That afternoon, Felix boarded a special train back to New York with Miller and the Militech 1863 rifle prototype, which was carefully packed in a leather case.
Inside the train compartment, Miller was like a child who had received a beloved toy. Again and again, he wiped the rifle with a soft flannel cloth. He caressed its barrel, made of a new alloy steel, shimmering with a deep blue light, and felt its powerful weight.
"Boss," he couldn't help but say, his voice filled with a longing for a powerful weapon, "This thing… I dream of seeing it on the battlefield. If a thousand men were equipped with this, they could hold off a Southern brigade's charge."
Felix, who had been looking at the rapidly receding fields outside the window, turned his head and smiled when he heard Miller's words.
"Buddy, a perfect rifle cannot win an entire war," he said slowly, "But an industrial system that can continuously produce tens of thousands of perfect rifles can."
"Until Frank and Griffith truly establish that new assembly line," Felix pointed to the rifle in Miller's hand, "what we have is just a sample."
"However," he changed the subject, "this sample now has a more important use than going to the battlefield."
"What use?"
"To be a witness." A sharp glint flashed in Felix's eyes, "To Washington, to prove one thing to the gentlemen sitting in their offices—what exactly I, Felix Argyle, rely on to earn their respect and orders."
…It was late when the carriage returned to the Fifth Avenue mansion. Felix did not rest; he immediately had the butler send an urgent summons to Jones of the food company.
An hour later, Jones arrived at the study, covered in dust from his journey. With him came a crate.
"Boss," Jones said to Felix, a proud smile on his face, "We have completed the first batch of trial production."
The box was opened, and inside were neatly arranged, square-shaped packages, each wrapped in waxed, waterproof oil paper bags.
Jones picked one up and handed it to Felix. "Individual field ration pack, first edition."
Felix took the package and tore open the seal. The contents were simple and practical: three dark brown, extremely densely compressed biscuits; a small packet of smoked beef jerky, sealed in the same oil paper; and a small paper bag containing two white tablets.
"Mr. Schmidt and Ward stayed up several nights for this little thing," Jones added, "They will be very happy to know that it is about to be personally inspected by the generals."
Felix picked up a compressed biscuit and then looked at the two small water purification tablets. "Well done, Jones, this looks like food prepared for victory."
He looked at Jones and Miller, who had just entered. One managed the soldiers' stomachs for him, the other forged the soldiers' fists. These were his two most trusted and capable lieutenants.
"Alright, gentlemen," Felix made his decision, "Now our trump cards are all assembled."
"Jones," he commanded, "Immediately select one hundred ration pack samples of the best quality and most perfect packaging. Miller, you are responsible for preparing the rifle and enough ammunition. Also, notify the Security Department to select twenty of the most capable and reliable security personnel."
"Tomorrow morning at six o'clock sharp, we depart for Washington."
…The next day, early morning.
A special train with a Argyle Company private compartment departed from New York Station punctually, speeding south towards Washington.
Inside the carriage, Felix sat alone on one side, reviewing the latest personnel changes and interests of Washington's military high command, which Flynn had collected from various channels.
On the other side, Miller meticulously performed the final inspection and oiling of the Militech 1863 Rifle. Jones personally opened several ration packs, repeatedly confirming that the biscuits inside were not broken and the packaging was not damp. Twenty plainclothes security personnel, with vigilant eyes, were distributed at the front and back of the carriage, monitoring all movements outside the window.
This time, Catherine did not accompany them. Umbrella Corporation's Project Hermes equipment was in mass production, and she had to personally oversee it in Brooklyn to ensure the money-printing machine was foolproof. This was exactly what Felix wanted to see; each of his subordinates could stand on their own in their respective battlefields.
"Boss," Miller reassembled the rifle into its steel case and looked up to ask, "Who exactly are we meeting in Washington this time? Is it still the Military Committee?"
"No, Miller," Felix shook his head, "This time we are not dealing with politicians; we are going directly to meet our customers."
He looked at the two of them and began the final pre-battle mobilization.
"Miller, upon arriving in Washington, you are responsible for demonstrating the rifle's full performance. Remember, you must use a soldier's language to tell those generals what this gun truly means on the battlefield."
"I understand, Boss."
He then turned to the president of the food company, "Jones, you are responsible for explaining the individual ration packs. Try not to discuss costs and recipes. Talk about logistical efficiency and the lives of soldiers. Make them understand that this is not just food, but a brand-new solution that can make the army's supply lines shorter and more efficient."
"Understood, Boss."
Felix leaned back in his seat, looking at the receding land outside the window.
As the train traveled south, the scenery outside the window began to change. Pastoral landscapes gradually decreased, replaced by more and more military camps, mountains of supplies, and occasionally, medical trains transporting wounded soldiers from the front lines.
The scent of war became more intense and real than ever before.
In the evening, as the train slowly pulled into Washington's station, Felix saw a familiar figure already waiting on the platform.
Major Carter, dressed in a crisp Quartermaster Department uniform, stood behind two carriages bearing military insignia.
"Felix," Carter stepped forward and gave him a firm hug, "Welcome to Washington."
He glanced at the several boxes being carefully carried down by the security personnel behind Felix, a flash of curiosity and anticipation in his eyes.
"Chairman Clark has arranged everything for you," Carter said, his tone very serious, "He personally invited Mr. Stanton, the Secretary of War, and General Halleck, the Army Commander-in-Chief. They are very interested in your 'new invention.'"
He added the most crucial sentence, "The demonstration location has been arranged at the Washington Armory shooting range. That is where the Army tests all new weapons, and security is most stringent."
Upon hearing this, Felix looked up at the distant Capitol Hill dome, which appeared particularly solemn and majestic in the setting sun.
The stage was set, and the most important audience was in place.
"Thank you, Edward," He turned around and looked at Miller and Jones.
"Gentlemen," he said softly, "Prepare our trump cards."
The Washington Arsenal, a military restricted zone located at the confluence of the Potomac and Anacostia Rivers, was the heart of all weapon research, development, and testing for the entire Union Army.
Every cannon blast here could herald a change in the future battlefield.
But today, the main attraction here was not those roaring heavy cannons.
On a heavily guarded independent firing range, Secretary of War Edwin Stanton, and General Henry Halleck, the Commanding General of the Army, stood before the observation deck.
Behind them were a group of senior officers from the Army Ordnance Department and the Quartermaster Department. All their faces showed a mixture of curiosity, scrutiny, and a touch of impatience.
They were all busy people. The fact that they would all put aside their work at the same time to come here, just to watch a "new product demonstration" from a private contractor, was in itself an extremely unusual event.
This was enough to prove that Chairman Clark had sufficiently influenced the military.
"Alright, Major Carter." Secretary Stanton glanced at his pocket watch; his patience was famously limited. "You and Chairman Clark have both highly praised this Mr. Argyle. Now, let's see what he has brought us that is worth wasting our entire morning."
"Yes, Mr. Secretary." Major Carter saluted, then gestured to Felix and his group, who were standing in the center of the firing range.
Felix did not step forward himself; he nodded to Miller.
Miller walked forward, dressed in simple work clothes that allowed for easier movement. From the leather case, he took out the rifle that glowed with a deep blue light.
"Gentlemen," Miller's voice was steady, "this is the first weapon our Militech brings to the Union Army: the Militech 1863 rifle."
He did not introduce it too much, because for these true soldiers, no words were more convincing than gunshots.
Miller skillfully pressed ten brass cartridges, one by one, from the loading port on the side of the rifle body into the tubular magazine below the barrel. This novel and convenient loading method had already made several experts from the Ordnance Department show expressions of interest.
Miller raised the rifle, aimed at a target one hundred yards away, and then sharply pulled the lever below the rifle body.
With a "click," a brass casing was crisply ejected, and a new bullet was instantly chambered.
"Bang!"
The gunshot was louder than any rifle currently in service with the Union, and the recoil was also greater.
Miller did not pause; he continuously pulled the lever, fired, ejected the casing, and fired again at an astonishing speed.
"Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!"
In less than ten seconds, all ten bullets were fired. On the distant target, the bullet holes were densely distributed in the central area.
The entire firing range was silent.
General Halleck, the old-school general, subconsciously glanced at his adjutant beside him. "How many rounds can a trained soldier fire in one minute with a standard Springfield rifle?"
"General, at most three rounds," the adjutant replied.
General Halleck did not speak again, but the look in his eyes as he gazed at the rifle in Miller's hand had completely changed.
"A very nice range toy," an Ordnance Department major remarked, with a hint of professional criticism. "But the real battlefield is in the mud of Virginia. This precise lever mechanism, I fear, would jam instantly with just a little mud or sand."
"Your concern is unnecessary, Major," Miller responded calmly.
Then, in front of everyone, he performed an action that shocked them all.
He walked to a wooden barrel filled with murky muddy water next to the firing range and, without hesitation, completely immersed the scorching rifle prototype into it.
"Oh, my God!" a young officer couldn't help but exclaim.
Miller retrieved the rifle from the muddy water; its body was covered in mud and weeds. He didn't even wipe it, just simply tapped it on the ground to pour out the mud and water from the action.
Then he reloaded, raised the rifle, aimed, and fired.
"Bang!"
The crisp gunshot once again echoed throughout the entire firing range.
This time, no one spoke again. All doubts, criticisms, and disdain were utterly shattered by this single gunshot.
The experts from the Ordnance Department looked at the weapon in Miller's hand, their eyes filled with incredulous fervor.
Felix knew the time was right and gestured to Jones on the other side.
"General, Mr. Secretary," Jones stepped forward, holding a ration pack wrapped in waxed paper. "After the Union soldiers have more powerful weapons, Argyle & Co. Foods has also prepared more reliable energy for them."
He distributed the ration packs to every officer present.
General Halleck tore open the packaging and took out a hard compressed biscuit. He frowned; this old general, who had participated in the Mexican-American War, was all too familiar with such things.
"It looks no different from the hardtack we ate twenty years ago, perhaps just a bit harder," he commented.
"Please try this, General," Jones gestured to the orderly to pour each general a steaming cup of military coffee.
Jones picked up another biscuit and dipped it into the hot coffee. Under everyone's curious gaze, the hard biscuit quickly absorbed the liquid within a few seconds, transforming into a warm, porridge-like food, exuding a rich aroma of meat and wheat.
Secretary Stanton personally tasted a spoonful, and an expression of surprise appeared on his usually stern face.
"This… this is more than just flour."
"Yes, Mr. Secretary," Jones replied proudly. "We have mixed in a scientific ratio of meat and fat. The energy contained in each biscuit is enough to sustain a soldier for three hours of high-intensity marching."
"And this," Jones picked up the pack of water purification tablets. He asked the orderly to draw a glass of water from the nearby Anacostia River, which didn't look very clean.
In front of everyone, he dropped a tablet into it and shook it a few times. A minute later, the originally murky river water became clear.
A colonel from the Medical Department, after carefully smelling and testing it with a silver needle, cautiously took a sip.
"The water is clean. And the taste of chemicals is almost imperceptible," he said, his voice filled with disbelief.
"General, Mr. Secretary."
"This is the more scientific individual battlefield ration that our company has spent a huge amount of money developing, and they are not just biscuits and tablets. This means that Union soldiers can get a hot meal anywhere within five minutes, without needing to light a fire and expose their position."
"The Union's logistical supplies can even be reduced by half, because food will no longer spoil easily."
"Furthermore, this means that our soldiers can now drink clean water. Dysentery and typhoid will no longer be our biggest cause of non-combat casualties!"
The entire firing range fell silent once more.
If the rifle just now had brought them visual and auditory shock, then the small ration pack before them brought these giants, who controlled the nation's war machine, a strategic impact that could change the entire logistics system.
A long while later, Secretary Stanton of the War Department, a man known for his decisive action and focus on practical results, slowly turned around.
His gaze fell upon the young man who had not uttered a single word from beginning to end.
"Mr. Argyle, please go to the lounge to rest for a while; we need to hold a meeting."
Felix, Miller, and Jones were arranged by Major Carter to wait in a side hall. Inside the conference room, the highest echelons of the Union Army were engaged in an internal debate that could affect the future course of the war.
Secretary Stanton of the War Department was the first to break the silence.
"Gentlemen," his gaze swept over every general and head of the Ordnance Department present, "you all saw it with your own eyes just now. Now, I need a direct answer. Do the military want the two items Mr. Argyle displayed or not?"
"Mr. Secretary, Mr. Argyle' rifle is indeed... impressive." General Halleck, Commander-in-Chief of the Army, an old-school military man who valued tradition and order, spoke first, his tone carrying a hint of hesitation.
"However, entrusting the production of our Army's standard-issue rifle entirely to a private company is a huge risk. The Springfield Armory is the cornerstone of our Union Army."
Colonel Dale, head of the Ordnance Department, immediately echoed: "Yes, Mr. Secretary. Furthermore, I just had a preliminary discussion with Mr. Miller, Mr. Argyle' representative. The preliminary estimate for their rifle is forty dollars per unit."
"Forty dollars!" exclaimed a general from the Quartermaster Department, "My God, that's too expensive! We could buy two of the best Model 1861 rifles from the Springfield Armory for the same money!"
"The rations are the same," another head from the Quartermaster Department added, "We already have a mature procurement system working with dozens of suppliers. Nearly half of the orders already go to Argyle & Co. Foods. If we put all our eggs in Argyle' one basket, once his factory ceases production for any reason, the entire army's logistics will immediately collapse! We cannot entrust such a vital lifeline to one person."
The dissenting voices gained the upper hand in the conference room.
This was not only due to considerations of cost and risk, but more deeply, it was the entire military-industrial complex's instinctive rejection and wariness of outsiders.
"Gentlemen."
Secretary Stanton's voice was not loud, but it silenced the entire conference room.
"What you've said all has merit." He looked at the generals with worried expressions, "But you also saw it with your own eyes. That rifle can give one soldier the firepower of five on the battlefield. That ration pack can save us millions of dollars in medical and transportation costs."
"Don't talk to me about risks, or traditions." Stanton's tone grew stern, "I only care about one thing, and that is victory!"
"What we should be discussing now is not the honor of Springfield, nor the profits of those old suppliers!" His finger heavily tapped on the table, "What we should be discussing is how to ensure soldiers survive the next bloodbath like Antietam!"
The conference room fell silent.
Just then, an assistant knocked and entered, handing Secretary Stanton an urgent visit request.
Stanton glanced at it, a complex, unreadable expression on his face.
"It seems our troubles have come knocking." He handed the note to General Halleck.
General Halleck took it and his expression also changed slightly.
The note read: "Colonel Bishop, Director of the Union Springfield Armory, with samples of the newly improved Model 1863 rifle, requests an urgent report to the War Department."
...In the side hall, Felix and his companions quietly drank coffee.
"Boss," Jones asked, somewhat worried, "What will they be discussing in there?"
"Nothing but three things." Felix relaxed his brow, "Whether our products are effective, whether they are expensive. And third, the most important one—whether we can be trusted as one of their own."
"Miller has already proven the first point," he continued, "The second point, we can prove with numbers. And the third point..."
Before Felix could finish, the conference room door was pushed open. Major Carter walked out, a complex, apologetic expression on his face.
"Felix," he said in a low voice, "Things have... changed a bit. The people from Springfield are here."
Almost as soon as he finished speaking, a group of men in military uniforms and civilian clothes walked aggressively from the other end of the corridor. Leading them was a dignified middle-aged colonel, who was Colonel Bishop, the Director of the Springfield Armory.
Evidently, he had also just received the news and immediately rushed over from his temporary station in Washington.
Colonel Bishop didn't even acknowledge Carter; he walked directly up to Felix, his critical eyes, those of an ordnance expert, unceremoniously scrutinizing Felix from head to toe.
"You are Mr. Argyle?" His tone was filled with undisguised hostility, "I've heard about your miracle rifle."
"The Springfield Armory has served the Union for nearly seventy years." His voice was filled with the pride of the traditional military-industrial complex, "We have forged every standard-issue weapon that protects this nation with blood and sweat. And you, a merchant, want to replace it with money and some flashy, untested toys?" He deliberately emphasized the word 'merchant'.
Faced with this sudden, almost provocative questioning, Miller and Jones instinctively stepped forward, shielding Felix.
Felix, however, gently placed his hands on their shoulders.
Looking at the hostile colonel before him, he raised an eyebrow, a faint smile on his face.
"Colonel, what Militech manufactures are not toys."
Felix's gaze passed over Colonel Bishop's shoulder, towards the generals in the conference room who were closely watching every move, "But rather something that will allow more Union soldiers to return home alive."