World War: Battleship Arms Dealers

The carriage headed towards the Prime Minister's residence. On the street, the lines in front of the conscription station were even longer. Young people lined up, their faces showing confusion, fear, and a certain fanaticism that had been stirred up.

Saionji looked at them, a mix of emotions welling up inside her.

These young people may be sent to Europe in the coming years to die on unfamiliar land. Will their sacrifice bring about Japan's revival? Or will they vanish like bubbles in the torrent of history?

he does not know.

The tragedy of politicians is that they must make decisions with incomplete information and then bear all the consequences of those decisions—whether those consequences are glory or disaster.

In the afternoon, the cabinet convened another meeting.

Saionji announced the Emperor's decree. The civil officials breathed a sigh of relief, Yamamoto straightened his back, and Okaichinosuke, though pale, no longer argued.

"Since His Majesty has given the decree, the Ministry of the Army will obey," Okaichinosuke said, his voice barely audible. "But I have two requests: First, the supplementary agreement on command must be finalized before the divisions are deployed. Second, the army's equipment and training must be given priority."

"Alright." Saionji nodded. "From now on, the Empire will enter a state of full mobilization. The Ministry of the Army will accelerate the formation of fifty divisions, and the Ministry of the Navy will prepare to receive technology and begin warship construction. All departments will cooperate fully."

The order was given. The state apparatus began to operate at full capacity.

That evening, the Army Ministry issued a new conscription order. The Navy Ministry established a "Battleship Construction Preparatory Committee." The Ministry of Finance began adjusting its budget to prepare for the massive expenditure.

New posters have appeared on the streets of Tokyo: "The rise and fall of the empire hinges on this" and "Build a great navy to demonstrate national power."

In the countryside, in fishing villages, and in urban slums, conscription notices were delivered to families. Mothers wept, wives worried, and fathers remained silent. But among the young people, a fervent zeal was stirred—to go to Europe, to the battlefield, to fight for “land under the sun” for the empire.

The specter of militarism once again hovers over the land of cherry blossoms.

But this time, it wears the mask of "national survival" and "national rejuvenation," making it seem more legitimate and more alluring.

Saionji stood by the window of his Prime Minister's office, gazing at the Tokyo night view. Among the myriad lights of the city, how many families would have their fates altered by the decision made today?

He recalled what Chen Feng had told him in Borneo: "The essence of politics is a transaction. You get what you give."

The empire paid with its sovereignty, blood, and future. What did it gain in return?

he does not know.

All he knew was that the arrow had already left the bowstring and there was no turning back.

Tokyo outside the window is shrouded in deep night. But an even deeper darkness is brewing on the other side of the sea.

The Persian Gulf, February 8, 1917, early morning.

The sun rises from the eastern horizon, painting the sky a golden-red, then gradually fading to a clear azure. The sea is as calm as a giant sapphire, with only the slightest breeze creating tiny ripples that reflect dazzling light. Morning mist drifts slowly at the entrance to the bay, like a thin veil, partially obscuring the silhouettes of the mountains on either side of the Holmes Strait.

On the lookout tower of the Dubai naval base, the officer on duty held a high-powered telescope, his eyes fixed on the sea to the southeast. His uniform was already soaked with sweat—although it was still early morning, the temperature in the Persian Gulf in February was already close to thirty degrees Celsius. It was humid and sultry, the air thick with the salty smell of the sea and the faint sulfurous odor of the distant oil refineries.

"Bearing 135, 20 nautical miles away, large ship sighted." The lookout's voice came through the radio, tinged with excitement.

The officer on duty immediately adjusted his binoculars. The first thing he saw through the lens was three wisps of black smoke rising straight up into the clear sky. Then, the ship's silhouette slowly rose from below the horizon—first the mast, then the bridge, and finally the massive turrets and the slender hull.

"Identity confirmed: USS Arizona, a battleship of the US Navy, accompanied by two destroyers. Heading 310, speed 15 knots."

The officer on duty lowered his binoculars and said to the communications officer, "Reporting to base command, the target has entered the designated sea area. Proceed as Plan A."

The order was relayed simultaneously via telephone and signal flags. The entire Dubai naval base began to function like a sophisticated machine.

Base Command Headquarters, Operations Command Room.

Lieutenant General Litt stood before a massive chart table, a newly delivered report in his hand. He was lean but upright, dressed in a white summer general's uniform, the two stars on his epaulets gleaming. As the commander of the Lanfang Navy and the Dubai base, he was tasked with a special mission today—to receive Vice Admiral Rodman, commander of the Pacific Fleet of the Meilika Navy, and to "inadvertently" demonstrate Lanfang's strength.

"Rodman is punctual," he said to his chief of staff. "Tell the dock to prepare to the highest diplomatic protocol. Guard of honor, military band, red carpet—all in place. But be natural, don't make it too formal."

"Understood." The chief of staff took notes. "The tour route has been planned: the dock, the maintenance area, the training center, and finally the officers' club meeting. Security has been increased in the dock area and around the Pearl River, and all unauthorized personnel have been cleared."

"What about the radar station and the air station?"

"As you instructed, the radar antenna is functioning normally, but only basic staff remain in the control room. All the aircraft at the air station are parked in the hangar, with only two reconnaissance aircraft on standby on the runway—this is the normal configuration for routine patrols."

Li Te nodded. The presentation must be measured: it should show the people of Meilica the modernity of Lanfang, but it cannot expose core secrets; it should demonstrate strength, but it cannot appear ostentatious.

He glanced at his watch: 8:10 a.m. Rodman's fleet was scheduled to dock at 9:00 a.m.

"I'm going to change my clothes," Li Te said. "I'll inform the President that the guests have arrived."

At 9:00 AM sharp, the battleship USS Arizona slowly entered Dubai Harbour.

This newest battleship of the Merika Navy is 185 meters long, displaces 32000 tons, and is armed with twelve 356mm main guns. At Pearl Harbor, it was the most majestic presence in the harbor; but now, as it sails past the breakwater outside Dubai Harbor, the Merika sailors on board cannot help but gasp in amazement.

A larger warship was moored in a deep-water berth on the right side of the harbor.

"Is that... the 'Huaihe'?" On the bridge, a young officer held up binoculars, his voice filled with awe.

Vice Admiral Rodman also held up his binoculars. Through the lens, the outline of the Bismarck-class battleship was crystal clear in the morning light. It was longer and wider than the USS Arizona, with a more compact turret layout and a simpler superstructure. Most striking was the rotating radar antenna—a technology the Milica Navy had dreamed of acquiring, now integrated into the warship's combat system.

"There's more than one," the adjutant said from the side. "Sir, there are two more of the same class on the port side."

Rodman rotated his binoculars. Sure enough, two more Bismarck-class battleships were moored at a berth further away. Although one of them was under scaffolding, seemingly undergoing repairs, the visual impact of three battleships of the same class appearing in a port at the same time was enormous.

"They really do have six," Rodman said in a low voice, as if talking to himself. "The intelligence estimates were correct."