World War: Battleship Arms Dealers

The underground operations briefing room at the Pearl Harbor Pacific Fleet headquarters was a room without windows.

The walls are covered with dark green sound-absorbing material, and three rows of shadowless lights on the ceiling cast a uniform, cool white light throughout the space. In the center of the room is a huge Pacific Ocean chart table, its surface covered with thick reinforced glass, beneath which are movable ship models. On the surrounding walls, from left to right, hang world maps, North Atlantic charts, and Pacific Ocean charts, each densely covered with symbols and lines of various colors.

When Chen Feng and Wang Wenwu entered the room under the guidance of Lieutenant General Rodman, it was 9:55 a.m.

President Wilson was already there. He wasn't seated in the main seat, but rather stood before the Pacific chart, his back to the door, gazing up at the vast blue expanse. Today he wore a dark blue suit, more formal and more somber than on previous meetings.

Secretary of State Lansing sat on one side of the chart table, a thick folder spread out in front of him. His expression was more serious than Chen Feng had ever seen before.

There was a fourth person in the room—the Chief of Staff of the Pacific Fleet, who stood by the telegraph machine against the wall, holding a newly received telegram.

"Mr. President, Mr. Chen Feng has arrived," Rodman said softly.

Wilson turned around. His face betrayed his weariness; his eyes were heavy with bags, and the nasolabial folds at the corners of his mouth were deep, as if etched by a knife. But his eyes remained clear, even clearer than ever before—a clarity born from abandoning illusions and facing reality.

"Mr. Chen, please have a seat." Wilson gestured to the chair opposite the chart table. "I apologize for meeting you again in this setting. But I think the topic we're discussing today requires this kind of atmosphere."

Chen Feng nodded in acknowledgment and sat down with Wang Wenwu. He could feel the air in the room—heavy, tense, like the low pressure before a storm.

Lieutenant General Rodman walked to the door, gestured to the guard, and the door closed softly. Now there were only five people in the room.

"Before we begin," Wilson said, "I think you should already know what's happening in the Atlantic."

"Yes," Chen Feng replied simply.

"Forty-three citizens of Merica are dead, and twenty-one are missing with little hope of survival." Wilson's tone was calm, but every word was as cold as an icicle. "Among them are sailors, merchants, and engineers. The youngest was only nineteen, making his first transoceanic voyage. The oldest was fifty-seven, and he was two years away from retirement."

He didn't raise his voice, but that calm narration was all the more powerful.

Chen Feng listened in silence. He knew that any explanation or analysis at this moment would be inappropriate.

"This morning, I received sixty-four telegrams," Wilson continued. "From members of Congress, governors of various states, newspaper editors, and ordinary citizens. The content was almost identical: demanding that the government take action, severely punish the murderers, and protect the safety of the citizens of Melbourne."

He walked to the table and picked up a document: "This is the proof of tomorrow's front page in The New York Times. The headline is: 'Ruthless T-Kill—German Submarine Sinks Merica Merchant Ship in Mid-Atlantic.' The subtitle is: 'Forty-Three Lives Cry for Justice.' The article describes the attack in detail, quotes survivor testimonies, and includes... photos of the dead."

He pushed the document across the table and slid it in front of Chen Feng.

Chen Feng didn't look. He knew what was inside.

"Mr. President," Wang Wenwu began cautiously, "we express our deepest condolences to the victims. This tragedy is something no peace-loving person would want to see."

"Mourning won't change anything." Lansing spoke for the first time, his voice cold and hard. "Mr. Chen, two days ago you told us here that the war should end through negotiations, that Mica should remain neutral, and that Europe should resolve the issue itself. Now, you see the reality. The reality is that this war won't stay obediently in Europe; it will find us, it will kill our people."

Chen Feng looked directly at Lansing: "Mr. Secretary of State, I never said that the war would stay quietly in Europe. What I said was that Meilika has the freedom to choose how to deal with it. And choices always come with costs."

"The price?" Lansing's voice was filled with suppressed anger. "Wasn't the price paid by those who died enough? Or do you think the lives of the Miracar people are merely a quantifiable 'price'?"

The words were sharp, but Chen Feng did not back down.

“Every life is priceless,” he said. “But as leaders, we must think on a larger scale. The deaths of forty-three people are a tragedy. But if Mirika had gone to war, forty-three thousand, even four hundred and thirty thousand people would have died. How would we face the families who lost loved ones then? How would we explain why we would send their sons, husbands, and fathers to their deaths on a foreign continent three thousand miles away?”

Wilson sat down, placing his hands clasped on the table. "Mr. Chen, I understand your logic. But you've overlooked a crucial point: politics isn't mathematics. Public sentiment, congressional pressure, national dignity—these cannot be quantified. When people are chanting 'We want war' in the streets, when newspapers are questioning daily 'Why isn't the president doing anything?', when members of Congress are threatening a vote of no confidence… rationality becomes a luxury."

His tone contained no blame, only deep helplessness.

Chen Feng knew the crucial moment had arrived. Wilson was right—political realities often trump rational calculations. But he wanted to make one last effort.

"Mr. President, let me ask you a question." Chen Feng leaned forward. "If you were to declare war on Germany today, and six months later, the first batch of Mikhail soldiers boarded transport ships, a year later, the first list of fallen soldiers was sent home, and two years later, the war ended with Mikhail suffering 300,000 casualties—would the people still support the war as they do today? Or would they ask: Why? Why should we get involved in a war that has nothing to do with us?"

The room fell silent. Only the clock on the wall ticked.

Wilson didn't answer. He was thinking, or rather, struggling.

Lansing answered for him: "Mr. Chen, you're making assumptions again. Assuming the war will last two years, assuming Milica will suffer heavy casualties. But the reality is that Milica's entry into the war will end quickly. Germany's resources are exhausted; they cannot fight another powerful enemy."

"End it quickly?" Chen Feng shook his head. "Mr. Secretary of State, have you studied military history? How tenacious will a country's resistance be when it believes it is fighting for survival? The Napoleonic Wars lasted twelve years, the Marica Wars lasted four years, and this war has been going on for two and a half years. Both sides believe they can win. Marica's entry into the war will not make Germany surrender; it will only make the war bloodier and longer."

He turned to Wilson: "Mr. President, you asked me yesterday what would happen if Germany won the war. Now let me ask you another question: If the Mulkas entered the war and helped Britain and France win, then what? Then the Mulkas would become Europe's creditor, the world's policeman, and burdened with the responsibility of maintaining global order. And Germany would be humiliated, dismembered, and plundered, and then return twenty years later with even deeper hatred. By then, would the Mulkas be ready? Ready to fight an even larger war?"

The questions were increasingly pointed, like a scalpel cutting through the surface emotions to reveal the underlying logic.