World War: Battleship Arms Dealers

"Have all ships take note," he said. "After entering the canal entrance tomorrow, remain vigilant. The British will certainly have reconnaissance planes overhead; let them see them, make them nervous. But remember, do not fire first."

The chief of staff nodded: "Yes, sir."

Lee Te straightened up and glanced out the window again.

The distant coastline drew ever closer. That was Egypt, Africa, British territory.

But soon, that will no longer be the case.

At the same time, at the Dubai submarine base.

The last submarine is making final preparations before its voyage. Captain Zhang Haisheng stands on the dock, looking at his submarine—a brand-new U-boat, eighty meters long, with a submerged displacement of 1,500 tons, capable of remaining submerged for thirty days.

"Captain, all supplies are loaded," the first mate reported as he ran over. "Fresh water, food, torpedoes, batteries—everything's there."

Zhang Haisheng nodded, but did not move.

He stared at the boat for a long time.

Three years have passed. From the laying of the first keel to yesterday's final sea trial, he watched it take shape bit by bit. He touched every steel plate, every pipe, and every screw.

Now, we're going to take it to war.

Footsteps sounded behind him. Chen Feng had walked over at some point.

"Captain Zhang, are you ready?"

Zhang Haisheng turned and saluted: "Commander-in-Chief, all ready."

Chen Feng stared at the submarine and remained silent for a few seconds.

Do you know where you're going?

"I know. On the west coast of India, outside the port of Mumbai."

"What about the mission?"

"Keep a close eye on the British fleet. Wait for them to come out, then engage them. Don't engage in a decisive battle; wait for the main force."

Chen Feng nodded.

"Remember this: a submarine's life is more valuable than a battleship's. If you sink, you lose a submarine. The brothers on board won't come back. So, hide if you need to, run if you need to. Coming back alive is better than anything else."

Zhang Haisheng looked at him and remained silent for three seconds.

"Commander-in-Chief, rest assured. I will bring the brothers back."

Chen Feng patted him on the shoulder, then turned and left.

Zhang Haisheng took one last look at the dock, then at Dubai in the distance, before turning and boarding the boat.

"Close the hatch. Untie the moorings."

The orders were relayed down. The diesel engines started, emitting a deep roar. The submarine slowly left the dock and glided into the azure water.

On the dock, several workers stopped what they were doing and watched the submarine gradually disappear into the distance. They didn't know where it was going, or if it would ever return.

All they knew was that it was a boat they had built.

Zhang Haisheng stood in the control tower, watching the lights of Dubai grow farther and farther away, fainter and fainter, until they finally disappeared into the night.

Ahead lay the dark Indian Ocean.

Ahead lies an unknown battlefield.

But he wasn't afraid.

Because behind them, four thousand readers are waiting for them to return.

10 p.m., Presidential Residence.

Chen Feng sat at his desk, a thick stack of telegrams in front of him. Arrival status of various units, current positions of each fleet, reports from submarines, and the latest intelligence reports—all information was compiled here.

Wang Wenwu pushed open the door and came in, holding a document in his hand.

"Your Excellency, Consul Mary has sent another telegram. She still wishes to meet with you."

Chen Feng didn't even look up: "Tell him I'll see him at 10 a.m. tomorrow."

Wang Wenwu was taken aback: "You've really decided to see him?"

Chen Feng looked up at him.

"Let him see. Let him hear it for himself. We refuse."

Wang Wenwu nodded and turned to leave.

"Wait a minute," Chen Feng called out to him.

Wang Wenwu turned around.

Chen Feng stood up and walked to the window. Outside, the lights of Dubai Harbour twinkled in the night, like countless fallen stars.

"Minister Wang," he suddenly asked, "tell me, were the decisions I made right or wrong?"

Wang Wenwu remained silent for a few seconds.

"President, are you asking me personally, or as the Minister of Foreign Affairs?"

"Ask them all."

Wang Wenwu thought for a moment.

"As Foreign Minister, I feel... this move is too risky. Once a war breaks out, it will be difficult to control. Although Britain has suffered losses, it is still the world's leading power. Furthermore, given Mirika's ambiguous stance, what if..."

"What if what?"

"What if Mary Kay ultimately decides to support Britain?

Chen Feng looked at him without saying a word.

Wang Wenwu continued, "Personally, I think... we fought well. The British killed 127 of our men. If we don't fight back, anyone can bully us in the future. But as the Minister of Foreign Affairs, I must remind you: war is risky. If you win, everyone is happy. If you lose, everything is lost."

Chen Feng remained silent for a long time.

Then he went back to the table and sat down.

"Minister Wang, do you know why I dared to fight this battle?"

Wang Wenwu shook his head.

Chen Feng pointed out the window: "Because I know the war is almost over, and Lanfang needs to make preparations in advance; some losses are necessary!"

At 9:00 a.m. Washington time, in the Oval Office of the White House.

President Wilson stood by the window, his back to the door, looking out at the neatly trimmed lawn. His hands were behind his back, his fingers unconsciously tapping the back of his hands—a habitual gesture when he was extremely agitated.

There were three documents on the desk.

The first document was the official text of Lanfang's declaration of war. The second was the stack of photographs—the moment the Huaihe was hit, Zhang Zhen standing at the bridge window with his face covered in blood, and the list of the dead. The third was an urgent note just delivered by Cecil Spring-Rice, the British ambassador to Victoria.

Secretary of State Robert Lansing stood by his desk, not daring to speak. He had been with Wilson for ten years and knew that it was best to keep quiet at this time.

There was a gentle knock on the door. The secretary poked his head in: "Your Excellency, the British ambassador has arrived."

Wilson didn't turn around: "Let him in."

Spring-Rice walked into the office with the professional smile typical of diplomats. But that smile froze the moment he saw Wilson's back.

He stood there for three seconds, but Wilson did not turn around.

He stood there for another three seconds, but Wilson still didn't turn around.

The atmosphere in the office grew increasingly tense. Lansing lowered his head, examining his shoes. The secretary had long since slipped away.

Finally, Wilson turned around.

His face was expressionless, but his eyes—those eyes seemed to burn with fire.

"Mr. Ambassador," he began, his voice eerily calm, "do you know what time I went to bed last night?"

Spring-Rice hesitated for a moment: "Your Excellency, I..."

"Four in the morning," Wilson interrupted him. "I spent three hours looking at photos. Photos of one hundred and twenty-seven coffins."

He walked to his desk, picked up the stack of photos, and slammed them onto the table.

Do you know these people?

Spring Rice looked at the photos, her lips moved, but she didn't say anything.