Chapter 139: Manhattan Project—Don

The remark made the surrounding workers straighten their backs.

When they left the shipyard, it was already one o'clock in the afternoon. The heat wave intensified, but Chen Feng was in a good mood. He saw the progress, saw the problems, and also saw hope for solving them.

In the car, Wang Wenwu handed over lunch—a simple sandwich and tea.

"President, the afternoon schedule…"

"Cancel all nonessential meetings." Chen Feng bit into the sandwich, "I'm going to the steel plant. The armored steel issue must be resolved."

"But you have been working continuously…"

"Wang Bo." Chen Feng interrupted, "Four Bismarck Class ships must be in service before 1914. This is a death order, because we have no more time."

Wang Bo opened his mouth, then merely sighed. "Yes, Young Master."

The car turned inland, heading toward a special steel plant on the outskirts of Dubai. Outside the window, the desert steamed in the heat wave, and distant oil‑well drill towers turned slowly.

Chen Feng leaned back in his seat, closed his eyes, but his mind kept racing.

One hundred ten million pounds… four Bismarck Class… 1914… Diamond Class… Wuchang…

These words spun in his mind like puzzle pieces, gradually forming a complete picture—a picture full of risk, but also full of opportunity.

He knew the general direction of history, but not how the details would shift. His appearance had already altered so much—Lanfang's rise, loans from England, France and Deguo, Japan's accelerated shipbuilding… The butterfly's wings had already flapped; would the storm still arrive as scheduled?

But regardless, he must be ready.

Because this time, he is not a spectator, but a participant.

The car stopped in front of the steel plant's gate. Chen Feng opened his eyes, took a deep breath, and pushed the door open.

The heat wave hit his face again, mingling with the smell of steel and coke.

October 18, 1911, 11 p. m.

Three levels below the Dubai Administrative Building, behind a heavy steel door, the air smelled of fresh paint and damp concrete. This secret room had been built three months earlier; its walls were lined with lead plates, the door gap sealed with rubber strips, and the sole ventilation shaft connected to a noisy exhaust fan—not for comfort, but to prevent eavesdropping.

Five people sat around the long table.

Chen Feng sat at the head seat, and before him lay not documents but rolls of blue‑canvas‑wrapped schematics. To his left was Wang Bo, the elder who had deliberately changed into a dark cotton robe tonight, his right hand slowly twirling a string of rosewood prayer beads; to his right was Wang Wenwu, the Minister of Commerce, whose fingers tapped the tabletop unconsciously—a habit when he was nervous.

Opposite them sat Liu Yongfu and Li Te. Liu Yongfu's work‑clothes sleeves were still stained with engine oil, clearly having come straight from the shipyard; Li Te wore a navy rear‑admiral's uniform, his shoulder boards reflecting a faint metallic sheen in the dim light.

"Everyone is present," Chen Feng began, his voice unusually clear in the sealed space. "Before we start, I ask each of you to swear by your personal honor and Lanfang's future: everything heard or seen here tonight must not be disclosed, even unto death."

Wang Bo was the first to speak: "I, in my father's name, swear."

"I, in my late mother's name," Wang Wenwu said.

Liu Yongfu and Li Te swore in turn. Li Te added, "President, should we record it?"

"No record," Chen Feng shook his head. "Everything tonight exists only in the minds of the five of us."

He stood, walked to the wall and pulled down a white screen. Then he retrieved a bulky projector from under the table—imported last year from the Deguo Siemens Company, of which Lanfang possesses only three.

"Wang Bo, turn off the lights."

Darkness enveloped the secret room, only the projector fan's hum audible. A beam of light struck the screen, and the first image made everyone hold their breath.

It was a streamlined single‑wing fighter, with three‑view drawings, cross‑sections, and dense detail sketches. The nose bore a short, stout propeller, and the wings conspicuously displayed two machine guns.

"This is the Bf109," Chen Feng's voice came from the darkness. "Or, according to my naming habit, we could call it 'Swallow.' All‑metal fuselage, enclosed cockpit, top speed 570 km/h, service ceiling 10,000 m, equipped with two 13 mm machine guns and one 20 mm cannon."

The image on the screen switched.

A strangely shaped aircraft appeared, its wings like an inverted seagull, with landing gear grotesquely massive.

"Ju87 'Stuka' dive bomber. Its feature is a shrill scream during a dive—not a malfunction, but an intentionally installed sound device for psychological intimidation. It can carry a 500‑kg bomb, diving at near‑vertical angle with very high accuracy."

Third image: a biplane fighter, its structure appearing far simpler than the previous two.

"F4F 'Wildcat', carrier‑borne fighter. Though not as advanced as the 'Swallow,' its structure is sturdy, easy to produce, and is the model we are most likely to realize soon."

The images kept switching: a four‑engine heavy bomber, a single‑engine dive bomber, a torpedo bomber… each schematic was astonishingly detailed, annotated with dense dimensions, materials, and performance specifications.

The final image was not an aircraft but a world map. Chen Feng drew several circles on it with a red laser pointer (presumably available in this era).

"Gibraltar Strait, narrowest point 14 km. Suez Canal, average width 200 m. Strait of Malacca, narrowest point 2.8 km," the beam moved across the map. "These places are the world's throats. Warships need days or even weeks to pass them. Aircraft—"

He switched back to a cross‑section of a B‑17.

"From here, we can take off and reach any point on the Arabian Peninsula within eight hours. In twelve hours, we can fly over the Persian Gulf. If positioned properly, within a day these 'iron birds' can appear over any strait, drop bombs, and return."

The projector shut off. Wang Bo fumbled to turn on a small desk lamp, and the dim yellow light once again illuminated the secret room.

A long silence.

Wang Wenwu was the first to break the silence, his voice a little hoarse: "President, these… are they possible?"

"Nothing is impossible!"

"Of course not yet," Chen Feng said honestly. "With our current technology, the first generation of aircraft we produce might not even be able to sink a destroyer. But—"

He opened a thick printed booklet, its cover reading 'Pilot Basic Tutorial (Volume 1)'.

"What about five years later? Ten years later? When our aircraft can carry torpedoes, drop 500‑kg or even 1,000‑kg bombs? When they appear in swarms, diving from the clouds, all existing warships will become live targets."