Chapter 590: My Fleet

Wilson was silent for a long time.

Then he said:

"Send a reply to General Li Te. Say—Lieutenant General Rodman's visit as commander of the Meilika Navy left a deep impression of the Lanfang Navy's professionalism. We look forward to more opportunities for technical exchange in the future."

Lanxin was startled: "Mr. President, this is…"

"This is to tell him that we have received it," Wilson said, "whether it's a red line, an invitation, or a warning—we have received it."

He walked back to his desk and sat down:

"As for the naval construction bill, first draft a plan without public announcement. The technical department should produce feasible designs, the shipyard assess capacity, and the finance ministry conduct budget projections."

He looked at the three people in the room:

"From now on, we are walking on a new road. This road has no signposts, we don't know where it leads. But we cannot stop."

He paused:

"Because if we stop, we might be run into by those behind us."

Rodman left the oval office as the morning sun had already shifted to the center of the carpet.

He stood on the White House porch for a few seconds. Cold air filled his lungs, carrying Washington's distinctive city scent mixed with automobile exhaust and decaying leaves.

The deputy officer stepped forward: "General, returning to the Navy Department?"

Rodman nodded.

As the sedan exited the northwest gate, he saw those tourists still on the south lawn. The child in the woman's arms had awakened, reaching out, trying to catch a pigeon flying by.

The pigeon flapped its wings and flew away; the child did not cry, just stared at the sky.

Rodman suddenly wondered whether his seven‑year‑old grandson had ever chased a pigeon like that.

He couldn't recall.

Back at the Navy Department building, the office desk held three pending documents, two unopened letters, and a cup of coffee that had gone completely cold.

He sat down and picked up the report he hadn't signed. The words on the cover, "Special Assessment Report on the Naval Strength of the Lanfang Republic and Pacific Strategic Situation," were written by his own hand.

He turned to the last page; it was still blank.

He took a fountain pen and slowly wrote in the blank space:

"Conclusion: The Lanfang Navy now possesses the capability to effectively deter Meilika in the western Pacific. Its main ships have a clear quality advantage, and the numerical gap is rapidly narrowing. Intelligence shows it continues to expand its forces; within the next three to five years, the Meilika Navy will be on the strategic defensive side in the Pacific."

Recommendation: 1. Immediately launch a new battleship development program, focusing on breaking through the power‑system technology bottleneck; 2. Accelerate modernization upgrades of the Pacific Fleet's existing main vessels; 3. Maintain informal communication channels with the Lanfang Navy to avoid misjudgments that could spark conflict.

Additionally: The Dubai shipyard is constructing an unidentified large vessel, estimated displacement over 50,000 tons. It is recommended to list it as the highest‑priority intelligence target.

Rodman

February 15, 1917"

He set down the pen and looked at the sky outside.

February in Washington has no snow, but the sky is always gray. That gray is not like London's fog, dense and impenetrable; nor like Berlin's winter clouds, oppressive. Washington's gray is light and translucent, like looking at the world through frosted glass.

He recalled Dubai's morning light, so clear it could reveal schools of fish ten meters below the surface.

He remembered Li Te standing at the pier, pointing at the under‑construction giant ship and saying, "General, this is our child."

He recalled Chen Feng in Hawaii saying, "In this war there are no innocents, only participants to varying degrees."

He closed his eyes.

The deputy officer knocked and entered: "General, the Office of the Navy Operations Minister called, asking when the report can be submitted."

Rodman opened his eyes: "Now."

He stood up, took the report, and walked toward the door.

The corridor was long, lined on both sides with portraits of historic naval commanders. Perry, Farragut, Dewey—they once sailed sail‑powered battleships and armored cruisers, opening the world to Meilika.

Now it was his and his colleagues' turn, facing a different kind of vessel and a different opponent.

He recalled the words Li Te said when seeing him off:

"The world is big. The Pacific is bigger."

Yes.

Big enough to accommodate the navies of two nations.

The question is—

Can it hold the ambitions of two nations?

He had no answer.

He only knew that from the moment he stepped into the White House, Meilika had embarked on a new road.

No one knows where this road leads.

February 16, 1917, Berlin.

Berlin has no sunrise.

On the morning of February 16, heavy clouds rolled in from the Baltic Sea, like an old sail soaked in leaded water, wrapping the whole city tightly. Wilhelm II had been standing by the window of the Sanssouci study for half an hour, the telegram in his hand warmed by his body heat, its edges slightly curled.

That was the battle report the Navy Department sent at three o'clock in the morning.

The thirteenth vessel.

Since Meilika announced taking over Atlantic convoy duties, Deguo's submarine force has lost thirteen ocean‑going submarines. Thirteen captains and 730 crew members, none survived. The worst loss—U‑48—was hit by a deep‑water bomb directly on its conning tower, the hull snapped in half, and it sank to a depth of 1,200 meters within twenty‑seven seconds, not even completing its distress signal.

Wilhelm II placed the telegram back on the desk.

He was fifty‑eight, his temples completely white, but his back was still as straight as when he ascended the throne thirty years ago. The portraits of the Hohenzollern family hung on the study walls, from the Elector of Brandenburg to Frederick the Great, a century of conquerors looking down on their last descendants.

Frederick the Great's eyes were especially sharp in the candlelight.

Wilhelm II shifted his gaze.

Footsteps echoed in the corridor. A gentleman‑in‑waiting lightly knocked on the door: "Your Majesty, Marshal Tirpitz, General She Er, General Xi Pe Er have arrived."

"Let them in."

The door opened.

Three navy generals entered the most private council chamber of Wilhelm II in turn. Alfred von Tirpitz walked at the front; the sixty‑eight‑year‑old Grand Admiral kept his back straight, but his steps were slower than ten years ago. Reinhardt Scheer followed closely, the fifty‑three‑year‑old commander of the High Seas Fleet expressionless, his deep‑set eyes revealing no emotion. Franz von Hippel came last; the commander of the reconnaissance fleet, famed for his composure, now merely inclined his head slightly toward the emperor.

No one spoke.

Wilhelm II pointed to the sofa area before the fireplace and said, "Sit."

The three took their seats. The attendant brought the coffee and withdrew, the door was shut from the outside, and the study was left with only the crackle of burning logs in the fireplace and the whine of the cold wind sweeping past Bodhi Tree Street outside.

Wilhelm II did not sit. He stood by the fireplace, one hand resting on the marble hearth, as if warming himself, yet as if he merely needed the support.

"The thirteenth ship," he said.

Tirpitz spoke, "Your Majesty, the submarine command has suspended all breakthrough combat west of 20° W longitude. Meilika's destroyers are equipped with a new type of sonar, the escort formation coordinated by surface vessels and anti‑submarine aircraft, and our crew's price paid on the Breakthrough of the defensive line—"

"I know the price," Wilhelm II cut him off, his voice unchanged, and Tirpitz fell silent.

The emperor lifted another document from the fireplace mantle and opened it: "This is the Western Front report Ludengdaofu sent yesterday. The Allies' Shell reserves are three times last year's, Faguo's morale is rising, Yingguo's expeditionary army's tank count has already surpassed ours. The spring offensive has not yet begun, and the General Staff's simulation model has run twenty times—its optimal outcome: a Breakthrough of the defensive line by forty kilometers, then a counter‑strike pushes it back to the starting point."

He tossed the document onto the coffee table, the pages scattering.

"Forty kilometers," Wilhelm II repeated. "Exchange the lives of one hundred thousand for forty kilometers, to hold for three months."

No one spoke in the room.