Chapter 588: What Is the Premise?

Lansing opened, his voice a little hoarse: "What if we also commit the Atlantic fleet's main force to escort…"

"Then what about the Pacific?" Rodman turned to him, "Secretary of State, Lanfang has six Bismarck‑class ships, three are known to be in Dubai, one in Borneo, two whose locations are unknown. Their speed exceeds that of any of our warships, allowing rapid maneuvering between the two oceans. If we shift the main force to the Atlantic, the Pacific will be left empty."

He paused:

"Hawaii, the Panama Canal, the West Coast— all exposed within range."

Lansing said nothing further.

Beck set down the tea cup he had never lifted, his voice low: "So every word Chen Feng said in Hawaii was calculated. He doesn't stop us from entering the war because he knows that once we do, his leverage in the Pacific will increase. He doesn't threaten us; he merely lets us see the ledger for ourselves."

Wilson gave no answer. He walked back to the window, his back to the others, watching the few tourists on the south lawn still taking photos. The child in the woman's arms had fallen asleep, its little head leaning against the mother's shoulder, unaware of the storm about to hit the world.

"General Rodman." Wilson did not turn.

"Yes."

"You just said the Navy equipment department ran thirty‑seven simulations."

"Yes."

"Those simulations—did they consider one scenario." Wilson paused, "We do not enter the war."

The room was very quiet.

"It's not a delay, not a wait‑and‑see," Wilson continued, his voice sounding like self‑talk, "It's a genuine non‑participation. Refuse Congress's authorization bill, stay neutral, let Britain and France try to hold on with their own strength, or—fail to hold on."

Lansing jerked his head up: "Mr. President, at this critical moment…"

"I know." Wilson cut him off, "I'm just asking whether such a possibility was ever simulated."

Rodman remained silent for a long time.

"Mr. President," he finally said, "We have simulated it. The third simulation was exactly that."

"Conclusion?"

Rodman watched Wilson's silhouette, his broad shoulders and slightly hunched back. He recalled thirty‑five years ago, when he was a student at the Annapolis Naval Academy, having studied another president—Lincoln—in a history class, who in another spring faced another impossible choice.

"The conclusion," he said, "is that if we do not enter the war, Germany is likely to achieve a breakthrough on the Western Front. France would seek peace within six months, Britain would be forced back to the negotiating table within a year. Germany would dominate the European continent, and the Anglo‑French colonial system could collapse. Meilika's billions of dollars in European investments and loans would become unrecoverable."

Wilson did not turn.

"And then?"

"Then—" Rodman paused, "twenty years later, Germany will be even stronger, Europe will harbor deeper hatred. At that point, war will break out again. On a larger scale, at a higher cost. And Meilika, by then, may have no room left for choice."

Wilson finally turned. He stared at Rodman for a long time.

"So your simulated conclusion is—whether we join the war or not, we are heading toward an even larger war."

"Yes, Mr. President." Rodman said, "The difference is that if we fight now, we still have allies. Twenty years later, we may be fighting alone."

Wilson nodded. He no longer uttered any more "if we do not enter the war" remarks.

He walked back to his desk, picked up the congressional memorandum draft that had been spread out. Its heading read "Request for Authorization to Protect Meilika Citizens' Freedom of Navigation on the High Seas and to Take Necessary Measures." He stared at it for a long time, then set it down.

"Then," he said, "we have only one question left."

He looked at the three people in the room:

"Since entering the war is an unavoidable path—how should we proceed so that the Pacific doesn't ignite first?"

No one answered immediately.

Rodman sat down again, hands clasped on his knees. His naval officer uniform was crisp, the stars on his shoulder boards glinting in the fireplace light. Yet he now resembled less a fleet commander than a veteran fresh from the battlefield, trying to explain to civilians how deep the mud in the trenches was.

"Mr. President," he said, "I cannot give you a definitive answer. I can only tell you that in Dubai, General Li Te once said to me."

"What words?"

"He said Lanfang's naval buildup wasn't for aggression, but for protection—protecting their oil in the Persian Gulf, protecting their trade routes in Southeast Asia, protecting their legitimate presence in the Pacific." Rodman paused, "Then he said, if anyone respects their interests, they become the best partners; if anyone attempts to infringe, they will strike back resolutely."

Wilson listened.

"I think," Rodman said, "this is what Chen Feng conveyed to us through Li Te. It's not a threat, it's a red line."

"Where is the red line located?" Lansing asked.

"The Persian Gulf." Rodman said, "the Malacca Strait, the Borneo oil fields, and— their Pacific‑Mediterranean trade route."

He paused:

"Also, their fleet will not voluntarily enter the East Pacific. In exchange, Meilika's fleet should also avoid entering the West Pacific."

Lansing frowned: "Is this a division of spheres of influence?"

"It's to avoid conflict," Rodman said, "at least for now."

Wilson said nothing. He walked back to the fireplace, looking again at Lincoln's bronze statue.

One hundred fifty years ago, another president, faced with a divided nation, chose war. He knew that war would kill six hundred thousand, tear families apart, raze towns, and leave scars that generations could not heal. Yet he still chose it.

Because he knew some costs are smaller when paid early than later.

Wilson now understood: he too was facing a similar choice.

Only Lincoln's enemies wore gray uniforms, standing on the opposite bank of the Potomac River. His enemies—or rather the opponents he had to face—wore a different uniform, standing on the Pacific ten thousand kilometers away.

They did not declare war, nor even sever diplomatic ties. They were merely building ships.

And Meilika, to avoid falling too far behind, also had to start building ships.

"General Rodman." Wilson said.

"Present."

"The Meilika Navy's most advanced battleship currently is the Pennsylvania class."

"Yes."

"Given our current industrial capacity and technological reserves—" Wilson turned, "how long would it take to build a battleship that could match a Bismarck‑class ship?"

Rodman was silent for a few seconds.

"Mr. President, I shouldn't answer that question. It should be answered by someone from the equipment department."

"But I'm asking you now."