World War: Battleship Arms Dealers

Wang Wenwu took the letter and looked at the neat English handwriting: "President, the British will not be satisfied with this reply."

“I don’t expect them to be satisfied.” Chen Feng sat down again. “I just need to make sure they can’t find a reason to turn against us immediately. Legally, we have a foothold—the land belongs to the Ottomans, and they leased it to us. Geographically, Khordesa is in Asia, not Europe. Militarily, we only have one division, and we’ve promised not to cross the border.”

He paused, a subtle smile playing on his lips: "Most importantly, Asquith has more pressing concerns now. Thousands are dying every day in the Somme, anti-war sentiment is growing stronger domestically, and the Germans may have new tanks... Compared to these, a Lanfang Division raising its flag in the desert is not a high priority."

"But they will keep this in mind."

"Of course," Chen Feng nodded. "So we need to become powerful enough before they settle accounts. Powerful enough that they feel the cost of taking action is too high to bear."

A ship's horn sounded outside the window. Another cargo ship was leaving Dubai Harbour, its deck piled high with cargo covered by tarpaulins—destroyer parts destined for Singapore and to be handed over to the British Navy.

Chen Feng looked at the ships and said softly, "Minister Wang, do you know? International politics is like playing chess. Sometimes you make a move not to win immediately, but for the sake of the game ten years later. That piece in Hurdlesa... that's what it is."

Wang Wenwu followed his gaze. The crane booms at the port drew arcs in the rising sun, and sparks from welding flashed like stars.

This country is growing at an astonishing pace. And growth always inevitably touches the boundaries of the old hegemony.

Conflict was bound to happen sooner or later.

The questions are: When? In what way? Who couldn't hold back first?

At 10:00 a.m. the next day, Charles Gerrard, the British Consul General in Dubai, drove his black Rolls-Royce into the gates of the Presidential Palace.

Gerald, as a typical veteran diplomat, had meticulously styled his gray hair, always wore a perfectly pressed three-piece suit, and perpetually carried an ebony cane—not out of necessity, but as a symbol of status. He had served in the Far East for twenty-three years, witnessing the collapse of the Qing Dynasty and the rise of Japan, and now he faced Lanfang, a completely new variable.

The car stopped in front of the main building. A guard opened the door, and Gerald slowly stepped out, looking up at the building. It wasn't grand, but it was simple and powerful, like its owner.

"Consul General, the President is waiting for you in the reception room on the second floor." Wang Wenwu personally greeted him, his attitude polite but maintaining a distance.

The reception room was small and simply furnished. Chen Feng stood by the window, turned around upon hearing footsteps, and extended his hand: "Mr. Gerald, welcome."

"Your Excellency, President," Gerald said, shaking hands with a firm but gentle touch for exactly three seconds. "Thank you for taking the time to meet with me."

The two sat down on the sofa. A waiter brought tea—not English black tea, but West Lake Longjing. In the celadon teacup, the tea leaves slowly unfurled in the hot water.

"This is Longjing tea from Hangzhou, China, this year's new tea," Chen Feng said, gesturing, "Try it."

Gerald picked up his teacup, sniffed it lightly, and took a small sip. He didn't know much about tea, but he knew that this was the other person setting the tone for the conversation—Eastern, subtle, but with its own set of rules.

"Good tea." He put down his teacup and got to the point. "Your Excellency, I presume you have already received the Prime Minister's telegram."

"Received it and replied," Chen Feng smiled. "What, does the London side feel my explanation wasn't sufficient?"

"Frankly, yes." Gerald leaned forward slightly, a negotiating stance. "Holdesa is only fifty kilometers from our lines. In wartime, such a military presence—regardless of its intentions—would be considered a potential threat. Moreover, your army is well-equipped and fully capable of flanking our lines at a crucial moment."

Chen Feng did not directly refute him. He got up, walked to the bookshelf, took down a bound document, and placed it on the coffee table.

"This is a notarized copy of the Mesopotamian Concession Agreement. Please review Article 3, Paragraph 2, Consul General."

Gerald took it and turned to the designated page. The terms were listed in four languages: Ottoman Turkish, Arabic, Chinese, and English.

Article 3 Scope of the Concession Area

2. The geographical boundaries of the concession zone are marked by the red line in the attached map. The operational range of the Lanfang Republic's security forces shall not extend beyond this red line. The Ottoman Empire pledged that no troops shall be deployed within a 20-kilometer radius beyond the red line without Lanfang's consent. (The map editor can't draw, but anyway, the Middle East's oil reserves are starving.)

Chen Feng handed over another map. An irregular polygon was clearly drawn on it in red pen, with the village of Hurdesa located exactly on the inner edge of the red line.

"Our troops are stationed here." Chen Feng pointed to the red dot, "1.7 kilometers from the red line boundary. It's entirely within the scope permitted by the agreement."

Gerald stared at the map, his mind racing. He had been on the diplomatic front for thirty years and had seen all sorts of legal games, but this time the other side was far too well-prepared—the agreement, the map, the notarization—the entire set of legal documents was impeccable.

"But Commander-in-Chief," he raised his eyes, "in times of war, the law often gives way to reality. If your presence threatens the safety of our troops, we have the right to take necessary measures."

"A threat?" Chen Feng sat down again, his tone still calm. "Consul General, all our artillery is firing eastward—inland. Fortifications are being constructed facing inland. Reconnaissance activities have never crossed the red line westward. We are there to guard against Bedouin bandits and protect the geological exploration team, not to target anyone."

He paused, then continued, "If the British army feels threatened, I can arrange for frontline commanders to establish direct communication with your forces, exchange patrol routes, and avoid miscalculations. We could even... invite your observers to visit the Hurdssa base and see our deployment firsthand."

Gerrard remained silent. This was a soft rebuff—the other party had provided all the legal grounds, offered suggestions for transparency, and was cooperative, but simply refused to back down.

"Your Excellency," he changed his tone, "have you considered that such a deployment might be misinterpreted as Lanfang taking sides? The Germans might think that your army is tying down our flank and helping them."

Chen Feng laughed, a genuinely amused laugh: "Consul General, if I were to help Germany, I should send troops to France, not have them sunbathing in the Arabian desert. Besides—"

He leaned forward and lowered his voice: "—I sold two battlecruisers and seven destroyers to Britain. I sold…a few armored vehicles still in the testing phase to Germany. Which deal do you think I value more?"

This was half true and half false, but it hit the nail on the head. Gerald recalled the Admiralty report: the two Hood-class battlecruisers were of exceptional performance, enough to alter the balance of power in the North Sea. And tanks… were ultimately land-based weapons.