Chapter 540: Steel Behemoth and Sea Etiquette

Morning mist drifted slowly among the cliffs at the entrance of Pearl Harbor, like a veil of milky gauze. Lieutenant General Rodman stood on the bridge of the battleship Pennsylvania, his telescope having been raised for twenty minutes. In the eastern horizon, the sunrise had just edged out its golden rim, tinting the clouds amber.

"Time is about right." Chief of Staff whispered beside him, "Target has entered within 200 nautical miles, speed 22 knots, formation intact."

Rodman lowered the telescope and rubbed his sore eyes. The 58‑year‑old veteran had been up since four a. m., a nameless premonition keeping him awake. After thirty‑eight years of service in the navy, he had seen countless fleets—Britain's grand fleet, dignified and massive; Germany's open‑sea fleet, sharp and aggressive; the Sakura Nation's combined fleet, precise in an Eastern style. Yet the fleet arriving today represented an entirely new, indefinable power.

"Have the reconnaissance aircraft taken off?"

"PBY No. 3 and No. 5 are already in position and will conduct the first escort identification at fifty nautical miles. Per your orders, the pilots have all received strict instructions—professional, courteous, no provocative maneuvers."

"Very well." Rodman raised the telescope again, "Let's see what Mr. Chen Feng has brought—what kind of force it truly is."

Two hundred nautical miles out, the battleship Huaihe cut through the deep‑blue Pacific, leaving a wide, straight wake.

Chen Feng stood on the open observation platform on the starboard side of the bridge, the sea breeze flipping the hem of his deep‑blue uniform backward. After seven days of sailing and the trial of storms, his face showed no fatigue, only a calm focus. Behind him, Wang Wenwu held a folder and reported the final preparations.

"The confirmation telegram from Pearl Harbor says President Wilson arrived secretly last night and is staying in the officers' villa within the naval base. According to the schedule, two hours after we berth we will hold the first informal meeting."

"U. S. side attendees?"

"President Wilson, Secretary of State Lansing, Pacific Fleet Commander Lieutenant General Rodman. On our side it's you and me." Wang Wenwu turned a page, "Additionally, Lieutenant General Rodman specifically mentioned wanting to arrange a 'friendly exchange' between the navies, including ship visits."

A faint, almost imperceptible smile tugged at Chen Feng's mouth: "He wants to see our trump card."

"Probably so. But we've been prepared all along."

"Captain Zhang," Chen Feng turned his head and said to the bridge.

Zhang Haitao stepped forward immediately: "President."

"Order the entire ship to conduct the final checks before entering Pearl Harbor. I want every screw tightened, every deck polished like new. We're not here to show off, but since they want to see, we must present them at our best."

"Understood!" Zhang Haitao saluted and hurried back to the bridge; his booming voice rang over the ship via the public address: "All hands, we will arrive at the destination in one hour. Final checks of all sections, equipment tidying, military bearing! Let the Meilika people see what the Lanfang Navy is."

Four thousand five hundred crew members moved like precise gears. Sailors formed lines along the deck, scrubbing away the last storm marks with brushes and rags. The turret's shield was polished to a shine that could reflect a silhouette, and the radar antenna rotated slowly under mechanical drive for testing. On the flight deck, ground crew performed final checks on the two seaplanes.

Wang Wenwu watched it all and said softly, "They're excited."

"They should be excited," Chen Feng's gaze turned to the horizon drawing nearer, "This is the Lanfang Navy's first time entering a traditional great power's core naval port on equal footing. A hundred years ago, our ancestors arrived in San Francisco by sailing ship and were treated as laborers. Today we come aboard a 45,000‑ton battleship."

His words were calm, but Wang Wenwu sensed the immense weight behind them.

08:17 a. m.

"Port side thirty degrees, aircraft sighted! Two of them!" the lookout's voice came through the megaphone.

Inside the bridge, everyone's eyes turned to the port sky. Two black dots approached from Pearl Harbor, growing larger, identifiable as the distinctive shape of a PBY "Catalina" seaplane—high monoplane, twin engines, boat‑shaped fuselage.

Zhang Haitao looked at Chen Feng: "President?"

"Proceed as planned. Friendly, professional."

The order was given. The crane at the rear of the deck began to turn, its arm lowering an Lanfang Navy‑equipped AR‑1 seaplane toward the sea. This aircraft features an all‑metal fuselage and a more streamlined shape, its performance far surpassing most seaplanes of this era.

Captain Li Zhenhua sat in the open cockpit, conducting a final instrument check. At twenty‑five, he is among Lanfang's first self‑trained Naval Aviation pilots, having spent six months training in Germany, with over eight hundred flight hours.

"Zhenhua, remember," the squadron leader reminded before boarding, "demonstrate professional conduct, avoid any actions that could be misread as provocation. But also show them our pilots are no worse than anyone's."

"Understood!"

The aircraft brushed the water gently, spraying white spray. Li Zhenhua throttled forward, the two 550‑horsepower engines roaring, propelling the plane to a run‑up on the surface. After thirty seconds the nose lifted, and the AR‑1 rose lightly from the sea, soaring skyward.

Almost simultaneously, the second aircraft was released.

At 2,500 m altitude, the American PBY's captain, Major Tomson, stared wide‑eyed. Over the radio he reported to base: "Pearl Harbor, this is Recon No. 3. The target ship launched two… they appear to be single‑engine, twin‑float seaplanes. Wait, their climb rate is rapid, the shape is extremely… streamlined."

The co‑pilot shuffled to the port window: "God, that looks more advanced than our aircraft."

Both AR‑1s quickly climbed to the same altitude as the PBY, then flew parallel at a distance of five hundred meters. Li Zhenhua sent the internationally recognized identification signal via lights. The PBY waggled its wings in response.

Major Tomson couldn't help calling again: "Pearl Harbor, the target ship's aircraft has established visual contact with ours. Their pilot's maneuvers are highly disciplined, the aircraft's performance… observation indicates far beyond our current seaplanes. Repeat, far beyond."

The radio was silent for a few seconds, then Lieutenant General Rodman's own reply came: "Maintain observation, continue escort. Record all details carefully."

"Understood."

During the next twenty minutes, four aircraft formed a temporary formation above the Huaihe formation. The American planes were on the left, the Lanfang planes on the right, maintaining perfect spacing and altitude differentials. When the formation turned, Li Zhenhua's AR‑1 performed a standard roll—not to show off, but to demonstrate the aircraft's maneuverability and the pilot's control.

Major Tomson watched the clean, crisp roll and muttered, "These Yazhou people… where on earth did they come from?"