World War: Battleship Arms Dealers

Four twin-mounted 410mm guns, two at the front and two at the rear, in a superfiring configuration. The gun barrels point straight ahead at a three-degree elevation angle to the horizontal—a safe angle stipulated by the shipyard, not a combat angle. Even so, the outline of those eight gun barrels is enough to make one hold their breath.

Each cannon barrel is 21 meters long and weighs 102 tons.

Each salvo can drop twelve tons of steel to a distance of forty kilometers.

Each armor-piercing shell can penetrate the main armor belt of any active battleship at a distance of 20,000 meters.

From the day the first keel was laid in the dock, from the day the first batch of special steel was cast in the smelting workshop, from the day the first design drawing lit up on Chen Feng's laptop screen.

But numbers are just numbers.

At this moment, the morning mist dissipated, and the sunlight finally broke through the clouds, illuminating the entire Nagato from bow to stern.

Li Te heard himself holding his breath.

"Speed ​​test preparations are complete," he said, his voice lower than usual. "We are expected to leave the dock at 9:00 AM and arrive at the offshore speed test area at 11:00 AM. The engine room reports that the main engine is operating stably and can maintain full power for more than six hours."

Chen Feng did not answer.

He continued to look at the warship, his gaze moving from the bow to the bridge, from the bridge to the funnel, and from the funnel to the aft main gun turret. Slowly, intently, as if he were looking at an object he had personally crafted for three years, finally nearing completion.

"Wang Wenwu," he said.

"exist."

"Any new information from the Germans?"

Wang Wenwu took a telegram from his briefcase. He didn't read it aloud, but handed it directly to Chen Feng—he knew the President's habit: important telegrams had to be read in person.

Chen Feng took it and glanced at the paper.

The telegram was short. It was sent by Scheer in his private capacity to Little, but everyone knew who it was truly meant for.

General Li Te of the Lanfang Naval Technical Department respectfully comments:

Thanks to your country's technical support, the Bismarck and Tirpitz completed their final pre-departure preparations today. The ships are in good condition, and the morale of the officers and men is high. I will lead the fleet into the North Sea tomorrow morning, targeting the North Atlantic route.

This journey may be a final farewell. But whatever the outcome, the German Navy will forever remember Lanfang's kindness in helping him during his time of distress.

I have something to say, though I'm not sure if I should—I firmly believe what President Chen said to President Wilson in Hawaii, "If Melika's fate is sealed, Lanfang's will be sealed too." I also firmly believe that this "fate" will not be today, nor tomorrow, but will occur when we are in our most perilous time.

On the day the Bismarck departs port, I will stand on the bridge and pay my respects to the East.

Reinhard Scheer, Commander-in-Chief of the German High Seas Fleet

April 18, 1917

Chen Feng finished reading without saying anything.

He folded the telegram neatly, neither returning it to Wang Wenwu nor putting it in his pocket. He simply held the paper as if it were a bullet casing just ejected from the battlefield, still burning hot to the touch.

"Sher was a good soldier," he said.

Li Te did not respond.

Chen Feng handed the telegram to Wang Wenwu: "Archive. Top Secret."

"Yes."

"Also," Chen Feng paused, "call him back. Just say—"

He stopped.

A few seconds of silence fell over the gantry crane platform. A sea breeze blew in from the northeast, carrying the distinctive smells of a shipyard—welding fumes, heavy oil steam, and the salty tang of seawater. In the distance, the dock gate of Dock No. 3 was slowly opening, seawater flooding into the dock chamber and creating tiny white waves on the bow of the Nagato.

"For example, the lights at the Lanfang Shipyard never went out all night," Chen Feng said.

Wang Wenwu quickly made notes in the memo.

Lee Te looked at him, seemingly wanting to say something but then stopping himself.

"What do you want to ask?" Chen Feng didn't turn around.

"Sher's telegram..." Little carefully chose his words, "is asking us when we're going to take the field."

"I know."

"So your answer is—the shipyard lights stay on all night?"

"Yes."

Li Te remained silent for a few seconds.

"General," he addressed him differently—this wasn't a conversation between the President and the Commander-in-Chief, but between two friends striving for their nation. "Scher has taken the Bismarck out of port. He's using his flagship as bait, betting that we'll lend him a hand when he's in his most dangerous moment."

He paused:

"Are you really going to make him wait?"

Chen Feng finally turned around.

He was thirty years old, with gray hairs at his temples, but his eyes still held the same look as when Li Te first met him in Dubai more than a decade ago—not sharp, but deep. So deep that it was unfathomable, so deep that any light that shone into them was absorbed and turned into silence.

"Ritter," he said, "do you know which sentence in Scheer's telegram I admire most?"

Li Te did not answer.

"It's not 'I firmly believe Lanfang will meet his end,'" Chen Feng said. "It's 'This departure may be a final farewell.'"

He gazed at the battleship in the distance, which was about to undergo sea trials:

"Schär knew he might not return. He knew the Bismarck might be the last surface fleet the German Navy would send out in the war. He knew how many enemies awaited him in the Atlantic—the British Home Fleet, the Merika Atlantic Fleet, mines, and submarines."

He paused:

"But he still went."

"Because he had no choice," Li Te said.

"Yes," Chen Feng said, "he had no choice."

He looked at Li Te:

"So—if one day Lanfang has no other choice, I will stand on the bridge like him and salute in a certain direction."

He paused:

"But not today."

The dock gates of Dock No. 3 were fully open. Tugboats entered the dock and took their positions on either side of the Nagato. Signal flags were raised atop the bridge—not naval ensigns, but trial ensigns. The red, white, and blue flags fluttered in the morning breeze.

"Let's go," Chen Feng said, "get on the boat."

The bridge of the Nagato was more spacious than that of the Bismarck-class.

This was the first thing Li Te noticed when he stepped onto the warship. It wasn't a deliberate comparison, but a soldier's instinct—just like a race car driver who, the first second he sits in the cockpit, subconsciously feels the seat angle, the "steering wheel" damping, and the instrument panel layout.

The bridge design of the ship is compact, efficient, and almost austerely rational. Every piece of equipment has its immovable position, every pipeline is laid along the shortest path, and even the angle of the portholes is calculated for maximum visibility rather than comfort.

The long-range version is different.

It's not that it's irrational. Quite the opposite—its rationality comes on a different level. It leaves more room for the commander, clearer vision for the lookouts, and more redundant backup for the damage control team. This isn't extravagance; it's the culmination of war experience.

After the Battle of Jutland, both the Germans and the British learned the same thing: naval warfare is not a battle of turrets, but a battle of damage control. Whoever can hold out their damaged ship until it enters port wins.

Lan Fang had never played against Jutland. But Chen Feng had a laptop.