World War: Battleship Arms Dealers

"You don't recognize them, do you? I don't either. But I do know they're dead. Killed by your navy."

Wilson walked around the desk and stood in front of Spring Rice. There were only two meters between them, but Spring Rice felt as if those two meters were two kilometers away.

"Twelve capital ships against two training ships, three hours of fighting, and they lost. Then they got photos of the firing." Wilson's voice rose. "What's in your Admiral Jellicoe's head? Seawater?"

Spring-Rice's face flushed red. He was the British Empire's diplomatic representative and had never been insulted like this to his face. But he couldn't utter a single word in rebuttal—the photographs were irrefutable evidence, and denying it would be suicidal.

"Your Excellency," he finally spoke, his voice slightly hoarse, "this was... a regrettable misjudgment. General Jellicoe thought it was a German warship."

"Misjudgment?" Wilson sneered. "Twelve capital ships, hundreds of main guns, and you couldn't even tell if the enemy was flying their flags before the battle? You call that a misjudgment?"

He walked back to his desk and picked up the British note.

"You want me to mediate. You want me to tell Chen Feng that it's a misunderstanding. You want me to tell him that paying some money will be enough."

He slammed the note on the table.

"Mr. Ambassador, do you know what Chen Feng said at Dubai City Hall?"

Spring Rice shook his head.

He said, "People of Lanfang do not kneel." He said he would beat them until they knelt down.

Wilson walked back to the window, his back to everyone.

"I spent three years patiently waiting for the Germans to make a mistake, waiting for the opportune moment to enter the war. And now? You've given me a huge gift—pushing the neutral country of Lanfang into Germany's arms."

He turned around and looked at Spring Rice.

"Mr. Ambassador, go back and tell your Prime Minister: Merika will not declare war on Lanfang. Not a single soldier."

Spring Rice's face turned pale instantly.

"Your Excellency, this...how can this be? If Mirika doesn't send troops, all our colonies in Asia will..."

"That's your problem," Wilson interrupted him. "You hit someone, so you'll have to face the consequences yourselves."

He walked back to his desk and sat down.

"I will send a consul to Dubai to relay your message. But that's all."

Spring-Rice stood there, opened his mouth, but ultimately said nothing. He gave a slight bow, turned, and walked out.

After the door closed, Wilson leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes.

Lansing asked softly, "Your Excellency, are we really not going to do anything about it?"

Wilson did not open his eyes.

"Manage? How? Attack Lanfang? Do you have a reason? Britain fired first, and we're helping the British attack the victims—is that acceptable internationally?"

He opened his eyes and looked at the ceiling.

"Let's wait. We'll come out and clean up the mess after they've fought enough."

10 Downing Street, London.

The Prime Minister's meeting room was filled with smoke. Cabinet ministers sat around a long table, each with a stack of photographs in front of them. They had looked at them dozens of times, but seeing them again still felt jarring.

Prime Minister George sat in the head seat, holding a newly received telegram—from the ambassador to Maryland, relaying every word Wilson had said.

He put down the telegram, looked up, and gazed at the people present.

"Wilson refused. Milica will not send troops."

The conference room was deathly silent.

First Lord of the Admiralty John Jellicoe—not that Jellicoe, but his cousin, also named John Jellicoe, though this one was a civilian—was the first to speak. (Just kidding, haha)

"Prime Minister, we can send another fleet from the Mediterranean... Once they reach the Indian Ocean, together with Jellicoe's existing eight ships, we'll have eleven capital ships. Lanfang only has..."

"Only what?" the Prime Minister interrupted him. "Only four Bismarck-class submarines? Only a little over a hundred submarines? Only 250,000 Japanese soldiers boarding the ships? Only three Arab divisions advancing towards Iran? Only 120,000 men already waiting to cross the Suez Canal in the Sinai Peninsula?"

He stood up and walked to the huge world map on the wall.

"Gentlemen, take a look at this."

He pointed to the Indian Ocean.

"More than a hundred submarines from Lanfang have been deployed. From Malacca to the Persian Gulf, every British ship is prey. How will our merchant ships get through? How will our supplies be transported?"

He then pointed to the Suez Canal.

"Lanfang's 120,000-strong army has already assembled in Hordassa, only 200 kilometers from the canal. What will happen to Egypt once they break through? What will happen to the Suez Canal?"

He then pointed to Singapore.

"Ten divisions from Japan are boarding ships, and two Bismarck-class destroyers from Lanfang are already waiting in Borneo. How long can Singapore's 30,000-strong garrison hold out?"

He turned around and looked at those silent faces.

"Gentlemen, we are losing a war. Not on the battlefield, but the moment that idiot Jellicoe gave the order to fire."

War Secretary Herbert Kitchener spoke, his voice hoarse: "Prime Minister, we can negotiate. Lanfang's conditions are harsh, but..."

"But what?" the Prime Minister looked at him. "A public apology, admission of a premeditated attack, handing over Jericho, compensation for all losses, and relinquishing all privileges in Asia—is this peace talks? This is surrender!"

He walked back to his seat and sat down.

"Besides, even if we agree to these conditions, will Chen Feng stop? I doubt it. He's already holding a knife to our necks, and he won't stop until there's blood."

Foreign Secretary Edward Gray entered. His face was even more grim than when he left.

"Prime Minister, I just received news. The Ministry of Foreign Affairs of Lanfang has officially rejected Meilika's mediation request. Chen Feng said, 'No meeting.'"

The conference room fell into dead silence once again.

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

"Is there any worse news?"

Gray was silent for three seconds.

"Yes. The Governor-General of India called. Large-scale demonstrations have broken out in Bombay, Calcutta, and Madras. The people are demanding independence and for the British to get out of India. The colonial government has lost control of the situation."

"What about Australia?"

"A telegram also arrived. They requested urgent reinforcements, saying that the 4th and 5th Divisions of Lanfang were assembling and could land at any moment. But we... we have no ships to transport troops. The Suez Canal could be cut off at any time."

The Prime Minister opened his eyes and looked at the ceiling.

"God," he murmured, "what have we done to deserve such punishment?"

The meeting room door was pushed open again. An aide-de-camp entered and whispered a few words in the prime minister's ear.

The Prime Minister's expression changed.

He stood up and straightened his collar.

"Gentlemen, His Majesty the King has arrived."

Everyone stood up at the same time.

As the door opened, King George V entered. He was dressed in the uniform of a naval admiral, his chest adorned with medals, but his face lacked its usual majesty, displaying only an indescribable weariness and heaviness.

"Your Majesty," the Prime Minister bowed.

King George V waved his hand: "Please sit down. This is not a formal occasion."

He walked to the top of the long table and sat down in the chair next to the head of the table—a chair prepared especially for him.

Everyone sat down, but no one dared to speak first.

King George V looked at the stack of photos on the table, picked up one, and stared at it for a long time.

"Is this person," he said, pointing to the photo of Chang Chen, "still alive?"

The Prime Minister paused for a moment, then said, "Your Majesty, you mean...?"

"That officer, his face covered in blood. The captain of the Lanfang ship. Is he dead?"

The Prime Minister looked at the Foreign Secretary. Gray shook his head: "Your Majesty, intelligence indicates he is still alive. Seriously injured, but not in mortal danger."

King George V nodded and put down the photograph.