And then there are immigrants. Every month, tens of thousands of people come from the coast of China. We need to provide them with housing, food, and jobs. All of this requires money."

Outside the window, the setting sun began to sink, turning the harbor cranes golden. Further away, the two Bismarck-class ships lay like sleeping behemoths in the twilight.

"Money is a tool," Chen Feng concluded. "We'll use it to buy time, and as for the cost... we'll calculate that in five years."

The heat of Dubai Port subsided slightly at night. The German Consulate, a three-story Baroque building located on the west side of the port area, stood in stark contrast to the surrounding Arabic-style houses. At nine o'clock in the evening, a black sedan silently drove into the backyard.

When Chen Feng got out of the car, Rear Admiral Müller was already waiting at the door. The German naval officer was not wearing his uniform today, but a dark suit, though his straight back and meticulous posture still betrayed his professionalism.

"Mr. Chen, please," Müller said in German, then switched to broken Chinese, "It's my pleasure."

"You're too kind, Major General," Chen Feng replied in fluent German.

This startled Müller for a moment, then he smiled and said, "I didn't know your German was so good."

"I've studied some," Chen Feng said casually—in fact, this was his accumulation of knowledge as a military history enthusiast in his previous life.

The two walked through a corridor covered with Persian carpets and came to a heavy oak door. As Muller turned the key and pushed the door open, Chen Feng smelled a mixture of cigars, old books, and engine oil.

This is a study, or more accurately, a private museum. The walls are covered with naval photographs: the ironclad battleship "Prussia," the battleship "Brunschweig" class, and the "Nassau" class, which was launched just last year. Glass cases display various ship models, from sailing battleships to the latest submarines.

The most eye-catching thing is the oil painting in the center of the study—King Wilhelm II, dressed as a naval admiral, standing on the deck of the yacht "Hohenzollern," with the Kiel naval port in the background.

"Please have a seat," Muller said, gesturing to two high-backed chairs in front of the fireplace.

The fireplace was not lit; it wasn't needed in Dubai in July. But on the mantel were several exquisite bronze sculptures, all in the shape of warships.

Wang Bo was left in the outer room, leaving only Chen Feng and Muller in the study. After the waiter brought two glasses of Riesling, Muller waved him out and locked the door.

"First of all, congratulations." Müller raised his glass. "The peaceful resolution of the Moroccan incident is a good thing for everyone."

Chen Feng clinked glasses with him: "But I heard that Berlin is not satisfied with this?"

Muller's smile froze for a moment, then turned bitter. "You've heard?"

"The jungles of Congo, in exchange for the retreat of the gunboat 'Leopard'." Chen Feng took a sip of his drink. "What did the German newspapers say again? 'Trading the dignity of the Empire for a swamp'?"

Muller put down his glass and sighed deeply. "Mr. Chen, do you know what's most heartbreaking? They're right. The Admiralty held three emergency meetings about it, and Admiral Tirpitz almost resigned. But..." He spread his hands, "the Army said, something is better than nothing. His Majesty ultimately adopted the Army's opinion."

The study fell silent. The faint sound of ship horns from the harbor drifted from afar.

"So you invited me here tonight," Chen Feng said slowly, "to get some compensation? Something to explain to Berlin?"

Muller looked him straight in the eye. "Yes, Mr. Chen. I need a plan that will get His Majesty's approval and silence the Admiralty. Otherwise..." He paused, "I won't be in this position for long."

Chen Feng leaned back in his chair, his fingers tapping lightly on the armrest. The clock on the mantel ticked rhythmically, each tick like a countdown to the passing of time.

"I can give you three things," he finally said.

Muller leaned forward: "Please speak."

"First, if—I mean if—Britain and Germany go to war in the future, Lanfang can secretly sell twelve U-IX type submarines to Germany."

Muller's eyes lit up immediately. "A submarine! What's the price? How will it be delivered?"

"Each ship will cost £250,000, settled in gold," Chen Feng stated clearly. "Deliveries will be made in three batches: four ships at the end of 1912, four ships in mid-1913, and four ships in early 1914. The handover point will be the port of Las Palmas, Spain, disguised as merchant ships."

"Two hundred and fifty thousand..." Muller quickly calculated in his mind, "Three million pounds for twelve submarines. This price is at least one-third cheaper than building them ourselves. But Mr. Chen, if war really breaks out, how will you ensure delivery? The British Navy will blockade shipping lanes."

"So camouflage is necessary," Chen Feng said. "Submarines can be disassembled and transported, or disguised as civilian research vessels. We have ways to do that."

Muller pondered for a moment, then nodded. "Continue. The second item?"