World War: Battleship Arms Dealers

"Commander-in-Chief," Wang Wenwu's voice interrupted his thoughts, "Captain Zhang sent a message saying that the technical exchange this afternoon was very successful. The naval officer from the US Navy raised many professional questions, and our officers answered them very appropriately. General Rodman privately expressed his hope to establish a more regular exchange mechanism."

"This is a good thing. Mutual respect at the professional level is the foundation of political mutual trust." Chen Feng turned around and said, "Tell Captain Zhang that we can appropriately share some non-core technical information to express our sincerity."

"Yes."

As evening fell, the setting sun bathed Pearl Harbor in gold.

In another villa, President Wilson stood on the balcony, holding a glass of water—he never drank alcohol. Lansing stood beside him, both silent.

"What do you think, Robert?" Wilson finally asked.

"Chen Feng is an extremely shrewd realist," Lansing said cautiously. "Every argument he makes is based on calculations of self-interest, which ironically makes his arguments more persuasive. Because self-interest is eternal, while moral slogans fade over time."

"His vision of the post-war world..."

"Theoretically perfect," Lansing admitted. "Merica gained hegemony without bloodshed, Europe rebuilt after its depletion, and Lanfang gained room to develop. But if it were really that simple, history wouldn't be filled with wars."

Wilson took a sip of water: "But his core point is correct—the cost of Milica's entry into the war may far exceed our imagination. And... we need to verify the information he gave about the true situation of the war."

"It's already arranged. The intelligence services will reassess the true situation on the European battlefield, especially the propaganda regarding atrocities."

Another silence fell. The harbor lights began to illuminate, and the silhouettes of the warships became mere shadows in the twilight.

"The British ambassador is requesting to see me tomorrow," Wilson said. "He will exert even more pressure."

"As expected." Lansing paused. "Mr. President, I have a question. Putting aside all political considerations, personally...which path do you prefer?"

Wilson gazed at the distant horizon for a long time before answering, "I hate war. I've spent my whole life studying how to resolve disputes through laws and institutions. But sometimes, reality forces you to make choices that go against your ideals."

He turned around: "Prepare two drafts. One is Congress's request for war authorization, and the other is a new peace initiative framework. We need to be prepared for both scenarios."

"clear."

After Lansing left, Wilson stood alone on the balcony. Night had completely fallen, and the Pearl Harbor lighthouse began to rotate, its beams slicing across the night sky.

He recalled his Princeton University classroom and the lectures he gave his students: reason, dialogue, and international law. At that time, he believed that humanity was civilized enough to transcend violence and resolve problems.

But the world today seems to be mocking his naiveté.

Chen Feng's words echoed in his mind: "There is no absolute right or wrong in war, only interests and costs."

If this is true, then what are all those lofty pronouncements about democracy, freedom, and civilization? Are they merely a fig leaf to cover up self-interest?

Wilson felt a deep weariness. As a scholar, he yearned for truth. But as president, he had to face reality. And these two seemed to always be contradictory.

He went back to his study, turned on the desk lamp, and took a Bible from the drawer. But he didn't open it; he simply placed his hand on the cover.

"God," he prayed softly, "grant me wisdom to see which path is righteous. And if righteousness conflicts with self-interest, how should I choose?"

There was no answer. Only the sound of the sea breeze outside the window and the faint sound of bugles from a distant warship.

Meanwhile, in another villa not far away, Chen Feng was drafting encrypted telegrams for Berlin and London respectively.

The telegram to Berlin was brief: "Meeting with W, initial signs of wavering. Time is of the essence. Control submarine operations and avoid giving Britain any pretext. We urgently need the latest German negotiating bottom line."

The telegram to London was more nuanced: "The meeting with W went well, but the British side should be wary that excessive manipulation of public opinion could backfire. It is recommended to adjust the propaganda strategy appropriately to leave room for peace."

After sending the telegram, he went to the window and looked at the Hawaiian starry sky.

"Wang Wenwu".

"exist."

"If someone were to write this history a hundred years from now, how would they evaluate our choices today?"

Wang Wenwu pondered for a moment: "They would say, 'We did our best. At the crossroads of history, we tried to choose a path with less bloodshed. Whether we succeed or not, the attempt itself is valuable.'"

Chen Feng smiled but didn't say anything.

Value? History is written by the victors. If his attempt had failed, if Meilika had still joined the war, if Lanfang had ultimately been forced to get involved, then all of today's efforts might not even leave a footnote.

But we still have to do it.

Because it is the leader's responsibility to find light in darkness, hope in despair, and the possibility of change in inevitable tragedy.

Pearl Harbor appeared calm outside the window. But Chen Feng knew that beneath this calm, undercurrents were surging. Cargo ships in the Atlantic, submarines in the North Sea, trenches on the Western Front, the Congress in Washington, Downing Street in London, the Imperial Palace in Berlin—all these forces were converging on a critical point.

And he, an anomaly from the East, tried to give a gentle push before this critical point.

Will it succeed? He didn't know.

But he has to try.

As night deepens, Pearl Harbor drifts into slumber. But in every corner of the world, countless people are losing sleep over tomorrow's decisions. And tomorrow will bring new variables, new challenges, and new choices.

History is still being written.

The morning light once again bathed Pearl Harbor, but the air had a different texture today.

Chen Feng stood on the balcony of the second floor of the villa, holding a copy of the Honolulu Star that had just been delivered. The front page headline was still about the war in Europe, but in the corner there was a short news item: "President inspects naval base in Hawaii"—only eighty words, no details, no photos, like a routine filler report.

"The secrecy has been handled well." Wang Wenwu walked over with a cup of coffee. "General Rodman sent word that the schedule for this morning is a visit to the naval air station, and there are some free time in the afternoon. As for President Wilson... there are no further meetings scheduled for the time being."

Chen Feng put down the newspaper and took the coffee: "He's digesting yesterday's content, and he's also waiting for something."

"wait?"

"Let's wait and see how things develop." Chen Feng looked towards the port. "Yesterday's meeting shook Wilson, but it wasn't enough for him to make a decision. He needs time to think, and he also needs... a catalyst. The question is, where will that catalyst come from? Will it come from concessions from Germany, or from pressure from Britain?"