Chapter 581: Arizona Arrives!

The carriage drove toward the Prime Minister's Office. On the street, the line in front of the recruitment station had grown longer. The young men queued, their faces showing bewilderment, fear, and a kind of inflamed zeal.

Xiyuan Si watched them, a complex feeling welling up inside.

These youths may, in the coming years, be sent to Europe and die on foreign soil. Will their sacrifice bring about Japan's revival? Or will it, like a bubble, dissolve in the torrent of history?

He does not know.

The tragedy of politicians is that they must decide with incomplete information and then bear all the consequences—whether those consequences are glory or disaster.

In the afternoon, the cabinet reconvened.

Xiyuan Si announced the Emperor's decree. The civil officials breathed a sigh of relief; Shanben straightened his back, and Gangshi Zhishu's complexion turned ashen, but he no longer argued.

"Since Your Majesty has issued an order, the Army Ministry must obey," Gangshi Zhishu's voice squeezed out of his teeth, "but I have two requests: first, the supplemental agreement on command authority must be finalized before any division is dispatched; second, the army's equipment and training must be given priority protection."

"Agreed," Xiyuan Si nodded, "from now on the Empire enters full mobilization. The Army Ministry will accelerate the formation of fifty divisions, the Navy Ministry will prepare to receive technology and begin battleship construction. All departments will cooperate fully."

The order was issued. The state machine began to run at full capacity.

That night, the Army Ministry issued a new conscription order. The Navy Ministry established a 'Battleship Construction Preparatory Committee.' The Finance Ministry began adjusting the budget to prepare for the massive expenditures.

On Tokyo's streets, new posters were posted: "The Empire's Rise or Fall, Decided Here" and "Build a Great Navy, Showcase National Might."

In the countryside, in fishing villages, and in urban slums, conscription notices were delivered to households. Mothers wept, wives worried, fathers were silent. Yet among the youths burned an inflamed zeal—to Europe, to the battlefield, to win 'sunlit territory' for the Empire.

The specter of militarism hovered again over the land of cherry blossoms.

This time, however, it wore the masks of "national survival" and "ethnic revival," appearing more justified and more alluring.

Xiyuan Si stood by the window of the Prime Minister's Office, watching Tokyo's nightscape. Amid countless lights, how many families would have their destinies altered by today's decision?

He recalled Chen Feng's words to him in Borneo: "The essence of politics is trade. The more you give, the more you receive."

The Empire has given sovereignty, blood, and the future. What can it gain?

He does not know.

He only knows that the arrow has left the bow and cannot be recalled.

Outside the window, Tokyo's night was deep. An even darker gloom was brewing on the far side of the sea.

Persian Gulf, February 8, 1917, dawn.

The sun rose from the eastern horizon, tinting the sky gold‑red before fading to clear blue. The sea lay as smooth as a massive sapphire, only the light breeze stirring tiny ripples that reflected dazzling light. Morning mist drifted slowly at the bay's mouth like a thin veil, half‑concealing the silhouettes of the hills on both sides of the Hormuz Strait.

On the watchtower of the Dubai Naval Base, the duty officer raised a high‑power binocular, staring at the southeastern waters. His uniform was already soaked with sweat—though it was still dawn, the February temperature in the Persian Gulf was nearing thirty degrees Celsius. Humid and stifling, the air carried the salty scent of seawater and a faint whiff of sulfur from a distant refinery.

"Bearing 135, Distance twenty nautical miles, large vessel sighted," the lookout's voice came through the speaking tube, tinged with excitement.

The duty officer instantly adjusted the binoculars. In the view, three plumes of black smoke rose straight up against the clear sky. Then the ship's silhouette emerged slowly from the sea surface—first the mast, then the bridge, finally the massive turret and the sleek hull.

"Identity confirmed: Meilika Navy 'Arizona' battleship, accompanied by two destroyers. Course 310, speed fifteen knots."

The duty officer lowered the binoculars and told the communications man, "Report to base command: target has entered the designated area. Execute Plan A."

The order was transmitted simultaneously by telephone and signal flags. The entire Dubai Naval Base began to operate like a precise machine.

Base command, operations control room.

Major General Li Te stood before the massive chart table, holding the freshly delivered report. He was slender yet upright, dressed in a white summer uniform for senior officers, the two stars on his shoulder boards glittering. As the Lanfang Navy commander and Dubai base commander, today he was to fulfill a special task—receive Lieutenant General Rodman, commander of the Meilika Pacific Fleet, and "casually" showcase Lanfang's strength.

"Rodman is punctual," he told the Chief of Staff beside him, "inform the dock to prepare with the highest diplomatic protocol. Honor guard, military band, red carpet—everything in place. But keep it natural; don't make it overly grand."

"Understood," the Chief of Staff recorded, "the visitation route is set: dock, repair area, training center, and finally the officers' club for talks. The shipyard area and the vicinity of Zhu Jiang have been put on heightened alert, all civilians cleared."

"What about the radar station and the airfield?"

"As per your orders, the radar antenna is operating normally, but only basic personnel remain in the control room. All aircraft at the airfield are parked in the hangar; only two reconnaissance planes are on standby on the runway—standard for routine patrols."

Li Te nodded. The display must be measured: let the Meilika see Lanfang's modernization, yet not reveal core secrets; showcase strength without appearing boastful.

He glanced at his watch: 8:10 a. m. Rodman's fleet is expected to dock at nine.

"I'll go change," Li Te said, "inform the President that the guest has arrived."

At exactly nine o'clock, the Arizona battleship eased into Dubai Harbor.

This newest Meilika Navy battleship, 185 m long with a displacement of 32,000 tons and armed with twelve 356‑mm main guns, was the most magnificent vessel in Pearl Harbor; yet now, as it passed the breakwater outside Dubai Harbor, the Meilika sailors aboard could not help but exclaim in awe.

At the deep‑water berth on the port's right side, a larger battleship was moored.

"Is that… the Huai River?" a young officer on the bridge asked, holding a binocular, his voice full of reverence.

Lieutenant General Rodman also raised his binoculars. In the view, the Bismarck Class battleship's outline was crystal clear in the morning light. It was longer and wider than the Arizona, its turret arrangement tighter, superstructure simpler. Most striking was the rotating radar antenna—a technology the Meilika Navy had only dreamed of, now integrated into the ship's combat system.

"More than one," the adjutant said beside him, "General, to port there are two more of the same class."

Rodman turned his scope. Indeed, at a farther berth two more Bismarck Class ships were moored. One bore scaffolding, apparently under repair, but the sight of three sister battleships together in one harbor delivered a massive visual impact.

"They really have six," Rodman whispered, as if to himself, "the intelligence estimate was correct."