The morning in Whitneyville carried a unique scent.
It was the smell of damp earth, the moisture from the river, and the accumulated coal dust and machine oil from the factory district.
For Frank Cole, this was the scent of his new battlefield.
As the head of manufacturing for Militech, Frank had been in his office for three days.
At this moment, several blueprints, laden with expectations, lay silently on the large oak table in the design room, like Pandora's Box, unleashing captivating yet incredibly thorny challenges.
There was no extraneous sound in the design room, only the rustle of charcoal pencils on engineering paper and the occasional howl of the cold wind outside the window.
Three men surrounded Frank; they were the core technical pillars of this factory.
The foremost was Silas Blackwood, a chief artisan nearing sixty, his face etched with furrows like the rifling on the gun barrels he had forged with his own hands, deep and clear.
He had worked here for forty years; he could disassemble and reassemble a Springfield rifle with his eyes closed. The other two were young engineers, their eyes gleaming with a desire for new technology.
"This is impossible," Silas's voice was hoarse, like two pieces of pig iron rubbing together. His rough finger pointed to the core structural diagram of the "Militech 1863 Rifle" repeating rifle. "Frank, this isn't carpentry; this is dealing with the temperament of steel."
He pointed to the complex lever-driven locking and feeding mechanism on the blueprint.
"Look at this spring-controlled extractor, and the spring for the cartridge lifter. The blueprint requires it to lift and reset in an extremely short time, and to repeat thousands of times in an environment of mud and gunpowder residue.
The best spring steel in our factory shows visible damage after bending a hundred times consecutively.
If we put it in a gun, I'd bet my forty years of reputation that a soldier wouldn't be able to fire twenty shots on the battlefield before this thing turns into scrap metal, jammed solid in the chamber."
James, the young engineer, couldn't help but speak, "Uncle Silas, perhaps we could change the winding method of the spring, or increase its number of coils…"
"It's no use, child." Silas shook his head. He wasn't conservative, but rather held a craftsman's reverence for the limits of materials. "This is an issue with the steel itself, a 'root' problem. It's like you can't expect a mule to run at a racehorse's speed."
Frank wasn't discouraged by this cold water; he had anticipated it. "Silas, I know this is difficult. But the Boss doesn't want reasons for 'impossible,' he wants solutions for 'how to achieve it.'"
He picked up a pencil and quickly sketched on another piece of paper. "Let's break down the problem. Let's not talk about the whole gun yet, just this extractor. We need a steel with more uniform tempering and higher toughness. If we could get the high-carbon steel specially supplied to watchmakers by Sheffield in England or Krupp Factory in Prussia, would it be possible?"
Silas's eyes brightened for a moment, then dimmed again.
"That kind of steel is more expensive than gold, and we have no channels for it. Even if we got it, controlling the quenching temperature and cooling time would require hundreds of tests to find that perfect point."
"Then we test." Frank's tone left no room for discussion. "I'll report the money issue to the Boss; the technical problems are our business. Starting today, a team from the forging workshop will do nothing else but fire up the furnace and test this part for me. I want to see the first batch of samples within a week, regardless of success or failure."
After the initial direction for the rifle was settled, everyone's gaze shifted to another blueprint, one that plunged the entire room into silence.
The "Militech machine gun."
Silas silently looked at the blueprint. He gently stroked the six parallel barrels and the complex hand-crank mechanism with his calloused hand, and after a long time, he spoke, his voice trembling slightly: "This… this isn't a gun; this is the organ of Death."
"Yes, and we are its organists." Frank took over, his voice also a little dry.
The Spencer repeating rifle was already a rarity in the army, but this thing before them was more than an era ahead of the Spencer.
Dr. Richard Gatling was reportedly also researching similar multi-barreled weapons, but the Boss's blueprint was clearly more mature in its structure and more deadly.
"Its core challenge is here."
Frank pointed to the complex gear transmission and locking mechanism. "The Boss demands a theoretical rate of fire of three hundred rounds per minute. This means this system must complete five cycles of unlocking, ejecting, loading, locking, and firing every second. Our current gear machining precision simply cannot withstand this violent abuse; forced driving would cause the parts to seize completely within a few seconds."
Everyone fell silent; this was an engineering deadlock.
"Mr. Supervisor," the young engineer James spoke again, his face flushed with excitement.
"This structure… I think I've seen something similar at the Holbrook Textile Mill in the east of the city. Their new spinning machines imported from England also use a main shaft to drive hundreds of sub-spindles to rotate at high speed. Its gear meshing is very precise."
Frank's eyes suddenly lit up. "Excellent, James! Tomorrow, take two men with my letter to that textile mill. Tell their owner that we want to purchase their equipment and need to conduct a technical survey. I want you to draw me a clear diagram of the gear structure of their machine, every dimension must be accurate!"
"Yes!"
A seemingly unrelated inspiration pointed to a possible path for this biggest problem.
In the following days, the long-dormant factory area of Militech boiled with unprecedented enthusiasm again.
The furnaces in the forging workshop burned day and night, and the piercing sound of lathes came from the machining workshop. Frank and Silas almost ate and slept in the design room and workshop; their bodies always carried the smell of machine oil and metal shavings.
But failures followed one after another.
The first batch of extractor springs forged from the best steel in the factory, after thirty lever pressure tests on the test bench, broke with a crisp "snap."
The gear structure surveyed from the textile mill, after being scaled down and reinforced, had two teeth break off during its first trial run due to insufficient strength.
Frustration, like a dark cloud, hung over the hearts of all the artisans.
However, on the evening of the seventh day, when Silas, using a new spring treated with his self-invented, segmented quenching method, successfully withstood a hundred continuous presses on the test bench without breaking, the entire workshop erupted in thunderous cheers.
Frank held the small spring, which still maintained its good elasticity; his hands trembled slightly.
He rushed to Silas and gave the sweaty old man a big hug, "We did it, Silas! It worked!"
"Just good luck," Silas said, but a brilliant smile bloomed on his wrinkled face.
Frank took this small victory back to his humble office. After the joy, a deeper worry surfaced.
Looking at the pile of steel scrapped due to testing on the table, and the material list recording astonishing consumption…
They succeeded once, but that was at the cost of consuming a large amount of high-quality raw materials and man-hours, plus a bit of luck.
In this way, they might be able to handcraft a prototype gun.
But they could not arm an army in this way.
It was late, and Frank lit the kerosene lamp. He spread out a piece of letter paper and began to write his first official report to the Boss in New York since taking office.
He did not boast about the small victory, but stated the reality in the most straightforward and rigorous engineer's language.
"Boss:
Preliminary progress has been made in the development of the 'Militech 1863 Rifle' and 'Militech machine gun' prototypes, proving the feasibility of your design. However, the project is facing a critical material bottleneck. Our existing domestic steel, in terms of strength, toughness, and processing consistency, cannot meet the design requirements for large-scale, standardized production. To ensure the success of the project, I earnestly request your approval for an urgent procurement.
Contact the steel mills in Sheffield, England, and the Krupp Factory in Essen, Prussia, to procure their highest grade high-carbon spring steel and alloy steel for gun barrels as experimental materials.
This is the only way to turn your genius concept into a reliable weapon.
Awaiting your reply.
Your loyal Frank Cole"
He carefully put the letter into an envelope and sealed it with wax. Early tomorrow morning, this letter would be sent to New York via the fastest postal coach.
It was a winter afternoon, and the sunlight, filtering through the thick glass windows of the Fifth Avenue mansion, cast quiet patches of light on the Persian rug.
On Felix's desk, Frank Cole's letter lay silently.
The meticulous handwriting and plain phrasing on the letter conveyed that Militech was facing a chasm between blueprints and reality.
Catherine brought Felix a cup of hot black tea, her face filled with concern.
"Frank's request is clear, Felix, he needs the best steel in Europe. Perhaps you could contact the people we bought the experimental equipment from before?"
Felix picked up the warm teacup, his gaze deep. "No, sweetheart, this time it's different. We can't use the same people as before."
He looked at Catherine and patiently explained, "That time it was scientific instruments worth a few thousand dollars, a small-scale commercial purchase. What Frank needs now is special steel measured in 'tons,' strategic material that can be directly used to manufacture firearms. The amount and nature of this order are enough to alarm certain people across the ocean."
"At this critical juncture," he continued, "a large order from America for top-tier, weapon-grade steel from Europe would be like a flare in the night, attracting everyone's attention. Especially Britain, which is constantly monitoring the war. We need more than just a purchasing agent; we need absolute financial credibility and a clever enough identity to cover this operation."
Catherine instantly understood the nuances. This had already exceeded the scope of ordinary business and touched upon more complex levels.
"So, we need President Templeton," she concluded.
"Absolutely correct." A hint of approval appeared on Felix's face. "Only he in all of New York can provide both of those things for us simultaneously. It seems we'll have to trouble our Bank President again."
Two days later, at Argyle Empire Bank's Bank President's office.
This decision was not made lightly; Felix had spent two days weighing the risks and benefits with Catherine.
George Templeton did not answer immediately after hearing Felix's purpose. The old Bank President, who had returned to Wall Street, took off his gold-rimmed glasses and slowly wiped them with a velvet cloth. Only the steady tick-tock of the wall clock echoed in the office.
"Boss," Templeton put his glasses back on, his wise eyes looking at Felix, his tone filled with professionalism and respect.
"You've made a very wise decision, however, this procurement operation requires extra caution."
"Of course, that's why I came to you, George. Tell me your thoughts."
"First is the issue of funding credibility," Templeton explained. "A large order from you personally or from a newly established company like Militech would be difficult to directly gain the trust of established factories like Krupp or Sheffield. But if Argyle Bank steps forward and issues a full revolving letter of credit in our name, the situation changes completely. That's credibility recognized by all of Wall Street."
"Secondly, and most crucially, is the identity disguise." Templeton's thinking aligned perfectly with Felix's. "As you said, this order must not have any connection to Militech; its military purpose is too strong. The best cover identity would be your railroad company."
"Mississippi and Eastern Railroad Company," Felix said the name.
"Yes." Templeton's face showed an approving smile. "A railroad company purchasing a batch of 'special steel' from Europe for the repair and upgrade of its locomotives, to be used in manufacturing boilers and high-strength axles—how reasonable that sounds as a commercial activity."
Felix was very satisfied with Templeton's professional judgment.
"George, I'm entrusting this matter entirely to you. I need you to get our order onto the desks of the Krupp and Sheffield factory owners in the shortest possible time."
"Please rest assured, Boss."
Templeton exuded the confident composure of a seasoned Bank President. "This matter will take a few days to arrange properly. I need to draft the letter of credit documents and communicate in detail with our bank's partners in London and Berlin via encrypted telegram. I anticipate that your order can be officially placed before the end of this week."
Having resolved the most critical procurement issue, Felix's mood was not entirely relaxed. The feeling of having his lifeline in someone else's hands caused him a deep-seated unease.
One successful procurement could solve the immediate crisis but could not guarantee future independence.
After returning to the Fifth Avenue mansion, Felix did not rest but called Catherine, who had returned home from work, to his study.
"Dear, was everything smooth with President Templeton?" Catherine asked.
"Not bad; we'll hear something soon." Felix pointed to another report from Umbrella Corporation on his desk. "Sweetheart, take a look at this."
It was a report written by Peter Jenkins, the director of the pharmaceutical factory.
The report detailed that, with the help of the military's "Strategic Material Pass," the factory's raw material supply was no longer an issue, and large-scale production of Iodoglycerol was theoretically feasible.
Jenkins, who had workers divided into two shifts, working twelve hours a day in a cannery-like model, was confident in fulfilling the military's order.
"Militech's bottleneck is material science; we have no choice but to cross the ocean to purchase," Felix slowly said. "And as for Umbrella, although Dr. Thorne is very capable, he alone cannot complete more research."
He looked at Catherine, his gaze becoming particularly serious.
"Sweetheart, we cannot always rely on external purchases, whether it's buying raw materials or buying other people's time. True strength is having the core of creation in our own hands."
Catherine's heart, which should have been happy, also calmed down as Felix spoke.
Felix stood up and walked to the large federal map. "I want to establish the Williams Central Laboratory to systematically build up our technological reserves. Dr. Thorne can serve as the laboratory's first chief scientist, but he needs more help, and I also want to transmit sound and light using wires."
Winter in New York seemed exceptionally long.
Bank President Templeton lived up to his word. After a week of intense preparations and telegram exchanges, an encrypted letter, sealed with the Argyle Bank's wax seal, officially departed from New York Harbor, boarding the latest steamship bound for Liverpool.
The letter contained a revolving letter of credit, guaranteed by Argyle Bank and valued at one hundred thousand dollars, as well as a procurement list with stringent requirements for steel types and technical parameters, disguised as needs for "railway maintenance."
Theoretically, Felix's international order had been placed.
But Felix knew better than anyone that in 1863, theory and reality were separated by a chasm called the Atlantic Ocean.
Templeton said to Felix during their last meeting, "Optimistically, it will take at least eight weeks from the time our letter arrives in London, to the agent completing negotiations with Sheffield's factory, and then to the first batch of steel being loaded and shipped back to New York. If any unforeseen circumstances arise, this time could extend to ten weeks, or even longer."
Eight weeks.
For Militech's experimental workshop, where furnaces burned day and night, this was a long wait.
Whitneyville, Connecticut.
In Militech's forging workshop, the atmosphere was as oppressive as a red-hot iron block before quenching.
"It broke again."
Chief Craftsman Silas Blackwood used iron tongs to pull a spring, broken into two halves, from a barrel of cold oil. This was the thirty-seventh sample that had failed in their experiments over the past two weeks.
Frank Cole's face showed no expression; he simply picked up the broken spring and carefully examined the rough crystal structure at the fracture. His body was covered in oil and sweat, and his eyes were bloodshot.
"The temperature curve is fine, Silas."
Frank's voice was a bit hoarse. "The problem is still with the steel. We've used the best tool steel we could find in the factory, but its carbon content and impurity distribution are still too unstable. It's like we're trying to bake the softest bread with a pile of flour mixed with grit."
"So what do we do now?" a young engineer, James, asked. "Do we just wait for the European steel to arrive?"
"No." Frank shook his head, a hint of stubbornness flashing in his eyes. "The Boss hired us not to sit around and wait. European steel is our hope, but it's not our excuse."
He turned his gaze to Silas. "Silas, collect all the failed samples and categorize them by different causes of fracture. We need to work backward. Since we can't raise the upper limit of the steel, we'll find a way to squeeze the maximum performance out of the existing materials."
"Starting tomorrow, we change our approach." Frank issued new instructions. "No longer pursue one-time forming. We'll try segmented forging and composite quenching. Break a complex part into several simpler sections, treat them with different processes, and then figure out how to combine them. While this is stupid and clumsy, it's the only path we can take right now."
Silas looked at his superior, twenty years his junior, and genuine admiration filled his cloudy eyes. He nodded heavily.
"Alright, we'll do as you say."
A technical battle focused on the limits of existing materials was spontaneously organized by Frank, without Felix's direct intervention.
At the same time, at Umbrella Corporation in Brooklyn.
The new President, Catherine, was also facing her first major challenge since taking office.
"President," factory supervisor Peter Jenkins placed a production report on her desk, his face etched with fatigue.
"Last week, we produced a total of five thousand bottles of Iodoglycerol. However, over one thousand of them were deemed substandard during Dr. Thorne's final purity spot checks."
"A twenty percent defect rate?" Catherine's expression instantly darkened. "This is absolutely unacceptable. Didn't you say you could complete the task? Where is the problem?"
"I'm very sorry, President, the existing electrical machines are breaking down too quickly," Jenkins replied. "And our production process is essentially still Dr. Thorne's laboratory method, just with beakers replaced by large distillation kettles. Every step relies heavily on the personal experience of the operators.
A slight deviation in temperature control, or half a minute too long in mixing, will result in vastly different purity levels in the final product. We cannot guarantee that every batch of product meets exactly the same standard."
Catherine fell silent.
She understood that this was precisely the "chemical engineering" bottleneck Felix had foreseen. The company could get privileges from Washington, and funds from the bank, but she couldn't conjure a stable and reliable industrialized production process out of thin air.
Catherine did not immediately report this problem to Felix as she usually would.
After the Fifth Avenue dinner and the gas company board meeting, her way of thinking had begun to subtly change.
The Boss needed people who could solve problems, not just transmit them.
That afternoon, she personally went to the Central Laboratory located within the company's factory premises.
Dr. Thorne was wearing safety goggles, fully focused on an experiment involving organic catalysis.
"Doctor, I need your help." Catherine got straight to the point.
She explained all the difficulties Umbrella's factory was encountering.
"I know you are a great chemist, not an engineer." Catherine looked at him, her tone filled with respect and sincerity.
"But you are the person in this world who understands Iodoglycerol the most. I need you to design a new process for us from the perspective of chemical principles. A process that can minimize human intervention and replace experience with instruments and valves."
Dr. Thorne listened, then adjusted his glasses.
"Miss O'Brien, you've raised a very good point," he said. "In fact, I've been thinking about this myself. You've come at just the right time."
He led Catherine to a blackboard, which was already covered with complex diagrams of pipes and containers.
"You see," he pointed to the drawing, "traditional distillation and mixing are batch-based, which leads to immense instability. My idea is to establish a 'continuous flow reaction' system."
"We will inject raw materials through a precise metering pump into this preheating pipe at a constant speed. The first stage of mixing will be completed here, and then it will enter this catalytic tower composed of multi-layered reaction chambers. In each layer of the tower, different constant temperatures and pressures are maintained. When the solution flows out from the top of the tower, all chemical reactions will have been completed."
"This is a theory, Miss O'Brien," Dr. Thorne's eyes gleamed with scientific caution, "a theory that can take drug production from a chef's kitchen to an engineer's factory. But to achieve it, I need help."
"What do you need?"
"I need a mechanical engineer who truly understands steam pressure and fluid mechanics to work with me to turn these drawings into reality."
Catherine looked at Dr. Thorne, then thought of Frank, who was also struggling with technical problems far away in Connecticut.
The purpose of Felix establishing the "Central Laboratory" came to her mind.
When Catherine returned to the Fifth Avenue mansion, she placed a brand new proposal in front of Felix.
"Felix, regarding the talent introduction plan for the Central Laboratory, I have a more concrete idea."
Felix, who was drinking tea, picked up the plan. "Hmm, what idea?"
"It's like this, I think we should not only recruit metallurgists for Militech but also industrial chemists for Umbrella," she said. "I propose that the Central Laboratory lead the formal establishment of three independent, cross-company project teams."
"First, 'Project Prometheus,' jointly led by Frank and the metallurgists to be recruited, aims to develop our own special steel."
"Second, 'Project Hermes,' led by Dr. Thorne and the new engineers, aims to achieve continuous flow production for Umbrella."
"Third," she looked at Felix, her eyes sparkling, "'Project Helios,' to find those geniuses you're interested in, who can make sound and light run along wires."
Felix looked at Catherine, at the composed and strategic expression on her face. It seemed that this chief housekeeper had grown into a company president capable of handling things independently.
"A very good plan. Remember to implement it as soon as possible. I need talent."
A technology revolution, driven by the need to solve practical problems, was spontaneously promoted by the managers Felix had personally cultivated.
The next morning, when Catherine walked into her office in the main building of the headquarters.
Besides the usual orders and financial statements, a large map and a stack of blank planning documents had been added to her desk.
After receiving authorization, she convened a small internal meeting.
There were only two participants: Flynn, the Head of Intelligence, and Arthur Clark, her Chief Clerk, whom she had promoted from her own office and who was known for his meticulousness and organization.
"Good morning, gentlemen," Catherine's voice was crisp as she got down to business. "The Boss has decided to establish the Argyle Central Research Institute and has entrusted me with the talent acquisition plan. Today, I need to transform this plan from an idea into an actionable proposal."
She walked over to the world map and picked up a red pencil.
"We have three objectives." She first drew two circles near Sheffield in the UK and Essen in Prussia.
"First, we need a top metallurgist to solve the special steel problem for Militech."
Then she drew circles around several university towns in the German Confederation.
"Second, find a chemist or engineer proficient in industrial process design to design continuous flow production equipment for Umbrella Corporation."
Finally, her pen tapped on Boston, Philadelphia, and New York in the United States.
"The third is to find an inventor who is researching how to transmit sound over telegraph lines."
Flynn looked at the map, a hint of confusion appearing on his usually frosty face.
"Miss Catherine, if I may be Frank. The Intelligence Department's network is effective enough in the streets and alleys of New York. But to find scientists far away in Europe... my 'little mice' don't speak German and can't read those scientific journals."
"Of course, you're right, Flynn." Catherine's reply was well-prepared. "Therefore, you need to change some of your intelligence gathering methods. Shift from the streets to the studies, as this will be a long-term task."
She pushed a budget sheet to Flynn. "This is a special budget of five thousand dollars. I need you to establish an 'Academic Analysis Group' within the Intelligence Department within three days. Hire a few frustrated university graduates who understand German and French. Their only task is to subscribe to and read all mainstream scientific and engineering journals from America and Europe that you can get your hands on."
Catherine looked at him, her expression becoming serious and earnest. "Remember, look for names in those papers that propose bold theories but complain about a lack of experimental funding in the footnotes. Also, those names who have been ostracized by their peers because their views are too far ahead of their time. These are the targets of the Intelligence Department."
Flynn nodded thoughtfully; he was beginning to understand that this was a higher level of intelligence warfare.
"Arthur." Catherine turned to the clerk she had promoted.
"Immediately draft an official letter and send it to Bank President Templeton of Argyle Bank."
Catherine's thoughts were very clear. "This matter also requires the bank's help. For every potential candidate Flynn finds, you need to use Bank President Templeton to leverage the bank's partners in London and Berlin. Have them assist with background checks."
"Have the bank's agents, acting as private investment consultants interested in new technologies, discreetly learn about the character and financial situation of these targets, as well as whether they are satisfied with their current work. We need to have all our cards before extending an invitation."
"I understand." Arthur immediately took out paper and noted down the key points.
Catherine looked at Flynn again.
"The third objective is the most unique; he might not appear in academic journals."
"This task requires Timmy and his pervasive network. Have them start paying attention to patent offices, as well as clubs and salons where inventors like to gather. Tell Timmy there's no time limit for this task, but any relevant clues must be reported."
A talent search operation unfolded systematically under Catherine's direction.
For the first time, Flynn's Intelligence Department purchased dictionaries and subscribed to overseas journals.
Time slowly passed in waiting.
A week later, a letter from Connecticut broke the calm at the New York headquarters.
"Felix." Catherine handed Frank's letter to him. "Militech has made some progress."
In the letter, Frank used his unpretentious language to describe how, after dozens of failures, they had successfully produced a rifle spring capable of withstanding one hundred and fifty continuous compressions without breaking, using a crude method he invented called "segmented forging, compound quenching."
"...It's far from perfect, Boss," Frank wrote at the end of the letter. "It's too heavy, the process is too complex, and the cost is astonishingly high. With this method, we might only be able to produce one qualified prototype rifle per month. But at least it proves that your design is theoretically feasible."
Felix smiled with relief after reading the letter.
"Tell Frank to continue," Felix told Catherine. "Document every one of his failures and successes in detail. These will be our first valuable assets for establishing our own steel mill in the future."
"Knock knock knock."
The office door was knocked, and after receiving permission, Arthur Clark walked in, a hint of barely suppressed excitement on his face.
He placed a coded letter from London, just delivered by an Argyle Bank messenger, on the table.
"Boss, Bank President Templeton says our net seems to have caught its first fish."
Felix tore open the envelope; the letter was handwritten by Argyle Bank's London partner.
"...Based on the provided list, we conducted a preliminary investigation into several metallurgists in the Sheffield area. Among them, a young engineer named Rhys Griffiths has piqued our interest."
"Mr. Griffith graduated from the Royal School of Mines and is one of Britain's most outstanding new-generation materials experts. However, he has a rather reclusive personality. Three weeks ago, he was publicly reprimanded by the board of directors of his steel mill and had all his research funding cut due to a bold research proposal on 'manganese steel alloy.' According to our informant, he is currently at the lowest point of his career, drinking heavily daily, and threatening to leave Britain, this 'godforsaken place that doesn't respect science'."
At the end of the letter, the seasoned London banker wrote:
"It is clear he is a proud and solitary man, looking for someone who appreciates his work."
Catherine looked up and met Felix's gaze, both their eyes sparkling with the same amusement.