Chapter 550: The Atlantic Conspiracy

Wang Wenwu followed his gaze. At the pier, around the "Huai River" several small boats were moored, and some Meilika Navy technicians were observing the hull outline from a distance with surveying instruments. Farther away, two PBY reconnaissance aircraft were taking off from the water, beginning routine patrols.

"General Rodman still won't give up."

"If it were me, I wouldn't either," Chen Feng took a sip of coffee, "Seeing a warship technologically a generation ahead of our own docked in our home port would keep any naval officer awake at night. But… let them see. Sometimes a proper display of strength can actually prevent misjudgment."

At nine a. m., Lieutenant General Rodman arrived promptly by car.

"Mr. Chen, if you don't mind, today I'd like to show you another side of Pearl Harbor—our air power," Rodman seemed especially spirited today, but a faint, hard‑to‑notice worry lingered in his eyes.

"Very pleased," Chen Feng and Wang Wenwu got into the car.

The car headed to the naval aviation station on the opposite side of Ford Island. Along the way it passed a maintenance workshop, a fuel depot, and pilot barracks, finally stopping before a huge hangar. The hangar doors were open, and inside twelve Curtis HS-2L seaplanes were parked, with ground crew busily servicing them.

"This is the main aircraft type of our Pacific Fleet Aviation Corps," Rodman introduced, "Primarily used for reconnaissance, anti‑submarine, and search‑and‑rescue missions."

Chen Feng watched the planes attentively. Twin‑wing structure, wooden fuselage with canvas covering, open cockpit—typical late‑World‑War‑I design. Compared with Lanfang's AR‑1, they appeared bulky and outdated.

"Maximum range?" Chen Feng asked.

"About five hundred kilometers. The improved model can reach seven hundred," the aviation corps commander answered, his tone laced with pride.

Chen Feng nodded, offering no further comment. Wang Wenwu recorded the data beside him, his face maintaining a courteous interest.

Next came the flight demonstration. Two HS‑2L were towed to the water's edge, and amid the roar of their engines they skidded into takeoff. They performed several standard turns and climbs over the harbor, then dropped training smoke bombs, simulating an attack on a submarine.

The performance was routine, but lacked any highlight.

After the demonstration, Rodman asked seemingly casually, "Mr. Chen, the kind of seaplane I saw on the Huai River yesterday—how are its performance parameters? Of course, if it doesn't involve classified information."

The question arrived. Chen Feng had been prepared.

"The AR‑1's maximum range is twelve hundred kilometers, its top speed three hundred twenty kilometers per hour, and it can carry two one‑hundred‑kilogram bombs or lightweight torpedoes," he gave the public data, "Mainly used for fleet reconnaissance and limited anti‑ship attacks."

The aviation commander beside Rodman widened his eyes: "Twelve hundred kilometers? That's almost twice our aircraft!"

"Technological progress is always rapid," Chen Feng smiled, "I believe Meilika's aviation industry will soon have even more advanced models."

"But how did you achieve that in such a short time…" the commander stopped halfway, realizing the question might overstep.

Rodman took over: "Mr. Chen, I have a more fundamental question. Lanfang's aviation industry—including Naval Aviation—what is the core concept behind its development? I've noticed your aircraft design, pilot training, tactical concepts all seem to follow a complete system."

This question was profound, touching the essence of Lanfang's military construction.

Chen Feng thought for a few seconds, then decided to give a valuable answer: "General Rodman, Lanfang's military construction rests on a basic principle: Asymmetrical Advantage. As a rising nation, we cannot compete with traditional powers in scale, so we must seek breakthroughs in quality and concept."

At twelve thirty, they received an Encrypted Telegram forwarded from the Huai River. Wang Wenwu, after decoding, grew solemn.

"Berlin's news. The German Naval High Command has decided that, starting February 1, the unrestricted submarine warfare zone will be expanded to the entire area east of 20°W in the North Atlantic. Any ship entering that zone, regardless of nationality or cargo, will be considered a legitimate target."

Chen Feng closed his eyes, took a deep breath: "Stupid."

"Worse, the telegram mentions that this decision was hastily made after learning of our meeting with Wilson. The Germans think that, since Meilika's entry into war is already highly likely, they should strike first, using the most forceful means to force Britain to surrender."

"Typical military thinking—reducing a complex political issue to a military calculation," Chen Feng walked to the window, "They don't understand that this decision will turn Meilika's entry from a possibility into inevitability."

"Do we need to inform Wilson?"

"No," Chen Feng shook his head, "The news will soon reach Meilika through other channels. Saying it ourselves would look suspicious. Moreover… it would make our position awkward."

He glanced at his watch; the distance to Wilson's Tea Meeting was still more than two hours.

"Prepare for the afternoon talk. The German decision will make Wilson's situation even more difficult. We need to give him a… less desperate choice."

While Chen Feng and Rodman toured Pearl Harbor's aviation station, in the Central North Atlantic, at latitude 45°N, longitude 35°W.

The sea was lead‑gray, the sky hung low with heavy clouds, visibility under five nautical miles. A convoy of eight merchant ships was sailing east, the Stars and Stripes fluttering on their masts. This was the NY‑107 Convoy bound from New York to Liverpool, carrying wheat, cotton, machine tools, and automobile parts.

The convoy sailed in the standard anti‑submarine formation: two columns, speed ten knots. Two nautical miles ahead of the convoy, the Royal Navy destroyers Brave and Vigilant were sailing in a V‑shape, their sonar continuously operating.

On the bridge of the Brave, Captain Major John Harris raised his binoculars, scanning the sea. He was a forty‑year‑old career officer with twenty years of naval service, his face etched by sea wind and time.

"How far to the scheduled handover point?" he asked the navigation officer.

"Sixty‑five nautical miles, Captain. According to plan, we will rendezvous with the escort fleet departing from Britain in four hours, then turn back."

Harris nodded, but a hint of unease flickered in his eyes. He had received a special order from the Naval Department Intelligence Bureau; the wording was vague but the intent clear: "When the NY‑107 Convoy reaches the area at 35°W, adjust escort deployment as needed to test German submarine reaction patterns."

Test reaction patterns? Harris was no fool. He knew that area was one of the most active German U‑boat hunting grounds. The so‑called "test" likely meant exposing the convoy to danger.

But an order is an order.