World War: Battleship Arms Dealers

"Baker," he suddenly asked, "how do you think this war will end?"

The chief of staff was taken aback: "General?"

Jericho did not turn around.

"I don't know," he muttered to himself, "but I have a feeling—this war is no longer under our control."

Suez Canal, March 1st, morning

The Suez Canal is not a river, it's a canal.

A narrow, man-made sea trench, 160 kilometers long. In its wider sections, ships can pass each other; in its narrower sections, only one can pass at a time. The banks are lined with yellow desert, barren of vegetation, with only the occasional outpost and military camp serving as reminders that this is still a human-made world.

At 8:00 a.m., the Huaihe River slowly entered the canal entrance.

Zhang Zhen stood on the bridge, gazing at the scenery on both banks. The sun had just risen in the east, painting the desert a golden-red hue. The sand dunes stretched endlessly, like solidified giant waves.

But what's even more striking are the British soldiers on both sides of the strait, dressed in khaki uniforms.

There was a sentry post every few hundred meters. In front of the posts, soldiers held binoculars, staring expressionlessly at the fleet. Some posts even had machine guns set up, the muzzles pointed at the canal—not at the Lanfang fleet, but the posture itself was a warning.

"Order all ships," Zhang Zhen said, "maintain formation and a speed of eight knots. No one is allowed to make any provocative moves on deck. All turrets must remain at zero elevation, and gun covers must not be removed."

The order has been issued.

On the deck of the Huaihe, the sailors stood at their posts, their eyes fixed straight ahead. No one looked towards the banks of the river, no one whispered among themselves. They stood like statues on the warship.

The Pearl River followed closely behind.

Captain Zhou Zhenguo stood on the bridge, looking at the British sentries on both banks. His hands clenched and unclenched on the railing, clenched and unclenched again.

"Captain," the first mate whispered, "they're looking at us like we're monkeys."

Zhou Zhenguo did not turn around.

"Let them see," he said. "Monkeys don't bite. Once we get to the Atlantic, they'll know who the monkeys are."

The first mate paused for a moment, then laughed.

The laughter was soft, but the atmosphere on the bridge relaxed somewhat.

The Pearl River slowly moved forward, its propellers churning the murky canal water and leaving a brown trail in its wake at the stern.

The canal was so narrow that you could see the faces of the soldiers on both banks.

Some of the soldiers were young, looking no more than twenty. They held binoculars, their lips pressed tightly together, their eyes wary. Others were older, their faces showing fatigue and impatience—they had probably been standing there for hours.

Zhou Zhenguo looked at them and suddenly wondered: Do these young people know what they're looking at? Do they know how many tons of explosives are on this ship? Do they know that if war breaks out now, they'll be corpses in minutes?

he does not know.

But he knew this was war. In peacetime, people sized each other up; in wartime, they killed each other. The lines were blurred, so blurred that a single order could cause them to collapse.

"Captain," the first mate spoke again, "do you think they'll make a move?"

Zhou Zhenguo shook his head.

"No," he said. "They wouldn't dare."

Why?

Zhou Zhenguo pointed to the outposts on both sides of the strait: "See those machine guns?"

The first mate nodded.

"If they wanted to take action, those machine guns would have been pointed at us long ago," Zhou Zhenguo said. "But they didn't. They just watched. Because they were waiting for orders, and those orders never came."

He paused for a moment: "Because the gentlemen in London understand the consequences of taking action better than we do."

The first mate was silent for a few seconds, then asked, "What are the consequences?"

Zhou Zhenguo turned around and looked at him.

"The consequence is," he said, "that the four Bismarck-class ships in Dubai will be in the English Channel within a week. The Nagato will be commissioned ahead of schedule and sail to the Pacific. The Merkland people will declare complete neutrality."

He paused, then continued, "And then the British Empire was finished."

The first mate opened his mouth, but didn't say anything.

Zhou Zhenguo patted him on the shoulder, then turned around and continued looking ahead.

The canal glittered in the sunlight, like a golden ribbon winding its way into the distance.

Ahead lies the Mediterranean Sea.

It is the Atlantic Ocean.

It is unknown.

On the Huaihe, Zhang Zhen was also looking ahead.

He had been standing for three hours, motionless. His legs were a little sore, and his eyes were a little dry, but he didn't want to sit down. He needed to watch, to make sure every ship was moving according to the rules.

The communications officer walked over and handed over a slip of paper.

"General, we just received a telegram. London has agreed to let us through, but they have requested that the canal authorities monitor the entire process."

Zhang Zhen took the note, glanced at it, folded it, and put it in his pocket.

Passage approved.

These four words are enough.

"I understand," he said.

The communications officer has stepped down.

Zhang Zhen continued to look ahead.

The canal is almost over. Ahead, the Mediterranean Sea is shimmering in the sunlight, its blue so intense it's almost blinding.

He took a deep breath.

The Mediterranean Sea. An inland sea of ​​Europe. The British people's backyard.

The fleet is about to enter that sea area.

"The entire fleet," he said, "entering the Mediterranean, heading 290, speed 15 knots. Target—Gibraltar."

The replies from each ship came through the megaphone.

Zhang Zhen nodded.

He suddenly remembered Chen Feng's words: "Let the British know. Let the whole world know. Open and aboveboard, honorable and upright."

Yes, it's aboveboard and aboveboard.

They are brazenly crossing the lifeline of the British.

The British could only watch.

London, late night of March 1

The Prime Minister had just lain down when the phone rang.

He hadn't slept well for three days straight. Every day brought bad news—the Bismarck was still missing, the Revenge-class fleet couldn't catch up, the parliament was questioning them, the newspapers were criticizing them, and the public was panicking.

I finally managed to go to bed early today, but less than an hour after I lay down, the phone rang.

He picked up the receiver.

"Prime Minister, a call from Sir Wingate of Cairo. The Lanfang fleet has passed through the canal and entered the Mediterranean."

The Prime Minister remained silent for a few seconds.

"Is there anything unusual?"

"No, Prime Minister. They are strictly following the rules and have not conducted any military activities. The watchtowers on both sides of the canal report that everything is normal."

The Prime Minister closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

normal.

This word is the least credible in war.

"Does Sir Wingate have anything else to say?"

There was a pause on the other end of the phone, then Wingate's voice came through—he had taken the call.

"Prime Minister, I personally believe that the Lanfang people are testing us."

The Prime Minister did not respond.

Wingate continued, "They knew we'd be nervous, they knew we'd be monitoring them, they knew we'd be speculating. But they still came, openly and honestly. They were waiting for our reaction."

The Prime Minister finally spoke: "So, how should we react?"

Wingate was silent for a few seconds.

"Prime Minister, I think... we should not react."

The Prime Minister paused for a moment.

"No response?"

“Yes, Prime Minister,” Wingate said. “If we overreact, it’s tantamount to admitting we’re afraid of them. If we underreact, it’s tantamount to encouraging them to go even further next time. The best approach is to act as if nothing happened.”

He paused. "Let them guess our reaction, not the other way around."

The Prime Minister remained silent for a long time.

He looked out the window at the London night, at the twinkling lights, at the city that had endured three years of war.