Chapter 521: Trans‑Pacific Radio Waves

Chen Feng thought for a moment.

"Tell Wilhelm II: Lanfang understands Germany's concerns and will make every effort to prevent the war from escalating without limit. At the same time, politely remind him that Lanfang's investments require security guarantees. If Germany wants our help, then regardless of the post‑war outcome, our contractual rights must be respected."

"Is this… a guarantee?"

"This is a business discussion." Chen Feng corrected, "The Germans are desperate now; this is the best time to negotiate terms. Go."

After Wang Wenwu left, Chen Feng stood alone in the command center for another ten minutes. He recalled that a decade ago, when he first arrived in this world, this place was still a desert. He had led a group of desperate Chinese immigrants, starting from scratch, building a port, drilling oil wells, establishing factories, and constructing schools.

The goal then was simple: to survive, to live with dignity.

Now? Now he must decide a nation's fate, to seek a foothold between great powers, to plot the future under the shadow of war.

The responsibility is so heavy it takes one's breath away. Yet Chen Feng has no choice. This is the path he chose, and he must walk it to the end—whether that end is glorious or disastrous.

He gave the sand table one last glance, turned, and walked toward the exit. The tunnel lights stretched his shadow long across the concrete wall, like a solitary giant.

2 p. m., November 21, 1916, Washington, State Department telegraph room.

The room was in the basement of the State Department building, walls lined with sound‑proofing material, the ceiling criss‑crossed with cable conduits. Over twenty telegraph machines were arranged in four rows; operators wore headsets, their fingers striking the keys rapidly, producing a rhythmic clack. The air smelled of ozone, sweat, and damp paper.

The innermost machine suddenly emitted a rapid series of signals—a dedicated line from the Pacific direction. The operator quickly logged it, and a paper tape spooled out, bearing a string of Morse code.

In five minutes the code was fully received. The operator cut the tape and handed it to the nearby decoder. Consulting the codebook, the decoder began a manual translation. It was a new cipher, not belonging to any known belligerent or neutral nation's code system; he needed to consult the freshly issued diplomatic cipher manual.

Another ten minutes passed, and the decoder looked up, a puzzled expression on his face.

"Supervisor, this…"

The telegraph room supervisor walked over, took the translation draft. He glanced at it, and his eyes widened.

"Make three copies immediately. Send the original to the Secretary of State's office, the first copy to the White House, the second to the Navy Intelligence Office. Quickly!"

Twenty minutes later, Meilika Secretary of State Luobote·Lanxin sat in his office, holding the freshly delivered telegram. The fifty‑three‑year‑old former lawyer furrowed his brow, rereading the brief few lines.

Telegram content:

"To His Excellency President Woodrow Wilson of the United States and His Excellency Secretary of State Luobote·Lanxin: Chen Feng, President of the Lanfang Republic, regarding the severe development of the current world situation, requests an urgent meeting with the President. As an emerging nation, Lanfang closely monitors the prospects of world peace and is willing to contribute wisdom and strength to alleviate the present crisis. The meeting location may be designated by you, and the time is hoped to be as soon as possible. With best wishes. Lanfang Republic Foreign Ministry, November 21, 1916."

The signature area bore a special seal: a coiled dragon encircling an olive branch.

Luobote·Lanxin pressed the call button on his desk. A few seconds later, his special assistant pushed the door open.

"Look up this 'Lanfang Republic'. I want all available information, especially about their LDR Chen Feng. Also arrange a call with the President, saying there is an urgent diplomatic matter."

"Yes, Secretary of State."

After the assistant left, Luobote·Lanxin walked to the world map on the wall. His finger moved between Asia and Africa, finally stopping at the Persian Gulf. There was a freshly penciled dot, with the note "Dubai—Lanfang Republic capital" beside it.

A nation barely a decade old, a mysterious LDR, requesting a presidential meeting at this critical moment.

Coincidence? Or careful calculation?

Luobote·Lanxin returned to his desk and began leafing through recent intelligence briefs. Entries on Lanfang were scarce, mostly fragmentary:

"…believed to have been founded by Chinese immigrants, the main ethnic groups include Han Chinese, Arabs, and indigenous Malay peoples…"

"…possessing a considerable industrial base, especially shipbuilding and arms manufacturing…"

"…selling weapons to both sides during the ongoing war, including battleships, tanks, rifles, and so on…"

"…maintaining close ties with Germany, while also trading with Britain…"

"…leader Chen Feng, background unknown, rumored to have been educated in the United States, fluent in multiple languages, and politically shrewd…"

The fragmented information assembled a vague yet alarming picture: an opportunist, a savvy businessman, a new player seeking space in the great‑power game.

The phone rang. Luobote·Lanxin answered.

"Mr. President."

"Robert, I received that telegram." Wilson's voice came through the receiver, the background quiet, evidently from a private study, "What do you think?"

"Very sudden, Mr. President. Lanfang is hardly part of our diplomatic dialogue. Their request for a meeting now is likely commissioned by Germany, or perhaps they are seeking their own advantage."

"Or both." Wilson paused, "But the wording in the telegram… 'deeply concerned about the prospects of world peace, willing to contribute wisdom and strength to ease the current crisis.' That doesn't sound like something a pure opportunist would say."

Luobote·Lanxin heard the interest in the President's tone. Wilson is an idealist, instinctively attentive to any proposal that might promote peace.

"Do you want to meet them?"

"They let us choose the location."

"That means they're willing to come to Meilika, or at least to a midway point." Luobote·Lanxin thought, "How about Hawaii? Pearl Harbor. It's far from the mainland, safe and controllable, and carries strong symbolic weight—meeting at the Pacific's heart suggests a… equal dialogue."

The line was silent for a few seconds.

"Agreed." Wilson finally said, "Reply that Meilika, in principle, consents to the meeting. Set the location at Hawaii's Pearl Harbor, time… early January next year. Specific dates and arrangements to be coordinated by the State Department."

"Should we set an agenda?"

"No. Tell them we are open regarding the agenda, but we hope they prepare some 'concrete proposals'. I want to hear what Chen Feng actually intends."

"Understood, Mr. President."