In the study of the Argyle mansion on Fifth Avenue early in the morning.
"This is it?"
Felix sat in the high-backed chair, leaning slightly forward, his gaze passing through the glass as he examined the substance from deep beneath the Texas ground.
"Ha... that's right, this is what you wanted."
Bill stood by the table, his traveling coat still on, its collar smudged with coal dust.
"This was found in that muddy swamp in Beaumont. The locals call it 'Devil's Tar.' Higgins... the one-armed guide I found, he said there's a great sea hidden beneath it."
Bill wrinkled his nose, clearly not fond of the smell.
"For this stinky mud, I bought ten thousand acres of alkaline land where even cows wouldn't set foot." Bill shook his head, "Felix, I still don't get it. If you need fuel, there are plenty of coal mines in the Allegheny Mountains. Can this stuff really burn?"
"Of course."
Felix stood up, not opening the jar directly, but gently tapping the glass wall with his finger.
"And it burns brighter and longer than coal."
He turned around, walked to the window, and pointed to a gas street lamp still lit on the distant street, and the whale oil lamps displayed in the roadside grocery store.
"This world is looking for light, Bill. Whaling ships drift at sea for three years just to bring back a few hundred barrels of whale oil, and the cost keeps rising. Gas pipelines can only be laid in cities; farmers in the countryside are still using candles."
"Colonel Drake of Pennsylvania proved a few years ago that petroleum can be refined into kerosene. It's a brighter, cheaper lighting oil than whale oil."
Felix turned back, looking at the black jar.
"But the oil wells in Pennsylvania are too shallow, and the competition is too fierce. Those people are fighting tooth and nail there over a few wells."
"And what I want isn't a single well." Felix's voice was low, "I want an oil depot. Higgins is right, Beaumont's underground holds fifty years of future light."
Bill nodded, half-understanding. He wasn't interested in "light," but he understood that people were competing for this stuff. Since Felix said it was valuable, it must be more expensive than gold.
"Let's go."
Felix picked up the glass jar, as if holding a jewel from a crown.
"To Brooklyn, Dr. Thorne's nose should be keener than ours."
*******
Brooklyn, Argyle Consolidated Industrial Zone.
The carriage passed through busy streets and stopped in front of the red-brick building of the Central Laboratory.
The security level here was now higher than the Argyle Bank's vault; every window was fitted with iron bars, and Militech guards stood armed at the entrance.
When Felix and Bill entered the chemical experimental area, Dr. Aris Thorne was looking into a microscope, observing a bacterial culture dish.
Hearing footsteps, he looked up, about to greet them, but his nose suddenly twitched a few times.
"What's that smell?"
Thorne frowned and pushed up his glasses.
"It's like... asphalt? No, it's more pungent. A bit like a mixture of rotten eggs and fermented dead leaves."
"Your nose is still as sharp as ever, Doctor."
Felix smiled and placed the glass jar on the pristine laboratory bench in front of Thorne.
"This is your new project. A gift from Texas."
Thorne leaned closer, observing the black liquid through the glass.
"Crude oil?" His eyes lit up.
"It looks heavier than what's produced in Pennsylvania, and the sulfur content might be high."
"Open it up and take a look." Felix gestured.
Thorne put on thick rubber gloves and carefully unscrewed the lid.
A strong odor instantly erupted in the laboratory; Bill, standing nearby, couldn't help but step back and cover his nose.
Thorne, however, was unfazed.
He picked up a glass rod, stirred it in the jar, feeling the viscosity of the liquid, then picked up a little, sniffed it at his nose, and spread it on a white porcelain plate.
"Very viscous, quite a few impurities." Thorne quickly entered his professional state, "Boss, what do you want me to extract from this?"
"Everything." Felix replied, "I want you to break it down and see what it truly contains."
Felix took a piece of chalk from a nearby shelf and drew a simple diagram of a distillation column on a blackboard.
"Doctor, I know you're good at fractional distillation. Right now, I need three things."
He drew a line in the middle of the column.
"First, and currently the most valuable—kerosene. Oil for lighting. I want you to find the optimal distillation temperature and filtration method to remove the impurities and odor. It needs to burn without black smoke and with a stable flame. We'll put it into tin cans and sell it to housewives all over the world."
Thorne nodded, writing in his notebook: "Middle distillate. Desulfurization, decolorization. Lighting oil."
Felix's finger pointed to the bottom of the column.
"Second, lubricating oil."
"Lubricating oil?" Thorne was a bit surprised, "Usually we use lard or whale oil..."
"It's not enough anymore." Felix shook his head.
"Coleman's ten-thousand-ton hydraulic press in New Jersey, and Mr. Haas's high-speed rolling mill. Their rotation speeds are too fast, and temperatures too high. Animal fats will carbonize. We need a more heat-resistant, longer-lasting mineral grease."
"This stuff," Felix pointed to the crude oil, "its base material, that viscous heavy oil, if refined properly, will be the best blood for machines."
"Makes sense." Thorne mused.
"Heavy oil distillate. If the asphaltenes can be removed, high-viscosity lubricants should be obtained. This requires higher temperatures and... perhaps vacuum distillation."
"That's your specialty." Felix smiled.
Then, his finger pointed to the very top of the distillation column.
"Finally, these lightest, most volatile things."
"Naphtha?" Thorne asked, "That's a hazardous material. Highly flammable and prone to explosion. Refineries usually just dump it as waste or use it to clean oil stains."
"Don't dump it." Felix's expression became serious, "Collect it and store it carefully."
"Why?" Bill couldn't help but interject, "If that stuff is so dangerous, why keep it?"
"Because it... is full of power."
Felix didn't explain much.
He couldn't tell them that decades later, this waste product would drive hundreds of millions of cars on highways.
Before the internal combustion engine became widespread, it was dangerous waste, but in Felix's eyes, it was future gold.
"It can be used as an industrial solvent first." Felix found an excuse, "Or, to make some special incendiary bombs. Militech might be interested."
Thorne's hand paused in writing, then he understood his Boss's meaning.
"OK, understood. Light distillate, flammable and explosive, requires special container storage."
Felix looked at the three simple areas on the blackboard.
"Doctor, I also need you to set up a dedicated petrochemical laboratory." Felix said.
"I will fully support you with equipment, personnel, and funding. Not only do we need to separate them in the laboratory, but also design a process that can run in large-scale factories."
"Next to the steel mill in New Jersey, I've reserved a plot of land." Felix looked at Thorne, "That will be the refinery in the future."
"Sounds like a big project."
Thorne pushed up his glasses, looking at the jar of black liquid.
"To turn this into 'light' and 'power' will require a lot of experimentation, but I like this challenge."
"One more thing." Felix added, "Regarding that smell, sulfur."
"It stinks, I know." Thorne admitted.
"Hmm, find a way to get rid of it." Felix said, then thought about chemistry from his previous life.
"If our kerosene smells like rotten eggs when it burns, no one will buy it. This is key. Use acid washing, neutralize with alkali, or use some metal oxide to adsorb... whatever method, I want it to smell at least not nauseating."
Felix believed that with Thorne's ability, combined with Umbrella's chemical foundation, they would find a way.
"Bill."
Felix turned to the butcher who had been staring at the jar of oil.
"I'm here."
"When you return to Chicago, besides overseeing the ranch, you need to do one more thing." Felix instructed, "Start paying attention to factories that make wooden barrels, or tin barrels."
"Barrels?"
"Yes. Barrels."
"The oil to be transported in the future won't be a few jars, or a few carts. It will be thousands upon thousands of barrels. We need containers, many, many containers."
"Also," Felix's gaze deepened, "tell Reeves to discuss with Cassatt designing a specialized train car for transporting oil."
"Not those flatcars that carry barrels."
Felix gestured a cylinder, "It's a huge, horizontal iron tank, mounted directly on wheels."
"Oil tank car..." Bill imagined the scene, "How much oil would that hold?"
"Enough oil to flood Armour's slaughterhouse." Felix patted Bill's shoulder.
It was already noon when they left the laboratory.
Sunlight shone on the streets of Brooklyn.
Felix looked back at the red-brick building.
If Lex Steel was the skeleton of the empire, and Vanguard Military Industries was its teeth.
Then, this jar of foul-smelling black liquid would eventually become the hottest blood flowing through the empire's veins.
*********
Late May 1864, Whitneyville, Connecticut.
The warm breeze of early summer swept through the Quinnipiac River Valley, but it couldn't disperse the faint bluish coal smoke lingering over the Militech factory grounds.
The expanded factory buildings spread along the riverbank like constantly dividing cells.
The roar of steam engines, the clang of forging hammers, and the heavy footsteps of thousands of workers converged into a heart-pounding industrial torrent.
Felix stepped out of the carriage, his boots treading on the newly laid gravel road.
He walked directly through the bustling freight yard where firearms were being loaded, heading towards the red-brick building deep within the factory complex: the "Special Projects Research Center."
This was a restricted area of the entire factory, guarded by four armed Shadow Force soldiers at the entrance.
Pushing open the heavy iron door, a scent mixed with drafting ink, machine oil, and old paper wafted out.
In the spacious drafting room, a dozen huge oak tables were pushed together, covered with densely packed blueprints.
Frank Cole, the Chief Operating Officer of Militech, was leaning over a table, holding a vernier caliper and gesturing at a large wooden model.
His shirt sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, and his exposed arms were smudged with pencil lead.
Beside him, Reese Griffiths, the hot-tempered Chief Metallurgist, was staring blankly at a broken blade tip fragment, muttering curses in Welsh.
"It seems our new toy isn't very obedient?"
Felix's voice made everyone look up.
"Boss."
Frank put down the caliper and walked over quickly. His face showed the fatigue of an all-nighter, but his eyes were bright.
"You've come at just the right time. We've encountered some extremely glorious trouble."
"Glorious trouble?" Felix smiled and walked to the table, "Let me see."
In the center of the table was a 1:1 scale wooden model.
It was a cannon.
It wasn't as bulky as the Napoleon cannon currently in service with the Federal Army, nor as crude as the parrott gun.
It was slender, streamlined, with a complex square structure at the breech.
"The Vanguard three-inch breech-loading steel cannon," Frank introduced, pointing at the model.
"It's eighty-four inches long and three inches in caliber. According to your concept, we abandoned the complex screw breech of the British Armstrong gun and adopted the horizontal wedge breech recommended by Mr. Haas."
He pulled a handle at the rear of the model. The square wooden block (simulating the breechblock) slid open horizontally, revealing the clear gun barrel.
"The loader only needs to insert the breechblock from the side, then turn the handle to lock it," Frank demonstrated the action.
"The theoretical rate of fire can reach eight rounds per minute, four times that of a muzzle-loader. Moreover, because it's loaded from the breech, the gunner doesn't need to run to the muzzle, allowing operation from behind cover, greatly improving safety."
"Sounds perfect." Felix tapped the wooden breechblock with his finger, "What's the problem?"
Griffiths, who was standing by, spoke coldly, throwing the broken metal fragment onto the table with a crisp sound.
"The problem is that we're not making wooden toys; we're making steel. 'prometheus alloy' that's as hard as diamonds."
Griffiths stepped forward, his face, always smudged with coal dust, filled with frustration.
"Boss, its performance is indeed unparalleled. It's five times stronger than cast iron and three times tougher than wrought iron. Using it for gun barrels is God's masterpiece. But using it for cannon barrels..."
He pointed to the idle deep-hole boring machine in the adjacent workshop, "That's a nightmare."
"We tried three times," Frank added.
"To drill a three-inch hole in a forged solid steel ingot and then rifle it. As a result, we scrapped twelve of the best Sheffield high-speed steel cutter heads. The cannon barrel didn't budge. The cutter heads broke or wore down, but only a shallow scratch was left on the inner wall of the steel tube."
"The hardness is too high," Griffiths concluded, "Our processing tools can't bite into the product. It's like carving stone with a wooden knife."
Felix picked up the broken cutter head, carefully examining the cross-section.
This was a typical industrial paradox.
To create the strongest weapons, the hardest materials are needed. But the harder the material, the more difficult it is to process.
"What about New Jersey?" Felix asked, "What do Coleman and Haas say?"
"They say they can prefabricate a rough inner hole by forging," Frank replied.
"But that Nasmyth steam hammer is still being debugged. And even if an inner hole is forged, the final precision machining still relies on cutting. The rifling requires an accuracy of one-thousandth of an inch, which forging cannot achieve."
"If we don't reduce the hardness of the steel," Griffiths looked at Felix, seemingly waiting for his Boss to compromise, "we might never be able to make this barrel. Unless..."
"Unless we have a harder knife," Felix finished his sentence.
He showed no sign of frustration.
On the contrary, this technical bottleneck excited him. It indicated that Militech was indeed at the forefront of the era.
"Reducing the hardness is impossible," Felix stated emphatically, "The selling point of this cannon is its lightness and high pressure. If we reduce the strength, we'd have to increase the wall thickness, and then it would become as cumbersome as a parrott gun. I want a scalpel, not a sledgehammer."
Felix put down the fragment, pondering the military industry knowledge in his mind. Thanks to his military service, he knew some things about old artifacts, even if he hadn't used them.
So, Instructor Allen was ready to show off!
He looked at Griffiths and asked, "Reese, have you heard of tungsten?"
"Tungsten?" Griffiths was stunned, "That heavy stone discovered by the Swede? I know it. A metal that's very difficult to melt. I heard some Austrian chemists experimented with it in the lab."
"It's not just difficult to melt."
Felix walked to the blackboard, picked up a piece of chalk, and wrote down a rough chemical idea.
"If we add a certain proportion of tungsten to our tool steel, combined with a special quenching process..."
"Tungsten-manganese-iron alloy..."
Griffiths stared at the formula, his eyes starting to glaze over with the expression of a scientist discovering a new continent.
"Theoretically... it can greatly improve red hardness. Even when high temperatures are generated during high-speed cutting, the cutter head won't soften."
"That should be it." Felix nodded, "There's no need to use this expensive material to make cannon barrels. We only need to use it to make that carving knife."
"But where can we find tungsten?" Frank asked, "This isn't potatoes at the market."
"That's where Sainn Minerals comes in." Felix smiled, "Miller found some associated minerals in the Appalachia mines. At the time, they thought it was waste rock, but I had it analyzed. It contains what we need."
He turned to Frank.
"Send a telegram to Miller. Tell him to pick out those 'waste rocks' and send them to Griffiths' lab. Also, have Templeton's offices in London and Vienna acquire all available tungsten ore samples on the market."
"Griffiths." Felix looked at the metallurgist, "I'm giving you one month. I want you to refine this new, almost magical tool steel. Can you do it?"
"One month?"
Griffiths scratched his messy hair, madness burning in his eyes.
"As long as you have the ore, I can get you the first batch in two weeks! I've wanted to try that damned stone for a long time!"
"Very good."
With the material and tool problems solved, Felix's gaze returned to the wooden model.
"Besides the processing difficulty, are there any other issues?"
"Breech sealing." Frank pointed to the horizontal wedge breechblock.
"Mr. Haas's design is ingenious. But under high pressure, especially when we use double charges, gunpowder gas will spray out from the gaps in the breechblock. That will burn the gunner's face, reduce chamber pressure, and even shorten the range."
"So we need a sealing ring." Frank took out a brass ring.
"We tried using copper gaskets. But after a few shots, they deformed, or even melted and stuck in the barrel, making them difficult to remove."
"This involves the concept of self-tightening." Felix thought, then picked up the brass ring to examine it.
He seemed to have heard this problem in some short video; early breech-loading cannons struggled most with gas sealing.
"I think, perhaps your design is too rigid."
Felix's lips curled slightly, then he gestured with his finger on the inner side of the brass ring.
"You can try not to block the gas with brute force, but to utilize the power of the gas."
He drew a cross-section on the blackboard.
"Make this brass ring L-shaped, or cup-shaped. The opening facing the inside of the barrel."
"When the gunpowder explodes, high-pressure gas will rush into this cup opening, pushing the edges of the brass ring outwards, pressing tightly against the inner wall of the barrel," Felix explained. "The greater the pressure, the tighter it seals, so the better the seal."
"And when the pressure disappears, the brass ring will retract due to its elasticity, slightly detaching from the inner wall, making it easy to remove."
This is apparently called the "Broadwell ring" principle, which later became the progenitor of all breech-loading cannon gas seals.
Frank and Griffiths stared at the sketch on the blackboard, speechless for a long time.
"Using pressure to counteract pressure." Frank murmured, "This is simply... too cunning."
"It's clever," Felix gently tapped the table, correcting him.
"Alright, Gentlemen." Felix clapped his hands to remove the chalk dust, "I've given direction for the knife problem and a solution for the shield problem. The rest is up to you."
"You know we don't have much time. The War Department's five hundred thousand dollars isn't free. Secretary Stanton is waiting, General Grant is waiting, and even President Lincoln is waiting."
Felix held up a finger, "We must see the first real steel cannon fire on our firing range before July."
"Can you do it?"
"Yes!" Frank answered loudly, the fatigue gone from his eyes.
"Then get to work."
Felix believed that once these two problems were solved, Lex Steel and Militech would completely push open the door to the era of heavy weaponry.
And the world behind that door... would be defined by him!
The white chalk sketch on the blackboard was exceptionally clear under the gaslight.
It looked like a simple geometric puzzle, yet it untied the knot that had plagued Frank Cole and Reese Griffiths for weeks.
However, once the initial excitement cooled slightly, Frank, as the company's Chief Operating Officer, began calculating in his mind.
He put down the drawing, pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, and wiped the graphite dust from his hands.
"Boss, since you have a direction for the technical issues, I need to discuss the practical problems."
He walked to the desk and picked up the abacus and ledger.
Frank pointed at the exquisite wooden model. "This cannon, according to your requirements, is entirely steel, chrome-nickel alloy plated, and requires precision machining using high-speed steel tools containing tungsten. Plus, that complex Transverse Wedge Breech and Hydraulic Recoil Mechanism..."
"I just ran a rough calculation in my head." Frank looked up, his expression serious. "The raw material cost alone is ten times that of a cast iron cannon. Add in the time spent on processing, the amortization of the scrap rate, and the depreciation of those expensive specialized equipment."
"The manufacturing cost for a single cannon will be at least eight hundred dollars, and that's before we add the profit we need to make."
"Eight hundred dollars." Griffiths whistled from the side.
"That price is enough to buy two brand new Napoleon Bronze Cannons. If we compare it to those cheap cast iron parrott guns, it could buy four."
"If we want to maintain a reasonable profit margin to support the massive subsequent R&D investment of Lex Steel and Militech," Frank looked at Felix, "the final selling price of this cannon probably cannot be less than fifteen hundred dollars."
"Secretary Stanton will go crazy. The bureaucrats in the Ordnance Department argue all day just to save a few cents on gunpowder. Will they accept this price?"
A sense of worry permeated the air.
While technological breakthroughs were exciting, creating an expensive toy that no one could afford would be a disaster for a commercial company.
Felix still sat there, toying with the broken tool bit fragment in his hand. There was no trace of worry on his face; instead, he wore a playful smile.
"Frank," Felix began, "what do you think is the most expensive thing in the world?"
"Gold?" Frank answered tentatively.
"No." Felix shook his head. "It's failure."
"You calculate the manufacturing cost, but the War Department calculates the 'cost of war'."
"A parrott gun costs three hundred dollars; it's cheap. But when it explodes on the battlefield, it doesn't just turn into scrap iron—it takes a well-trained artillery crew with it. How much do the pensions, the training costs for new recruits, and the transportation fees for the cannon add up to?"
Felix turned around, his gaze sharp.
"More importantly, when this cannon is silenced by an explosion, causing the infantry to lose fire support, thereby losing a critical position, or even losing a battle—what is that cost?"
"President Lincoln doesn't need to save money right now." Felix pointed out incisively.
"He needs victory. A victory that can completely shatter the Confederates' will to resist before the election. For that victory, he is willing to pay any price."
"Fifteen hundred dollars?" Felix sneered. "No, no, no... Frank, you are too conservative."
He walked to the blackboard, erased the sketch of the sealing ring, and wrote down a number.
"$2,500."
"Two thousand five hundred dollars."
Frank and Miller both widened their eyes.
"This... this is robbery." Griffiths couldn't help but say. "Although I like money too, this..."
"This is its value." Felix interrupted him. "We aren't just selling a cannon. We are selling rate of fire, range, safety, and, most importantly, time."
"The rate of fire of this cannon is five times that of a muzzle-loader. This means one Vanguard Model 64 Steel Cannon is equivalent to five Napoleon cannons in terms of firepower delivered. How much are five Napoleon cannons? Two thousand dollars. Plus the personnel expenses and rations for five artillery crews."
"When you look at it that way," Felix spread his hands, "our cannon is practically a bargain, like charity."
Frank was stunned.
He had never considered the problem from this perspective.
This was the Boss's business logic: not selling a product, but selling 'effectiveness'.
"Furthermore," Felix continued, "we need to give them a reason they cannot refuse."
"You said earlier that the Ordnance Department bureaucrats like to argue?"
"Yes, Boss."
"Then we'll make them shut up." A cold glint flashed in Felix's eyes. "When we build the first prototype cannon, I don't intend to test it at a lukewarm firing range like the one in Washington."
"We are going to put on a real 'show'."
"A show?"
"Yes." Felix pointed to Virginia on the map.
"Once the prototype rolls off the line, I will invite Secretary Stanton, even President Lincoln, and those Congressional skeptics, to witness it firsthand."
"I will use this cannon to blow a scrapped locomotive into pieces from a distance of two thousand yards."
"Let them see with their own eyes what kind of artillery two thousand five hundred dollars buys."
These words filled everyone present with a surge of excitement.
"Alright, Boss."
Frank took a deep breath and closed the ledger.
"Since you have set the price, my job is to ensure it is worth every penny."
Felix added, "Also, besides the tool bits, our gun barrel steel billets require cooperation from Lex Steel. Coleman and Mr. Haas have already calibrated the Nasmyth Steam Hammer."
"Frank, immediately send someone to New Jersey to deliver our blueprints and tolerance standards. Tell Haas I want him to reserve the most precise inner bore allowance during the forging stage. Reducing the amount of cutting saves cost and saves time."
"Understood." Frank quickly wrote in his notebook. "I will send our best engineer to coordinate."
"What about the timeline?" Felix asked.
"If the tool issue can be solved within two weeks," Frank estimated, looking at the calendar on the wall, "plus coordinating logistics with New Jersey... the first complete prototype cannon can roll off the line by mid-June at the earliest."
"Mid-June..." Felix pondered for a moment, comparing the current front-line progress with historical events.
It should be the critical moment when General Grant, having suffered heavy losses prematurely at the Battle of Cold Harbor, begins the siege of Petersburg.
The front lines would be bogged down in long and bloody trench warfare.
That would be precisely when the Federal Army most needed artillery that could accurately destroy enemy fortifications while remaining light and mobile.
Felix nodded. "Let's tentatively set it for June 15th."
He stood up and adjusted his collar.
"Gentlemen, let's get moving. Washington's check has arrived, and we have given our commitment."
"Now, it's our turn to turn the lines on these blueprints into steel that roars across the land."
When he left the R&D center, it was already late.
Felix walked alone through the bustling factory area, watching the lights that burned all night and listening to the roar of the forging hammer with every drop.
He knew he was creating a monster.
A monster that fed on money, had steel for bones, and gunpowder for blood.
But he had no regrets.
Because in this chaotic era, only those who ride the monster can end the chaos.
"Two thousand five hundred dollars..."
Felix repeated the number softly, a dark smile playing on his lips.
When those shells explode on the Confederates' positions, and when the bells of war's end finally toll.
People will realize that this is not only the most expensive artillery in the world.
It is also the cheapest peace in the world.
Pittsburgh, on the banks of the Monongahela River.
Carnegie stood by the office window, tightly clutching a blueprint. The rain outside tapped against the glass, making his mood even more irritable.
That was the design blueprint for the Ohio River Bridge.
It was the major project he had risked his entire fortune and life to secure: the first railway bridge to cross the Ohio River.
Once completed, it would completely connect the Pennsylvania Railroad network with the western rail lines.
But now he had encountered trouble, big trouble.
"No, Andy."
His partner and chief engineer, Piper, threw his slide rule onto the table with a sharp sound.
"The span is too large, a three-hundred-foot main span. If we use ordinary wrought iron trusses, the dead weight will be too great and crush the piers. Cast iron is too brittle to withstand the vibrations when a train passes."
"Then thicken the trusses and reinforce the piers!" Carnegie turned around, his voice sharp.
"That would double the cost," Piper retorted. "And the layer of silt at the river bottom can't support such heavy piers, unless..."
"Unless what?"
"Unless we use steel." Piper looked at him.
"True high-strength alloy steel, used for the main load-bearing beams. It's three times stronger than wrought iron, yet only half the weight. That way we can reduce the dead weight and increase the span."
"Steel..."
Carnegie gritted his teeth, repeating the word softly.
Of course, he knew he had to use steel.
But the problem was, where could he buy it?
The so-called 'steel' produced by the primitive blast furnaces in Pittsburgh was inconsistent in quality and could not possibly be used for the main beams.
Import it from Britain? Bessemer Steel was ridiculously expensive, and the shipping schedule wouldn't meet the construction deadline.
"I heard," Piper hesitated before speaking, "that Lex Steel Company's No. 1 blast furnace has begun producing iron. And they are currently debugging a massive rolling mill. It's rumored to be capable of producing a new type of building material called 'I-beam Steel.'"
Carnegie's face twitched.
Argyle again.
Lex Steel again.
He felt like a fly trapped in a spiderweb; no matter which direction he flew, he would eventually hit the net woven by that New Yorker.
He had just earned a bridge construction fee from Argyle, and now he had to take that money and beg to buy his steel?
"Is there no other way?" Carnegie asked unwillingly.
"No," Piper was honest. "Unless you want to watch the bridge collapse into the river. Andy, this is the first major bridge across the river. If it fails, Keystone Company is finished. And so are we."
Carnegie was silent for a long time.
He looked at the gray sky outside the window, and the train loaded with ore, whistling eastward down the distant tracks.
That ore was heading to New Jersey.
He turned around and adjusted his collar. The struggle and anger on his face instantly vanished, replaced by a merchant's shrewdness and resolve.
"I'll go buy it."
*******
New Jersey, Lex Steel Company.
Inside the massive forging and pressing workshop, heat waves rolled.
In one corner of the workshop, a heavy deep-hole boring machine, which had just finished installation and debugging, was emitting a screeching metal cutting sound.
Friedrich Haas, William Coleman, and Frank Cole were gathered around the machine.
At their feet, piles of silver-glowing, spiral steel shavings were scattered.
"This is too fast."
Haas stared at the slowly advancing cutter head, exclaiming in German, "This is prometheus alloy! Before, using the best Sheffield tools, we could only feed half an inch per hour, and we'd break two tools. Now..."
He glanced at his pocket watch.
"Three inches an hour, and the cutter head is completely undamaged."
"This is the tungsten the Boss mentioned." Frank Cole held an unremarkable cutter head in his hand, his eyes filled with awe.
"Mr. Griffiths spent nearly two weeks tinkering in the lab just to produce this one piece. The hardness of the Tungsten-Manganese-Iron Alloy is simply unbelievable."
Coleman patted the cannon barrel being processed.
"With this, we can cut steel ingots like butter. Rifling accuracy is no longer an issue."
Frank pointed to a newly processed L-shaped copper ring on the workbench nearby.
"We tested this too; the Boss's theory is correct. The greater the pressure from the gunpowder gases, the tighter it seals. The sealing performance is absolutely perfect."
"Since all the problems are solved," Coleman looked up at the busy factory area outside the window, "don't stop now. Half of Secretary Stanton's five hundred thousand research and development funds have been spent. We need to let him hear the noise."
He turned to Haas.
"Haas, where is your rolling mill?"
"It's already in position."
Haas pointed to the even larger workshop next door, "But I lack steel ingots. Mr. Jennings's Open Hearth Furnace is still preheating. Although the Irish workers are working hard, their skills are still too rough. I need time to train them."
"There's no time for training," Coleman shook his head. "A client is on his way to New York. Andrew Carnegie. He wants to buy the kind of steel used to build major bridges."
"Carnegie?" Haas was stunned. "That short guy from Pittsburgh?"
"Exactly." Coleman smiled.
"He is a demanding client. If we want to prove that Lex Steel can build not just cannons, but also bridges, rails, and skyscrapers... then we have to secure him."
*******
Two days later, Fifth Avenue in New York.
In Felix's study, an expected yet somewhat delicate guest arrived.
Andrew Carnegie sat on the sofa, holding a teacup.
"Mr. Carnegie," Felix smiled, sitting opposite him, "I hear your visit is regarding the bridge over the Ohio River?"
"Yes, Mr. Argyle." Carnegie put down the teacup and got straight to the point. "I need high-strength structural steel. Pittsburgh can't produce it, and currently, you are the only one in all of America who can."
"I know." Felix nodded.
"Reeves reported to me that the bridge is crucial for connecting the East and West. If wrought iron is used, it won't withstand the growing volume of freight."
"So," Carnegie looked at him, "name your price. I need five hundred tons, and I need it next month."
"Five hundred tons?" Felix raised an eyebrow. "That is no small amount. My factory just opened, and capacity is tight. Plus... as you know, the War Department's cannon orders are fully booked."
Carnegie naturally didn't believe him, assuming Felix just wanted to raise the price.
"Mr. Argyle, you are also a businessman. Cannons are business, and bridges are business. Why not just state the price directly?"
Felix smiled.
He appreciated Carnegie's blatant pragmatism.
"Well said."
Felix stood up and picked up a newly delivered sample report from the desk.
"I can give you five hundred tons. Moreover, it will be I-beam Steel produced using Mr. Haas's latest process."
"And the price?" Carnegie stared at him intently.
"$140 per ton, no discount."
Carnegie frowned; this price was double that of wrought iron.
"However," Felix changed the subject, "I can accept installment payments. You can pay thirty percent upfront. The remainder can be settled after you receive the construction funds from the Railway Company."
Carnegie was stunned.
This was offering him financial leverage.
"Why?" Carnegie asked, bewildered. "You could easily use this opportunity to raise the price."
"Because I want more than just this five-hundred-ton order, Mr. Carnegie." Felix looked at him, his eyes shining with profound thought. "I want the standard."
"When your major bridge, built with Lex Steel, stands firm over the Ohio River, it will tell all railway companies and all builders that only Lex Steel is the standard for safety."
"You are essentially helping me market."
Felix smiled, "It's only right that I cover a little bit of the interest on this advertising expense for you."
Carnegie looked at the man, who was even younger than himself, and suddenly felt a deep sense of powerlessness.
He had thought he was using the other party, only to find that the other party was already standing on a higher dimension, treating him as a piece on a chessboard.
But he could not refuse.
"Deal." Carnegie extended his hand and said through gritted teeth, "Mr. Argyle, one day I will build better steel than you."
"As I said, wait for that day."
Felix shook his hand, "After all, competition is the driving force of progress, isn't it?"
After seeing Carnegie out, Frost walked in.
He was slightly worried. "Boss, giving him the best steel, and even financing him... what if he really makes it big..."
"What difference does it make if he makes it big?" Felix turned to look at the map.
"Edward, this country is too vast. Lex Steel alone cannot satisfy this appetite. Besides, we need competitors; we need someone to stimulate the market."
"Furthermore," he pointed to the extending railway line on the map, "as long as he still uses my railway to transport ore, uses my bank for settlement, and adheres to the standards I set..."
"The bigger he gets, the more I earn."
"This is the highest realm of monopoly."
The Battle of Cold Harbor had just ended.
General Grant had left the corpses of seven thousand soldiers on that hellish battlefield, gaining only a few miles of advance.
Newspapers openly began calling the Federal General-in-Chief "The Butcher," and President Lincoln's prospects for re-election were precarious due to the devastating casualty list.
On this suffocating afternoon, the firing range at the Washington Armory was unusually noisy.
The area was heavily guarded.
There were few people in the stands, but every one of them held the nation's lifeline: President Abraham Lincoln, Secretary of War Edwin Stanton, General-in-Chief Halleck, and several key members of the Congressional Military Committee.
Their gazes were all focused on the strangely shaped cannon in the center of the firing range.
It was a deep matte black, its long steel barrel mounted on a low carriage equipped with two brass cylinders (the Hydraulic Recoil Mechanism).
"That is the miracle you wanted to show us?"
Lincoln removed his top hat, wiped the sweat from his forehead with a handkerchief, and spoke in a hoarse voice.
"Felix, you should know that what I need most right now is something that can blast General Lee out of the trenches at Petersburg."
"This is exactly what was prepared for you, Mr. President."
Felix Argyle stood beside Lincoln, his expression unchanged by the heat or the pressure from the high-ranking officials.
"The Model 64 Infantry Gun is the first all-steel, breech-loading field gun produced by Militech."
"Breech-loading?" Senator Hans interjected, his tone laced with doubt.
"The British Armstrong Gun is also breech-loading, but it leaks gas badly in combat. Why do you think yours is better than the British one?"
Felix did not reply, instead waving his hand toward Miller on the field.
Miller, wearing a shirt with his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, personally acted as the Gun Commander.
Under his command, four specially trained Militech technicians quickly took their positions.
"Target: Abandoned locomotive boiler, two thousand yards away." Miller shouted the command.
A loader pulled the handle at the breech.
"Click."
A crisp metallic clank sounded. The Sliding Wedge Breechblock slid open, revealing the clear bore.
The loader picked up a conical shell from the ammunition box and shoved it directly into the chamber.
"Close the breech!"
"Fire!"
"Boom—!"
This sound was unlike any previous cannon. It was short, sharp, and accompanied by a shriek that tore through the air.
The gun carriage recoiled sharply on the rails, and the Hydraulic Recoil Mechanism beneath let out a "hiss" of intake, absorbing the massive recoil instantly before gently pushing the carriage back into its original position.
Just two seconds later.
The abandoned steam locomotive boiler serving as the target in the distance erupted in an orange-red fireball.
"Hit!"
"Rapid Fire!" Miller roared.
Pulling the bolt, ejecting the casing, loading, locking, firing.
The entire sequence of actions was smooth and flowing. In just one minute, the cannon spat fire eight times in quick succession, repeatedly smashing the locomotive boiler that was already reduced to scrap metal.
When the last cannon shot subsided, the massive boiler at the end of the range had completely vanished, leaving behind only a smoking crater.
The stands were deathly silent.
Secretary Stanton's cigar dropped to the ground.
They were accustomed to muzzle-loading cannons that required half a day of cleaning the bore after a single shot. But what they just witnessed was eight rounds per minute.
"My God..." General Halleck muttered, "This is the firepower of an entire Artillery Company."
President Lincoln slowly stood up and walked to the railing, leaning forward as if trying to discern every detail of the cannon.
"Mr. Felix."
Lincoln turned around, and a light reignited in his tired eyes.
"Is this... the power of industrial warfare?"
"Yes, Mr. President," Felix replied.
"The price?" Stanton picked up his cigar and got straight to the point.
"Two thousand five hundred dollars," Felix stated the pre-determined figure, "including the complete set of maintenance tools."
Stanton's eyes widened instantly. "Felix... that price is too..."
"It is not expensive," Lincoln interrupted Stanton, who was preparing to haggle. "It is not expensive at all."
The President looked at the shell crater in the distance.
"Edwin, have you calculated how many men we lost at Cold Harbor? If we had this thing back then..." His voice caught in his throat.
Lincoln turned, looking at Felix with determination.
"Double your production line, or triple it. I want General Grant to have these things lined up in front of the trenches at Petersburg. Money is not an issue; if anyone in Congress dares to obstruct this, tell him to go stand in that shell crater."
Stanton nodded heavily.
"Understood. I will draft a special procurement bill immediately."
*******
After the test concluded, the crowd dispersed.
Stanton intentionally stayed behind, walking side-by-side with Felix across the gunpowder-scented grass.
"You won again, Felix." Stanton looked at the prototype cannon, which was still cooling down.
"Two thousand five hundred dollars—that's practically robbing the national treasury. But I have to admit, this is the most willing I've ever been to be robbed."
"It's a win-win," Felix handed him a cigar.
"Right, about the Morgan family affair..."
Stanton lowered his voice and exhaled a puff of smoke.
"Although that young Little Morgan is dead, the Department of Justice's investigation has concluded."
"Oh?" Felix remained impassive.
"The evidence is conclusive." Stanton sneered. "He bribed secretaries, plotted assassinations, and even funded malicious slander against your company. These crimes cannot be washed away, even in death."
"This is a massive blow to Peabody Bank," Stanton continued.
"News from London says that old Junius Morgan, though not directly indicted, had to pay a massive sum to quell the scandal. Their reputation in Europe is half ruined. The Rothschild family has publicly severed business ties with them."
"That is fair," Felix said calmly.
"Wrongdoing must incur a price, even for the dead."
Old Lion Junius must be licking his wounds alone in London right now, but he no longer has the ability to reach out to America for the time being.
"One more thing," Stanton looked at Felix, "about that black oil."
"Petroleum?"
"Yes. Those barrels of samples you sent to the Navy Department in New York," Stanton said. "The Navy engineers tested it in a laboratory boiler. They said that although it produced a lot of smoke and smelled terrible when burned, its caloric value was astonishing."
"They wanted to ask," Stanton looked at Felix, "if your laboratory could refine that substance to make it cleaner? If the issues of incomplete combustion and clogged nozzles can be solved, the Navy Department is willing to allocate funds to support your further research."
"We are working on it, Secretary."
Felix smiled, not making any firm promises.
"Dr. Thorne is setting up specialized distillation equipment. However, that requires time. To turn it into suitable fuel, we will likely have to wait a while."
"That's fine, as long as there is hope." Stanton patted his shoulder. "Just like with this cannon, I trust you can handle it."
"I will."
Felix looked at the sky.
The age of petroleum is still far off; the focus remains on steel.
That evening, on the train back to New York, Frost looked at the cheerful Felix.
"Boss, the rail tracks destined for Omaha have been loaded. Mr. Carnegie's bridge components have also been shipped."
"Very good." Felix nodded.
"It's time for the Wild West," Felix tapped his fingers lightly on his knee, "to follow our rules."
*******
July 1864, Petersburg Front, Virginia.
The summer sun baked the intricate trenches like a brick kiln, and the air was filled with the stench of corpses, excrement, and the sulfurous smell of burnt gunpowder.
General Grant's Potomac Corps had been in a standoff with Robert E. Lee's forces here for nearly a month.
The Union army attempted to cut off Richmond's railway supply lines, while the Confederates relied on complex earthworks for stubborn resistance.
This was a different kind of war than before.
There were no large-scale firing lines or charges.
Only endless digging, sniping, and shelling.
Behind the positions of the Union XVIII Corps, on a newly leveled high ground, the atmosphere was exceptionally solemn.
Colonel Mortimer Black, head of the Quartermaster Department, wore a sweat-soaked shirt with his sleeves rolled up to his biceps.
He stood beside Major General William Smith, commander of the XVIII Corps, holding a newly signed acceptance form.
In front of them, twelve brand-new cannons were neatly arranged.
"Is this the hammer we'll use to break down the door?"
General Smith put down his binoculars, a hint of anticipation in his voice.
"Yes, General," Colonel Black replied.
"These were procured directly by the War Department. Each one cost two thousand five hundred dollars. But I guarantee they are worth every penny."
"Then let my boys try them out."
General Smith waved his hand.
The artillery captain, an experienced Union major, immediately gave the order.
"Attention, company! Target: two thousand yards, enemy 'Redoubt'!"
"Load!"
"Click, click..."
Twelve crisp metallic clicks sounded almost simultaneously.
The Union gunners, having received short-term training from Militech technicians in Washington, skillfully pulled open the horizontal wedge breech, pushed the golden fixed ammunition into the breech, and quickly locked it.
Everything happened incredibly fast.
"Fire!"
Boom!
Twelve cannons simultaneously spat out short tongues of flame.
The gun barrels recoiled violently under the action of the hydraulic recoil system, then quickly returned to position.
Almost in the blink of an eye, two thousand yards away, a circle of dust exploded around the prominent earthwork fortress on the Confederate defense line.
"Correction... add one to the range!"
"Rapid fire! Fire!"
This time, it was no longer a volley.
"Boom! Boom! Boom! Boom...!"
The cannon fire merged into a continuous roar, like a dense drumbeat.
Each cannon was pouring out ammunition at an astonishing rate towards the target.
Two thousand yards away, that once impregnable Confederate fortress was instantly engulfed in a sea of fire.
Heavy logs were shattered, and sandbags flew everywhere like burst pillows.
Counterattack? Impossible!
Under that rain-like barrage, any attempt to peek out from cover was suicide.
Just three minutes.
Twelve cannons poured nearly three hundred high-explosive shells into that small fortress.
When the smoke cleared, the "Redoubt" had vanished. Only a massive, smoking crater and scattered debris remained.
"My God..."
General Smith muttered, looking at the crater.
"This firepower is even fiercer than a heavy artillery battalion, and it doesn't even need to cool down."
"These are steel cannons, General."
Colonel Black's face broke into a satisfied smile.
"With these, the walls of Petersburg are like paper."
*******
Lex Steel Company, New Jersey.
In the massive rolling mill, Haas stood at the control console, staring at the "High-Speed Reversible Rolling Mill" operating at full speed below.
Red-hot steel ingots were fed into the rollers, rapidly lengthening and thinning under immense pressure, eventually transforming into standard heavy steel rails.
"What's the output?" William Coleman walked up to the console and asked loudly.
"Two hundred tons a day!"
Haas replied, a hint of fatigue on his face, but more so, pride.
"This machine is a monster. If I wanted to, I could pave the entire America with railway tracks."
"Then don't let it stop."
Coleman looked at the steel rails being loaded.
"Union Pacific Railroad Company has placed an additional order. They want to build to Wyoming. And Pennsylvania Railroad's track replacement plan... our capacity for the next three years is already sold out."
"As long as there's money, I can build it," Haas shrugged. "By the way, any news from the Boss? About the new cannon's production."
"Yes," Coleman nodded.
"Frank sent a telegram; the feedback from Washington is surprisingly good. The War Department might place a second order for five hundred cannons. We need to provide Militech with more cannon barrel blanks."
"Then open furnace number two," Haas said without hesitation.
"Tell Jennings to get that furnace ready. We're going to let the whole world know that Lex can do more than just make rails..."
*******
Across the ocean, in the Kingdom of Prussia, south of Berlin.
The Kummersdorf Artillery Proving Ground was strictly sealed off today.
General Helmuth von Moltke, Chief of the Prussian General Staff, stood in the observation post, holding a monocular telescope.
Beside him was Major Albrecht von Alvensleben, who had just returned from America.
On the open ground before them lay two gifts from the New World.
A "Militech 1863" rifle and a "vanguard 1863 gatling gun" mounted on a tripod.
"Begin," Moltke's voice was stern.
A Prussian drill sergeant stepped forward, picked up the rifle, skillfully worked the lever, loaded, and fired.
"Bang... bang... bang..."
In less than a minute, he emptied the seven rounds in the magazine, then quickly reloaded and fired again.
Next was the machine gun.
"Dada dada dada...!"
The terrifying rate of fire made the Prussian officers present turn pale.
The target three hundred meters away was instantly torn to shreds.
When the gunfire ceased, Moltke lowered his binoculars, turned around, and looked at the silent Prime Minister Otto von Bismarck behind him.
"Mr. Chancellor."
Moltke spoke, his tone carrying an unprecedented gravity.
"Major Alvensleben's report was not only not exaggerated, but even understated."
"What were the comparison results?" Bismarck took a puff from his cigar, smoke swirling.
"Catastrophic," Moltke said bluntly.
"If our soldiers, armed with Dreyse Needle Guns, were to face this weapon... it would be a massacre. Our rate of fire is only one-third of theirs, and the sealing of these metallic fixed cartridges is far superior to our paper cartridges."
"And that 'Organ Gun'."
Moltke pointed to the still-smoking machine gun.
"That is a divine weapon for defensive warfare. Two such machines could block a regiment's frontal charge. If we had this on the Danish battlefield this month... even the Austrians wouldn't dare to raise their heads in front of our positions."
Bismarck nodded.
He walked to the machine gun and gently stroked the cold barrel with his gloved hand.
"Exquisite craftsmanship," he praised.
"Not just the design, but also the material. This steel is harder than Krupp's."
"What does Mr. Krupp say?" Bismarck asked.
"He is very angry, and also... ashamed," Major Alvensleben replied.
"His engineers disassembled a rifle. They admit that the current Essen factory cannot replicate a gun mechanism of the same precision in a short time. Especially the formula for that alloy steel... it's still a mystery."
"Then buy them," Bismarck decided. "Since we can't make them, we'll buy them first."
He turned to Moltke.
"General, I approve your request. Immediately place an additional order with that American... Mr. Argyle."
"How many do we want?"
"Ten thousand rifles are not enough," Bismarck's eyes glinted with cold light.
"We want fifty thousand rifles, and one hundred of those machine guns."
"But, Mr. Chancellor..." The finance official hesitated.
"This will require a large sum of gold. And we also have to pay that so-called 'technology transfer fee'..."
"Money is not an issue," Bismarck interrupted him.
"This will end the Danish War as quickly as possible; the next target is those arrogant Austrians in Vienna."
He walked to the map, his finger tracing the border between Prussia and Austria.
"To kick Austria out of Germany, for unification..." Bismarck's voice became deep and powerful.
"We must possess a sharper sword than they do."
"That American wants money? Give it to him. Wants a market? Give it to him. As long as he can get these weapons into the hands of my soldiers before the great war breaks out."
"And," Bismarck added, "tell Krupp to stop complaining. Let his people learn well. Five years. In five years, I want Prussian factories to be able to produce such things."
"Yes, Mr. Chancellor."
Major Alvensleben saluted and turned to leave.
Bismarck looked at the bullet-riddled targets on the proving ground, a cold smile playing on his lips.
"America..." he murmured to himself.
"A place full of barbarism and miracles. It seems we have indeed found an extraordinary ally."
Meanwhile, Felix, far away in New York, had no idea what kind of storm his weapons were about to unleash on the European continent.
He was sitting in his study, looking at a new report Frost had handed him.
"Boss, the Prussians' telegram has arrived. They've accepted all our conditions and increased their order."
Felix smiled.
"Excellent," he picked up his pen and signed the document.
"Tell Frank and Coleman to make the machines run faster."
"Because our customers... can't wait to start the war."
August 1864, New York Harbor.
The scorching heat of summer had turned this port city into a giant steamer. Yet, at Pier 3 on the East River, the bustling activity showed no signs of slowing down.
With a slightly hoarse whistle, a deep-drafted ocean freighter, pulled by a steam tugboat, slowly docked at the pier.
It was named the North Star, an old ship President Templeton had acquired six months prior from a bankrupt British shipping company, and it was currently one of the primary transatlantic transport vessels for the cloverleaf project.
Felix Argyle stood in his office on the second floor of the pier, holding a glass of iced black tea.
Beside him was MacGregor, the head of the Atlantic Steam Power Factory.
"Is this the sixth batch?"
Felix asked, looking at the plainly dressed but bright-eyed Irish youths disembarking from the gangplank.
"That's right," MacGregor wiped the sweat from his forehead.
"Four hundred and twenty people. This old ship, though a bit slow and with frequent boiler issues, is quite sturdy. Mr. Finley packed the cargo hold full in Liverpool."
Felix turned around, his gaze falling on the massive dry dock of the Atlantic Steam Power Factory not far away.
"How much longer until our new ship is ready?"
There, a huge steel hull was already taking shape.
Towering scaffolding enveloped it like a cocoon, and countless riveters worked on the hull like woodpeckers, creating a deafening clang of metal.
"That's the 'Light of Ireland,' the first ship of the 'Cloverleaf Class.'"
MacGregor's tone held a hint of pride, and also a touch of anxiety.
"The keel and ribs have been laid, and eighty percent of the hull plating has been riveted. The steel plates from Lex Steel Company are astonishingly high quality, even smoother than the British ones."
"But," MacGregor changed the subject, "the steam engine hasn't arrived yet. The new triple-expansion steam engine Mr. Coleman ordered from Manchester has been delayed due to a strike by British workers. Without its heart, this ship can't be launched."
"Urge them," Felix's command was simple.
"Have the London office push them, or find another solution yourselves. I want this ship launched before winter. These old, second-hand cargo ships won't be able to handle our future trade volume."
"Understood, I will personally send a telegram."
After bidding farewell to MacGregor, Felix boarded a private steam launch and headed west along the busy waterway to the Lex Steel Company's private dock in New Jersey.
Half an hour later, as he stepped onto that black land, he felt not only the heatwave but also the tremor of the earth.
In the massive forging workshop, the twenty-five-ton "Nasmyth Hammer" roared like thunder.
Coleman and Haas stood outside the safety line, intently watching the glowing red object deforming under the giant hammer.
It was a red-hot alloy steel ingot.
Under the hammer's precise and violent blows, impurities were squeezed out of the ingot, its crystalline structure became denser, and it gradually transformed into a cylindrical object about three meters long with uniform thickness—the rough blank for a future cannon.
"How many is this?" Felix asked loudly, walking behind Coleman.
"The hundredth."
Coleman turned around, his face covered in coal dust, but smiling like a child.
"Haas's process control is perfect; after forging, it's ten times stronger than cast iron!"
"Excellent." Felix looked at the freight train being loaded.
Cranes lifted cooled cannon barrel blanks one by one, carefully placing them on flatcars padded with straw mats.
"This train will depart for Connecticut tonight," Coleman said, "Frank is already waiting there."
*******
The next morning, Militech.
If the steel mill in New Jersey was a powerful blacksmith's forge, then this place was a precise surgical room.
The train slowly entered the dedicated track.
Frank had already directed the workers to begin unloading.
"Careful! Everyone be careful…" Frank shouted, "Don't damage these treasures; each of these steel blanks is worth a thousand dollars."
These rough, solid steel pipe blanks were quickly transported to the newly expanded heavy processing workshop.
There, a dozen of the latest deep-hole boring machines were lined up.
Most of these machines were replicated and improved by Militech's own machinists based on blueprints Coleman brought back from Europe.
"Mr. Griffiths," Frank called out to the chief metallurgist who was inspecting tools, "Are your 'Tungsten-Manganese-Iron Alloy' cutter heads ready?"
"They've been ready for a while."
Griffiths picked up a cutting tool that shimmered with a dark gray luster, a hint of fanaticism in his eyes.
"Ordinary cutter heads can't bite into the hard bones forged by that Prussian, Haas. But with this…"
He lightly waved the cutter head.
"It will drill into the guts of those steel pipes like cutting cheese."
The machines roared to life.
The first steel pipe blank was secured in the chuck and began to rotate slowly. Griffiths personally operated the boring machine, slowly advancing the expensive alloy cutter head into the center of the steel pipe.
"Sizzle…"
Accompanied by a piercing screech, rolls of blue, scorching hot steel shavings splattered from the cutting edge.
Coolant sprayed onto the cutter head like a fountain, raising white steam.
Felix, who had arrived together that morning, stood on the observation deck, watching this scene.
This was the industrial system he had built.
Lex Steel was responsible for providing the highest quality materials and basic forming; Militech was responsible for the most precise processing and final assembly.
The two were connected by rail, each performing its duties yet tightly interlocked.
"Frank," Felix asked, "At the current pace, how many cannons can we produce each month?"
"Limited by the number of boring machines and cutter head wear," Frank calculated, "we can currently produce about fifty finished pieces per month. But this is just the beginning; if we add two more production lines…"
"Then add them!" Felix said without hesitation.
"The War Department's orders are already lined up until next year; Secretary Stanton would sell his desk to get these cannons."
"Understood."
_____________
I made an axilliary chapter. Anyway, I don't even remember how many subsidiary companies Argyle owns xdd