World War: Battleship Arms Dealers

New York, White House

The evening sunlight slanted in through the window, casting long shadows on the floor.

Wilson sat behind his desk, a telegram in his hand. It was a forwarded telegram from London—a summary of British war reports and a less formal intelligence analysis.

He stared at it for a long time.

Secretary of State Robert Lansing stood by the window, waiting for him to speak.

Finally, Wilson put down the telegram and looked up.

"Two Bismarck-class destroyers," he said, "suffered six British capital ships."

Lansing nodded: "Intelligence has confirmed the figure. And the British losses may be even greater—HMS Queen Elizabeth and HMS Warspite are also badly damaged and will be unable to participate in combat for three months."

Wilson remained silent for a few seconds.

How many Germans lost?

"All four King-class battleships are sunk. Of the eight thousand sailors, fewer than two thousand survived." Lansing paused. "But the Bismarck and Tirpitz escaped. They're somewhere in the Atlantic now, their fate unknown."

Wilson stood up and walked to the window.

Outside the window was the South Lawn of the White House. A few tourists were still taking pictures there—they hadn't left even at this hour. A woman was holding a child, and a man was taking their picture. The child reached out, trying to catch a pigeon flying by.

"Lansing," Wilson said, "you said the Germans traded four old battleships for six new British battleships. How do you settle that?"

Lansing thought for a moment: "Strategically, the British lost. They lost their main force. Tactically, the Germans didn't win either—their main force is now irretrievably lost."

Wilson turned to look at him: "But what if those two Bismarck-class ships survived? What if they returned to Germany?"

Lansing did not answer.

Wilson walked back to his desk and took a document from his drawer. It was a summary of intelligence sent by the Navy Department last week, with the word "Top Secret" printed on the cover.

He turned the page and found that page:

"Lanfang Republic Navy: Six Bismarck-class battleships are currently in service. Three are confirmed to be in Dubai, one in Borneo, and the location of two is unknown. One large ship, estimated to have a displacement of over 50,000 tons, is under construction at the Dubai shipyard and is suspected to be a new type of battleship."

He closed the file.

"Six Bismarck-class ships," he said. "And possibly even more powerful warships. Lansing, do you know what that means?"

Lansing remained silent for a few seconds.

"Your Excellency," he finally spoke, "I know what you're worried about. But if our entry into the war drags Lanfang down with us..."

"That would be a disaster," Wilson finished for him. "Two Bismarck-class battleships could take down six British capital ships. Six? And that 50,000-ton behemoth too?"

He walked back to the window, his back to Lansing.

"We're building Colorado-class ships. Four of them. 32,000 tons, 21 knots, 406mm guns. Sounds impressive, right?" He paused. "But the Bismarck-class can go 30 knots. Our fleet can't catch them. They can freely choose their engagement distance, fight when they want, and run when they want."

He turned around: "Lansing, this is no match for you."

Lansing stepped closer: "Your Excellency, while Scheer's fleet has destroyed several British battleships, it has also suffered heavy losses itself. Those two Bismarck-class battleships are likely waiting to die in the Atlantic. Do they have enough fuel? Do they have enough ammunition? Have the damages been repaired?"

Wilson looked at him.

"Merica's industrial capabilities are ten times that of Lanfang," Lansing said. "The Colorado-class battleships have already started construction. Three shipyards—Newport News, Bethlehem, and San Francisco—are building them simultaneously. In three years, we will have ten new battleships. In five years, twenty. If quality is insufficient, quantity will make up for it."

He paused. "We still have time. Anyway, we haven't personally intervened yet—the war bill is still being debated in Congress. Lanfang can't find a reason to attack us."

Wilson fell silent.

He walked back to his desk, sat down, and looked at the open draft of the congressional address. It read, "Request for Authorization to Protect the Freedom of Navigation of Citizens of Merica on the High Seas and to Take Necessary Measures."

To join the war.

He thought about this word for a long time.

He had been thinking about it ever since Chen Feng said those things in Hawaii.

Now, he wants it even more.

"Lansing," he finally said, "tell me, what does Chen Feng want?"

Lansing paused for a moment: "Your Excellency the President?"

"What does he want?" Wilson repeated. "He doesn't want to fight, he doesn't want Lanfang to be involved in the war. But he also doesn't want us to fight peacefully. He draws red lines in Hawaii, he sends supplies across the Atlantic—what does he really want?"

Lansing remained silent for a long time.

"Your Excellency the President," he finally said, "I believe that what he wants is not a German victory, nor a British victory. What he wants is for this war to drag on as long as possible."

Wilson looked at him.

"The longer the war goes on, the later the Merika will be eliminated," Lansing said. "The longer the war goes on, the more time Lanfang will have to build ships. The longer the war goes on, the sooner their 50,000-ton behemoth will be in service. The longer the war goes on, the closer they can get to our industrial base."

He paused for a moment: "He's stalling for time."

Wilson nodded.

"To stall for time," he repeated, "to stall until we're all exhausted, until we're all hurt, and then he'll step in and decide the outcome."

He stood up and walked to the window.

Outside the window, the setting sun was sinking into the Potomac River. The sky was leaden gray, the river was iron blue, and only on the western horizon was a sliver of golden red.

"Should we still participate in the war?" Lansing asked.

Wilson did not answer.

He watched the crimson line disappear little by little, watched night fall, and watched the lights of the White House light up one by one.

Then he said, "Wait a minute."

Lansing nodded without saying anything.

He knew what that "wait" meant.

It meant observing. It meant waiting. It meant letting the British and Germans continue to wear each other down, letting Lanfang continue building ships, and letting Meilika continue to hesitate.

This means the war is far from over.

The night is already deep.

Scheer stood by the porthole, gazing at the starry sky. The Southern Cross had risen high into the air, shining like four diamonds set in velvet.

"General," the watchman whispered as he approached, "both telegrams have been sent. The German Admiralty has replied 'received.' As for Lanfang... there has been no response yet."

Scher nodded.

He hadn't expected an immediate response. Lanfang was thousands of miles away; receiving the telegram would take time, discussions would take time, and decisions would take time. Perhaps three days, perhaps a week, perhaps never a response.

But he has to wait.

Because this is the only hope.

"How much fuel?"

"Thirty-one percent. Tirpitz, twenty-seven percent."

Scher remained silent for a few seconds.

"Reduce speed to ten knots," he said. "Have the destroyers come closer and refuel. Every little bit helps."

"Yes."

The order was given. The engine room's reply came through the loudspeaker: "Speed ​​reduced to ten knots. Main engine operating condition stable."