Chapter 515: Midnight Weighing

"Second," Qi Mo Er Man's mouth curled into a cold smile, "we also need to prepare some 'public‑opinion ammunition.' Didn't the British call us barbarians? Then we'll tell them what real barbarism is."

Shi Te Lai Xie Er looked at him in confusion.

"Submarine warfare." Qi Mo Er Man walked to the desk, pulled out a document marked "Top Secret," "The General Staff Navy Office has already submitted a plan: from February 1, 1917, unrestricted submarine warfare will be implemented. Any ship entering the designated war zone, whether from a belligerent or neutral nation, regardless of cargo, will be sunk unconditionally."

"But that's…" Shi Te Lai Xie Er gasped, "It will kill tens of thousands of civilians and will certainly anger neutral nations, especially Meilika!"

"So we need a justification." Qi Mo Er Man's eyes narrowed to a slit, "A reason that the Deguo people can accept, and even that some international public opinion can understand. For example… the British blockade is starving German children; we have no choice but to take extreme measures for self‑defense."

He sat down and began to write quickly.

"Draft a report for the Foreign Minister. The contents are as follows: First, the British have secretly lobbied Meilika Entry into War and have made substantive progress. Second, if Meilika enters the war, the war will be lost. Third, therefore, we must, before Meilika completes mobilization, use the most forceful means to force Britain to submit. Unrestricted submarine warfare is the only method that could work quickly."

Shi Te Lai Xie Er recorded, his hand trembling slightly. He knew what that meant—more ships sinking, more lives disappearing, more hatred ignited.

"Also," Qi Mo Er Man added, "inform our contact in Stockholm to accelerate contact with Mexico. Isn't the proposal for the German‑Mexican Alliance already drafted?"

"Yes, sir. But that is a contingency plan, to be used only if the situation deteriorates extremely…"

"The situation has already deteriorated extremely, Major." Qi Mo Er Man interrupted, "The British have sent A Si Kui Si to Washington; do you think they're playing games? No, this is a life‑or‑death contest. We either win or die. And in such a contest there are no rules, no bottom line, only victory."

He paused, his tone softening slightly.

"Also, send a telegram to Chen Feng of Lanfang. Use the highest encryption level. Tell him everything happening here, especially Britain's actions in Meilika. Remind him that if Meilika Entry into War occurs, all his investments—those tanks, those warships, those mercenary contracts—could be lost. Ask him what suggestions he has."

"Do you think Chen Feng will help us?"

"He will help himself." Qi Mo Er Man sneered, "That Chinese only cares about profit. And our interests, on this point, are temporarily aligned. Go, do it immediately."

Shi Te Lai Xie Er stood at attention, saluted, turned and left. The office was left with only Qi Mo Er Man. He walked to the window, pulled back the heavy curtains. Outside, Berlin's night was pitch black.

This city, this country, has already paid too high a price for the war. Two million casualties, the economy on the brink of collapse, food rations reduced to the minimum. And now, the greatest threat does not come from the enemy at the front, but from the giant across the ocean who claims neutrality yet has long favored one side.

Qi Mo Er Man picked up the photo frame on the desk. Inside was a picture of him, his wife, and their two sons, taken in the summer of 1913 at a Baltic seaside resort. Then they were all smiling, the sun shining, the future seemed infinitely bright. Now, the elder son fell at Verdun, the younger son has frozen his feet on the Eastern Front, and his wife works fourteen hours a day at a Red Cross hospital.

"We will win," he whispered to the photo, not knowing whether he was consoling his family or himself, "no matter the cost."

He set the frame down, sat back at the desk, and continued reading the plan for unrestricted submarine warfare. The figures on the paper were cold and precise: an estimated 600,000 to 800,000 tons sunk per month, enough to force Britain to surrender within six months. The cost: about 20% loss of neutral ships, which could trigger Meilika Entry into War.

Possibly.

Qi Mo Er Man drew a line under the word "Possibly." War is gambling, and now he is staking all the chips.

Washington, the White House, 11 p. m.

President Woodrow Wilson sat alone in the Oval Office, the lights off, only a green glass‑covered desk lamp glowing. The lamp illuminated a small area: three folders left by A Si Kui Si were spread out, beside them Wilson's own notes, small and dense.

He had been sitting here for three hours.

The fire in the fireplace was about to go out, but he did not summon a servant for more wood. The cold kept him clear‑headed, and he needed absolute clarity to process the information.

The first document, a military balance chart. The red and blue lines rose and fell like an ECG, and in the past six months the red line kept climbing while the blue line struggled. The conclusion was clear: without external intervention, Deguo would win the war. The time could be summer 1917, at the latest early 1918.

The second document, economic data. 3.2 billion in exports, 2.19 billion in debt. Those numbers swirled in Wilson's mind. He was not an economist, but he understood what they meant—thousands of Meilika factories, farms, mines, millions of jobs, the livelihood of countless families from the East Coast to the West Coast.

If the Allies lose, if Deguo refuses to pay its debts, if the European market shuts out Meilika…

Economic recession. Factory closures. Unemployment wave. Social unrest.

Wilson closed his eyes. He could picture newspaper headlines: "Wall Street Crashes, Millions Unemployed," "Farmers Bankrupt, Wheat Rotting in Fields," "America Plunges into Great Depression." And he, Woodrow Wilson, would become the president who leads the nation into disaster.

But the other side?

If he supports the Allies, if Meilika intervenes in the war, what would that mean?

Conscription. Young men—perhaps students, perhaps workers, perhaps farmers—don uniforms, board transport ships, head three thousand miles to an unfamiliar continent, go into the trenches, face machine guns, artillery, poison gas. They will die, become maimed, return with psychological wounds that never heal.

Wilson recalled his youthful ideals. He had taught at Princeton University, lecturing on political science and history, telling students: reason, dialogue, international law are the ways to resolve conflicts. War is a barbaric regression, a failure of civilization.

And now, he sits here, contemplating whether to plunge this country into the bloodiest conflict in human history.

A soft knock sounded at the door.

"Come in."

The door opened, and his private secretary Joseph Tumarty entered. The loyal Irish‑American Meilika man carried a tray with a pot of coffee and a few sandwiches.

"Mr. President, you haven't had dinner yet."

"I'm not hungry, Joseph."