Chapter 665: War Near Its End, Lanfang Must Strategize

"All ships, pay attention," he said, "After entering the canal mouth tomorrow, maintain vigilance. The English surely have reconnaissance aircraft in the sky; let them see us, let them get nervous. But remember, do not fire proactively."

The Chief of Staff nodded, "Yes."

Li Te sat up straight and glanced out the window again.

The distant coastline grew nearer. That place is Egypt, Africa, the English's territory.

But soon, it would no longer be so.

At the same time, Dubai Submarine Base.

The last submarine was making its final pre‑departure preparations. Captain Zhang Haisheng stood on the pier, watching his vessel—a brand‑new "U" submarine, eighty meters long, with a submerged displacement of 1,500 tons, capable of thirty days of continuous submergence.

"Captain, all supplies are loaded," the executive officer ran over to report, "Fresh water, food, torpedoes, batteries—everything's ready."

Zhang Haisheng nodded, but did not move.

He stared at the submarine for a long time.

Three years. From laying its first keel to yesterday's final sea trial, he had watched it take shape piece by piece. Every steel plate, every pipe, every screw—he had touched them all.

Now, it's to be taken into battle.

Footsteps sounded behind him. Chen Feng had arrived, though no one knew when.

"Captain Zhang, ready?"

Zhang Haisheng turned and saluted, "President, ready."

Chen Feng stared at the submarine, silent for a few seconds.

"Do you know where you're going?"

"I know. The west coast of India, outside Mumbai Port."

"And the mission?"

"Fixate on the British fleet. Wait for them to surface, then strike. No decisive battle; wait for the main force."

Chen Feng nodded.

"Remember this: a submarine's life is worth more than a battleship's. If you sink, you lose a vessel; the brothers aboard won't return. So hide when you must, run when you must. Coming back alive is better than anything."

Zhang Haisheng looked at him, silent for three seconds.

"President, rest assured. I'll bring the brothers back."

Chen Feng patted his shoulder, turned, and left.

Zhang Haisheng gave the pier one last look, glanced at the distant Dubai city, then turned and boarded the submarine.

"Close the hatch. Cast off."

Orders cascaded down. The diesel engine roared to life, emitting a deep rumble. The submarine slowly left the pier, slipping into the azure sea.

On the pier, a few workers halted their tasks, watching the submarine drift farther away. They didn't know where it was headed, nor whether it would return.

All they knew was that it was a vessel they had built.

Zhang Haisheng stood in the conning tower, watching Dubai city's lights grow farther, dimmer, until they vanished into the night.

Ahead lay the dark Indian Ocean.

Ahead lay an unknown battlefield.

But he was not afraid.

Because behind him, four thousand readers were waiting for their return.

10 p. m., the Presidential Palace.

Chen Feng sat at his desk, a thick stack of telegrams before him. Arrival reports of each unit, current positions of each fleet, submarine reports, the latest intelligence— all the information was compiled here.

Wang Wenwu pushed the door open, holding a document.

"President, the Consul of Meilika has sent another telegram. Still wants to meet you."

Chen Feng didn't look up, "Tell him, tomorrow at ten in the morning, I'll meet him."

Wang Wenwu was startled, "Are you really decided to meet him?"

Chen Feng lifted his head, looking at him.

"Meet. Let him hear with his own mouth that we refuse."

Wang Wenwu nodded, turned to leave.

"Wait," Chen Feng called.

Wang Wenwu turned.

Chen Feng stood, walked to the window. Outside, the lights of Dubai Port flickered in the night like countless fallen stars.

"Minister Wang," he suddenly asked, "Do you think the decisions I've made are correct?"

Wang Wenwu was silent for a few seconds.

"President, are you asking me personally, or as the Foreign Minister?"

"Both."

Wang Wenwu thought for a moment.

"As Foreign Minister, I think… this move is too bold. Once fighting starts, it can't be contained. Though Britain is weakened, it remains the world's top power. Coupled with Meilika's unclear stance, if—"

"If what?"

"If Meilika ultimately decides to support Britain, what shall we do?"

Chen Feng looked at him, saying nothing.

"As an individual, I think… well fought. The British killed 127 of us; if we don't retaliate, anyone will bully us later. But as Foreign Minister, I must remind you: war carries risk. If we win, all rejoice. If we lose, the whole board is lost."

Chen Feng was silent for a long time.

Then he walked back to the desk and sat down.

"Minister Wang, do you know why I dare to fight this war?"

Wang Wenwu shook his head.

Chen Feng pointed out the window: "Because I know the war is about to end, and Lanfang must set up in advance, some losses are necessary!"

Washington time, 9 a. m., the White House's oval office.

President Wilson stood by the window, his back to the doorway, watching the neatly trimmed lawn outside. His hands were clasped behind him, his fingers unconsciously tapping the backs of his hands—a habit he had when extremely irritated.

On the desk lay three documents.

The first was the official declaration of war by Lanfang. The second was that stack of photographs—the moment the Huai River was hit, Zhang Zhen covered in blood standing at the bridge window, and the list of the fallen. The third was an urgent communiqué just delivered by the Yingguo Ambassador to Meilika, Cecil Spring‑Rice.

Secretary of State Luobote·Lanxin stood beside the desk, not daring to speak. He had followed Wilson for ten years and knew it was best to stay silent now.

The door was gently knocked. The secretary peeked in: "Mr. President, the Yingguo Ambassador has arrived."

Wilson did not turn around: "Let him in."

Spring‑Rice entered the office, his face bearing the professional smile typical of diplomats. Yet that smile froze the moment he saw Wilson's back.

He stood for three seconds; Wilson did not turn.

He stood for another three seconds, and Wilson still did not turn.

The atmosphere in the office grew increasingly oppressive. Lansing lowered his head, examining his shoes. The secretary had already slipped away.

Finally, Wilson turned.

His face was expressionless, but his eyes—those eyes seemed to have fire burning within them.

"Ambassador," he began, his voice terrifyingly calm, "Do you know what time I went to sleep last night?"

Spring‑Rice was momentarily stunned: "Mr. President, I …"

"Four a. m.," Wilson cut him off, "I spent three hours looking at photos. Photos of one hundred twenty‑seven coffins."

He walked to the desk, grabbed the stack of photos, and slammed them onto the table.

"Do you know these people?"

Spring‑Rice looked at the photos, his lips moving, but no words came out.