World War: Battleship Arms Dealers

Wang Guojian walked up to him, and following the etiquette he had learned beforehand, placed his right hand on his chest and bowed slightly.

"Your Majesty, Wang Guojian, commander of the 3rd Division of the Western Front Army of the Lanfang Republic, has arrived in Tehran with his troops as ordered. Thank you for your warm hospitality."

Ahmed looked at him and remained silent for three seconds.

Then he extended his hand and said in broken English, "Welcome, General Wang. Iran welcomes Lanfang's friends."

His hands were slender and white, without calluses, clearly hands that had never done manual labor. But his eyes—those eyes didn't look like those of a nineteen-year-old. There was something in those eyes that Wang Guojian recognized—the look of someone who had lived in danger since childhood. Vigilant, shrewd, always observing, always calculating.

Wang Guojian grasped that hand.

"Your Majesty, your Chinese is quite good."

Ahmed laughed. That kind of laugh reminded Wang Guojian of Saddam Hussein—the laugh of a wise man.

"I studied for three months. From the day I learned that Lanfang was coming."

Wang Guojian paused for a moment, then smiled.

"Your Majesty is very farsighted."

Ahmed stepped aside and gestured for him to sit: "Please sit. Let's talk slowly."

The two sat down at a low table. The waiter brought tea and snacks—the tea was black tea with sugar cubes and mint; the snacks were plentiful, sweet, savory, fried, and baked, filling the table.

Ahmed picked up his teacup, took a sip, and then put it down.

"General Wang, you fought very well in Malaya. You fought very well in Burma too." He looked at Wang Guojian, his eyes gleaming. "The British ran away, they abandoned us."

Wang Guojian didn't reply. He was waiting.

Ahmed continued, “A hundred years. The British have been here for a hundred years. They taught my father how to be king, my grandfather how to be king, and my great-grandfather how to be king. They gave us loans so we would owe them money; they sent advisors to help us ‘manage’ the country; they stationed troops to protect our ‘security’.”

He paused, then lowered his voice.

"But when they need protection themselves, they run faster than anyone else."

Wang Guojian finally spoke: "Your Majesty, Lanfang will not run away."

Ahmed looked at him for a long time.

"I know," he said. "If you could run, you wouldn't have attacked Singapore, you wouldn't have attacked Burma, and you wouldn't have been chased all the way to the Suez Canal."

He stood up and walked to a huge Persian carpet. Embroidered on the carpet was a map of the Persian Empire—from the Indus River to the Mediterranean Sea, from the Caucasus Mountains to the Persian Gulf. It depicted Persia more than two thousand years ago, the first superpower in human history.

"General Wang, do you know how big Persia used to be?"

Wang Guojian stood up and walked to his side.

"I know. In Darius' time, Persia had seventy ethnic groups and tens of millions of people."

Ahmed nodded.

"And now? Only Iran remains. The British came and carved away our land piece by piece. The Russians came and carved away our land piece by piece as well. In a hundred years, Persia became Iran, and the great empire became a small country."

He turned to look at Wang Guojian.

"General Wang, will Lanfang cede our land?"

Wang Guojian remained silent for three seconds.

"Your Majesty, you should ask our Grand Commander about this. I am merely a division commander and cannot make the decision for the Grand Commander."

Ahmed smiled. That smile put Wang Guojian at ease—this nineteen-year-old knew what he could and couldn't ask.

"Alright, then I'll ask the President when we get to Dubai." He walked back to the table and sat down again. "But now, I'd like to ask you first—General Wang, what do you think Lanfang needs?"

Wang Guojian thought for a moment.

"Oil fields," he said. "The Abadan oil fields. And Iran's tin, tungsten, and copper. Lanfang needs resources, and His Majesty has resources. Fair trade, no cheating the young or old."

Ahmed nodded.

“Fair trade. I like that term.” He picked up his teacup and took another sip. “The British also talk about fair trade, but they offer half the market price. They say it’s because of ‘management fees’.”

Wang Guojian smiled.

"Your Majesty, rest assured, Lanfang doesn't do that. Whatever the market price, Lanfang will pay. Cash on delivery."

Ahmed put down his teacup and extended his hand.

"make a deal."

Wang Guojian grasped his hand.

Hold hands together, then separate after three seconds.

That evening, a grand banquet was held at the palace to welcome the Lanfang army.

The banquet hall was brightly lit and filled with long tables. The tables were piled high with all kinds of food—roasted mutton, stewed chicken, pilaf, naan, and various unidentifiable snacks and fruits. Iranian nobles in gorgeous robes moved among them, holding wine glasses and chatting in Persian, occasionally casting curious glances at the Lanfang officers.

Wang Guojian sat at the head table, next to King Ahmed. The young king had changed into a slightly simpler suit, but it was still dazzlingly gorgeous. He raised a glass of red wine to Wang Guojian.

"General Wang, please try this wine. It's Shiraz wine, which has been around for two thousand years."

Wang Guojian picked up his glass and took a sip. The wine was mellow, with a unique aroma, completely different from Chinese baijiu.

"Good wine," he said.

Ahmed smiled, a truly happy smile. At that moment, he seemed like a nineteen-year-old—the happy child receiving praise.

"I'm glad you like it. When you leave, I'll give you a few boxes. Take them back for Commander Chen to try."

Wang Guojian nodded without saying anything.

Halfway through the banquet, an Iranian officer in military uniform approached and whispered a few words in Ahmed's ear. Ahmed's expression changed slightly, but he quickly regained his composure. He waved his hand, and the officer withdrew.

Wang Guojian saw it all but didn't ask any questions.

Ahmed spoke up himself: "General Wang, I just received news. The British ambassador to Tehran left this afternoon with all the embassy staff. They left in a hurry and didn't take many things with them."

Wang Guojian was taken aback.

"They ran away?"

"They ran away," Ahmed nodded. "They took a train to India. They said they were going there to wait for a ship to return home." (India and Pakistan weren't partitioned yet.)

Wang Guojian remained silent for a few seconds.

The British ambassador has fled. What does this mean? It means the British have completely abandoned Iran. If they don't even want their diplomatic representatives, how can they expect their troops to return?

"Your Majesty," he said, "this is a good thing for Iran."

Ahmed looked at him, his eyes holding something indescribable.

"A good thing? Maybe. The British are gone, the Russians are in the middle of a civil war, and the Ottoman Empire is crippled." He paused, his voice lowering, "Now Iran only has you left."

Wang Guojian understood the meaning behind those words—now Iran only has you left, so don't follow the British example.