World War: Battleship Arms Dealers

The convoy drove underground for about three minutes before starting to climb a hill. The light gradually brightened, and they eventually entered a closed garage. After the car came to a stop, Phillips got out first and opened the door for Asquith.

"Please come with me, Mr. Prime Minister. The President is waiting."

They walked down a corridor carpeted in deep red, with portraits of past presidents adorning the walls. A faint smell of paint and floor wax mingled in the air, creating a distinctive aura of power. At the end of the corridor, two Secret Service agents in black suits stood before a double oak door, wires dangling from their ears.

The door opened.

The Oval Office was smaller than Asquith had imagined. Afternoon sunlight streamed in through the south-facing floor-to-ceiling windows, casting bright dappled patterns on the deep blue carpet. In the center of the room, behind a massive mahogany desk, President Woodrow Wilson stood.

"Mr. Prime Minister," Wilson said, walking around the table and extending his right hand, "welcome to Washington."

Asquith grasped the hand. Wilson's hand was dry and strong, and the handshake was perfectly timed—polite enough, but not overly enthusiastic. The twenty-eighth president of the United States looked thinner than in the photographs, with sunken cheeks, round-framed glasses, and graying hair. He wore a dark gray three-piece suit, his vest buttoned meticulously to the top, exuding an air of scholarly rigor.

"Thank you for taking the time to meet with me, Mr. President," Asquith replied in perfect British English. "This kindness is especially precious during such a difficult time."

"Please have a seat." Wilson gestured to a seating area in the corner of the office, where a set of brown leather sofas and two armchairs were placed. A silver tea set and porcelain cups were already set on the coffee table in front of the sofas.

The two men sat down. Balfour sat on the armchair next to Asquith, while Hankey and Phillips sat in chairs against the wall. A black waiter in a white uniform entered silently and began pouring tea. The only sound in the room was the soft clinking of porcelain.

After the tea was poured, the waiter left, and the door closed softly. Only five people remained in the oval office.

Wilson picked up his teacup but didn't drink. His gaze swept over Asquith through his glasses with a calm, analytical look, like a professor scrutinizing a paper.

"First," Wilson began, "please allow me to express my respect for the sacrifices your country has made in this terrible war. The people of Maryland, like the British people, cherish freedom, democracy, and peace."

"Standard opening remarks," Asquith thought. "Polite, correct, but empty."

"Thank you for your understanding, Mr. President." Asquith leaned forward. "That's why I'm here at this moment. This war has reached a... tipping point. Not only for Britain, but for the entire civilized world."

Wilson raised an eyebrow slightly: "The tipping point?"

Asquith looked at Balfour. The First Lord of the Navy took a black leather folder from his briefcase, opened it, and placed the first document on the coffee table. It was a colored chart with two curves marked by red and blue lines.

"Please allow me to show you some data, Mr. President." Balfour's voice was calm and professional. "The red line represents the proportion of European territory controlled by Germany and its allies. The blue line represents the Allied Powers. As you can see, from August 1914 to the end of 1915, the two lines were basically even. But from the beginning of 1916—that is, during the Battle of Verdun and the Battle of the Somme—the red line began to rise steadily."

Wilson put on his glasses and leaned over to examine the charts closely. His expression remained unchanged, but Asquith noticed that the president's grip on his teacup tightened slightly.

"Currently, Germany and its allies control approximately 42 percent of the territory and population of continental Europe," Balfour continued. "More importantly, they control 55 percent of Europe's coal production, 60 percent of its steel production, and—" he paused, "70 percent of the chemical industry."

"The chemical industry?" Wilson looked up.

"Explosives, poison gas, fertilizers, dyes... the lifeblood of modern warfare and the modern economy." Belfort's voice remained calm. "The Germans have giants like Bayer, BASF, and Hoechst. And we, having lost industrial areas in Belgium and northern France, have only one-third of Germany's chemical production capacity."

A few seconds of silence filled the room. The sunlight outside the window shifted an inch, and dappled light climbed onto Wilson's shoes.

"These figures are...impressive," Wilson finally said, removing his glasses and wiping the lenses with a cloth. "But with all due respect, Sir Balfour, these are military and industrial figures. And Merica, as you know, is a neutral country. The position of our government and people is not to intervene in European territorial disputes."

Here it comes, Asquith thought. The first obstacle.

"We fully respect Mirika's position, Mr. President." The Prime Minister leaned forward, his tone sincere. "But what I want to talk about today is not territory, not military balance, not even political ideology. What I want to talk about are some more fundamental, more practical things."

He looked at Hanki. The secretary immediately handed him a second folder. This time the files were thicker, bound together with dozens of pages of densely packed tables.

"Economy." Asquith opened the folder, pointing to the summary data on the first page. "To be precise, it's about the economic ties between Mica and the Allied Powers. From August 1914 to October 1916, Mica's total exports to the Allied camp reached—"

He paused to make sure Wilson was fully focused.

"US$3.275 billion."

Wilson's expression finally changed slightly. His lips twitched slightly, not with surprise, but with a complex mix of wariness and understanding.

"During the same period, the export value of Miraca to the Allied camp," Asquith turned to the next page, "was three million two hundred thousand dollars. That's more than a thousand times less."

"These data are public, Mr. Prime Minister," Wilson said calmly. "Melica does business with any customer who is willing and able to pay; that's the principle of the free market."

“Of course, of course,” Asquith nodded. “But the problem isn’t ‘doing business,’ Mr. President. The problem is ‘ability to pay.’”

He gestured a third time, and Hanki handed him a third folder. This folder was the smallest, with only a few thin pages, but the paper was of the highest quality, and the edges were embossed with gold.

"This is the total amount of bonds issued, loans obtained, and outstanding trade credits in the United States by Allied governments, businesses, and individuals over the past twenty-six months," Asquith said, his voice becoming even slower, each word clear and distinct. "Total: $2.19 billion. Of this, Britain accounts for 58 percent, France 27 percent, Russia 9 percent, and the remaining countries 6 percent."

He pushed the folder in front of Wilson.