Chapter 549: The Calm of Hawaii

"President," Wang Wenwu's voice interrupted his thoughts, "Captain Zhang sent word that the technical exchange this afternoon was a great success. Meilika naval officers raised many professional questions, and our officers answered them very appropriately. General Rodman privately expressed a desire to establish a more regularized exchange mechanism."

"That's a good thing. Mutual respect on the professional level is the foundation of political trust," Chen Feng turned, "Tell Captain Zhang we can appropriately share some non‑core technical data to show our sincerity."

"Yes."

In the evening, the setting sun turned Pearl Harbor golden.

In another villa, President Wilson stood on the balcony, holding a glass of water in his hand—he never drinks alcohol. Lansing stood beside him, and the two remained silent.

"What do you think, Robert?" Wilson finally spoke.

"Chen Feng is an extremely shrewd realist," Lansing said cautiously, "Each of his arguments is built on a calculation of interests, which actually makes his reasoning more persuasive. Because interests are eternal, while moral slogans fade with time."

"His vision of the post‑war world…"

"Theoretically perfect," Lansing admitted, "Meilika gains hegemony without bloodshed, Europe rebuilds after depletion, Lanfang gets room to develop. But if it were really that simple, history would not be filled with wars."

Wilson took a sip of water: "But his core point is correct—Meilika's entry into war may cost far more than we imagine. Moreover… the information he gave about the actual conditions of the war, we need to verify."

"It has already been arranged. The intelligence department will reassess the real situation on the European front, especially the part concerning atrocity propaganda."

Another stretch of silence. The port lights began to come on, and the silhouettes of warships turned into shadows in the dusk.

"The British ambassador will request to see me tomorrow," Wilson said, "He will exert even greater pressure."

"As expected." Lansing paused, "Mr. President, I have a question. Setting aside all political considerations, you personally… which path do you lean toward?"

Wilson stared at the distant horizon for a long time before answering, "I hate war. I have spent my life studying how to resolve disputes through law and institutions. But sometimes reality forces you to make choices that betray your ideals."

He turned around, "Prepare two drafts. One is a war‑authorization request to Congress, the other is a new peace‑initiative framework. We need to be ready on both fronts."

"Understood."

After Lansing left, Wilson stood alone on the balcony. Night fell completely, and Pearl Harbor's lighthouse began to rotate, its beam cutting across the night sky.

He recalled his classes at Princeton University, remembered the lectures he gave his students: reason, dialogue, international law. At that time he believed humanity was civilized enough to transcend violence in solving problems.

But the world now seems to be mocking his naivety.

Chen Feng's words echoed in his mind: "War has no absolute right or wrong, only interests and costs."

If that is true, then all the lofty words about democracy, freedom, civilization—what are they? Merely a veil for interests?

Wilson felt a deep weariness. As a scholar, he yearned for truth. As a president, he had to face reality. And the two seemed perpetually at odds.

He walked back to his study, switched on the desk lamp, and took a Bible from the drawer. He did not open it, merely placed his hand on the cover.

"God," he whispered in prayer, "grant me wisdom so I can see which path is just. If justice conflicts with interests, how should I choose?"

There was no answer. Only the sound of sea wind outside the window, and a faint horn from a distant warship.

Not far away, in another villa, Chen Feng was drafting Encrypted Telegrams for Berlin and London respectively.

The telegram to Berlin was brief: "Met with W, preliminary sway. The key is time. Control submarine actions to avoid giving Britain a pretext. Urgently need the German side's latest negotiation bottom line."

The telegram to London was more nuanced: "The meeting with W is progressing smoothly, but the British side should beware that excessive media manipulation may backfire. Recommend modestly adjusting the propaganda strategy to leave room for peace."

After sending the telegrams, he walked to the window and gazed at Hawaii's starry sky.

"Wang Wenwu."

"Present."

"You say, if someone writes this history a hundred years from now, how will they evaluate the choices we make today?"

Wang Wenwu thought for a moment, "They will say we did our best. At the crossroads of history we tried to choose a path with less bloodshed. Whether successful or not, the attempt itself holds value."

Chen Feng smiled faintly, saying nothing.

Value? History is written by the victors. If his attempt fails, if Meilika still enters the war, if Lanfang is eventually forced to be drawn in, then all today's efforts might not even earn a footnote.

But it still must be done.

Because that is a leader's responsibility—to seek light in darkness, hope in despair, and the possibility of change within an inevitable tragedy.

Outside, Pearl Harbor was tranquil. Yet Chen Feng knew that beneath this calm, undercurrents were stirring. Cargo ships on the Atlantic, submarines in the North Sea, trenches on the Western Front, Congress in Washington, Downing Street in London, the palace in Berlin— all these forces were converging toward a critical point.

And he, an anomaly from the East, tried to give a gentle push before that critical point.

Could it succeed? He didn't know.

But he must try.

Night deepened, and Pearl Harbor slipped into slumber. Yet in every corner of the world, countless people were losing sleep over tomorrow's decisions. And tomorrow would bring new variables, new challenges, new choices.

History is still being written.

Morning light once again bathed Pearl Harbor, but today the air carried a different texture.

Chen Feng stood on the second‑floor balcony of the villa, holding a freshly delivered Honolulu Star. The front‑page headline was still a report on the European war, but in the corner there was a brief notice: "President inspects the naval base in Hawaii"—only eighty words, no details, no photos, like a routine filler report.

"The secrecy work is well done," Wang Wenwu said, carrying coffee over, "General Rodman sent someone with a message: this morning's schedule is a tour of the naval air station, and the afternoon can include some free activities. As for President Wilson… there is currently no further meeting arranged."

Chen Feng set the newspaper down, took the coffee, "He is digesting yesterday's material, and also waiting for something."

"Waiting?"

"Waiting for a shift in the situation." Chen Feng looked toward the harbor, "Yesterday's meeting unsettled Wilson, but not enough for him to decide. He needs time to think, and also… a catalyst. The question is, where will that catalyst come from? From a German concession, or from British pressure?"