World War: Battleship Arms Dealers

"Secondly," Zimmerman said with a cold smile, "we also need to prepare some 'public opinion ammunition.' Don't the British call us barbarians? Then we'll show them what true barbarism is."

Streicher looked at him, puzzled.

"Submarine warfare." Zimmerman walked behind his desk and pulled out a document marked "Top Secret." "The General Staff's Naval Office has submitted a plan: starting February 1, 1917, unrestricted submarine warfare will be implemented. Any ship entering a designated war zone, whether from a belligerent or neutral country, and regardless of its cargo, will be sunk unconditionally."

"But that's..." Streicher gasped, "It would kill tens of thousands of civilians and would certainly enrage neutral countries, especially Mica!"

"So we need a reason." Zimmermann's eyes narrowed to slits. "A reason that the German people can accept, and even that some international opinion can understand. For example... the British blockade is causing German children to starve to death, and we have no choice but to take extreme measures to defend ourselves."

He sat down and began to write quickly.

"Draft a report for the Foreign Minister. The report should include the following: First, Britain has made substantial progress in secretly lobbying Merika to join the war. Second, once Merika joins the war, the war will inevitably be lost. Third, therefore, we must force Britain to submit using the most forceful means before Merika completes its mobilization. Unrestricted submarine warfare is the only method that may be effective quickly."

Streischer took notes, his hands trembling slightly. He knew what this meant—more ships sinking, more lives lost, more hatred ignited.

"And another thing," Zimmerman added, "inform our people in Stockholm to expedite contact with Mexico. Wasn't that proposal for a 'German-Mexican alliance' already drafted?"

"Yes, sir. But that's a backup plan, only to be used in extreme circumstances..."

"The situation has deteriorated drastically, Major," Zimmerman interrupted him. "The British have even sent Asquith to Washington. Do you think they're playing a game? No, this is a life-or-death struggle. It's either win or die. And in this kind of struggle, there are no rules, no bottom lines, only victory."

He paused, his tone softening slightly.

"Also, send a telegram to Chen Feng in Lanfang. Use the highest level of encryption. Tell him everything that's happening here, especially the British operations in Meilika. Remind him that if Meilika goes to war, all his investments—those tanks, those warships, those mercenary contracts—could be wiped out. Ask him for advice."

Do you think Chen Feng will help us?

"He'll help himself," Zimmerman sneered. "That Chinese man only cares about his own interests. And our interests are temporarily aligned on that point. Go, do it now."

Streicher stood at attention, saluted, and turned to leave. Zimmermann was alone in the office again. He walked to the window and drew back the heavy curtains. Outside, the Berlin night was pitch black.

This city, this country, has already paid too high a price for the war. Two million people have been killed or wounded, the economy is on the verge of collapse, and food rations have been reduced to a minimum. And now, the greatest threat does not come from the enemy on the front lines, but from that giant across the ocean who claims to be neutral but has already taken sides.

Zimmerman picked up the framed photograph on the table. Inside was a picture of him, his wife, and their two sons, taken in the summer of 1913 at a Baltic resort. They were all smiling then, the sun shining brightly, and the future seemed infinitely promising. Now, his eldest son had died at Verdun, his youngest son had frostbitten feet on the Eastern Front, and his wife worked fourteen hours a day at a Red Cross hospital.

"We will win," he whispered to the photo, unsure whether he was comforting his family or himself, "no matter the cost."

He put down the picture frame, sat back down at the table, and continued reading the plan for unrestricted submarine warfare. The figures on the paper were cold and precise: an estimated 60 to 80 tons sunk per month, forcing Britain to surrender within six months. The cost: approximately 20% loss of neutral ships, potentially triggering the entry of the United States into the war.

may.

Zimmerman underlined the word "possibly." War is a gamble, and he was now betting everything.

Washington, D.C., The White House, 11 p.m.

President Woodrow Wilson sat alone in the Oval Office, with the main lights off, only a green-shaded desk lamp illuminating the space. The light lit a small area: three folders left by Asquith lay open, next to Wilson's own notes, the handwriting small and dense.

He has been sitting here for three hours.

The fire in the fireplace was dying down, but he didn't call for a waiter to add more. The cold kept him awake, and he needed absolute clarity to process this information.

The first document was a military balance chart. The red and blue lines fluctuated like an electrocardiogram, with the red line steadily rising and the blue line struggling in the last six months. The conclusion was clear: without external intervention, Germany would win the war. This would likely occur in the summer of 1917, but no later than the beginning of 1918.

The second document contained economic data. $3.2 billion in exports, $2.19 billion in debt. These figures swirled in Wilson's mind. He wasn't an economist, but he understood what these numbers meant—they represented thousands upon thousands of factories, farms, and mines in Melaka, millions of jobs, and the livelihoods of countless families from the East Coast to the West Coast.

If the Allied Powers were defeated, if Germany refused to pay its debts, if the European market closed to Merika...

Economic recession. Factory closures. Wave of unemployment. Social unrest.

Wilson closed his eyes. He could imagine the newspaper headlines: "Wall Street Crashes, Millions Unemployed," "Farmers Bankrupt, Wheat Rotting in the Fields," "America Enters the Great Depression." And he, Woodrow Wilson, would become the president who led the country to disaster.

But what about the other side?

If he supports the Allied Powers, and if Mirka intervenes in the war, what will that mean?

Conscription. Young men—students, workers, farmers—donned uniforms, boarded transport ships, and sailed three thousand miles to a foreign continent, into trenches, facing machine guns, artillery, and poison gas. They would die, be maimed, and return with psychological trauma that would never heal.

Wilson recalled his youthful ideals. He had taught political science and history at Princeton University, telling his students that reason, dialogue, and international law were the ways to resolve conflicts. War was a barbaric regression, a failure of civilization.

And now, he sits here, contemplating whether to plunge this country into the bloodiest conflict in human history.

There was a gentle knock on the door.

"Come in."

The door opened, and his private secretary, Joseph Tumarti, entered. The loyal Irish-American carried a tray with a pot of coffee and several sandwiches.

"Mr. President, you haven't had dinner yet."

"I'm not hungry, Joseph."