Chapter 454: Chen Feng Has Dug a Pit for Us Again

Lord Jiqina thumped the table hard, making the coffee cup jump: "This is provocation! Bare, naked provocation! They are right under our noses—only fifty kilometres from the Sinai Front! While our soldiers bleed and die, and we inch the land away from the Turks, these Easterners secured a territory larger than what we have fought for two years with just a few sheets of paper!"

His voice echoed in the conference room, and even the portrait of Queen Victoria on the wall seemed to tremble.

"Calm down, Jiqina." Prime Minister Herbert Henry Asquith finally spoke. The sixty‑four‑year‑old Liberal leader placed his hands together on the table, his fingers slightly bent from arthritis, "Throwing a fit won't solve anything. What we need is a strategy, not a roar."

He turned to Smith‑Carming: "Director, what's the combat effectiveness assessment of the Lanfang division?"

The intelligence director opened another file: "According to reports from our observers in Dubai, the Lanfang army has undergone a comprehensive modernization over the past three years. Their first mechanized infantry division is a model unit: fully motorized, equipped with semi‑automatic rifles, machine guns allocated to the squad level, artillery with radio‑coordinated firepower. More importantly—"

He paused, his tone growing grave: "They have a secret test site on the outskirts of Dubai. Our reconnaissance has repeatedly photographed objects resembling 'armored vehicles', but the pictures are blurry and the exact capabilities cannot be confirmed. One thing is certain: Lanfang's industrial capacity is growing at a staggering rate. If they can build a Bismarck Class super‑battleship, then their land‑war equipment could—"

"Tanks," a deep voice interjected.

All heads turned. The speaker was Sir Ernest Swinton, head of the Ordnance Bureau—this forty‑eight‑year‑old officer bore an engineer's meticulous face, his brows now tightly knit.

"Sir?" Asquith prompted him to continue.

Swinton rose, walked to the blackboard by the wall, picked up a piece of chalk, and began sketching quickly: "Over the past six months, the 'Land Battleship Committee' I lead has been developing a new weapon—we call it a 'tank'. The principle is to use tracks to cross trenches, armor to stop machine‑gun bullets, and a vehicle‑mounted cannon to destroy machine‑gun bunkers."

He drew a rhomboid outline on the board and noted the dimensions: "Mark I model, combat weight twenty‑eight tonnes, crew of eight. Armed with two 57 mm guns and four machine guns. Armor 6–12 mm thick, capable of stopping rifle bullets and shrapnel. Top speed six kilometres per hour, off‑road three kilometres per hour. The first fifty units will be shipped to France next week, slated for combat in the Somme campaign."

He set down the chalk and turned to face the cabinet members: "This is the Empire's pride, our hope for breaking the trench stalemate. But—"

Swinton's voice suddenly turned dry: "But according to intelligence from a Berlin informant, the Germans have obtained similar equipment from Lanfang. Moreover… their performance may be superior."

"What?!" Jiqina's eyes widened.

"We don't have concrete data yet," Swinton said wryly. "The Germans are very good at secrecy. But there are several clues: First, Krupp's special‑steel orders have quintupled in three months, demanding 'light, high‑hardness armor plates'; second, Mann's truck line has abruptly switched to producing 'special‑vehicle chassis'; third, and most importantly—"

He returned to his seat, pulled a blurry photograph from his briefcase: "This is what our reconnaissance aircraft captured on the outskirts of Port William. Though fuzzy, the vehicle silhouette is discernible… it is more streamlined than our Mark I, the turret is more compact, and the track design differs as well."

The photo circulated among the men. Though the pixels were coarse, the aesthetic of industrial design—or rather the aesthetic of lethality—was faintly visible.

Bellford stared at the picture and muttered, "Chen Feng sold us the best battleship, then sold an even better tank to the Germans. What game is he playing?"

"Balance," Sir Gray said coldly. "He gives both sides hope, but not enough to win. He keeps the war going so he can keep selling arms, resources, expanding his sphere. This man… is a shrewd businessman and a ruthless strategist."

Asquith closed his eyes and rubbed his temples. A migraine flared again, as if a cone were hammering inside his skull.

"Gentlemen," he began slowly, "we have several facts before us: First, the Lanfang forces have established a presence on our flank; second, they may have supplied the Germans with tank technology more advanced than ours; third, they are legally justified—the land was granted to them by an Ottoman 'charter', and we have, in fact, not yet occupied it."

Jiqina pressed, "Prime Minister! Are we to just watch helplessly?"

"No." Asquith opened his eyes, a sharp glint flashing in his weary blue gaze. "We will protest, we will apply pressure, we will make them know the Empire's bottom line. At the same time… we must not let this escalate into a clash. The Western Front needs every soldier, every shell."

He looked at Gray: "Edward, send a telegram to Chen Feng in my name. The wording must be firm but leave room for negotiation. Question them why they broke the 'non‑intervention in European wars' pledge, and demand an immediate clarification of intent."

"What if he doesn't clarify?" Bellford asked.

"Then have the Consul‑General in Dubai ask personally," Asquith said. "Gerald is a veteran who knows how to be politely sharp. We must make Chen Feng understand: the British Empire can tolerate many things, but it will not tolerate others playing freely on our board."

He paused briefly, adding, "Also, inform General French on the Sinai front: tighten vigilance but do not provoke. If Lanfang troops cross the chartered boundary—even by a metre—open fire at once. But if they stay within the red line… treat them as a mirage in the desert."

"What about the tanks?" Swinton asked urgently, "If the Germans really have a better…"

"Accelerate development of the Mark II," Asquith ordered. "Meanwhile, MI6 must mobilize all resources to determine exactly what Lanfang sold the Germans. If necessary… we can contact insiders within Lanfang to see if they are willing to sell us the same technology."

Smith‑Carming forced a wry smile: "Prime Minister, Chen Feng's internal controls are extremely tight. We've built our intelligence network in Dubai for three years and still cannot penetrate his inner circle."

"Then find a way," Asquith stood, signaling the end of the meeting. "Gentlemen, we are living through the Empire's most difficult period in three centuries. The quagmire of the Western Front, the pressure on the Eastern Front, the naval stranglehold at sea, now compounded by the rise of the Easterners. But remember—"

His gaze swept each man: "—the British Empire has endured darker times. When Napoleon's army threatened the Dover Strait, when the Spanish Armada sailed into the English Channel, we survived. This time, we will find a way out as well."

Having said that, he was the first to leave the conference room. In the corridor, a secretary handed him a pre‑drafted telegram. Asquith took the pen and signed his name at the bottom.

The telegram will travel via submarine cable, crossing the Mediterranean, the Red Sea, the Indian Ocean, and reach Dubai within twenty‑four hours.

The recipient, at this moment, is some seven thousand kilometres away in the East, awaiting the first round of this game.