World War: Battleship Arms Dealers

At that moment, the bridge door opened, and the communications officer came in with a telegram.

"Admiral, urgent telegram from London. Diplomatic intelligence forwarded by the Admiralty."

Jericho took the telegram and quickly glanced at it. His brow gradually furrowed.

"Lanfang?" He looked up at Study. "That country of Yazhou? What happened to them?"

"It's said they're buying up large quantities of industrial equipment, especially machine tools and steelmaking equipment." Study had clearly seen similar intelligence. "They're buying from the US, Sweden, and even from us. Chen Feng... he's quite peculiar. He seems to have a morbid obsession with industrialization."

Jellicoe reviewed the telegram again. The intelligence was brief, stating only that Lanfang was secretly developing some kind of "heavy engineering vehicle" with a peculiar design, but details were scarce. The Ministry of Foreign Affairs advised, "Maintain vigilance, but avoid overreacting."

"Chen Feng..." Jellico murmured the name, vaguely recalling some reports—about how Lanfang had transformed from a loose federation cobbled together from a colony into a nation with rudimentary industrial capabilities and a modern navy in just over a decade.

"He sells oil and rubber to the Germans, and tin and grain to us," Study said. "Typical businessman thinking, hedging his bets. But as long as he doesn't directly intervene in the war, we don't need to pay him any attention."

Jellicoe nodded and set the telegram aside. His attention returned to the nautical chart, to the red pins. Each one represented a sunken merchant ship, dozens or even hundreds of lives lost, and thousands upon thousands of tons of valuable supplies.

"Klose..." he said softly, "If we cannot resolve the submarine threat as soon as possible, the war may become a stalemate. And a stalemate is not good for Britain—our sea lanes are our lifeline, while the Germans' are a luxury."

"What are your thoughts?" Study asked.

Jellicoe's finger moved across the nautical chart, from Scapa Flow to Heligoland Bay, and then to Port William.

"We need a trap," he said. "Use a decoy fleet with a covert escort. When the submarines attack, the escort fleet will suddenly appear and sink as many as possible. Make an example of them."

"But that would reveal our tactics..."

"Then let's change tactics." Jellicoe's eyes sharpened. "We can't keep playing defensively. The Germans are using submarines, so we'll counterattack in a more aggressive way."

He summoned the navigator: "Connect me to the Admiralty; I need to speak directly with the First Sea Minister. Also, notify all destroyer squadron commanders to have a meeting at 2 PM. We have a new mission."

The order was relayed. The bridge sprang into action, radios began to operate, and messengers ran through the passageways.

Jellicoe walked to the porthole again, gazing at the calm waters of Scapa Flow. In the sunlight, the silhouettes of the dreadnoughts were clear and majestic, representing the still-powerful naval force of the British Empire.

But he knew the real threat wasn't on the surface, but underwater.

Beneath that deep blue expanse, a group of steel sharks are silently swimming, tearing at the empire's lifeline.

All he could do was set a trap and wait for his prey to take the bait.

Just like Scheer did in Jutland.

However, this time, the roles of hunter and prey may be reversed again.

The morning light fully illuminated the harbor. A new day had begun, and a new game of strategy continued.

In Dubai, Chen Feng's tank blueprints have already been distributed to the factory.

In Wilhelmshaven, Tirpitz continued his race against time.

At Scapa Flow, Jellicoe began planning his counterattack.

Across the European continent, millions of soldiers are locked in a standoff in trenches, awaiting the next bloody offensive.

June 12, Berlin Central Station.

Wang Wenwu stood on platform number three, watching steam hiss and spew from the cylinders at the front of the train, refracting into brief rainbows in the afternoon sunlight. He wore a well-tailored dark gray suit and carried an alligator briefcase, looking like a banker or trade representative from a neutral country—exactly the image he wanted to project.

The platform was crowded. There were wounded soldiers returning from the front, leaning on crutches, their uniform sleeves dangling loosely; there were government officials carrying wicker suitcases, hurrying along; and most were ordinary citizens, their faces generally pale from malnutrition as the war entered its third year. The air was thick with the smells of coal smoke, sweat, and cheap perfume, along with a vague, lingering sense of anxiety.

"Sir, your identification."

Two military policemen in grey overcoats stopped him. Their eyes were sharp, and their hands were near their holsters, ready to draw their weapons at any moment. Wang Wenwu calmly handed over his diplomatic passport—a dark blue cover bearing the golden emblem of the Lanfang Republic.

The military police carefully checked the passport and compared it to the list he was carrying before saluting: "Welcome to Berlin, Mr. Wang. The car from the Ministry of Foreign Affairs is waiting outside the station."

"Thanks."

Wang Wenwu followed the military police out of the station hall. June in Berlin should be sunny, but today the sky was overcast, the clouds hung low, and it looked like it might rain at any moment. The buildings on both sides of Wilhelmstrasse were still magnificent, but a closer look revealed many details—the shop windows were sparsely stocked, most of the outdoor seating outside the cafes was empty, and the number of cars on the street had decreased significantly, replaced by horse-drawn carriages and trams.

"The effects of war are everywhere," Wang Wenwu thought to himself.

A black Mercedes-Benz was parked on the side of the road. The driver, a middle-aged soldier, opened the door for him without a word. The interior was simply decorated but well-maintained. As the car drove along Unter den Linden, Wang Wenwu saw through the window that the Brandenburg Gate still stood, but the statue of Victory in front of it was mostly obscured by air-raid balloons—in preparation for a possible British air raid.

"Shall we go straight to the palace?" Wang Wenwu asked the driver.

"No, sir," the driver's voice was somber. "Go to the Ministry of Foreign Affairs guesthouse first. His Majesty the Emperor will not have time to see you until 3 p.m.

As expected. Wilhelm II liked to keep visitors waiting to demonstrate his authority. Wang Wenwu was in no hurry; he needed time to observe, think, and prepare for the upcoming negotiations.

The Ministry of Foreign Affairs guesthouse, located in the Tiergarten district, is a neoclassical building. Its exterior is dignified, but the interior is beginning to show signs of age. Wang Wenwu's room was on the third floor, with a window facing Tiergarten Park. He put down his luggage and walked to the window.

The park was lush with trees, but many newly dug air-raid shelters could be seen on the lawn, and children played along their edges, seemingly accustomed to the shadow of war. In the distance, the golden statue of the Victory Column was dimmed under the clouds.

A knock came at the door.