World War: Battleship Arms Dealers

"General, there's one more thing." Zhou Tieshan took a document from his briefcase. "This is the 'Family Relocation Plan' drafted by the Security Department. The immediate family members of all officers in the Arab Division—from platoon leader to division commander—will be moved to the newly built 'Officers' Village' in Dubai. There are good housing, schools, and hospitals there, and the living conditions are much better than they are now."

Shadiq took the document and quickly glanced through it. The plan was detailed and the benefits were generous, but the terms on the last page made his heart sink: family members needed to report their whereabouts, communications with the outside world would be subject to "appropriate checks," and they were not allowed to leave the new village area without permission.

These are hostages. The polite way to put it is "family relocation," but in essence, they are hostages.

"Is this mandatory?" he asked, trying to keep his voice calm.

"I strongly recommend it," Zhou Tieshan smiled. "Of course, officers can choose not to participate. But in that case, their promotion opportunities, special allowances, retirement resettlement... may be affected."

Choice. A choice where there is no choice.

Shadiq remained silent for a long time. Outside the tent, the soldiers' roll call chants drifted in the desert night wind.

"I understand, Minister. I will convey this 'recommendation' to the officers."

"Very good." Zhou Tieshan put away the documents. "Also, the President will be inspecting the Arab Division next week. I want him to see a highly motivated and well-trained force, not a rabble. Can you do that?"

"Yes, Minister."

"Then I won't bother you any longer."

Zhou Tieshan left the tent and got into the waiting jeep. The vehicle drove out of the camp and bumped along the desert highway. Outside the window, the dark desert stretched in all directions, with only the headlights illuminating a small area ahead.

The driver glanced in the rearview mirror and cautiously asked, "Minister, are we going back to Dubai?"

"The port. I need to go to Borneo tonight to check on the security arrangements there."

"You haven't had a proper rest for three days..."

"War won't wait for you to rest." Zhou Tieshan leaned back in his seat, closed his eyes, and said, "Drive faster."

The jeep accelerated, kicking up a long cloud of dust on the desert highway. The beams of its headlights pierced the darkness, like fragile swords attempting to cleave the boundless night.

Behind them, in the Arab division's camp, soldiers finished training and returned to their tents. Some wrote home, telling their families that they were well-fed, warmly clothed, and earning money. Others, under the guidance of political officers, studied the "Citizen's Code of Conduct of the Lanfang Republic" and "Soldier's Duties."

Loyalty is being forged, fear is being instilled, and a special force is being born. It will become Lanfang's sharpest sword, or it may be a double-edged sword—capable of piercing the enemy, but also capable of wounding itself.

Zhou Tieshan knew about the risks, but he also knew that in this dangerous world, the risks of not taking any risks were even greater.

The jeep drove into the distance and disappeared into the desert night.

December 15, 1916, North Atlantic Ocean, 52 degrees North latitude, 30 degrees West longitude.

The Royal Navy auxiliary cruiser HMS Albion cuts through the leaden waves, struggling through six-meter-high swells. This warship, converted from a passenger liner, displaces 18,000 tons and is armed with six 152mm guns and two torpedo tubes. At this moment, it is carrying out a most special mission—cable cutting.

On the bridge, Captain Richard Turner held up his binoculars, staring at the churning sea ahead. The 45-year-old officer had twenty years of naval service, but this was his first time on such a mission.

"Bearing position confirmed, Captain," the navigator reported. "We are now 320 nautical miles west of Ireland and 5 nautical miles from the German 'North Atlantic 7' submarine cable relay point."

"weather?"

"The situation continues to deteriorate. Wind speeds are 25 knots, waves are 6 to 8 meters high, and visibility is less than 3 nautical miles. It is not suitable for diving operations."

Colonel Turner lowered his binoculars, a cold smile playing on his lips. "It's better this way. In this weather, German patrol boats won't come out, and neutral merchant ships will avoid us. Perfect for work."

He turned and gave the order: "Slow down to five knots. Deploy the patrol boat. Notify the 'Siren' team to prepare to dive."

The Albion began to slow down, its massive hull rocking even more violently in the waves. On deck, sailors untied the securing cables and lowered a specially designed deep-sea workboat, the Siren III, to the surface. This 15-meter-long vessel had a peculiar shape, with a large mechanical clamp and cutter mounted at the bow, enabling it to operate at depths of up to 300 meters.

On the workboat, four divers and two operators were already in position. Team leader Lieutenant Mike Harris—a 30-year-old Scotsman with ten years of deep-sea experience—finished checking the equipment and gave the mothership a thumbs-up.

"Dive!"

The steel cable was slowly released, and "Sea Monster III" sank into the surging sea, quickly disappearing beneath the deep blue surface.

280 meters below the seabed.

The seawater here was almost pitch black, with only the searchlight at the bow of the workboat illuminating a small area. The immense pressure caused the hull to groan slightly, but everything inside remained normal thanks to the protection of the double pressure hull.

"Sonar has detected the target." The operator stared at the screen. "400 meters directly ahead, an undersea cable. Approximately 10 centimeters in diameter, protected by double-layer armor."

Lieutenant Harris leaned closer to look at the screen. The sonar image showed a thick, linear structure lying on the sandy seabed, extending in both north and south directions. This was one of Germany's three main submarine telegraph cables to the Americas, carrying most of the diplomatic and commercial communications between Berlin and Washington, and between Berlin and Buenos Aires.

"Approaching. Prepare the cutter."

The workboat slowly approached. In the beam of the searchlight, the outline of the cable gradually became clear—a thick black rubber tube, wrapped with a steel wire braid and an asphalt waterproof layer, with a lead weight ring every twenty meters to ensure it sank to the seabed.

"The German engineers did a good job," Harris commented. "This design can withstand most natural damage, but it can't stop us."

The robotic arm at the front of the workboat extends, ending in a rotating serrated cutting disc. The operator carefully manipulates the robotic arm to align the cutter with the middle of the cable.

"Contact. Begin cutting."

The saw disc began to spin, emitting a low hum that could be heard even inside the soundproof cabin. The cutter made contact with the cable armor, sending up a string of sparks—the metallic friction of steel wires being severed.

Progress was slow. Double-layered armor, rubber insulation, internal copper wires… each layer required different cutting parameters. Harris stared at the monitor, constantly adjusting the pressure and rotation speed.

Twenty minutes later, the operator looked up: "First layer of armor cut. Second layer... complete. Rubber layer being cut."

Suddenly, the sonar alarm went off.