Chapter 323: Anglo‑German Naval Battle

He didn't finish speaking, but the meaning was clear.

"So the British must do something," Chen Feng continued, "launch a large‑scale offensive on the Western Front? Too risky. Support Russia? Too late. The only option…"

He looked at the North Sea on the map.

"Only by seeking a breakthrough at sea," Wang Wenwu understood, "but the German high‑sea fleet has been holed up in William Port, so the British can't find a chance to strike."

"Then force them out," Chen Feng said, "or the British go out to look for them themselves."

The room fell silent for a few seconds. From outside, the whistle of a ship at Dubai Port drifted in, long and distant.

"Mr. President," Wang Wenwu hesitated, "if Britain and Germany really clash in the North Sea, who would win?"

Chen Feng didn't answer immediately. He walked to the liquor cabinet, poured two glasses of whisky, and handed one to Wang Wenwu.

"On paper, the British have the edge," he sipped, "they have numerical superiority, experience, and geographic advantage. But naval battles are unpredictable. A thick fog, a command error, even a stray shell hitting its mark could change the outcome."

"Then which outcome benefits us more?"

"In the short term, a German victory is more advantageous," Chen Feng said, "if the British Navy suffers a heavy blow, their power in Asia will shrink and our pressure will be far less. But in the long term…"

He paused: "In the long run, a mutual defeat is best. If Britain loses absolute sea control and Germany lacks the strength to challenge, a power vacuum will appear on the oceans. Only then will it be our true time to go to sea."

Wang Wenwu thought aloud, "So what we should do now is just watch and wait?"

"Watch and prepare," Chen Feng set his glass down, "send a telegram to Zhang Zhen to put the navy on second‑level readiness. Send a telegram to Liu Qinian, 'Harvest Plan' Phase Two to be launched early, especially accelerate research on ship‑borne diesel engines and fire‑control systems."

"Understood," Wang Wenwu noted.

"Also," Chen Feng added, "send a private telegram to Xiyuan Si Gongwang. Write: Congratulations on the Eastern Front victory; the next expeditionary force can begin mobilizing. Price… eight percent higher than the second batch."

Wang Wenwu looked up, "Now we're still provoking the British?"

"Exactly, we need to provoke them," Chen Feng smiled, "let them know that the European war can't change Asia's rules of the game. We do the business that must be done."

Wang Wenwu forced a bitter smile, "Sometimes I really wonder if you intend to offend everyone on purpose."

"It's not about offending, it's about making them accustomed," Chen Feng walked to the window, watching the bustling port, "get used to Lanfang's presence, get used to Lanfang's rules, and when calculating interests, always factor Lanfang in."

He turned around, "Once they get used to it, we'll be safe."

After Wang Wenwu left, Chen Feng stood alone before the map. His finger traced from London to Berlin, from Berlin to Petrograd, finally stopping at Dubai.

A fledgling nation growing in the cracks between the great powers.

Like a tree thrust from a rock crevice, its roots straining into barren soil, its branches desperately reaching toward the sky.

Fragile, yet tenacious.

He recalled the founding scene a decade ago. Dozens of people, a few rickety ships, on a desolate coastline proclaimed a nation's birth. Back then, everyone thought they were mad.

Now they have a fleet, industry, and the standing to speak at the negotiating table.

But it's still not enough.

Far from enough.

Chen Feng picked up a pen and circled a date on the calendar: June 1916.

Then, in smaller script beside it, he wrote:

"The storm is coming."

London, 10 Downing Street, wartime Cabinet meeting room.

The heavy oak door was shut, yet the muffled arguing inside still seeped out. Secretaries in the hallway kept their heads down, hurrying past; none dared approach the door at that moment.

Inside the meeting room, smoke curled.

Six people sat around the long table—Prime Minister Herbert Henry Asquith, Foreign Secretary Edward Gray, Army Minister Lord Kichinna, Navy Minister John Jellicoe, Chancellor of the Exchequer Lloyd George, and the expeditionary force commander Sir Douglas Hague, who had just rushed back from France.

The ashtray on the table was already piled with cigarette butts. Each face was extremely grim.

"I'll repeat myself," Kichinna's voice rasped like sandpaper, "the Eastern Front has collapsed. The Germans can shift at least thirty, maybe forty divisions to the Western Front. If we do nothing, Verdun will fall, the Somme offensive will become a joke, and the entire Western Front will collapse!"

The 66‑year‑old Army Marshal stared with blood‑shot eyes, his stout fingers pounding the table: "We must launch a massive counter‑offensive! Before the Germans finish redeploying, we must disrupt their dispositions!"

"What shall we use?" Sir Hague said coldly, "the bodies of our soldiers?"

He was the de facto commander of the British forces on the Western Front, knowing the front better than anyone: "My troops lost 150,000 men at Ypres, 80,000 at Loos. Now twenty divisions are gathered around the Somme, but the artillery is under‑prepared and ammunition stores only last three days. A forced attack would only be a suicide mission."

"Then speed up preparations!" Kichinna roared, "send the last reserve units from home up! ship all stockpiled ammunition over! We must attack!"

"And then?" Lloyd George spoke. The 53‑year‑old Welshman, known for his pragmatism, sounded calm yet sharply undeniable: "Send every reserve unit forward, burn through all ammunition. If the attack fails—by Sir Hague's own admission, the odds are high—what then? Fight the German counter‑offensive with sticks and stones?"

"That's cowardice!" Kichinna turned to him.

"That's reality!" Lloyd George retorted unflinchingly, "Kichinna, do you know what's happening at home? Factories are over‑driven, women and children are doing men's work, the ration system already leaves the lower classes hungry. Another massive defeat would push the people's tolerance to the breaking point!"

"So we just sit and wait to be crushed?" Kichinna stood, his tall frame casting a huge shadow in the light, "wait for the Germans to shift troops from the East, then drive us into the sea?"

"We are not sitting idle," the previously silent Foreign Secretary Gray said. He looked more exhausted than anyone, dark circles under his eyes, his voice hoarse: "We are working diplomatically. We urge France to intensify its offensive, we try to win over Greece, we even…"

He paused: "We even made secret contacts with the Osman Diguo, hoping to get them out of the war."