World War: Battleship Arms Dealers

"Are the Lanfang team going to the Atlantic Ocean for 'long-distance training'?"

"Yes, Sir. Two Bismarck-class battleships, two supply ships, and five destroyers. Request passage through the canal tomorrow morning."

Wingate read the telegram again. Those words—"long-distance training"—were particularly jarring.

"Training?" He slammed the telegram on the table. "At this critical juncture, right after the Germans fought a major naval battle, they're going to train in the Atlantic?"

The adjutant remained silent.

Wingate stood up and walked to the window. Outside was the street scene of Cairo: camels, carriages, and locals in robes—a stark contrast to the world of war.

"Is the naval attaché present?"

"Yes, Sir. He has been informed."

No sooner had he finished speaking than there was a knock on the door. Naval attaché Captain Henry Wilson walked in, holding the same telegram.

"Sir, have you seen it?"

Wenger nodded: "I've seen it. What do you think?"

Wilson walked to the chart table—a table that was always covered with charts of the Mediterranean and the Red Sea. He pointed to the location of the Suez Canal.

"Two Pearl River-class ships, which are Bismarck-class ships. 45,000 tons, 380mm main guns, and a speed of 30 knots. Add supply ships and destroyers, and this is a complete task force."

He paused, then continued, "If they're really going to train, why choose the Atlantic? Can't they train in the Pacific? Can't they train in the Indian Ocean? Why do they have to cross our lifeline?"

Wingate was silent for a few seconds.

"You suspect they're going to deliver supplies to the Germans?"

Wilson looked up: "Sir, I have no evidence. But the timing is too coincidental. The Germans had just finished fighting, and two Bismarck-class ships were fleeing with damage, running low on fuel. Then the Lanfang sent two similar warships, along with supply ships, heading towards the Atlantic."

Wingate walked back to the table and sat down.

"What did they say in London?"

"The message has been sent, and we are waiting for a reply," Wilson said. "But according to procedure, we have no reason to refuse. They are a neutral country, they applied for passage through an international canal, and they promised to abide by the rules. If we refuse, we will be violating international law."

Wengai nodded.

"Then I won't refuse," he said, "but I won't welcome them either."

He stood up and walked to the window.

"Notify the Canal Authority to prepare for navigation. Send personnel to monitor the entire canal from both banks, recording the movements of every ship. Pay special attention to those two supply ships—find out exactly how much they loaded in and how much came out missing."

Wilson stood at attention: "Yes, sir!"

Looking out the window, Wingate suddenly asked, "Tell me, what do the people of Lanfang really want?"

Wilson did not answer immediately.

He thought for a moment and said, "Sir, I think what they want is—to keep this war going."

Wingate turned to look at him.

"Keep fighting, the longer the better. The longer they fight, the more valuable they become. The longer they fight, the more time they have to build ships. The longer they fight, the later Miraca will be eliminated."

He paused for a moment: "They're stalling for time."

Wingate remained silent for a long time.

"Then let them drag it out," he finally said. "We can't afford to drag it out, but we can't let them have it too easy either."

He walked back to his desk, picked up the telegram, and read it again.

"Tell them," he said, "that you agree to allow it. But the rules must be strictly followed. The canal has the right to suspend navigation in the event of any violation of neutrality."

Wilson made a note of it.

Wingate put down the telegram and looked out the window.

"I have a bad feeling about this," he said softly. "The Atlantic will become even more chaotic after this fleet goes out."

Wilson did not speak.

Because he had the same premonition.

London, Admiralty, evening of February 28

Jellicoe stood by the window, watching the twilight over the Thames.

He held the telegram in his hand for ten minutes, and the edges were warm from his body heat.

He finally turned around and walked back to the chart table.

"The Lanfang Fleet requests passage through the Suez Canal." He handed the telegram to the chief of staff. "Tomorrow morning."

Chief of Staff Brigadier General Oliver Baker took the telegram, quickly read it, and then looked up.

"General, what do you think?"

Jellicoe did not answer immediately. He leaned over the nautical chart, his finger tracing the Mediterranean Sea, across the Strait of Gibraltar, and stopping at the Atlantic Ocean.

"Two Bismarck-class destroyers," he said. "Two supply ships. Five destroyers."

He paused. "If they enter the Atlantic and head south, where will they encounter the Bismarck?"

The chief of staff moved his finger across the nautical chart, calculating distances and times.

"Assuming the Bismarck's current position is at the coordinates of its last reported location—XX degrees XX minutes North latitude, XX degrees XX minutes West longitude. Assuming it is heading south at ten knots. The Lanfang fleet is heading west at fifteen knots. Approximately..."

He measured and calculated: "We might meet in about five days, around XX degrees XX minutes north latitude and XX degrees XX minutes west longitude."

Jericho nodded.

"Five days," he said. "After five days, we won't be able to do anything."

The chief of staff was silent for a few seconds: "General, what do we do then?"

Jericho straightened up and looked at the nautical chart.

"Send a destroyer to follow them," he said. "Start from Gibraltar, and after the Lanfang fleet passes through the strait, follow them at a distance. No need to get close, just know which direction they're heading."

"What if they go south?"

Jericho did not answer immediately.

He looked at the boundless Atlantic Ocean, at the dotted line extending from Gibraltar.

"If they head south," he finally said, "then it means we were right. They're going to meet the Germans."

The chief of staff asked in a low voice, "Should we...?"

"No," Jericho interrupted him. "We're not going to do anything. We'll just watch."

He turned to the chief of staff: "Because if we make a move, Lanfang will join the war. Four Bismarck-class ships will sail out of Dubai and join the Germans. The Merika will be even more hesitant."

He paused. "We can't give them any excuses."

The chief of staff nodded.

"I understand," he said.

Jericho walked back to the window.

Outside the window, the Thames shimmered with a leaden gray light. Several tugboats were passing by, trailing long plumes of black smoke. In the distance, London's streetlights lit up one by one, like countless stars fallen to earth.

He suddenly remembered Nelson.

The naval commander who died in the Battle of Trafalgar faced a combined French and Spanish fleet. It was a direct confrontation, a battle of open warfare.

What now?

We are now facing an invisible adversary, a war waged without a declaration, a fleet operating under the guise of "training," and an intention whose true purpose is forever unpredictable.