Beiyang Dream

Chapter 53 This child must not be allowed to live!

Chapter 53 This child must not be allowed to live! (First update! Requesting first subscriptions and monthly votes!)

"Yes," Tojo Hideaki replied through gritted teeth, his voice low and muffled. "What's even more deadly is that his tactical deductions are frighteningly fast. After listening to the war game plan, in just a few moments, he can casually recite an entire complete plan."

Fukushima Yasumasa, on the other side, did not respond.

He picked up the already cold sencha from the table, took a small sip, and his brows furrowed instantly. The bitterness of the tea shot straight into his throat, even more unbearable than the days of the laborers in the Kyushu mines. He casually put down the teacup, the bottom of which lightly tapped the low table, making a soft sound.

"Tojo-kun." Fukushima looked up at the young chief of the Army Academy, his tone calm yet carrying a heavy weight, "Just imagine, if Qing China were to actually implement this tactic, how many casualties and how much silver would the Imperial Army have to pay to barely reverse the disadvantage?"

Hideki Tojo was stunned for a moment.

He had never considered this problem in detail; to be precise, he simply dared not think about it deeply.

"Just the Korean War alone—" His Adam's apple bobbed, his throat tightened as if someone were choking him, "we would lose at least two more divisions, and the war would drag on for another six months."

"The military expenditure will be 10 million yen if two divisions are stationed for a year. If the battle line is delayed for half a year, the army's operational expenses alone will be at least 120 million yen more."

Fukushima's tone remained calm, but every word he uttered struck Tojo's heart like a heavy hammer.

"This doesn't even include the enormous costs of pensions, troop replenishment, and logistical transportation. Last year, the army's entire budget, after deducting the salaries of officers and soldiers and the basic necessities of food, had less than 15 million in funds available for purchasing weapons and coordinating operations. A shortfall of 120 million—those civilian officials in the Ministry of Finance would simply tear the army's budget to shreds and would absolutely not approve it."

Tojo's palms began to sweat. He could almost see the cold face of the Ministry of Finance's chief accountant, and his colleagues in the Ministry of the Army arguing heatedly over a few copper coins' worth of funding.

"Furthermore," Fukushima pulled a folded piece of paper from his pocket and pushed it over, "what you just calculated was only the army's accounts. Take a look at this."

Tojo took the paper.

The text above is in German, which he can understand.

Design for the "Changyuan" ironclad warship of the Beiyang Fleet of the Qing Dynasty.

Displacement: 8200 tons. Main armament: Three twin 240mm gun turrets. Secondary armament: Ten 150mm rapid-fire guns. Armor: 260mm waterline belt.

Tojo's hands started to tremble.

"The new ships the Beiyang Fleet ordered from Germany," Fukushima was starting to lose his composure, veins throbbing in his temples, "8200 tons, six 240mm guns, ten 150mm rapid-fire guns. What ship in the Imperial Navy can match that firepower?"

Tojo was an army idiot, but he was well aware of the navy's spending habits. Last year, the navy's budget was 10.78 million yen, with only 5,000 personnel; the majority of the expenditure was on equipment. But purchasing equipment from overseas required "real money"—gold, silver, pounds sterling, francs...

The "genuine goods" in Japan's national treasury were worth a total of 50 million taels of silver.

That's the blood of the empire; every drop that's shed is one less drop left!

"The Navy—" Tojo's voice was hoarse, "How much money would it cost to buy a ship that could defeat this thing?"

"Seven hundred thousand pounds," Fukushima said, "equivalent to a British centurion. Seven hundred thousand pounds is seven million yen."

Tojo's vision went black. Seven million yen, equivalent to half of the army's annual military budget, and all of it was "real money".

"This is just one ship," Fukushima continued, stabbing him in the heart. "According to reliable intelligence, Chang Desheng is negotiating a ten-year shipbuilding plan with the Germans, divided into three phases, with a total price of 20 million taels of silver."

He paused, looking at Tojo's increasingly pale face: "Twenty million taels, Tojo-kun. Converted to yen, that's roughly twenty-eight million. And all the genuine goods in the Japanese treasury," added together, are only worth fifty million taels... forty percent!"

Tojo sat there, looking as if his soul had been drained.

If the navy were truly to catch up with the Qing Dynasty and spend 28 million yen worth of "real goods" over the next ten years—that would mean the army's pay and the rice in the soldiers' bowls—

"Moreover," Tojo's voice trembled as he recalled another matter, "Chang Desheng, at the Prussian War Academy, was particularly enthusiastic about winter warfare. Your Excellency, if the Beiyang Army truly followed his ideas and trained a new army capable of fighting in winter, and deployed it in northern Korea—"

He didn't finish speaking.

But Fukushima understood. If that were the case, the Japanese army's attempt to break through from northern Korea into Manchuria in winter would become a nightmare. The war would almost certainly drag on until the following spring, or even longer, and every additional month of delay would cost twenty million yen…

"Colonel Fukushima," Tojo slowly raised his head, his eyes bloodshot, "this Chang Desheng—cannot be allowed to live!"

Fukushima didn't say anything, picked up the cup of cold tea, drank it all in one gulp, and then slammed the cup down.

"You are the top student at the Army University," Fukushima finally spoke, "the most outstanding soldier trained by the Empire. I trust your judgment."

"However, it would be difficult for us to make a move in Germany. Minister Saionji would not agree; he is a government official and values ​​diplomatic decorum."

Moreover, Chang Desheng is currently a favorite of the Germans; touching him would anger Germany.

"Then let's wait until he leaves Europe," Tojo immediately replied. "He still has one semester and a half left in Berlin, and he'll return to China next spring. His journey from Europe back to Qing China will inevitably take him through Southeast Asia—the Suez Canal, the Red Sea, the Indian Ocean, and the Strait of Malacca—"

The journey has been long.

"We'll start in the South Seas," Fukushima said. "It's chaotic there. Pirates, gangs, indigenous uprisings—it's not uncommon for a couple of people to die. The Dutch can't handle it all, and the British don't care."

"Keep a close eye on him," Fukushima continued, his voice low. "Find out exactly who he meets and what he learns every day at the War Academy. I need a more detailed report to send back to General Staff."

Tojo took a deep breath and bowed heavily: "Yes!"

He sat back in his small room, picked up his pen, and turned to the page about Chang Desheng in the small notebook with a cowhide cover.

At the very bottom of the densely packed records, he added a line with a brush: "This child must not be allowed to live."

"If we stay, the army will have no pay, and the empire will be in danger."

After finishing writing, he closed the notebook and looked out the window.

At dusk in Berlin, the sky was tinged with blood.

On the same day, in the evening, at the Kempinski Hotel café on Kurfürstendamm in Berlin.

.

Chang Desheng sat with his legs crossed in a booth by the window, holding a cup of black coffee in his hand, without sugar or milk, sipping it slowly.

It's bitter, but refreshing.

He was sitting opposite Zhang Zhensheng and Luo Jingrou. Luo Jingrou had a sweet smile, and her dimples were particularly endearing.

"Gentlemen," Chang Desheng put down his cup, "I just came back from General Moltke's place—there's a huge deal I need to discuss with you."

Luo Jingrou blinked: "Brother Zhenbang, what kind of deal?"

"The German Empire," Chang Desheng leaned forward and lowered his voice, "is looking for a port in the Far East to settle down."

I recommended Pontianak to them.

The coffee spoon in Zhang Zhensheng's hand clattered into the saucer.

"Kun... Pontianak?" His eyes widened. "That's Dutch territory—"

"That might not be the case soon," Chang Desheng interrupted him with a smile that carried a hint of shrewdness. "The Germans have promised two things: First, they'll turn a blind eye to any goods we ship through Schneider Electric from now on, ensuring they get through German customs; second, when things get turbulent in Pontianak, they'll send a warship to protect our citizens—and incidentally, give us some support."

He paused, then added the crucial point: "This deal is a sure thing. The Germans want the port, we want the territory, and the Dutch want face—we'll manage to save face and profit with a little maneuvering."

Luo Jingrou's breathing became rapid: "Brother Zhenbang, you mean—the Germans will help us—"

"It's not about helping you," Chang Desheng corrected her with a smile, pointing to himself and then to Zhang Zhensheng, "it's about helping 'us.' The Beiyang, Nanyang, and German companies, working together, revitalized the situation in Pontianak."

He leaned back and said, "I've already relayed the message to Li Hongzhang—his idea is that as long as it doesn't cause any major trouble or damage the diplomatic relations between the Qing Dynasty and the Netherlands, we can—handle it as appropriate."

This was half true and half false. Li Hongzhang knew nothing about this, but Chang Desheng spoke with great confidence. In any case, once Pontianak was captured, the die was cast, and Li Hongzhang would have no choice but to accept it.

Zhang Zhensheng took a few deep breaths and gulped down several mouthfuls of cold coffee before he calmed down: "Zhenbang, so—what's the next step?"

"Simple," Chang Desheng said, counting on his fingers. "First, arrange a three-way meeting. On the German side, it's Moltke the Younger; on the Beiyang side, it's me and Lord Guo Shigui; and on your Lanfang side, Fifth Uncle, you'll handle it."

"Secondly, you should quickly contact your old buddies in Pontianak to find out how many men and guns they can muster. Do it quietly."

"Third," he looked at Luo Jingrou, smiling like a fox, "I'll draft the arms list as soon as possible, and you guys hurry up and prepare the funds. Schneider Electric's goods are of good quality, and the price—is also 'good.' But we can't skimp on this money."

He paused, then continued, "Fourth, Arou. Send a letter to your father, saying—we've already secured the support of the Beiyang government and Germany. This deal in Pontianak is a sure thing. But the initial investment can't be skimped on."

He leaned back in his chair and looked at Luo Jingrou with a smile.

The Luo family is the richest family in Borneo. They own mines—real mines, gold mines, and rubber plantations. For this deal to go through, the Luo family will have to contribute a substantial amount.

Moreover—Chang Desheng glanced at Luo Jingrou's dimples. Not only would he have to provide money, but he'd also have to send people! This matter ultimately required the approval of Jingrou's father. Marrying off a daughter was a major event, and the dowry—couldn't be lacking.

Luo Jingrou blushed under his gaze and lowered her head: "Brother Zhenbang, I—I'll write a letter as soon as I get back."

"Okay," Chang Desheng picked up his coffee, took a sip, and grimaced at the bitterness, but felt a sweet warmth in his heart. "Then it's settled. I'll arrange the meeting. You wait for my news."

Zhang Zhensheng nodded emphatically: "It's all up to Zhenbang's arrangements."

Chang Desheng smiled but didn't say anything.

He turned to look out the window.

In the autumn evenings of Berlin, as darkness fell, the streetlights lit up one by one, their golden glow resembling gold ingots.

That's a damn good omen!

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