Chapter 301: This Is Called Circular Economy

Liu Qinian feels his throat is dry. The idea is too crazy, yet… too shrewd.

"But President, this requires an extremely precise timing," he says, "if we build too early, it will tie up a large amount of capital and resources. If we build too late, we'll miss the post‑war demand window."

"So I want you to start preparing from now on." Chen Feng hands the pen back to him, "Four new ships, code‑named 'J1', 'J2', 'J3Jiang', 'J4'. I'm not demanding you start construction immediately, but you must complete all preliminary work: refine design drawings, procure materials, expand the shipyards, train workers. I want all four ships to be able to start construction simultaneously within three months after you receive the order."

"Three months…" Liu Qinian calculates quickly, "we need to recruit at least another eight thousand workers, expand four large shipyards, pre‑order 150,000 tons of steel… this will require at least 15 million in upfront costs."

"I'll give you 20 million," Chen Feng says, "and tell you a secret—the payment from the Germans for our artillery, the first installment of 8 million marks, has already been received."

Liu Qinian's eyes brighten: "Use the Germans' money to build ships to sell to the Germans or the British?"

"Exactly." Chen Feng smiles, "that's what we call a circular economy."

Both men laugh. Their laughter echoes on the observation deck, mingling with the industrial noise in the sea fog.

"There's another matter." Chen Feng folds away his smile, "the design of the new ships needs some adjustments."

"What adjustments?"

"Reserve retrofit space," Chen Feng says, "I'll require that the hull structure, power systems, and cabin layout of the new ships all leave room for future installation of new weapons. Especially…" He pauses, "aviation equipment."

"Aviation?" Liu Qinian asks, puzzled, "What does a battleship need aviation equipment for?"

"It's fine if you don't understand now; just do it." Chen Feng pats his shoulder, "Remember, Minister Liu, we're building not only today's battleships but tomorrow's platform. Ten years from now, these ships could be completely different."

Though Liu Qinian is still doubtful, he nods, "I've noted it."

The sea fog begins to lift, sunlight pierces the clouds, shining on the skeletal frames of the two steel giants in the dry dock. The rivet‑gun's clatter grows denser, like a march of the industrial age.

"Go, begin work," Chen Feng says, "in two weeks I want to see a detailed plan. Remember, this is top‑secret; besides you and me, only Wang Wenwu, Zhou Tieshan, and Zhang Zhen may know the full details."

"Yes!"

Liu Qinian departs hurriedly. Chen Feng stands alone on the observation deck, watching the bustling scene below.

He knows what he's doing—he's playing a massive game of chess. Eight Bismarck‑class battleships are an invincible force in this era. Yet he doesn't intend to use them to conquer the world, but to turn them into business.

Because conquest demands blood and lives, while business only requires wit and daring.

The former is the logic of the old empire; the latter is the choice of a rising nation.

February 18, Persian Gulf, deep in the mountains.

Four black sedans wind along the mountain road. The road is newly paved, asphalt, narrow enough for only two cars to pass. On either side are sheer cliffs, with occasional armed‑guard outposts.

Chen Feng sits in the back seat of the second car, eyes closed to rest. Beside him is the head of the Air Force preparation office, Lin Huaimin—a thirty‑eight‑year‑old officer, short in stature but compact, his eyes sharp as a hawk's.

"President, we'll arrive in ten minutes," Lin Huaimin says.

Chen Feng opens his eyes and looks out the window.

"How's the security work?" he asks.

"Absolutely secure," Lin Huaimin replies, "the area within fifty kilometers of the base is designated a military exclusion zone, garrisoned by a regiment of hand‑picked loyal troops. Once technical staff and workers enter, they may not leave except under special circumstances. Families are housed in the suburbs, with dedicated caretakers."

"What about the test‑flight situation?"

The prototype 'Kunpeng' No. 1 underwent its third test flight last week; at an altitude of three thousand meters the airframe began to shudder and the right‑hand engine caught fire. The pilot attempted an emergency landing, but… failed. The aircraft crashed in a valley, and pilot Major Wang Mingde perished.

The car fell silent for a few seconds.

"Have you identified the cause?" Chen Feng asks.

"Preliminary assessment points to a design flaw in the engine mounts; high‑speed vibration caused metal fatigue and fracture," Lin Huaimin says, "the second prototype has been reinforced and is slated for a test flight today. The 'Lieshun' is in better shape, having completed twelve test flights; its basic performance meets standards, but bomb‑delivery accuracy still needs improvement."

Chen Feng nods without further questioning. He knows the birth of the Aviation Industry inevitably comes with sacrifice, just as a baby's first steps inevitably involve falls. The key is not to be frightened by failure.

The convoy enters a tunnel. The tunnel is long, the lights dim, and it takes a full three minutes before daylight reappears.

The scene ahead opens up brightly.

It is a valley cradled by mountains, covering at least five square kilometres. The floor has been leveled and paved with three cement runways, each over two thousand metres long. Along the runways stand hangars, factories, laboratories, and dormitories, all painted in camouflage colors.

The most striking sight is the two aircraft parked at the end of the runway.

The one on the left is colossal, with four engines and a wingspan exceeding thirty metres; its fuselage lines are sleek, resembling a giant bird poised to launch. The one on the right is compact and sturdy, a single‑engine aircraft with inverted‑seagull wings and a robust landing gear.

"'Kunpeng' and 'Lieshun,'" Lin Huaimin introduces, pride evident in his tone.

The convoy stops before the control tower. A group is already waiting, led by the base's chief engineer Zhao Xuecheng—a aviation expert who returned after studying in Germany, forty‑two years old, wearing thick glasses.

"President, welcome to the site!" Zhao Xuecheng rushes forward, his voice trembling with excitement.

Chen Feng shakes his hand, "Chief Engineer Zhao, thank you for your hard work. Let's go straight to the airfield; I want to see the aircraft."

The party walks toward the runway. The closer they get, the more awe‑inspiring the two aircraft appear.

"'Kunpeng' No. 2, empty weight thirteen tonnes, maximum take‑off weight twenty tonnes," Zhao Xuecheng begins, "four 800‑horsepower liquid‑cooled engines, top speed three hundred eighty kilometres per hour, service ceiling eight thousand metres, range three thousand kilometres. Designed payload three tonnes, capable of carrying ten 250‑kilogram bombs or four 500‑kilogram bombs."

He points to the wing and fuselage turrets: "The defensive armament consists of six 12.7 mm machine guns, mounted on the nose, dorsal, ventral, and tail turrets, providing all‑around fire coverage. The crew is seven: pilot, co‑pilot, bombardier, navigator, mechanic, plus three gunner positions."

Chen Feng walks a full circle around the aircraft. This early version of the B‑17 was practically alien technology in 1916. Yet, thanks to the detailed schematics he printed from the "computer," Lanfang's engineers managed to build it.