World War: Battleship Arms Dealers

Chen Feng waved his hand, interrupting him.

"Minister Wang, do you think I would use 120,000 men to fight against 500,000?"

Wang Wenwu was stunned for a moment.

Chen Feng turned to look at him, his eyes shining.

"Tell Zhao Dengyu to proceed as planned, but don't rush across the canal. Let the British think we want to fight, and make them move their troops over. After they move over—"

No one knew better than Chen Feng that modern warfare was no longer about numbers. Although he only had 120,000 troops on the western front, he had more than 500 tanks, and the Lanfang factory was producing tanks in a steady stream.

The myth of El Alamein, more than 20 years from now, will be enacted by its own armored forces!

December 5, 1917, Strait of Gibraltar.

A Spanish-flagged merchant ship, the Santa Maria, was quietly sailing eastward into the night. The ship was small, displacing only three thousand tons, and its decks were piled high with cargo containers marked "Barcelona-Genoa." The sea was calm, and moonlight shimmered on its surface, creating patches of silvery light.

Laval stood in the shadow of the bow, wrapped in a dark gray coat, watching the European coastline recede into the distance.

That's the direction of Spain. To the north is France, to the east is Italy, and to the south is Africa. But the place he's going is in the East—a place that was unknown just a few months ago, but now keeps all of Europe up at night.

First mate Dumont approached him and said in a low voice, "Mr. Ambassador, the captain needs you to return to your cabin. It's windy outside."

Laval shook his head.

"No need. Let me stand here a little longer."

He had been on this ship for six days. Departing from Marseille, rounding Spain, passing Gibraltar, and now heading towards the eastern Mediterranean coast, he had changed ships three times, assumed two different identities, and once nearly been stopped by a British naval patrol boat. Fortunately, the captain spoke fluent Spanish, and fortunately, the British sailors were eager to get back to their cabins for hot tea.

He thought a lot during those six days.

He recalled Paris three years earlier, when he was just an ordinary counselor in the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, handling trivial official documents every day. On the day the war broke out, he was drinking coffee in his office when he suddenly heard a commotion outside the window. He went to the window and saw that the street was crowded with people waving national flags and shouting "Marching to Berlin!"

Everyone thought the war would end quickly. Before Christmas, the Germans would be begging for mercy. The French army would march into Berlin victorious, just like Napoleon had done.

Three years have passed.

Three Christmases have passed, and the war continues. The French army has not knelt down to beg for mercy, but it has not marched into Berlin either. On the contrary, the Germans have advanced to within 100 kilometers of Paris; 300,000 men have died at Verdun, 400,000 at the Somme, and the entire northern part of France has been repeatedly bombarded.

And what about the British?

The British talked about "fighting side by side," but their minds were only on their own interests. They committed a million troops to the French front, but only because the Germans threatened the English Channel. Given the chance, they would withdraw their troops to protect their colonies, to hold onto India, and to compete with the Lanfang for control of Asia.

As for the beautiful card people?

Wilson, that hypocrite, spouted slogans of "freedom and democracy," but his heart was solely focused on the interests of Mary Kay. The arrival of 14,000 people in France was more symbolic than practical. The real army was still on its way, still waiting for parliamentary approval of the budget, still waiting for the public to be incited. By the time they were ready, France might no longer exist.

And then there are the Italians... Do they really think we French can't see their underhanded tactics? Do they really think we're blind?

"Mr. Ambassador," Dumont spoke again, a hint of worry in his voice, "do you really think Chen Feng will meet with us?"

Laval turned around and looked at him.

"He will meet with me. He has no reason not to."

"But—" Dumont hesitated for a moment, "we're halfway around the world from Lanfang, we don't share a border, and we have no direct interests involved. Why would they help us?"

Laval remained silent for a few seconds.

"Dumont, do you know what the essence of diplomacy is?"

Dumont shook his head.

"The essence of diplomacy is to find a common enemy," Laval said. "The British are Lanfang's enemy, and they are our enemy as well. That's enough."

In the distance, a faint light appeared on the horizon. It was the light of a lighthouse, pointing east, towards the Suez Canal.

Laval looked at the light and whispered, "It's almost there. Almost there."

Dubai, December 12.

The sun had just risen above the sea, bathing the entire city in a golden-red hue. The minarets of the distant mosques stood out sharply in the morning light, while the nearby docks were already bustling with activity. Workers were carrying goods, vendors were hawking their wares, and fishing boats were leaving the harbor—everything seemed much the same as it had a month ago.

But everything is different now.

Two massive warships—the Huaihe and the Zhujiang—were moored at the dock. They sat quietly in their berths, their tall hulls gleaming with a cold, metallic sheen in the sunlight. On deck, workers were busily carrying out repairs. Sparks from welding torches flickered in the morning light, like golden rain. The huge breach on the port side had been plugged with steel plates, the bridge was being rebuilt, and a new mast was being erected.

Further away, the Bismarck and Tirpitz were visible. German sailors stood on the deck, curiously observing the eastern city. Most of them, who a month ago thought they would die in the Indian Ocean, were now drinking Arabic coffee and eating local fruit.

A black car was parked on the dock. Several Lanfang military officers in crisp uniforms stood beside the car, waiting for someone to arrive.

Laval stepped off the gangway and onto Dubai soil.

He took a deep breath. The air smelled of the sea, of oil, of spices, and of something else indescribable—the smell of victory.

A military officer in his thirties approached, saluted, and said in fluent French:

"Mr. Laval, welcome to Dubai. I am Lin, the adjutant at the Presidential Palace. The President is waiting for you."

Laval nodded and followed Lieutenant Lin toward the black car.

Before getting into the car, he took one last look back at the two huge German warships.

The Bismarck and the Tirpitz—those two warships that struck fear into the hearts of the British Royal Navy—were now quietly docked at the pier of this eastern city, undergoing repairs by Lanfang engineers.

He suddenly remembered Clemenceau's words before he left: "Pierre, go and see what kind of person this Chen Feng really is. He can make Germans risk their lives for him, make the Japanese shed blood for him, and make the British lose sleep—this man is no ordinary person."

He got into the car, the door closed, and the car slowly drove away from the dock.