Chapter 552: Washington's Volcano

And twenty nautical miles out, the Brave and the Vigilant's sonar captured the explosion.

Lt. Colonel Ha Lisi stood on the bridge, his face pale. He knew what had happened without looking. The orders, the timing, the German submarine's punctual appearance—everything was too coincidental.

"Captain, we've received a distress signal…" the communications officer's voice trembled.

Ha Lisi closed his eyes, opened them a few seconds later: "Full speed back. Organize rescue. At the same time… report to the Navy Department: NY-107 Convoy attacked by a German submarine, two destroyers are pursuing the submarine and organizing rescue."

Pursuing the submarine? He knew the sub had already fled. Rescue? By the time they arrived, many would have frozen to death.

But he had to do it, because it was part of the script.

He stared at the coordinate on the chart, the spot where he had been ordered to leave the convoy. There, forty‑three Meilika citizens had died, and more would die from cold and injuries.

Why? To drag Meilika into the war?

Ha Lisi felt a wave of nausea. He walked to the rail, grasped the railing, and breathed deeply the icy sea air. Twenty years of military service had given him battle and death, but he had never felt… filthy as he did today.

"God forgive me," he whispered.

But God seemed to have already left these waters.

The news reached Washington four hours later.

The first to receive the report was the Navy Department Operations Room. The on‑duty officer's hand began to tremble when he read the telegram. He immediately grabbed the red phone……

8:20 p. m.

President Wilson was discussing with Lansing the preparations for an afternoon meeting with Chen Feng. The Tea Meeting was arranged in the garden; the informal setting might be more suitable for in‑depth dialogue. Wilson had already prepared several questions, about Lanfang's concrete plans for post‑war order, about the feasibility of technical cooperation, about…

The red phone rang.

Lansing answered, listened to a few sentences, and his complexion changed sharply. He covered the microphone and turned to Wilson: "Mr. President, the NY-107 Convoy was attacked by a German submarine in the central Atlantic. Two cargo ships sank, forty‑three confirmed dead, and dozens missing. Two British destroyers had temporarily left the formation to chase a suspected submarine and, upon returning, could not prevent the attack."

The room fell into dead silence.

Wilson rose slowly and walked to the window. Outside was Hawaii's night view, the city lights flickering in the winter night. Just minutes earlier, he had been pondering how to advance the peace process. Now reality had slapped him.

"Why did the British destroyer leave the formation?" his voice was calm, but beneath the calm lay a volcano about to erupt.

"The telegram said a suspicious submarine contact was detected."

"At the same time? In the same waters? After we explicitly demanded reinforced escort?"

Lansing gave no answer. He knew Wilson had already considered that possibility—it resembled a meticulously crafted trap.

Wilson turned, slammed his fist onto the table. A water glass jumped, shattering on the floor.

"Shameless!" his voice lost control for the first time, "They use Meilika blood to achieve their own ends! Do they even know what they're doing? Do they know those dead have families, children, futures?"

Lansing waited until he had vented, then whispered, "Mr. President, the problem now is that this news will spread quickly. The New York Times, the Washington Post… all newspapers will report it on tomorrow's front page. In Congress, Senator Luo Qi has already called an emergency meeting."

Wilson took several deep breaths, forcing himself to calm down. He walked back to the table, palms braced on the surface, head bowed.

"Has Chen Feng been informed?"

"Probably not yet. But it will be soon."

Wilson gave a wry smile: "I had planned to discuss the possibility of peace with him this afternoon. Now… how do I face him? How do I tell him that, while we were debating how to avoid war, forty‑three Meilika citizens died in what may have been a staged attack?"

"We need to verify the details," Lansing said, "perhaps it truly was just a coincidence…"

"Coincidence?" Wilson lifted his head, bloodshot eyes, "Luo Bo Te, you and I both know this isn't a coincidence. The British want us to join the war; this is the simplest, most direct method—let the Germans kill Meilika citizens. And the Germans, those foolish, short‑sighted Germans, fell right into the bait."

He walked to the world map on the wall, his finger pointing at the central Atlantic.

"Now the British have won. They have gotten what they wanted—the anger of the Meilika populace. In the coming days, newspapers will be filled with photos of the dead, survivors' cries, condemnations of Germany. Congress will demand I act. And I… what can I say? That this might be a British plot? The public won't believe it; they'll say I'm making excuses for the Germans."

Lansing fell silent. He knew Wilson was right. In politics, truth is often less important than emotion. And at this moment, the Meilika public's emotions were about to be ignited.

The phone rang again. This time it was the Secretary of State's Office, reporting that the British ambassador urgently requested an audience.

"Tell him I'm seeing no one right now," Wilson said, "Tomorrow at ten a. m., schedule an emergency meeting. Notify the Army Minister, the Navy Minister, the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. Also… notify Mr. Chen Feng that the afternoon Tea Meeting is cancelled. But tell him I still hope to meet him tomorrow."

"What do you intend to say to him?"

Wilson stared at the map, silent for a long while.

"I don't know," he finally said, "but I know one thing: history is accelerating. And we're all on a runaway train, not knowing where the end lies."

The news reached Pearl Harbor at nine p. m.

Wang Wenwu received a telegram forwarded from the Huaihe, while preparing materials for the afternoon Tea Meeting. After decoding it, he stared at those few lines for a long time, then gently set the decoding book down and walked to Chen Feng's bedroom door.

Knocked.

"Come in."

Chen Feng was reading a book on Hawaii's history. He saw Wang Wenwu's expression, set the book aside: "Something happened?"

"Atlantic, NY-107 Convoy, German submarine, two ships sunk, forty‑three dead." Wang Wenwu handed over the translated telegram; each word felt as heavy as a stone.

Chen Feng took it, read quickly. His expression changed little, but Wang Wenwu noticed his finger joints whitening slightly as he held the paper.

"Time?" Chen Feng asked.

"This morning, about ten a. m. Hawaii time. That's when we were touring the air station."

Chen Feng closed his eyes, opened them a few seconds later: "The British destroyer 'coincidentally' left the formation to chase the submarine?"

"That's what the telegram said."