Chapter 587: Meilika's Navy Will Lose

Rodman paused, adding, "This is a conservative estimate. The worst case is three to one."

Beck's hand lingered at the rim of the teacup, and for a while he did not pick it up.

Wilson leaned against the sofa back. Sunlight slipped through the slats of the blind, cutting a line of light and shadow across his face. He stared at the sea chart on the coffee table, at the dense markings of ships, for a long time.

"So," he began, his voice slower than usual, "if Lanfang really sides with Germany, our Atlantic transport lines…"

"No need to attack the homeland, Mr. President," Rodman replied, "just cut the transport lines. No need to sink every warship, just let every merchant ship know that something is waiting for them in the sea. Our escort forces are insufficient to deal with German submarines and Lanfang's surface fleet simultaneously. This is mathematics, not something courage can make up for."

The wood in the fireplace burst with a crack, and sparks fell onto the edge of the carpet. No one stepped on them.

Lansing inhaled deeply: "General, you just said 'if' Lanfang sides with Germany. The words Chen Feng said in Hawaii—could they have been mere bluster? A nation only a decade old, could it really dare to confront both Yingguo and Meilika at once?"

Rodman did not answer immediately. He recalled Li Te's vague words after drinking, the shipyard tightly wrapped in canvas, the silhouette of a massive ship taking shape in the morning mist. He remembered that when Li Te spoke of a "real big fellow," his eyes were not drunken but held something Rodman knew too well—a look that a soldier has when looking at his country's sharpest blade.

"Secretary of State," Rodman said slowly, "I saw a dry dock at the Dubai shipyard."

He described the dimensions of the dry dock—its length, width, the height of the scaffolding, the crane's tonnage. His voice was flat, like reading an engineering survey. Yet each number that fell into the room sounded like a stone dropped into a deep well, echoing only after a long silence.

"Two hundred fifty meters?" Beck's voice was a bit dry, "The Pennsylvania class is 185 meters overall."

"That's the internal clear length of the dry dock," Rodman said, "two hundred fifty‑three meters. I stood on the watchtower at the side and confirmed it with a rangefinder. Width forty‑two meters, enough to accommodate a hull seven meters wider than a Bismarck Class."

"Fifty thousand tons," Wilson said. Not a question.

"Conservative estimate," Rodman said, "larger is not impossible."

Lansing opened his mouth but said nothing.

Beck placed the teacup back on the tray; the movement was light, yet the porcelain still produced a crisp clink.

Wilson stood up and walked back to the fireplace. He turned his back to the others, looking at the half‑body bronze statue of Lincoln on the mantel. The statue's face was half‑lit in the firelight, its expression invisible.

"General Rodman," the President said without turning.

"Yes."

"You just said the navy equipment department ran thirty‑seven simulations," Wilson's voice came from his back, "If—I'm saying if—Lanfang really has such a fifty‑thousand‑ton battleship, how many Pennsylvania class ships would Meilika need to replace it?"

Rodman was silent.

"General?"

"Mr. President," Rodman's voice was low, "we have simulated. Using data from active warships, every tactical combination we could think of, with the most optimistic Hit Rate and damage‑control efficiency."

He paused.

"No conclusion. Because none of our current warships can pierce the main Armour Belt of a fifty‑thousand‑ton battleship."

The wood in the fireplace burst again.

Wilson finally turned around. His face showed no shock or anger that Rodman had expected, only a deep, heavy fatigue. That fatigue did not come from this hour, nor even from this week. It came from earlier—perhaps from the meeting in Hawaii, from the look Chen Feng gave him when he said "there are no innocents," from even earlier, from the late night when he decided to run for a second term.

"So," Wilson said slowly, "the words Chen Feng told me in Hawaii were not a threat."

"They were a forewarning," Rodman said.

"'If Meilika enters the war, Lanfang will also fall.'" Wilson recited that day's dialogue, word by word, as if interpreting a classic in class, "He wasn't warning me. He was telling me—this road is yours, and before you choose, see the signposts clearly."

Lansing leaned forward: "Mr. President, we have not formally declared war on Germany. Congress is still debating; the authorization bill won't be voted on until next week at the earliest. If we reassess at this point…"

"Reassess what?" Wilson looked at him, his tone light, yet it made Lansing stop, "Reassess whether we still have another path?"

No one answered.

Wilson walked back to the sofa area but did not sit. He stood at the edge of the coffee table, looking down at the spread sea chart. The Pacific and the Atlantic were compressed onto the same sheet; Hawaii was a dot the size of a fingernail, Dubai another dot on the opposite side. Between these two points lay a vast, heart‑stopping blue.

"General Rodman," Wilson said, "have you ever considered a question."

"Please, Mr. President."

"If we only declared war on Germany—" Wilson raised his head, looking at Rodman, "and not on Lanfang. Could that be possible?"

The room was quiet for a few seconds.

Lansing's eyes brightened briefly, then dimmed quickly. Beck frowned thoughtfully. Rodman remained motionless, like a statue.

Then he spoke, his voice slow, each word weighed as if on a scale:

"Mr. President, I understand your thinking. Limit the war to Europe, keep the Pacific unlit. Let Lanfang continue its 'neutrality,' even if only nominal."

Wilson nodded, waiting.

"But the problem is—" Rodman paused, "if Lanfang falls, they won't stop at the ports."

He stood and walked to the chart, his finger pointing at the North Atlantic route:

"Here, Yingguo's lifeline. More than a hundred merchant ships sail this sea each day, carrying food, oil, weapons. German submarines have already cost us many ships; this is only the beginning. If Lanfang's six Bismarck Class ships also appear here—"

His finger slid slowly along the route:

"Our Escort Fleet must face both underwater and surface threats simultaneously. Our destroyers must anti‑submarine, cruisers must keep watch, battleships must be ready to engage. And Lanfang's warships, at thirty knots, can choose to strike or not at any time, any place."

He withdrew his hand:

"They don't need to occupy any port, nor sink every merchant ship. They only need to exist, to let captains know 'something's in the sea.' Fear will do the rest for them."

Wilson was silent.