World War: Battleship Arms Dealers

Wilson remained silent for a long time.

Then he said:

"Return the telegram to General Litt. Say that Vice Admiral Rodman, Commander of the Meilika Navy, impressed us with the professionalism of the Lanfang Navy. We look forward to more opportunities for technical exchanges in the future."

Lansing was taken aback: "Mr. President, this is...?"

"It's to tell him that we've received it," Wilson said. "Whether it's a red line, an invitation, or a warning—we've received it."

He walked back to his desk and sat down.

"As for the Naval Construction Act, we'll work on a plan first, but won't announce it publicly. The technical department will come up with a feasible design, the shipyards will assess production capacity, and the Treasury will conduct a budget projection."

He looked at the three people in the room:

"From now on, we are on a new path. This path has no signs, and we don't know where it leads. But we cannot stop."

He paused:

"Because if we stop, we might get hit by the people behind us."

When Rodman left the Oval Office, the morning sunlight had already moved to the center of the carpet.

He stood on the White House porch for a few seconds. Cold air filled his lungs, carrying the distinctive smell of Washington, a mixture of car exhaust and decaying leaves.

The adjutant approached: "General, are we returning to the Admiralty?"

Rodman nodded.

As the car drove out of the northwest gate, he saw the tourists still on the south lawn. The child in the woman's arms had woken up and was reaching out, trying to catch a flying pigeon.

The pigeon flapped its wings and flew away, and the child didn't cry, but just stared at the sky.

Rodman suddenly wondered if his seven-year-old grandson had ever chased pigeons like that.

He couldn't remember.

Back at the Admiralty building, there were three documents awaiting signature, two unopened letters, and a cup of coffee that had gone cold on the office desk.

He sat down and picked up the unsigned report. The words "Special Assessment Report on the Naval Strength and Strategic Situation in the Pacific of the Lanfang Republic" on the cover were written in his own handwriting.

He turned to the last page, which was still blank.

He picked up his pen and slowly wrote in the blank space:

Conclusion: The Lanfang Navy has acquired the capability to effectively deter the Meilika Navy in the Western Pacific. Its main warships possess a clear qualitative advantage, and the numerical gap is rapidly narrowing. Intelligence indicates that it continues to expand its fleet, and the Meilika Navy will be in a strategic defensive position in the Pacific for the next three to five years.

Recommendations: 1. Immediately launch a new battleship development program, focusing on overcoming the technological bottlenecks in the propulsion system; 2. Accelerate the modernization and refitting of the Pacific Fleet's existing main warships; 3. Maintain informal communication channels with the Lanfang Navy to avoid miscalculations that could lead to conflict.

Additionally: An unidentified large warship is under construction at the Dubai shipyard, with an estimated displacement of over 50,000 tons. It is recommended that this be listed as a top priority intelligence target.

罗德曼

April 15, 1917

He put down his pen and looked out the window at the sky.

February in Washington, D.C., is snowless, but the sky is always gray. It's not like the thick, impenetrable fog of London, nor the oppressive winter clouds of Berlin. Washington's gray is pale and transparent, like looking at the world through frosted glass.

He recalled the morning light in Dubai, so clear that you could see schools of fish ten meters below the sea surface.

He recalled Li Te standing on the dock, pointing to the giant ship under construction and saying, "General, this is our child."

He recalled Chen Feng saying in Hawaii: "In this war, there are no innocent people, only participants to varying degrees."

He closed his eyes.

The adjutant knocked and entered: "General, the Chief of Naval Operations' office called, asking when the report can be submitted."

Rodman opened his eyes: "Now."

He stood up, picked up the report, and walked towards the door.

The corridor was long, with portraits of famous naval commanders from various dynasties hanging on both sides. Perry, Farragut, Dewey—they once sailed battleships and armored cruisers, opening the doors to the world for Marilyn.

Now, it's his and his colleagues' turn to face a different kind of ship and a different kind of adversary.

He recalled what Li Te had said when he saw him off:

"The world is vast. The Pacific Ocean is even larger."

Yes.

It is large enough to accommodate the navies of two countries.

The issue is--

Can we accommodate the ambitions of two countries?

He had no answer.

All he knew was that from the moment he stepped into the White House, Mary Kay had embarked on a new path.

No one knows where this road leads.

Berlin, February 16, 1917.

There is no sunrise in Berlin.

On the morning of February 16th, thick clouds pressed down from the Baltic Sea, like an old canvas soaked in lead, completely enveloping the city. Wilhelm II had been standing by the window of his study in Sanssouci Palace for half an hour, the telegram in his hand warm from his body heat, its edges slightly curled.

That was a battle report sent by the Navy at three in the morning.

The thirteenth ship.

Since Merika announced the takeover of the Atlantic escort mission, the German submarine force has lost thirteen ocean-going submarines. Thirteen captains, seven hundred and thirty crew members—all perished. The most tragic loss—U-48—was directly hit in the conning tower by a depth charge, breaking in two and sinking to the bottom of the sea 1,200 meters in twenty-seven seconds. It didn't even finish sending a distress signal.

Wilhelm II put the telegram back on his desk.

He was fifty-eight years old, his temples completely white, but his back was still as straight as it had been when he ascended the throne thirty years earlier. Portraits of the Hohenzollern family hung on the walls of his study, from the Elector to Frederick the Great, a century of conquerors looking down upon their last descendants.

Frederick the Great's eyes were exceptionally sharp in the candlelight.

Wilhelm II looked away.

Footsteps echoed down the corridor. An attendant knocked lightly on the door: "Your Majesty, Marshal Tirpitz, General Scheer, and General Hipper have arrived."

"Let them in."

The door opened.

Three naval commanders entered Wilhelm II's most private council chamber in turn. Alfred von Tirpitz led the way; the 68-year-old Grand Admiral's back was still straight, but his pace was slower than it had been ten years ago. Reinhard Scheer followed closely behind; the 53-year-old commander of the High Seas Fleet was expressionless, his deep-set eyes revealing no emotion. Franz von Hipper brought up the rear; the commander of the reconnaissance fleet, known for his composure, merely gave a slight bow to the Emperor.

No one speaks.

Wilhelm II gestured to the sofa area in front of the fireplace: "Sit."

The three sat down. The waiter served coffee and left, closing the door behind him. The only sounds in the study were the crackling of the wood burning in the fireplace and the howling of the cold wind sweeping across Linden Avenue outside the window.

Wilhelm II did not sit. He stood by the fireplace, one hand resting on the marble console, as if warming himself, or perhaps simply needing that support.

"The thirteenth," he said.

Tirpitz began, "Your Majesty, the Submarine Command has suspended all commerce raiding operations west of 20 degrees west longitude. The destroyers of the Merika are equipped with new sonar, and the escort fleet consists of surface ships and anti-submarine aircraft. The cost our crews paid for breaking through the defenses—"

"I know the price," Wilhelm II interrupted him, his voice not rising, but Tirpitz stopped.

The Emperor picked up another document from the mantel and opened it: "This is the Western Front report that Ludendorff sent yesterday. The Allied stockpile of artillery shells is three times that of last year, French morale is rising, and the British Expeditionary Force has more tanks than we have. The spring offensive has not yet begun, but the General Staff's simulation model has already run twenty times—the optimal result is a breakthrough of forty kilometers in the defenses, followed by a counterattack that pushes us back to the starting point."

He threw the documents on the coffee table, scattering the papers.

"Forty kilometers," Wilhelm II repeated. "Forty kilometers, exchanged for the lives of one hundred thousand, to sustain for three months."

No one spoke in the room.