World War: Battleship Arms Dealers

Twenty nautical miles away, the sonars of the HMS Courageous and HMS Vigilant picked up the sound of the explosion.

Lieutenant Commander Harris stood on the bridge, his face pale. He knew what had happened without even looking. The order, the timing, the German submarine's punctual appearance—it was all too coincidental.

"Captain, we have received a distress signal..." The communications officer's voice trembled.

Harris closed his eyes, then opened them a few seconds later: "Full speed back. Organize the rescue. Meanwhile... report to the Navy: NY-107 convoy is under attack by a German submarine. Two destroyers are pursuing the submarine and organizing a rescue operation."

Chase the submarine? He knew it had already escaped. Rescue? By the time they arrived, many had already frozen to death.

But he had to do it because it was part of the script.

He looked at the coordinates on the nautical chart, the place where he had left the fleet, as ordered. There, forty-three Merikas had died, and many more would perish from the cold and their injuries.

Why? To drag Mirika into the war?

Harris felt nauseous. He walked to the ship's railing, gripped it, and took a deep breath of the cold sea air. In his twenty years of military service, he had experienced battle and witnessed death, but he had never felt so...filthy.

"God forgive me," he whispered.

But it seems that God has left this sea area.

The news reached Washington four hours later.

The report was first received by the Naval Operations Room. The duty officer's hands began to tremble when he saw the telegram. He immediately picked up the red telephone…

8:20 PM

President Wilson was discussing preparations with Lansing for his meeting with Chen Feng that afternoon. The tea was arranged in the garden, an informal setting perhaps more conducive to in-depth discussion. Wilson had prepared several questions: regarding Lansing's specific vision for the postwar order, the feasibility of technological cooperation, and…

The red phone rang.

Lansing answered the phone, listened for a few moments, and his expression changed drastically. He covered the receiver and turned to Wilson: "Mr. President, convoy NY-107 was attacked by a German submarine in the mid-Atlantic. Two cargo ships sank, forty-three people are known to have died, and dozens more are missing. Two British destroyers were temporarily separated from the convoy while pursuing a suspected submarine, and by the time they returned, they were unable to stop the attack."

The room was deathly silent.

Wilson slowly stood up and walked to the window. Outside was the Hawaiian night view, the city lights twinkling in the winter night. Just minutes before, he had been contemplating how to advance the peace process. Now, reality had slapped him in the face.

"Why did the British destroyer leave the fleet?" His voice was calm, but beneath that calm lay a volcano about to erupt.

"The telegram stated that suspicious submarine contact had been detected."

"At the same time? In the same sea area? Under the circumstances where we have explicitly requested increased escort?"

Lansing did not answer. He knew Wilson had already considered that possibility—it looked too much like an elaborate trap.

Wilson turned and slammed his fist on the table. The water glass jumped up and shattered on the floor.

"Shameless!" His voice lost control for the first time. "They're using the blood of the Merika people to achieve their own ends! Do they even know what they're doing? Do they know those who died had families, children, and futures?"

Lansing waited until he finished venting before speaking softly, "Mr. President, the problem now is that this news will spread very quickly. The New York Times, the Washington Post... all the newspapers will have it on their front page tomorrow morning. On the Congress side, Senator Lodge is already calling an emergency meeting."

Wilson took a few deep breaths, forcing himself to calm down. He walked back to the table, placed his hands on the surface, and lowered his head.

"Does Chen Feng know?"

"They probably don't know yet. But it will happen soon."

Wilson gave a wry smile: "I was planning to discuss the possibility of peace with him this afternoon. Now... how am I supposed to face him now? How am I supposed to tell him that while we were discussing avoiding war, forty-three Melikas died in a possibly orchestrated attack?"

"We need to verify the details," Lansing said. "Perhaps it really is just a coincidence..."

"A coincidence?" Wilson looked up, his eyes bloodshot. "Robert, you and I both know this isn't a coincidence. The British wanted us to join the war, and this was the simplest and most direct way—to have the Germans kill the Merikas. And the Germans, those stupid, short-sighted Germans, did indeed take the bait."

He walked to the world map on the wall and pointed to the middle of the Atlantic Ocean.

"Now the British have won. They got what they wanted—the anger of the people of Merika. In the next few days, the newspapers will be filled with photos of the dead, the cries of the survivors, and condemnations of Germany. Parliament will demand that I take action. And me… what can I say? That this might be a British conspiracy? The people won't believe me; they'll say I'm making excuses for the Germans."

Lansing remained silent. He knew Wilson was right. In politics, emotion often trumps truth. And at this moment, the emotions of the people of Meilika were about to be ignited.

The phone rang again. This time it was the Secretary of State's office, reporting that the British Ambassador urgently requested a meeting.

"Tell him I'm not seeing anyone right now," Wilson said. "Schedule an emergency meeting at 10 a.m. tomorrow. Notify the Secretary of the Army, the Secretary of the Navy, and the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. Also... inform Mr. Chen Feng that the afternoon tea is canceled. But tell him I still hope to meet with him tomorrow."

"What do you plan to say to him?"

Wilson stared at the map, remaining silent for a long time.

"I don't know," he finally said, "but I do know one thing: history is accelerating. And we're all on a runaway train, not knowing where the destination is."

The news reached Pearl Harbor at 9 p.m.

When Wang Wenwu received the telegram forwarded from the "Huaihe" ship, he was preparing materials for an afternoon tea party. After decoding it, he stared at those few lines of text for a long time, then gently put down his decoding notebook and walked to Chen Feng's bedroom door.

Knock on the door.

"Come in."

Chen Feng was reading a book about Hawaiian history. Seeing Wang Wenwu's expression, he put down the book: "Something happened?"

"Atlantic, NY-107 convoy, German submarine, two ships sunk, forty-three people killed." Wang Wenwu handed over the coded message, each word as heavy as a stone.

Chen Feng took the paper and read it quickly. His expression didn't change much, but Wang Wenwu noticed that the knuckles of his fingers holding the paper were slightly white.

"Time?" Chen Feng asked.

"This morning, around 10 a.m. Hawaii time, is when we're visiting the airport."

Chen Feng closed his eyes, then opened them a few seconds later: "The British destroyer 'coincidentally' broke formation to pursue the submarine?"

"That's what the telegram said."