World War: Battleship Arms Dealers

Dubai, the Presidential Palace

At three in the morning, the sea breeze from the Persian Gulf seeped in through the cracks in the window, carrying the salty smell and the constant roar of the shipyard's machines.

Chen Feng was woken up from his sleep by Wang Wenwu.

He wasn't angry. Everyone in the Presidential Palace knew the rule: being woken up in the middle of the night meant something important was happening. Minor matters waited until dawn, medium matters waited until breakfast, and only truly urgent matters warranted disturbing the President's sleep.

Chen Feng, wearing his pajamas, sat on the edge of the bed and took the few pages of telegram.

Wang Wenwu stood to the side, silent. He saw Chen Feng's brow twitch slightly after reading it the first time. After the second reading, he looked up at the night outside the window, remaining silent for a few seconds. Then he read it a third time.

"Was it translated by Li Te?" Chen Feng asked.

"Yes. The Germans' encrypted channel was personally deciphered by General Little. Scheer himself wrote it."

Chen Feng nodded and read the last sentence again: "If it is inconvenient to intervene publicly, I would be very grateful if you could just tell me the nearest supply area."

He placed the telegram on the bedside table, stood up, and walked to the window.

The Persian Gulf lay dark outside the window. The spotlights in Dock No. 3 were still on, illuminating the outline of the Nagato from the darkness. The 39,000-ton behemoth was taking shape bit by bit amidst the welding sparks of the night shift workers, like a colossal beast born from steel, opening its eyes.

"He asked for help," Chen Feng said.

Wang Wenwu stood by the door: "Yes. And it was very subtle. 'Inform about the nearest supply sea area'—for someone like Scheer to write something like that shows that he was indeed at his limit."

Chen Feng didn't turn around: "What do you think?"

Wang Wenwu remained silent for a few seconds. He knew the president wasn't asking "What do you think of Sher?" but rather "What do you think of this matter?" There was a difference. The former was casual conversation, the latter was consultation before a decision was made.

"Fuel, ammunition, damage," Wang Wenwu said, "if any of these things went wrong, those two ships would be finished. Scheer wasn't afraid of dying, he was afraid that those two ships would die in vain. He took down six British capital ships, and if he ended up sinking to the bottom of the Atlantic, it wouldn't be a worthwhile trade."

Chen Feng turned around: "So?"

"So," Wang Wenwu paused, "if we want to leave a nail in the Atlantic, now is the time."

Chen Feng walked back to the bedside, but instead of sitting down, he picked up the telegrams and read them again. This time, his gaze lingered on the set of coordinates.

"XX degrees XX minutes north latitude, XX degrees XX minutes west longitude," he read it softly, then walked to the huge world map on the wall.

The finger traces the Red Sea, the Suez Canal, the Mediterranean Sea, and the Strait of Gibraltar, finally stopping at a point in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean.

"From Dubai to here," he said, "it's about 4,500 nautical miles, via the Red Sea, Suez, the Mediterranean Sea, and Gibraltar. At a speed of 15 knots, it takes 12 days."

Wang Wenwu walked over and stood beside him: "The Huaihe and Zhujiang can run at eighteen knots."

"But supply ships won't work," Chen Feng said. "Besides, they have to go through the Suez Canal—that's British territory."

Wang Wenwu remained silent for a few seconds. He knew the weight of those words. The Suez Canal was the lifeline of the British Empire, a vital link between the British mainland and India and Australia. Any fleet passing through it would be clearly visible to the British.

"Are you worried about being intercepted by the British?" he asked.

Chen Feng laughed. That kind of laugh sent chills down Wang Wenwu's spine—it wasn't a cold laugh, nor a bitter laugh, but a laugh that said, "You're thinking too simply."

"I'm not worried about them stopping me," Chen Feng said. "I'm worried they don't know."

Wang Wenwu was stunned for a moment, then he understood.

"You mean...?"

"Let the British know." Chen Feng walked back to the bedside, picked up the bathrobe and put it on. "Let the whole world know. The Lanfang Navy is going to conduct long-range training, to pass through the Suez Canal, and to enter the Atlantic Ocean. Openly and aboveboard."

He looked at Wang Wenwu: "Go and call Zhang Zhen. And Li Te too."

Wang Wenwu stood at attention: "Yes, sir!"

Thirty minutes later, Major General Zhang Zhen and Lieutenant General Li Te entered the conference room of the Presidential Palace almost simultaneously.

Zhang Zhen was still in his pajamas—he had been woken up directly from bed and only had time to put on a military overcoat. Li Te, on the other hand, was fully dressed and clearly hadn't gone to sleep either—naval men always have endless telegrams to process at night.

Chen Feng had already changed his clothes. Not his military uniform, but his dark gray civilian clothes. He stood in front of the chart table, holding the few pages of telegrams in his hand.

"Sit down," he said.

The two sat down. Wang Wenwu closed the door and stood to the side.

Chen Feng pushed the telegram to the center of the table: "It's from Sher. Request for assistance."

Zhang Zhen took the telegram, quickly read it, and then handed it to Li Te. The two exchanged a glance.

Li Te spoke first: "President, Scheer's situation is worse than we anticipated. Both Bismarck-class ships are damaged and running low on fuel. Although the British have suffered heavy losses, Jellicoe will certainly gather all available fleets and search the entire Atlantic for them."

Chang Chen chimed in: "The five Revenge-class destroyers have already set sail. Our people in London have reported back that the Prime Minister has demanded that 'the Bismarck must be found.'"

Chen Feng nodded without saying anything.

Zhang Zhen was silent for a few seconds, then said, "Commander-in-Chief, you summoned us here because you've made a decision?"

Chen Feng looked up at him.

"General Zhang," he said, "I need you to lead the Huaihe, the Zhujiang, two supply ships, and five destroyers from Dubai, through the Red Sea, the Suriz Canal, the Mediterranean Sea, and into the Atlantic Ocean."

Zhang Zhen's pupils contracted slightly.

"Go find Sher?"

"Go find Scheer," Chen Feng said. "Send him supplies, send him engineers, and help him repair his ship."

Zhang Zhen was silent for a few seconds. He quickly calculated in his mind—distance, time, fuel, risk. Then he looked up: "Commander-in-Chief, the British will find out. The Suez Canal is their lifeline; they'll know whenever any fleet passes through."

"I know."

"What if they..." Zhang Zhen carefully chose his words, "...think that we are openly supporting the Germans? What if they take hostile actions against Lanfang because of this?"

Chen Feng smiled. Zhang Zhen had seen that kind of smile a few times. It was the same smile the President always wore when he was plotting against someone.

"General Zhang," Chen Feng said, "who said we were going to support the Germans?"

Zhang Zhen was stunned.

Lee Teuk coughed softly beside him, a slight smile appearing on his lips.

"So what are we going to do?" Zhang Zhen asked.

Chen Feng spread his hands, looking completely innocent: "We're heading to the Atlantic for long-range training. Since the Huaihe and Zhujiang ships entered service, they haven't conducted any long-range voyages into the Atlantic. This is a good opportunity to test the ships' endurance and the officers' and crew's adaptability to long-range operations. The supply ship is there to resupply the training fleet; what's wrong with that?"

Chang Chen opened his mouth, and then smiled.