World War: Battleship Arms Dealers

At 6 p.m., the sun began to sink into the Persian Gulf.

On the dock, smoke began to rise from the chimneys of the Bismarck and Tirpitz—they were preheating their boilers in preparation for departure.

Scheer stood on the bridge of the Bismarck, looking at the city on the dock. In the distance, the outline of the city hall was particularly clear in the setting sun. The crowd in the square had dispersed, but the shouts seemed to still echo in his ears.

"General," the watchman approached, "everything is ready. We can set sail at any time."

Scher nodded.

He walked down from the bridge to the dock. A black car was parked there.

Chen Feng got out of the car.

The two stood on the dock, watching the Bismarck under the setting sun.

"General Scheer," Chen Feng began, "the mission this time is simple—keep an eye on Jellicoe's fleet. They're still recovering in Mumbai. Once they come out, we'll engage them. But don't engage in a decisive battle; wait for our main force."

Scher nodded: "Understood."

"And one more thing," Chen Feng paused, "that's, "that's that you come back alive."

Scher looked at him and remained silent for a few seconds.

"Commander Chen," he said, "do you know what I admire most about you?"

Chen Feng remained silent.

"That day at City Hall, you read out those 127 names. You pronounced each one very clearly. You really remembered them."

He stretched out his hand.

"Uncle Wang once told me: 'A leader must treat his soldiers as human beings.' You have done just that."

Chen Feng grasped his hand.

"Come back alive," he repeated.

Scher released his grip, turned, and walked back up the gangway. After a few steps, he glanced back.

"Commander Chen, after this battle is over, I'll treat you to drinks. German beer, with some dishes from Lanfang."

Chen Feng smiled.

"Okay. I'll wait."

At 7 p.m., the Bismarck and Tirpitz slowly sailed out of Dubai port.

Scheer stood on the bridge, watching the city lights recede into the distance. On the dock, Chen Feng was still standing there, a tiny black dot.

He turned around and faced the dark sea ahead.

"Full fleet, speed 20 knots, heading 170," he said. "We're heading to the Indian Ocean."

10 p.m., Presidential Residence.

Chen Feng sat in his office with three documents on his desk.

The first document is the mobilization progress of each unit.

In the Sinai direction: The 1st Mechanized Infantry Division, the 2nd, 3rd, 7th, 8th and 9th Divisions have all arrived at Hordassa. Zhao Dengyu telegraphed: "The troops are assembled and ready to launch an attack at any time."

In the Persian Gulf region: Wang Guojian, Yang Guoyan, and Fan Pupu's three divisions have arrived at the Kuwaiti border, reconnaissance troops have infiltrated Iran, and the deployment of British troops has been basically ascertained.

From Borneo: Zhou Zhenguo has arrived, and the Zhenyuan and Jiyuan ships have docked. Ten divisions from Japan are boarding the ships one after another, and are expected to complete assembly within three days.

On the naval front: all one hundred-plus submarines have set sail and are scattered throughout the Indian Ocean. Ritter's ocean-going fleet has entered the Red Sea and is moving towards its designated positions.

Everything is proceeding according to plan.

The second document is the shipyard's assessment report on the Huaihe and Zhujiang ships.

"Huaihe: The hull structure is severely damaged. The breach on the port side requires replacement of steel plates. The bridge needs to be rebuilt. Both main gun turrets require major overhaul. The estimated repair time is six months. Zhujiang: The damage is relatively minor. The estimated repair time is four months."

Chen Feng signed the report: "Agreed. Go all out to repair it, regardless of cost."

The third document was a coded telegram from Washington.

"President Wilson is willing to mediate. The British side has authorized Mary Kay to represent them in negotiations. Their conditions are: a public apology, compensation for damages, and investigation of some military officers. However, they refuse to admit to 'deliberate attack'."

After reading the telegram, Chen Feng put it aside.

Wang Wenwu pushed the door open and came in.

"Your Excellency, Consul Mary is here again. She still wants to meet with you."

Chen Feng did not look up.

Tell him I want to see him at 10 a.m. tomorrow.

Wang Wenwu was taken aback: "You've decided to talk?"

Chen Feng looked up at him.

"Talk? No. I'm going to tell them to give up on that idea."

Four o'clock in the morning, Pier No. 3.

Repair work is ongoing. Around the breach on the side of the Huaihe, deformed steel plates have been cut off, and workers are measuring the dimensions in preparation for welding new ones. The sparks from the welding torches are exceptionally bright in the night, like countless fallen stars.

Lin Fusheng stood on the scaffolding, holding a welding torch. He had been working continuously for twelve hours, his eyes were sore as if they had been sprinkled with sand, but he didn't want to stop.

With each weld, he thought of his son.

When Lin Yuan was a child, he loved watching him weld ships. He was too small to reach them, so he would stand beside him and look up. He watched the sparks fly, watched the steel plates join together, and watched a ship slowly take shape.

"Dad, I want to build ships when I grow up."

Later, he actually built a ship. Not as a welder, but as an engineer, operating the machinery on board.

Lin Fusheng welded again. Sparks illuminated his face, which was covered in sweat and still-wet tear tracks.

A young worker nearby called out to him, "Master Lin, take a break, you've been working all night."

Lin Fusheng shook his head.

"Not tired. I have to fix it. My son used to be up there."

The young worker didn't say anything more. He picked up the welding torch and continued working.

In the distance, the sea began to lighten. Dawn was approaching.

At the dock, more and more workers began their shifts. When they passed the Huaihe, they would stop for a glance, then silently pick up their tools and join the repair work.

No one spoke, only the sound of the welding torch, hissing and sizzling like the singing of metal.

Chen Feng stood at the window of the Presidential Palace, looking at the flashing welding lights on the dock.

That's the direction of the Huaihe River.

That's the direction of the Pearl River.

That was the place where those fallen sailors once lived.

He recalled the 50,000 faces in front of the city hall, Lin Fusheng kneeling on the ground and weeping bitterly, and Zhang Zhen sitting in his wheelchair looking at the Huaihe ship.

"One hundred and twenty-seven people," he said softly. "Do you see? It's dawn."

Outside the window, the sun rises over the Persian Gulf.

Golden sunlight streamed onto the hull of the Huaihe, bathing the wrecked warship in a brilliant golden glow. The bullet holes, the breaches, the twisted steel plates—all seemed to gleam in the sunlight.

On the dock, Lin Fusheng looked up at the ship.

The welding torch was still in his hand, and sparks were still flying.

But then he suddenly felt that the ship didn't seem so dilapidated anymore.

It's still there.

It will stand up again.

In the distance, the Bismarck and Tirpitz had disappeared into the Indian Ocean. There, Scheer was with his fleet, waiting for his prey.

Further afield, in Borneo, Sinai, the Persian Gulf, and the Red Sea, hundreds of thousands of Lanfang soldiers were gathering, preparing, and awaiting that order.

The war has only just begun.

Chen Feng turned around and walked back to his desk.

On the table was Consul Merrika's request for a meeting.

He picked up a pen and wrote a line on it:

"Tell him: Lanfang will not accept any form of compromise. Unless the British kneel down, we'll meet on the battlefield."

Then he put down his pen, walked to the window, and took one last look at the warship that was being repaired.

The welding sparkles like stars.

Illuminate the dawn.