World War: Battleship Arms Dealers

As the car drove along Pennsylvania Avenue, Lieutenant General Rodman noticed for the first time how many trees on this road he had walked hundreds of times were dead.

February in Washington D.C. was snowless, only dry, cold winds whipping up fallen leaves from the sidewalks, which rustled against car windows. A newsboy on the street corner was waving a special edition, the bold black lettering legible even across the street—"Another victory for the Atlantic convoy: the thirteenth German ship sunk." Several men in overcoats gathered around, tossing coins into the newsboy's tin can with a clinking sound.

Rodman lowered the curtains.

In the co-pilot's seat, the naval adjutant turned around, holding the report that had been rushed out overnight. The cover bore only one line of handwritten text: "Special Assessment Report on the Naval Strength and Strategic Situation in the Pacific of the Lanfang Republic." There was no heading, no number, and not even a signature.

"General, the White House has confirmed that the President finished breakfast at 8:45 and will see you at 9:00 sharp."

Rodman nodded. He glanced at the clock on the dial: 8:37.

Twenty-three minutes left.

He closed his eyes, but the waves of the North Sea and the morning light of the Persian Gulf surged beneath his eyelids. The Huaihe, the ship that cleaved the waves outside Pearl Harbor, the three steel behemoths side by side in Dubai Harbor, the mysterious dock covered in layers of canvas and scaffolding, and Li Te's drunken, indistinct yet clear words—"The real big guys."

He opened his eyes. The car had already entered the northwest gate of the White House. As the guards checked identification, he saw through the car window several tourists on the South Lawn, taking pictures of the main building with Kodak cameras. A woman's child reached out, as if trying to grab something.

Rodman suddenly remembered his grandson. Seven years old, he had written last month saying he had learned about the Revolutionary War at school and asked if he had participated in the Spanish-American War. He replied that he hadn't, because his grandfather hadn't gone to military school yet.

What he didn't write in the letter was: Grandpa is in his fifties and sixties, and may very well witness a war a hundred times larger than the Spanish-American War.

The car came to a stop.

"General, we've arrived."

He picked up the unsigned report and opened the car door.

A sudden blast of cold air swept in, colder than Pearl Harbor, much colder than Dubai. But Rodman knew the real chill was yet to come.

The door to the oval office was ajar.

Secretary of State Robert Lansing's voice came from inside, indistinct through the door, but Rodman had heard that distinctive, New England Puritan-style reserved tone on many occasions.

"...The Chicago Tribune's editorials have been on the front page for three consecutive days, calling for an immediate declaration of war against Germany. A Senate Foreign Relations Committee survey shows that the percentage of senators supporting a declaration of war has risen from 62 percent last week to 73 percent. Mr. President, public opinion is moving forward at a speed we cannot keep up with."

Another voice rang out, gentle but weary; it was War Secretary Newton Baker:

"But the military is not ready. We can't even muster five fully-fledged divisions, and we're short more than 40 percent of heavy equipment. The mobilization funds approved by Congress are still going through the appropriation process, and it won't reach the state draft offices until at least March."

"Europe won't wait for our funding process." Lansing's tone carried a hint of suppressed impatience. "The British ambassador made another informal inquiry yesterday, asking if Merika could commit to sending at least two divisions of combat troops to the European continent within three months should Germany launch a spring offensive."

"How will you answer?"

"I said that Meika would fulfill its obligations as an ally, but a specific timeline needs to be assessed by the Joint Chiefs of Staff."

"That means there's no answer."

"Because there is no answer to give."

A brief silence fell inside the door.

Rodman stood outside the door, looking down at a small stain on the toe of his military boot. He'd stepped on it when he got out of the car at the Admiralty building; it was probably mud left from last night's melting snow. He instinctively wiped it on the doormat.

The door was suddenly pulled open from the inside.

Presidential Secretary Joseph Tumarti saw him, nodded slightly, and lowered his voice: "General, the President is waiting for you." Then he stepped aside to make way for him.

The Oval Office was much brighter than the corridor. The blinds on the south-facing window were half-rolled up, and the February sunlight was cut into long, slanted beams that fell on the carpet in front of the fireplace. President Wilson was not sitting behind the famous mahogany desk, but standing by the fireplace, one hand resting on the marble edge of the mantel, as if he were warming himself, or perhaps he simply needed some support.

He turned around, his gaze passing over Lansing and Baker, and landing on Rodman's face.

"General," Wilson said. There was no inquiry about the hardships of the journey, no exchange of pleasantries about the weather. It was like two doctors handing over a patient at the operating table, asking only what was most important.

Rodman stood at attention and saluted.

Wilson nodded. "Have a seat. Baker, Lansing, you two stay as well."

The four men took their seats on the sofa in front of the fireplace. Rodman chose a single sofa, facing the president. He placed the report on his lap, without opening it immediately.

Wilson looked at him and waited.

The fire in the fireplace burned brightly, but Rodman still felt a chill on his back. He began by talking about Pearl Harbor. He spoke of the way the "Huaihe" cleaved through the waves as it entered the harbor; he spoke of the shadows cast by the twin 380mm main guns in the setting sun; he spoke of Chen Feng's calm and composed demeanor during the talks, as if he were stating the weather, declaring that "Lanfang will also be involved."

Wilson listened attentively, nodding occasionally, without interrupting.

Then Rodman talked about Dubai.

"I'm standing on that dock, Mr. President." His voice deepened. "Three Bismarck-class ships are docked in one port. We've seen the Huaihe, the Pearl River is undergoing major repairs, and the Dingyuan has just completed its refit. Intelligence confirms they have six. I can tell you now that this estimate is conservative."

He unfolded the report on his lap, pulled out a folded nautical chart, and spread it out on the coffee table. The chart was marked with the positions of the Lanfang Navy's main ships in red and blue pencils—three in Dubai, one in the direction of Borneo, and the positions of two others unknown.

"The Pacific Fleet currently has the following capital ships..." Rodman's finger moved to Hawaii, "'Arizona,' 'Pennsylvania,' 'Nevada,' and 'Oklahoma.' The Atlantic Fleet has 'New York,' 'Texas,' 'Wyoming,' and 'Arkansas.'"

His fingers moved back and forth between the two sea areas, as if he were doing some kind of difficult transport.

"Nine ships in total. Six of them are from Lanfang."

Lansing frowned: "We have a nine-to-six advantage, a numerical superiority."

"This isn't a simple arithmetic problem." Rodman looked up, meeting the Secretary of State's gaze. "The Naval Equipment Department's simulation model has run thirty-seven times. One-on-one, Bismarck-class against Pennsylvania-class, the win rate is ninety-three percent. The exchange ratio—if it's a hard trade—is 2.4 Pennsylvania-class ships to take down one Bismarck."

No one spoke in the room.