Chapter 643: Midnight Emergency Summons

In the deep night of the Persian Gulf, there was no wind.

The Bismarck quietly moored at Pier No. 3, its hull gleaming with a cold metallic sheen under the moonlight. Seven days of repairs let this scar‑covered behemoth regain vitality— the newly patched steel plate at the right‑side waterline had been sanded smooth, blending seamlessly with the surrounding hull; the hydraulic system of the B turret was back to normal, its barrel raised toward the night sky in the moonlight; the antenna reinstalled on the bridge resembled a fine spiderweb, awaiting the next chance to snare prey.

She Er did not sleep.

She Er stood at the right‑side window of the Bismarck's bridge, holding a cup of coffee that had gone cold through—this had become his habit these past days, standing alone late at night, watching the welders and scaffolding left by Lanfang workers on the pier, thinking of the voyage that would begin tomorrow.

Fuel had been topped up to eighty‑seven percent. The ammunition hold was restocked with two hundred forty 380 mm armor‑piercing shells. Fresh water, food, and medicine were all filled. The crew had rested for seven days; the fatigue on their faces was washed away, the hollows of their eyes no longer sunken, and their steps regained strength.

Tomorrow, at first light, they would set sail.

Return to the Indian Ocean? Or continue eastward, toward Lanfang's homeland? She Er had not decided yet. Chen Feng had sent someone with news yesterday, saying an important matter might be discussed in the morning, and asked them not to hurry today.

"General."

The voice of the duty officer, Major Hans Meyer, came from behind, interrupting She Er's thoughts.

"What is it?"

"The Lanfang Presidential Office sent someone, saying President Chen has an urgent matter and asks you to go immediately. The car is already waiting at the pier."

She Er turned, their brow slightly furrowed.

2 a. m., emergency summons.

She Er had served in the navy for thirty years, far too familiar with this rhythm—it meant something big was happening.

"Tell the party that I'll be there right away."

Three minutes later, She Er walked down the gangway. A black car was parked on the pier, and beside it stood a Lanfang Marine soldier, saluting him.

She Er returned the salute, opened the door and sat inside.

The car started and drove away from the pier, disappearing into Dubai's deep‑night streets.

The presidential office's conference room was brightly lit.

When She Er pushed the door open, four people were already seated inside: Chen Feng sat at the head of the long table, Wang Wenwu on his right, Li Te, the navy commander, on his left. Major General Zhang Zhen stood by the wall, staring at the massive Arabian Sea chart, his brows tightly knit.

There was another person, sitting opposite Chen Feng, with white hair, wearing a washed‑out officer's uniform.

Tirpitz.

She Er was taken aback—Old Marshal had been resting in Dubai city these past days, how could he be summoned?

"General She Er, please sit." Chen Feng's voice remained steady, but She Er heard a hint of unusual gravity.

He sat beside Tirpitz and nodded to the Old Marshal. Tirpitz gave no reply, only staring at the tea cup before him, the wrinkles on his face especially deep in the light.

The last person pushed the door in—the aide of Zhang Zhen delivered a stack of documents, then silently withdrew, closing the door.

The conference room fell silent for three seconds.

Chen Feng spoke: "Everyone, I called you at this hour because we just received a message. Bad news."

He lifted the document on the table and read: "The Meilika Congress, at Washington time this afternoon, passed the 'Enemy Trade Act' by an overwhelming majority. The bill authorizes the federal government to confiscate all German assets within Meilika, including bank deposits, corporate shares, real estate, and…"

He paused: "German ships docked in Meilika's ports."

The conference room was dead silent.

She Er's mind flashed with countless thoughts in that instant—German assets in Meilika, that was the last liquid fund Germany still had overseas after the war broke out. Deutsche Bank's New York branch, the Hanseatic Shipping Company's five cargo vessels anchored in Boston Harbor, the Junker family's real‑estate investments in Meilika…

All gone.

Tirpitz's complexion turned ashen in that instant.

The Old Marshal placed both hands on the table, rose slowly, and walked to the window, his back to everyone. His shoulders trembled slightly, but made no sound.

She Er watched that silhouette, feeling as if something had clenched his heart hard.

He recalled the scene thirty years ago, the first time he saw Tirpitz. Back then the Old Marshal was still the Navy Minister, standing in the Imperial Parliament's great hall, passionately addressing the legislators who questioned the navy budget: "Deguo needs a powerful fleet, not to provoke, but to survive!"

Thirty years later, the fleet he built still existed, but his country had been driven to the brink.

Meilika's strike was not against Germany's money, but against Germany's very life.

Wang Wenwu broke the silence: "President, is Meilika… preparing for a showdown?"

Chen Feng nodded: "The 'Enemy Trade Act' is the final step before war. Seizing assets, expelling diplomats, freezing accounts—next comes the 'unlimited submarine‑war collateral damage incident', then 'to protect Meilika's citizens and freedom of navigation', a formal declaration of war on Germany."

He paused: "Wilson finally got the excuse he wanted."

Li Te frowned: "President, once Meilika enters the war, Germany's situation…"

He did not finish, but everyone understood.

Meilika's industrial capacity is three times Germany's, its population twice Germany's; once Meilika fully mobilizes its war machine, the Allies' material shortfall will be instantly filled. Germany's stalemate on land and its naval dead‑lock will both become meaningless.

Tirpitz slowly turned.

The Old Marshal's face showed no expression, but the light in his eyes was something She Er had never seen. It was not despair, nor anger, but something deeper than despair and colder than anger.

He looked at Chen Feng.

He said nothing.

Yet that gaze, She Er understood—it was the look of a man who had devoted his life to the country, gazing at the last sliver of hope.

Yearning.

Pleading.

She Er's hand clenched into a fist under the table.

Chen Feng met Tirpitz's gaze, remained silent for three seconds.

Then he pressed his right hand down, making a "stay calm" gesture.

"Since the Meilika people are about to act," he said, his voice still steady, "Lanfang will naturally not stand idle."

Wang Wenwu's eyes lit up, but he quickly furrowed his brows again: "President, Lanfang needs an excuse to act! We cannot declare war on Yingguo without cause; otherwise the Meilika will have reason to ally with Yingguo against us."

Li Te also nodded: "Minister Wang is right. At this moment, the timing is off, there is no excuse. Yingguo has not attacked our ships on the high seas, nor harmed our people; on what basis do we declare war?"

Chen Feng smiled.

That kind of smile, She Er had seen a few times—on the dock that day, when he said "You may stay in Dubai for seven days," it was the same smile. Confidence, a flawless plan.