Chapter 586: Two‑for‑One? Three‑for‑One Tactics?

Lieutenant General Rodman first noticed, as the sedan drove along Pennsylvania Avenue, that many of the trees he had passed hundreds of times were dead.

In February, Washington had no snow, only a dry cold wind whipping up fallen leaves on the sidewalk, pattering against the car windows with a soft rustle. A newsboy on the corner waved his paper, the bold black type legible across the street—"The Atlantic Escort Fleet reports another victory, the thirteenth German ship sunk." A few men in overcoats gathered, tossing coins into the boy's metal can, the clink echoing.

Rodman lowered the curtain.

In the co‑pilot seat, the navy adjutant turned, cradling the report that had been rushed through the night. Its cover bore only a handwritten line: "Special Assessment Report on the Naval Strength of the Lanfang Republic and Pacific Strategic Situation." No heading, no number, not even an author's signature.

"General, the White House called to confirm, the President will finish breakfast at 8:45 and will see you at 9:00."

Rodman nodded. He looked at the clock on the instrument panel: 8:37.

Twenty‑three minutes left.

He closed his eyes, but the waves of the North Sea and the morning light of the Persian Gulf surged beneath his lids at the same time. The "Huaihe" cutting through the waves outside Pearl Harbor, the three steel giants side by side in Dubai Harbor, the mysterious shipyard wrapped in layers of canvas and scaffolding, and Li Te's slurred yet crystal‑clear words after drinking—"the real big guy."

He opened his eyes. The sedan had already entered the northwest gate of the White House; as the guard checked credentials, he saw through the window a few tourists on the south lawn holding Kodak cameras and photographing the main building. A child in a woman's arms reached out, as if trying to grasp something.

Rodman suddenly thought of his grandson. Seven years old, who had written last month that he was studying the War of Independence at school and asked whether his grandfather had taken part in the Spanish‑American War. He replied that he hadn't; at that time the grandfather had not yet entered a military academy.

What he didn't write in the letter was: the grandfather, now in his dozens of years, was very likely to personally witness a war a hundred times larger than the Spanish‑American War.

The sedan came to a stop.

"General, we've arrived."

He picked up the unsigned report and pushed open the car door.

Cold air rushed in at once, colder than Pearl Harbor, far colder than Dubai. Yet Rodman knew the real chill was still ahead.

The door of the oval office was ajar.

Secretary of State Luobote·Lanxin's voice came from inside; through the door panel it was muffled, but Rodman had heard that distinctive, New‑England Puritan‑like restrained tone in countless settings.

"…The Chicago Forum's editorials have been on the front page for three consecutive days urging an immediate declaration of war on Germany; the Senate Foreign Relations Committee's investigation shows that the proportion of senators supporting a declaration rose from 62 % last week to 73 %. Mr President, public opinion is moving forward at a speed we cannot keep up with."

Another voice sounded, gentle but weary, that of Army Secretary Newton Beck:

"But the army is not ready yet. We cannot even muster five full divisions; the shortfall in heavy equipment exceeds 40 %. The mobilization funds approved by Congress are still going through the appropriation process and will not reach the state draft offices until March at the earliest."

"Europe won't wait for our appropriation process," Lansing said, a hint of restrained impatience in his tone. "The British ambassador yesterday again made an informal inquiry: if Germany launches a spring offensive, can Meilika commit to dispatch at least two division‑sized combat forces to the European continent within three months."

"How did you answer?"

"I said Meilika will fulfill its ally obligations, but the exact timetable needs to be evaluated by the Chief of Staff joint meeting."

"That is no answer."

"Because there is no answer to give."

A brief silence fell inside the door.

Rodman stood outside the door, looking down at a small stain on the tip of his combat boot. He had stepped on it when he got out of the Navy Department building, likely the slush left from the melt last night. He instinctively brushed it against the door rug.

The door suddenly swung open from inside.

President's secretary Joseph Tumarti saw him, gave a slight nod, and lowered his voice: "General, the President is waiting for you." Then he stepped aside to clear the way.

The light in the oval office was far brighter than in the hallway. The south window's blinds were half‑drawn, and February sunlight was sliced into slanting beams that fell on the carpet before the fireplace. President Wilson was not seated behind the famous mahogany desk; instead he stood by the fireplace, one hand resting on the marble edge of the mantel, as if warming himself or merely needing support.

He turned, his gaze passing over Lansing and Beck, and settled on Rodman's face.

"General," Wilson said. He offered no greeting about the journey, no small talk about the weather. It was like two surgeons handing off a patient on the operating table, asking only the most critical thing.

Rodman stood at attention and saluted.

Wilson nodded: "Please sit. Beck, Lansing, you both stay as well."

The four of them took seats in the sofa area before the fireplace. Rodman chose a single armchair directly opposite the President. He placed the report on his lap but did not open it immediately.

Wilson watched him, waiting.

The fire in the fireplace burned brightly, yet Rodman's back still felt a chill. He began with Pearl Harbor, describing the "Huaihe" cutting into the harbor, the bow splitting the waves; he spoke of the twin‑turret 380 mm main guns casting shadows in the sunset; he recounted Chen Feng's composed, unassuming tone in the talks, announcing "Lanfang will also fall" as calmly as stating the weather.

Wilson listened continuously, nodding occasionally, without interrupting.

Then Rodman turned to Dubai.

"I was standing on that pier, Mr President," his voice deepened, "three Bismarck‑class ships moored together in one port. We've seen the 'Huaihe', the 'Zhujiang' is under major repair, the 'Dingyuan' has just completed refit. Intelligence confirms they have six in total. I can tell you now, this estimate is conservative."

He opened the report on his lap, pulled out a folded chart, and spread it on the coffee table. The map was marked with red and blue pencils showing the locations of Lanfang Navy's main vessels—three in Dubai, one toward Borneo, and two whose positions were unknown.

"The Pacific Fleet's current capital ships…" Rodman's finger moved to Hawaii, "'Arizona', 'Pennsylvania', 'Nevada', 'Oklahoma'. The Atlantic Fleet has 'New York', 'Texas', 'Wyoming', 'Arkansas'."

His finger moved back and forth between the two seas, as if performing some arduous transfer.

"Total nine ships. Lanfang six."

Lansing frowned: "We have nine to six, a numerical advantage."

"It's not a simple arithmetic problem," Rodman lifted his head, meeting the Secretary of State's gaze. "The Navy equipment department's simulation ran thirty‑seven times. One‑on‑one, Bismarck‑class versus Pennsylvania‑class, win rate 93 %. The exchange ratio—if forced—requires 2.4 Pennsylvania ships to replace one Bismarck."

No one spoke in the room.