World War: Battleship Arms Dealers

There was no wind in the Persian Gulf late at night.

The Bismarck sat quietly at Pier 3, its hull gleaming with a cold, metallic sheen in the moonlight. Seven days of repairs had breathed new life into this battered behemoth—the newly patched steel plate at the starboard waterline had been polished smooth, blending seamlessly with the surrounding hull; the hydraulic system of the B turret was back to normal, its barrels pointing proudly at the night sky in the moonlight; and the newly installed antennas on the bridge resembled a fine spiderweb, awaiting their next prey.

Sher did not sleep.

He stood by the starboard window of the Bismarck's bridge, holding a cup of coffee that had gone cold—a habit he'd developed these past few days. He would stand here alone late at night, looking at the welding machines and scaffolding left behind by the Lanfang workers on the dock, thinking about the voyage that would begin the next day.

The fuel tank was filled to 87%. The ammunition magazine was replenished with 240 rounds of 380mm armor-piercing rounds. Fresh water, food, and medicine were all filled. After seven days of rest, the fatigue on the crew's faces had faded, their eyes were no longer sunken, and they had regained their strength in their steps.

Tomorrow, at daybreak, they will set sail.

Should he return to the Indian Ocean? Or continue eastward, towards Lanfang's mainland? Sher hadn't decided yet. Chen Feng had sent word yesterday that there might be important matters to discuss this morning, and told him not to rush off today.

"General."

The voice of Major Hans Meyer, the watch officer, came from behind, interrupting Scheer's thoughts.

"What is it?"

"A messenger from the Lanfang Grand Commander's Office has come to say that Grand Commander Chen has urgent business and requests your immediate presence. The car is already waiting at the dock."

Scher turned around, his brows furrowing slightly.

An emergency meeting was held at 2 a.m.

He'd been in the Navy for thirty years and knew this rhythm all too well—it meant something big was happening.

Tell the messenger I'll be there right away.

Three minutes later, Scheer descended the gangway. A black car was parked on the dock, and a Lanfang Marine Corps soldier stood beside it, saluting him.

Scher returned the greeting, opened the car door, and got in.

The car started, drove away from the dock, and disappeared into the streets of Dubai late at night.

The conference room in the Presidential Palace was brightly lit.

When Scher pushed open the door, there were already four people sitting inside: Chen Feng was seated at the head of the long table, Wang Wenwu was on his right, and Navy Commander Li Te was on his left. Major General Zhang Zhen stood by the wall, staring intently at the huge Arabian Sea chart, his brow furrowed.

There was another person sitting opposite Chen Feng, with a full head of white hair and wearing a faded general's uniform.

Tirpitz.

Scher was taken aback—the old marshal had been resting in Dubai these past few days, so why had he been summoned?

"General Scher, please have a seat." Chen Feng's voice remained steady, but Scher detected an unusual seriousness in his voice.

He sat down next to Tirpitz and nodded to the old marshal. Tirpitz didn't respond, but just stared at the teacup in front of him, the wrinkles on his face particularly deep in the lamplight.

The last person to enter was Zhang Zhen's adjutant, who brought in a stack of documents, then silently withdrew and closed the door.

There was a three-second silence in the conference room.

Chen Feng spoke up: "Gentlemen, I called you here in the early hours of the morning because I just received some news. Very bad news."

He picked up the document on the table and read aloud: "The Merica Parliament passed the 'Trade Against the Enemy Act' by an overwhelming majority this afternoon Washington time. This act authorizes the federal government to confiscate all assets of Germany and its citizens within Merica, including bank deposits, company shares, real estate, and…"

He paused: "German ships anchored in the port of Merica."

The conference room was deathly silent.

In that instant, countless thoughts flashed through Scheer's mind—Germany's assets in Merica, the last liquid funds Germany had overseas after the outbreak of war. The Deutsche Bank branch in New York, the five Hansa Lines cargo ships anchored in Boston Harbor, the Junker family's real estate investments in Merica…

It's all gone.

Tirpitz's face turned ashen in that instant.

The old marshal placed his hands on the table, slowly stood up, walked to the window, and turned his back to everyone. His shoulders were trembling slightly, but he made no sound.

As Scher watched that retreating figure, his heart felt as if it were being gripped tightly by something.

He recalled his first meeting with Tirpitz thirty years earlier. Back then, the old marshal was still Minister of the Navy, standing in the Reichstag hall, passionately addressing the members who were questioning the naval budget: "Germany needs a powerful fleet, not for provocation, but for survival!"

Thirty years later, the fleet he built still exists, but his country has been driven to the brink of destruction.

Merika's move wasn't just about cutting Germany's money; it was about cutting Germany's life.

Wang Wenwu broke the silence: "Commander-in-Chief, is Meilika... preparing to enter the fray?"

Chen Feng nodded: "The Anti-Enemy Trade Act is the final step before declaring war. Confiscating assets, expelling diplomats, freezing accounts—next comes the 'collateral damage incident caused by the unlimited submarine warfare,' and then, 'to protect the citizens of Merika and freedom of navigation,' we formally declare war on Germany."

He paused. "Wilson finally got the excuse he wanted."

Li Te frowned: "President, if Monica enters the war, Germany's situation..."

He didn't finish speaking, but everyone understood.

Mica's industrial capacity is three times that of Germany, and its population is twice that of Germany. Once Mica fully mobilizes its war machine, the Allied supply gaps will be filled instantly. Germany's stalemate on land and its commerce raiding at sea will become meaningless.

Tirpitz slowly turned around.

The old marshal's face was expressionless, but the light in his eyes was something Scheer had never seen before. It wasn't despair, nor anger; it was something deeper than despair and colder than anger.

He looked at Chen Feng.

He didn't speak.

But Scher understood that look—it was the look in the eyes of a man who had dedicated his life to his country, looking at the last glimmer of hope.

eager.

Pleading.

Scher clenched his fist under the table.

Chen Feng met Tirpitz's gaze and remained silent for three seconds.

Then he pressed his right hand down, making a "calm down" gesture.

"Now that the beautiful woman is about to appear," he said, his voice still steady, "Lanfang will naturally not sit idly by."

Wang Wenwu's eyes lit up, but he immediately frowned: "Commander-in-Chief, Lanfang needs an excuse for her fate! We can't declare war on the British without a reason, otherwise the Meilika people will have a reason to join forces with the British to deal with us first."

Li Te nodded in agreement: "Minister Wang is right. The timing is wrong, and we have no excuse. The British haven't attacked our ships or harmed our people on the high seas, so what right do we have to declare war?"

Chen Feng smiled.

Scheer had seen that kind of smile several times—it was the same smile he had when he said at the dock, "You can stay in Dubai for seven days." Confident and meticulously planned.