Chapter 130: Mr. Chen's Affairs Are Our Affairs

After seeing off Mueller, Chen Feng returned to the office. Wang Bo was tidying up the tea set.

"Young Master, are we really sending a ship to the Mediterranean Sea?"

Chen Feng gave no answer. He walked to the window, watched Mueller's car drive out of the courtyard of the administrative building, and then spoke slowly.

"Wang Bo, send a telegram to Muscat Base."

"Understood."

"Content: Order the U-3 submarine to set sail immediately, passing through Aden Bay, the Red Sea, and the Suez Canal into the Mediterranean Sea. Mission: reconnaissance. Observe the deployment and movements of the British, French, and German fleets. Remain submerged; surface only if necessary. Report once each midnight via long‑wave radio."

Wang Bo recorded quickly, and when he looked up, his eyes showed worry.

"U-3… that's our newest submarine; the crew has only been training for three months."

"So it's even more necessary," Chen Feng said. "Combat is the best training ground. Tell them, if they are discovered, dive to deep water. Our submarine's maximum diving depth is 200 meters; the British and French sonar can't reach that deep."

"Understood."

After Wang Bo left, Chen Feng stood alone before the map. He drew a circle with a red pen on Agadir, and another circle on Gibraltar, Malta, and Alexandria.

"Mediterranean…" he muttered softly, "is about to become a powder keg again."

The atmosphere in Dubai grew noticeably tense over the next two days.

Cars from various consulates came and went frequently at the administrative building. First the French consul Dupont, then the British consul Howard, and finally even the consul of the Austro‑Hungarian Empire arrived. Each person wanted to gauge Lanfang's stance, each came bearing promises and threats.

Chen Feng saw none of them.

"The President is inspecting the oil‑pipeline project on the Arabian Peninsula," Wang Wenwu told all the visitors, "communication is difficult; the earliest we can return is three days later."

That wasn't a complete lie. On the morning of July 3, Chen Feng did board a special train heading inland. But it wasn't to inspect the pipeline—at least not entirely.

In the private carriage of the special train, Chen Feng, Liu Yongfu, and the newly appointed security chief Zhou Tieshan sat together. Outside the window the desert rushed past, occasional Bedouin tents and caravades of camels visible.

"The Muscat Base report," Zhou Tieshan handed over a document, "U-3 passed the Hormuz Strait at 21:00 yesterday, entering the Arabian Sea. Expected to reach Aden Bay in the early hours of the fourth day."

Chen Feng glanced at the navigation chart: "What about the Suez Canal? Will the Egyptians let our submarine pass?"

"It's already arranged," Zhou Tieshan said. "We went through a Greek shipping company and obtained a 'civilian scientific research submarine' passage permit for U-3. It cost five thousand pounds."

"Worth it," Chen Feng turned to Liu Yongfu. "How is the submarine's condition?"

Liu Yongfu held the complete technical dossier of U-3: "Maximum diving depth 220 meters, underwater endurance 72 hours, data are excellent, but… this is its first long‑range voyage."

"What about the crew?"

"The captain is Lin Haisheng, twenty‑eight, formerly the torpedo officer of the Restoration Ship. The executive officer is Chen Qiming, twenty‑five, a graduate of the first class of the Naval Academy. The whole crew numbers forty, average age twenty‑four, training hours… six hundred hours."

Chen Feng nodded, his gaze returning to the map.

"Tell them, once in the Mediterranean, to focus on several areas: the Gibraltar Strait entrance and exit, the offshore waters of France's Toulon port, the British base at Malta, the German port of Pula (now Rijeka, Croatia). Record the type, number, and movements of all warships."

"Understood," Zhou Tieshan noted, "any other orders?"

"Yes." Chen Feng thought for a moment. "If… I mean if they see any warship firing—even just a warning shot—dive immediately to maximum depth and retreat at full speed. No hesitation whatsoever."

Zhou Tieshan was startled: "President, do you think they will really fight?"

"I don't know," Chen Feng said, "but Europe in 1911 was like a pile of dry wood, and Morocco was the match."

The special train arrived at the pipeline site at noon. It was two hundred kilometers from Dubai, in the inland hilly region of the Arabian Peninsula. A few months ago it was desert, now drilling rigs, oil tanks and rows of huts have been erected.

When Chen Feng stepped off, Elder Salman was already waiting on the platform. The elder wore a new white robe today, his headscarf neatly arranged.

"Mr. Chen," he said in stiff Chinese, "welcome."

"Elder, how have you been lately?" Chen Feng asked in Arabic.

"Good, very good," Salman laughed. "My three sons all work here, each earning five shillings a day. My grandson studies in Dubai and can already read your books."

They walked and talked. The project was large in scale, divided into drilling, refining, and pipeline‑laying sections. Chinese workers and Arab workers labored together; although the languages differed, they could cooperate through gestures and simple vocabulary.

"How is the progress?" Chen Feng asked the project manager.

"Report to the President: Well 1 is already producing oil, three hundred barrels per day. Well 2 is drilling, expected to finish by the end of the month. Eighty kilometers of pipeline have been laid, with another one hundred twenty kilometers to the coast."

Chen Feng looked at the pipeline—20‑inch steel pipe welded segment by segment, resembling a massive steel serpent winding through the desert.

"What about the quality?"

"All built with our standard welding process, pressure‑tested every kilometer. So far, zero leaks."

Chen Feng nodded with satisfaction. He moved among a group of resting workers, asking alternately in Arabic and Chinese:

"How's the food?"

"Are the accommodations comfortable?"

"Is everyone at home doing well?"

The workers were initially reserved, but seeing the President genuinely care about their lives got the conversation flowing. A young Arab worker said he had sent his wages home last month, and his father bought ten sheep with the money. An elderly welder from Fujian said his son was an apprentice at a shipyard and would be promoted next month.

Chen Feng listened patiently, asking occasional questions. Wang Bo followed behind, notebook in hand, recording each worker's request.

"Elder," Chen Feng said finally to Salman, "do you think Arabs and Chinese can keep working together like this?"

Salman thought for a moment, then pointed at two workers far away jointly lifting a steel pipe—a Chinese and an Arab.

"Mr. Chen, look at them. They don't share a language, yet when one raises a hand the other knows where to lift. Why? Because they must lift the pipe together. If they can't, neither of them will have food."

He paused, then continued.

"I have lived sixty years, have seen Turks, have seen British, have seen French. You are the first who does not treat us as barbarians. You give us work, you send our children to school, you provide doctors when we are ill. So my people say: Mr. Chen's affairs are our affairs."

Chen Feng clasped the elder's hand: "Thank you, Elder. With those words, I feel at ease."