roccoschili Chapter 779 He wasn't ending the war; he was preparing for the next one.
Chapter 779 He wasn't ending the war; he was preparing for the next one.
Harrison took a deep breath. "Your Excellency, a 70,000-ton battleship can be armed with ten 406mm main guns. Its armor thickness can reach over 350mm, which current armor-piercing shells simply cannot penetrate. If its speed can be maintained at over 30 knots, it will be faster than all our existing battleships."
His voice grew increasingly heavy.
"One of these warships has the combat power of three of our existing battleships. If Lanfang were to build two..."
He didn't finish speaking, but Wilson understood.
Wilson was silent for a few seconds. Then he asked, "How many years will we need?"
Harrison thought for a moment. "Your Excellency, the largest battleship currently built by the USS Maryka is only 30,000 tons. To design a 70,000-ton warship, we need entirely new blueprints, a completely new propulsion system, completely new artillery, and completely new armor technology. At least... ten years."
Wilson closed his eyes.
ten years.
Ten years later, Lanfang's 70,000-ton warships had long been launched. Ten years later, Meilika was still catching up.
He waved his hand. "Go out."
Harrison stood up, saluted, and turned to leave.
After the cabin door closed, Wilson sat there alone, looking out the window at the sea that was gradually darkening.
He recalled Chen Feng's gaze at the meeting—calm, composed, and without any tension. At that time, he had assumed Chen Feng was certain of victory. Now he understood that Chen Feng's confidence stemmed from the massive ships under construction.
He stood up and walked to the window.
In the distance, the outline of another ship could be faintly seen on the horizon. It was an English ship, carrying Asquith and the defeated empire, heading towards London.
Wilson looked at the ship and suddenly a question came to mind.
Why did Chen Feng make Wang Wenwu say that in front of Lan Xin?
Was it a deliberate leak? Or did he accidentally let it slip?
He didn't know. But he knew that, whether intentional or not, the news had already spread. Merika would panic, Britain would panic, and France would panic. Everyone would start frantically building warships and expanding their military in preparation for war.
This is perhaps exactly what Chen Feng wanted.
He said softly, "The war is over, but another war has just begun."
That evening, Wilson and Lansing sat facing each other in the ship's restaurant.
A sumptuous dinner was laid out on the table, but neither of them touched their knives or forks. Wilson had a glass of whiskey in front of him, and Lansing had a glass of red wine in front of him; both were already cold.
Lansing spoke first. "Your Excellency, do you think Chen Feng did it on purpose?"
Wilson looked at him. "What do you think?"
Lansing thought for a moment. "I think it was intentional. Wang Wenwu has followed Chen Feng for so long, he wouldn't make such a basic mistake. To whisper such classified information in someone's ear in public, at the dock—it's too deliberate."
Wilson nodded. "I think so too."
He picked up his glass and took a sip. The whiskey was strong, burning his throat.
"But the question is, why would he deliberately let us know?"
Lansing was silent for a few seconds. "Perhaps...it's to make us panic?"
Wilson looked at him. "Make us panic? Why?"
Lansing thought for a moment. "If we panic, we'll start expanding our military and preparing for war. If we expand our military, Britain will follow suit. France will. Germany will. The whole world will."
His voice grew softer and softer.
"Then, the next war came."
Wilson fell silent.
He knew Lansing was right. Chen Feng was playing a very long game. He wasn't ending the war; he was preparing for the next one.
He stood up and walked to the window.
Outside the window, the night was deep. Only a few fishing boat lights flickered on the sea, and the distant horizon was blurred into the darkness.
"Lansing," he said softly, "tell me, what exactly does Chen Feng want?"
Lansing walked over to him and stood beside him.
"Your Excellency, I think what he wants is not to win a war. What he wants is for Lanfang to win forever."
Wilson nodded.
"Yes. Always win."
He turned and looked at Lansing.
"Send a telegram home. Tell the Admiralty to begin designing a new generation of battleships. The target is a 70,000-ton class."
Lansing was stunned. "Your Excellency, what about Congress...?"
Wilson waved his hand. "I'll handle Congress. Tell them that if they don't build it, in ten years, Maryland will be the second Britain."
Lansing nodded and turned to leave.
Wilson stood alone by the window, looking out at the pitch-black night.
He recalled Chen Feng's words: "If it's not on the dining table, it's on the menu."
Beautiful cards should never be used as a menu item.
June 25, London.
Reporters once again crowded the entrance to 10 Downing Street. Holding black umbrellas, they squeezed outside the iron fence, craning their necks to peer inside. The London weather was as gloomy as ever, with thick, low-hanging clouds making it hard to breathe.
The meeting room was filled with thick, choking smoke.
The long table was filled with people—Secretary of the Army Kitchener, Secretary of the Navy Jellicoe, Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs Gray, Secretary of State for Colonial Affairs Cecil, and a large group of generals, staff officers, and secretaries. Each person had a thick stack of documents in front of them, and each face bore varying degrees of fatigue and anxiety.
Asquith sat in the head seat, holding the telegram from Wilson. He had read it three times, and each time his hand trembled.
He put down the telegram, looked up, and gazed at the silent faces.
"Gentlemen, President Wilson has sent a telegram."
The meeting room fell silent. Everyone was looking at him.
Asquith read:
"Prime Minister Asquith: I understand that Lanfang is planning a new generation of battleships with a full-load displacement of 70,000 tons. Merica has already initiated a corresponding project. I suggest that Britain prepare accordingly. This source is reliable; please take it very seriously. — Wilson"
After reading it, he placed the telegram on the table.
The conference room was deathly silent.
Then Kitchener jumped to his feet. "Seventy thousand tons? What are they building seventy thousand tons of warships for?"
First Lord of the Admiralty Jellicoe's voice trembled. "What else can we do? Take down Britain."
Cecil asked, "Is the intelligence reliable?"
Asquith nodded. "A telegram sent personally by Wilson. It should be reliable."
Silence fell over the meeting room once again.
Jellicoe stood up and walked to the huge nautical chart on the wall. He pointed to the North Sea, the Atlantic Ocean, and the Mediterranean Sea.
"Gentlemen, do you know what a 70,000-ton battleship means?"
No one answered.
He answered himself. "It means that all our existing warships have become scrap metal. Our battlecruisers can't beat it. Our capital ships can't outrun it. Our fleet is just a flock of lambs to the slaughter in front of it."
He turned to look at the people present.
"We can no longer defeat the Bismarck-class destroyers with a displacement of 45,000 tons. 70,000 tons—we don't even dare to dream of it."