Chapter 113: Transfer of the British Battleship

October 18, 1909, Yingguo Portsmouth, rain.

Wang Wenwu stood on the bridge of the Orion, rain droplets sliding down the porthole glass, turning the view of the Yingguo naval base outside into a vague gray. He could see the outline of the Dauntless in the distance, that once‑the world's premier battleship, now looking somewhat forlorn in the rain.

"Mr Wang, the final inspection checklist," said Major General John Abbasnot, the Yingguo Navy Department's acceptance officer. The fifty‑year‑old Scot was meticulous; over the past three days he and thirty engineers examined every corner of the Orion three times.

"Please," Wang Wenwu turned and took the thick document.

The checklist was typed, its entries dense and numerous:

Main Gun system: eight 343 mm/45 caliber naval guns, all passed live‑fire tests. Maximum range 21,000 m, dispersion error less than 0.3%.

Armour system: Armour Belt 330 mm, inclined at 15 degrees. A 200 mm armor‑piercing shell at a Distance of 10,000 m failed to penetrate in the test.

Power system: eighteen Babcock coal boilers, four Parsons steam turbines, maximum output 34,000 hp. Sea trials reached a top speed of 23.5 knots; a sustained cruising speed of 20 knots could maintain 8,000 nautical miles.

Fire‑control system: Drell fire‑control console MKIII type (Lanfang‑improved version), equipped with a 3‑m baseline rangefinder. In tests at a Distance of 15,000 m against moving targets, the first salvo's Hit Rate was 12%, rising to 28% by the third salvo.

……

Wang Wenwu turned to the last page, where Abbasnot's signature line was, with a space beside it for his own signature.

"All items meet the standards?" he asked.

"Not only meet them," Abbasnot's voice carried a complex emotion—both admiration and a hint of resentment, "the armour test exceeds the contract by 7%, the fire‑control Hit Rate exceeds by 9%, turbine efficiency exceeds by 5%. You… over‑delivered."

Wang Wenwu pulled a fountain pen from his suit pocket. It was a German‑made Montblanc with a 14K gold nib. He wrote his We need to output lines: English name in the signature line, the strokes neat and forceful.

"Then, according to the contract," he handed the document back, "the Orion is now formally transferred to the Royal Navy."

Abbasnot took the document, stared at the signature for a long while, then looked up: "Mr Wang, may I ask a question?"

"Please ask."

"Why sell such an advanced battleship to us?" Abbasnot stared into Wang Wenwu's eyes, "Normally, a technology advantage of this caliber would be kept secret for years at least. Yet you not only sold it, you sold it so… complete."

Rain hammered the bridge canopy, producing a rapid patter. In the distance the Royal Navy ceremonial guard's drums and bugles sounded—the handover ceremony was about to begin.

Wang Wenwu walked to the porthole, watching Portsmouth in the rain. He had been here six months earlier for negotiations. Now he delivered a battleship that could shift the balance of power in the North Sea.

"Major General," he said slowly, "Do you know how many people Lanfang has?"

"About… one‑and‑half million?"

"Precisely, as of last month, 1,527,300 people," Wang Wenwu turned, "Seventy percent are immigrants who arrived within three years from South Ocean or the Chinese coast. Why did they come? Because they heard they could get enough food, children could go to school, and doctors were available when sick."

He paused:

"Feeding so many requires money. Building schools needs money, building hospitals needs money, building factories needs money. Lanfang has nothing but desert. All we can sell is technology, our brains and our hands."

Abbasnot frowned, "But this battleship… its technology is at least three years ahead of Europe. You could have asked a higher price, or attached Political Issue conditions."

"We quoted—six million Yingguo pounds. That is a fair market price," Wang Wenwu smiled, "As for Political Issue conditions… Lanfang doesn't need them. What we need is money, resources, time. Trade technology for money, money for development time, time for a chance to go home. The logic is simple."

"Going home?"

"Back to Borneo, back to Lanfang's homeland," Wang Wenwu said, "That requires a stronger navy, more advanced industry, a larger population. All of that needs money."

Abbasnot fell silent. He recalled the days and nights three years earlier tracking the Restoration Ship in the Indian Ocean, remembering that giant vessel's astonishing speed and stability. Then he had thought Lanfang a fleeting tech boom, but now he understood—those people have a terrifyingly clear goal, and every step moves toward it.

"So the Orion is only the beginning," Abbasnot said, "You will sell even more advanced ones."

"If the client needs it and can pay," Wang Wenwu did not deny, "Major General, the times are changing. Technology used to be a nation's highest secret, but now… technology is becoming a commodity. Whoever controls manufacturing capability controls pricing power. And we are gaining that capability."

The bridge door was knocked. A young officer peeked in, "Major General, the ceremony time has arrived."

"Understood."

Abbasnot straightened his uniform, then extended his hand to Wang Wenwu, "Mr Wang, whatever the motive, you have indeed built a great battleship. As a naval officer, I respect that."

The two hands clasped. One a senior commander from an established naval power, the other a commerce minister of an emerging nation. In the rain of London, October 1909, a battleship forged a brief mutual understanding.

The handover ceremony took place on the dock. The rain eased, but the sky remained overcast. The Royal Navy ceremonial guard marched in formation, the band playing "Heaven Bless Our King." Lord Fei She Er attended in person—this navy minister stood at the center of the viewing platform, his expression as solemn as at a funeral.

Wang Wenwu, representing Lanfang, signed the transfer documents; Fei She Er, representing Yingguo, received them. As they shook hands, flashbulbs lit up—a swarm of reporters captured this historic moment: Yingguo buying a capital ship from an Asian nation, the first in three centuries.

"Mr Wang," Fei She Er whispered during the handshake, "Next ship, we want a fuel‑oil boiler version."

"That would require redesign, the price would be much higher," Wang Wenwu replied in kind.

"Money is not the issue. The issue is time—I need the ship before 1912."

"If we sign now, delivery can be made by the end of 1911."

Fei She Er's eyes flashed, then returned to seriousness: "The specific terms, let the subordinates discuss. But I need one promise—from Yingguo, the technology cannot be inferior to that given to Deguo."

Wang Wenwu smiled, "Lord, each client receives a tailor‑made product. Performance differences depend on budget and requirements, not nationality."

That remark was artful: I didn't promise the same, yet I didn't deny a difference.

Fei She Er stared at him for two seconds, then smiled—the smile of an old politician who sees through everything: "You're a smooth talker, young man. Now, go handle the reporters. They'll have many questions."

Indeed, many.

As soon as the ceremony ended, reporters swarmed. Questions pelted like raindrops:

"Mr Wang! Is Lanfang planning to set up a shipyard in Yingguo?"

"Does this battleship truly surpass the Dauntless?"

"Deguo also ordered your battleship; does that mean Lanfang is taking sides between Yingguo and Deguo?"

"There are rumors Japan also wanted to buy, but was refused—true?"

Wang Wenwu stood behind the makeshift podium, hands loosely clasped, waiting for the clamor to subside.

"Ladies and gentlemen," his English clear and steady, "regarding the Orion's technical specifications, the Royal Navy will issue official information later. As for Lanfang's foreign policy, I can state plainly: we are a commercial nation, willing to trade equally with any country that respects our sovereignty and interests. Nationality, race, belief are not our considerations. Price, schedule, technical standards—those are what matter."

"And Japan?" a Times reporter followed up, "Why refuse Japan?"

Wang Wenwu looked at the reporter, paused for three seconds. In those three seconds, the rain, the camera shutters, the crowd's murmurs were all distinctly audible.

"Lanfang does not discuss its commercial dealings with any country," he finally said, "That is basic business ethics."

Skillfully turning the Political Issue into a commercial matter.

Another reporter asked, "Mr Wang, what is Lanfang's ultimate goal? To become a new world power?"

The question silenced the venue. Everyone perked up.

Wang Wenwu looked into the distance, at the port shrouded in rain and mist, the cranes, the warships, and the outline of London farther away. Then he turned his head back and spoke into the microphone:

"Lanfang's goal is simple: to allow every Lanfang citizen to live with dignity, to let every child attend school safely, and to let every elder pass away peacefully. As for whether a strong nation is strong… that is merely a means to achieve these goals, not the goal itself."

He paused briefly, then added:

"Now, if anyone has no further questions, I must catch the train. I need to return to London tonight and fly to Chile tomorrow."

Reporters wanted to follow up, but Wang Wenwu had already stepped down from the podium. His assistant opened a black umbrella, escorted him through the crowd, and walked toward the waiting car.

When he got into the car, Wang Wenwu let out a long sigh. The driver looked at him through the rearview mirror and asked, "Minister, straight to the train station?"

"No," Wang Wenwu said. "First to the telegraph office. I need to send a telegram to Dubai."

"Understood."

The car entered London's streets. The rain‑soaked city was dim and ancient, its brick and stone buildings covered in moss, and horse‑drawn carriages and automobiles moved side by side on the slick road. All of this was starkly different from Dubai's brand‑new, orderly, ambition‑filled landscape.

At the telegraph office, Wang Wenwu drafted two telegrams.

The first, addressed to Chen Feng, in plain text:

【October 18, 1909, Portsmouth. The 'Orion' has been transferred. Funds have been received. Fisher requests a fuel‑boiler version before 1912. Suggested price: 7,000,000 pounds. Wang】

The second, addressed to Dubai's Ministry of Finance, encrypted:

【After 6,000,000 pounds are received: 2,000,000 transferred to the industrial expansion fund, 1,500,000 transferred to the South Ocean repatriation fund, 1,000,000 transferred to the technology R&D fund, the remaining 1,500,000 as strategic reserves. Executor: Wang Wenwu, authorization code: Lanfang 1909-10-18】

After sending the telegrams, he walked out of the telegraph office. The rain stopped, a crack opened in the cloud cover, and sunlight slanted down, casting golden spots on the wet street.

Wang Wenwu looked up at the sky and suddenly recalled the night three years ago when he and Chen Feng watched the stars in the desert. At that time they had only 300,000 people, and their pockets held just enough money for three months of food.

Now, they have just completed a 6,000,000‑pound transaction.

Three years, heaven and earth turned upside down.

"To the train station," he said to the driver, "next stop, Chile."