Chapter 554: Irreversible Showdown

The underground operations briefing room of the Pearl Harbor Pacific Fleet Headquarters is a windowless room.

The walls are covered with dark green sound‑absorbing material, and the ceiling has three rows of shadowless lights that cast an even, cold white illumination throughout the space. In the center of the room stands a massive Pacific chart table, its surface overlaid with thick reinforced glass under which movable ship models are embedded. Along the surrounding walls, from left to right, hang a world map, a North Atlantic chart, and a Pacific chart, each densely marked with symbols and lines of various colors.

The time was 9:55 a. m. when Chen Feng and Wang Wenwu entered the room under the guidance of Lieutenant General Rodman.

President Wilson was already there. He was not seated in the main seat; instead he stood before the Pacific chart, back to the doorway, looking up at the vast blue area. Today he wore a dark‑blue suit, more formal and heavier than when they had met before.

Secretary of State Lansing sat at one side of the chart table, a thick dossier spread before him. His expression was a seriousness Chen Feng had never seen.

A fourth person was also in the room—the Pacific Fleet Chief of Staff—standing beside the telegraph machine against the wall, holding a freshly received telegram.

"Mr. President, Mr. Chen Feng has arrived," Rodman said softly.

Wilson turned around. Fatigue he could not hide was evident on his face, heavy bags under his eyes, and the nasolabial folds at his mouth as deep as knife cuts. Yet his gaze remained clear—indeed, clearer than ever before—a clarity born of abandoning illusion and facing reality.

"Mr. Chen, please sit," Wilson gestured to the chair opposite the chart table. "I apologize for meeting you again under these circumstances. But I think the topic we need to discuss today requires this atmosphere."

Chen Feng nodded, and sat down with Wang Wenwu. He could feel the air in the room—heavy, taut, like the low pressure before a storm.

Lieutenant General Rodman walked to the doorway, gave the guard a signal, and the door was gently closed. Now only five people remained in the room.

"Before we begin," Wilson said, "I suppose you are already aware of what has happened in the Atlantic."

"Yes." Chen Feng's reply was simple.

"Forty‑three Meilika citizens have died, and twenty‑one are missing, with little hope of survival." Wilson's tone was calm, yet each word was as cold as an ice spear. "Among them were sailors, merchants, engineers. The youngest was only nineteen, on his first trans‑ocean voyage. The oldest was fifty‑seven, with two years left before retirement."

He did not raise his voice, but that calm narration made the words even more powerful.

Chen Feng listened in silence. He knew that any excuse or analysis at this moment would be untimely.

"This morning I received sixty‑four telegrams," Wilson continued, "from members of both houses of Congress, from governors of various states, from newspaper editors, from ordinary citizens. The content was almost identical: demand that the government act, punish the perpetrators severely, and protect the safety of Meilika citizens."

He walked to the edge of the table and picked up a document: "This is the proof copy of tomorrow's front page of the New York Times. The headline reads: 'Ruthless T‑kill—Deguo submarine sinks a Meilika merchant ship.' The sub‑headline: 'Forty‑three lives call for justice.' The article details the attack, cites survivor testimony, and … photographs of the dead."

He pushed the document across the table, sliding it to Chen Feng.

Chen Feng did not look. He knew what was inside.

"Mr. President," Wang Wenwu began cautiously, "we express our deepest condolences for the victims. Such a tragedy is something no lover of peace wishes to see."

"Mourning changes nothing," Lansing said for the first time, his voice cold and hard. "Mr. Chen, two days ago you told us here that the war should end through negotiations, that Meilika should remain neutral and let Europe solve the problem itself. Now you see reality. Reality is that this war will not stay obediently in Europe; it will find us, it will kill our people."

Chen Feng looked straight at Lansing: "Secretary of State, I never said the war would stay obediently in Europe. I said Meilika has the freedom to choose how to respond. And choice always comes with a cost."

"Cost?" Lansing's voice carried suppressed anger. "Is the price paid by those who died not enough? Or do you consider Meilika lives merely a calculable 'cost'?"

The words were sharp, but Chen Feng did not flinch.

"All life is priceless," he said, "but as leaders we must think on a larger scale. The death of forty‑three people is a tragedy. Yet if Meilika Entry into War, forty‑three thousand, even four hundred and thirty thousand people could die. Then how would we face the families who lost loved ones? How would we explain sending their sons, husbands, fathers to a foreign continent three thousand miles away to die?"

Wilson sat down, hands clasped on the table: "Mr. Chen, I understand your logic. But you overlook a key point: politics is not mathematics. Public sentiment, congressional pressure, national dignity—these cannot be quantified. When the populace shouts 'War now' in the streets, when newspapers daily ask 'Why does the President remain idle?', when members of Congress threaten a vote of no confidence… reason becomes a luxury."

There was no blame in his tone, only deep resignation.

Chen Feng knew the critical moment had arrived. Wilson was stating facts—political reality often overwhelms rational calculation. Yet he still wanted to make one final effort.

"Mr. President, may I ask you a question," Chen Feng leaned forward, "if today you declared war on Deguo, six months later the first Meilika soldiers boarded transport ships, a year later the first casualty list was sent home, two years later the war ended with Meilika suffering three hundred thousand casualties—then would the public still support the war as they do today? Or would they ask: why? Why must we become entangled in a war that does not concern us?"

The room fell silent. Only the clock on the wall ticked.

Wilson gave no answer. He was thinking, or rather, struggling.

Lansing answered for him: "Mr. Chen, you are hypothesizing again. Assuming the war would last two years, assuming Meilika would suffer massive casualties. But the reality might be that Meilika's entry into war would end the conflict swiftly. Deguo's resources are already depleted; they cannot stand against another powerful foe."

"End swiftly?" Chen Feng shook his head. "Secretary of State, have you studied military history? When a nation believes it is fighting for survival, its resistance is fiercely tenacious. The Napoleonic Wars lasted twelve years, the Meilika Civil War lasted four, and this war has already raged two and a half years, with both sides convinced they can win. Meilika's entry into war will not force Deguo to surrender; it will only make the war bloodier and longer."

He turned to Wilson: "Mr. President, yesterday you asked me what would happen if Deguo won the war. Now let me ask you another question: if Meilika entered the war and helped Britain and France win, what then? Then Meilika would become Europe's creditor, the world's police, bearing the burden of maintaining global order. Meanwhile Deguo would be humiliated, dismembered, plundered, and twenty years later return with deeper hatred. By then, would Meilika be ready? Ready to fight an even larger‑scale war?"

The questions grew sharper one after another, cutting through surface emotions like a scalpel to expose the underlying logic.