World War: Battleship Arms Dealers

Asquith took a deep breath.

"No," he said. "I'm just thinking about how long all this will take."

"It will take a month for public opinion to build up," Baruch estimated. "The reports of the 'German atrocities' will spread throughout the country, and public sentiment will escalate from 'sympathy' to 'anger.' Then, in early February, the Mexican telegram will be leaked. By then, the president will have enough public support to demand that Congress take action."

"Early February..." Asquith calculated the timeline. It's mid-November now, so there are still two and a half months until early February. Can the Western Front hold out that long?

"We will expedite the supply of goods to Britain." Morgan seemed to read Asquith's mind. "More food, more steel, more oil. On merchant ships, flying the Merleka flag. If German submarines dare to attack, even better—every attack is ammunition for our propaganda machine."

The dinner bell rang. A waiter opened the double doors to the dining room, revealing a long table already set with silver cutlery and crystal glasses. Tonight's main course was grilled Maine lobster and filet mignon, paired with an 1882 Lafite—although the war had drastically reduced production at French wineries, the club's underground cellar always had some. (Is the 82 Lafite the best?)

The group walked to the dining table. Asquith was seated to Morgan's right, the seat of honor. Before taking his seat, Morgan patted him on the arm.

"Don't worry, Prime Minister." The old banker's voice held an undeniable confidence. "Merika will be on your side. Not because she loves Britain, or even because she hates Germany. It's because it's business—and business must go on."

Asquith nodded and took his seat. He looked at the enormous silver candlestick in the center of the table, the candlelight flickering in everyone's eyes. This group of people held the reins of wealth in the Mérica—and in some ways, the entire world. And they had just decided to use this wealth as a weight on one side of the scales.

The waiter began to serve the soup. Steaming hot, clear turtle soup. Asquith picked up his ladle and suddenly remembered the kitchen at 10 Downing Street, London. The chef there also made turtle soup, but he used wild turtles from the Thames, smaller and with a more fishy taste. He hadn't had it for three months.

War changes everything, even the taste of a bowl of soup.

At the same time, in Berlin, at 73 Wilhelmstrasse.

On the second basement level of the German Foreign Ministry building, there is a windowless room with thick concrete walls and a steel door that requires two different keys to open. The room is filled with equipment: telegraph machines, cipher machines, a map table, and rows of filing cabinets labeled with codes. This is the heart of the Foreign Ministry's Cryptography and Analysis Department, responsible for monitoring and deciphering all diplomatic communications entering and leaving Germany.

Major Carl von Streischer sat before an Enigma machine, his brow furrowed. This 38-year-old cryptographer was one of the department's most outstanding talents, fluent in seven languages ​​and possessing a natural affinity for numbers and patterns. But now, he faced a problem. (The editor checked AI and found that Germany's cipher machine in World War I was also this type; not sure if this is correct, could someone please clarify?)

"Major, a telegram from London station." A young lieutenant handed over a piece of paper. "It's still using Alpha-7, but this time it's much shorter, only 120 characters."

Streicher took the telegram. It contained a string of meaningless letter combinations, five letters per group, twenty-four in total. He glanced at it quickly, his brain already processing it automatically—Alpha-7 was a mid-level code for the British Foreign Office, cracked by Germany six months ago, but the British were unaware.

"Give me the original document," he said.

The lieutenant retrieved a thick leather notebook from the filing cabinet. Streicher opened it, found the corresponding page for Alpha-7, and began manually decoding. His fingers moved rapidly between the tables, muttering incantations as he converted the coded letters into plaintext.

Five minutes later, he stopped and stared at the translated text.

"My God..."

"Major?"

Streicher didn't answer. He grabbed the telegram and translation, rushed out of the code room, and ran wildly down the underground passage. His leather shoes echoed rapidly on the concrete floor, reverberating through the narrow corridor. He ran up a floor, arrived at the door of the Under Secretary of State's office, and barged in without even knocking.

Dr. Arthur Zimmerman was reading a report on the situation in the Balkans when he was startled by his subordinate's sudden intrusion. The 53-year-old diplomat, the de facto second-in-command at the Foreign Office, was known for his shrewdness and lack of moral scruples.

"Streicher? What's going on?"

"Sir, urgent intelligence." Streicher slammed the translated telegram on the table. "It's from our military attaché in Washington. We've just intercepted and deciphered it."

Zimmerman put on his glasses and began to read. His expression shifted from confusion to shock, and finally solidified into a cold anger.

The telegram was very brief:

"Asquith secretly arrived in the US today and met with Wilson for three hours. The British side presented a large amount of economic data and emphasized the US debt risks among the Allied powers. After the meeting, British Ambassador Spring-Rice met with financial giants such as Morgan, Schiff, and Baruch. Assessment: Britain is launching a systematic lobbying campaign aimed at getting the US to abandon neutrality. Immediate countermeasures are recommended."

The office was eerily quiet. The fire in the fireplace was burning, but the air was as cold as ice.

"Asquith went himself..." Zimmerman muttered to himself, "They're really in a hurry."

"Sir, if the Merika people are persuaded..." Streicher didn't finish his sentence, but his meaning was clear.

Zimmerman stood up and walked to the world map on the wall. His finger traced the North Atlantic and stopped at Washington.

"With the entry of the Mérica into the war, the Western Front is doomed." His voice was soft, but each word was as heavy as lead. "Even with Lanfang's tanks and Japan's manpower, we cannot contend with the Mérica's unlimited industrial capacity. They will blockade the entire Atlantic with their warships and revive Britain and France with their supplies."

He turned around, his eyes flashing dangerously in the light.

"We cannot let this happen."

"But what can we do?" Streicher asked. "We can't stop the British from operating in Micah; they have centuries of connections and influence there. Our embassy in the US is almost entirely under surveillance, and any large-scale counter-lobbying will be immediately detected and exploited by British intelligence."

Zimmerman pondered in silence. His fingers tapped unconsciously on the table, a habitual gesture he made when nervous. A few minutes later, he looked up.

"Two directions," he said. "First, immediately notify the Emperor and the General Staff. We need to develop contingency plans on how to secure the best negotiating terms before the Western Front collapses, should Marilyn Monroe actually join the war."

"And the second one?"