World War: Battleship Arms Dealers

Rodman paused, then added, "That's a conservative estimate. The worst-case scenario is three to one."

Baker's hand hovered over the edge of the teacup, not picking it up for a long time.

Wilson leaned back on the sofa. Sunlight streamed through the gaps in the blinds, casting a line of light and shadow on his face. He stared at the nautical chart on the coffee table, at the dense array of naval markings, for a long time.

"So," he began, his voice slower than usual, "if Lanfang really sides with Germany, our transatlantic shipping lines..."

“No need to attack the homeland, Mr. President,” Rodman continued. “Just cut off the supply lines. No need to sink every warship, just let every merchant ship know that something is waiting for them at sea. Our escort forces are insufficient to deal with both German submarines and the Lanfang surface fleet simultaneously. This is mathematics, not courage.”

The firewood in the fireplace popped, sending sparks flying onto the edge of the carpet. No one stepped on it.

Lansing took a deep breath: "General, you just said 'if' Lanfang sides with Germany. Could Chen Feng's words in Hawaii have just been a bluff? Can a country that's only been established for a little over a decade really dare to stand against both Britain and America at the same time?"

Rodman didn't answer immediately. He recalled Little's slurred words after drinking, the shipyard tightly covered by canvas, and the outline of the giant ship taking shape in the morning mist. He remembered that when Little said "the real big guy," there wasn't drunkenness in his eyes, but something all too familiar—the look of a soldier gazing at the sharpest blade of his country.

“Mr. Secretary,” Rodman said slowly, “I saw a dock at the Dubai shipyard.”

He described the dimensions of the dock: length, width, scaffolding height, crane tonnage. His voice was flat, as if reading an engineering survey report. But every number that entered the room was like a stone thrown into a deep well, leaving no echo for a long time.

"Two hundred and fifty meters?" Baker's voice was a little hoarse. "The Pennsylvania-class is one hundred and eighty-five meters long."

"That's the internal net length of the dry dock," Rodman said. "Two hundred and fifty-three meters. I checked it with a rangefinder from the lookout tower on the side. Forty-two meters wide, enough to accommodate a hull seven meters wider than the Bismarck-class."

"Fifty thousand tons," Wilson said. (This is not a question.)

"A conservative estimate," Rodman said, "but even bigger isn't impossible."

Lansing opened his mouth, but said nothing.

Baker placed the teacup back on the tray very gently, but the porcelain still made a crisp sound.

Wilson stood up and walked back to the fireplace. With his back to everyone, he looked at the bronze bust of Lincoln on the mantelpiece. The bust's face was half-lit and half-shadowed in the firelight, its expression hidden.

"General Rodman." The president did not turn around.

"Yes."

"You just said the Navy's equipment department ran thirty-seven simulations," Wilson's voice came from behind. "If—I mean if—Lanfang really had a 50,000-ton warship, how many Pennsylvanias would the Miracle need to replace it?"

Rodman remained silent.

"General?"

"Mr. President," Rodman's voice was low, "we've done the simulations. Using data from active-duty warships, using every tactical combination we can think of, using the most optimistic hit rates and damage control efficiency."

He paused.

"There is no conclusion. Because none of our existing warships can penetrate the main armor belt of a 50,000-ton battleship."

The firewood in the fireplace popped again.

Wilson finally turned around. His face held neither the shock nor anger Rodman had expected, only a deep, heavy weariness. That weariness didn't come from this hour, or even this week. It came from much earlier—perhaps from the meeting in Hawaii, from the look Chen Feng gave him when he said "there are no innocent people," from even earlier still, from that late night when he decided to run for a second term.

"So," Wilson said slowly, "what Chen Feng said to me in Hawaii was not a threat."

"It's a teaser," Rodman said.

“‘If Meilika joins the fight, Lanfang will too.’” Wilson recounted the conversation from that day, word by word, as if interpreting a classic text in class. “He wasn’t warning me. He was telling me—this is the path you chose, and before you choose, make sure you understand the road signs.”

Lansing leaned forward: "Mr. President, we haven't formally declared war on Germany yet. Congress is still debating it, and the authorization bill won't be voted on until next week at the earliest. If we reassess at this point..."

"Assess what?" Wilson looked at him, his tone not harsh, but it made Lansing stop. "Assess if we have any other options?"

No one answered.

Wilson walked back to the sofa area but didn't sit down. He stood on the edge of the coffee table, looking down at the unfolded nautical chart. The Pacific and Atlantic Oceans were compressed onto the same sheet of paper, Hawaii was just a dot the size of a fingernail, and Dubai was another dot on the other side. Between these two dots was a vast, breathtaking expanse of blue.

"General Rodman," Wilson said, "have you ever thought about this?"

"Please speak, Mr. President."

"What if we only declare war on Germany—" Wilson looked up at Rodman, "and not on Lanfang? Is that even possible?"

The room was silent for a few seconds.

Lansing's eyes lit up for a moment, but quickly dimmed again. Baker frowned thoughtfully. Rodman remained motionless, like a statue.

Then he spoke, his voice slow and deliberate, each word as if weighed on a scale:

"Mr. President, I understand your thinking. To limit the war to Europe and not ignite the Pacific. To allow Lanfang to remain 'neutral,' even if only in name."

Wilson nodded and waited.

"But the problem is—" Rodman paused, "if Lanfang leaves the field, they won't just stay at the port."

He stood up, walked to the nautical chart, and pointed to the North Atlantic shipping route:

"This is Britain's lifeline. More than a hundred merchant ships sail through these waters every day, carrying food, oil, and weapons. German submarines have already cost us many ships, and this is just the beginning. What if Lanfang's six Bismarck-class submarines were here too—"

His fingers moved slowly along the flight path:

"Our escort fleet faces a dual threat from both underwater and surface. Our destroyers must conduct anti-submarine warfare, our cruisers must be on alert, and our battleships must be ready to engage. Meanwhile, Lanfang's warships, with a speed of thirty knots, can choose to fight or not fight at any time and in any place."

He withdrew his hand:

"They don't need to occupy any ports, they don't need to sink every merchant ship. They just need to exist, they just need to let the captains know 'there's something in the sea.' Fear will do the rest for them."

Wilson remained silent.