As Flynn's intelligence network, like a spider web cast underwater, silently enveloped the five targets on the list, the other cogs in Felix's business empire also steadily turned on their respective tracks.
Jones's land acquisition plan in Five Points proceeded exceptionally smoothly through local agent Paddy O'Malley.
The owners of those dilapidated apartments, after receiving cash two times higher than the market price, eagerly signed the deeds. A land consolidation aimed at changing the future of the entire community was quietly underway in New York's dirtiest corner.
Meanwhile, in Whitneyville, Connecticut, at the Militech factory, a grueling war of steel and will was unfolding during the previous public opinion battle between Felix and Sloan.
"Mr. Rhys, this... this damned thing is too hard!"
Chief Craftsman Silas Blackwood looked at a newly scrapped alloy steel drill bit, his face full of frustration.
"Our best drill bits are completely blunted after drilling less than half an inch into this new steel you've developed! Its hardness is almost twice that of any steel we've ever worked with before!"
Frank Cole's face was also filled with gravity. "We tried reducing the lathe speed and increasing the amount of lubricant. But the cutting efficiency is too low. At this speed, it would take a full two days just to machine a single receiver component that meets the blueprint's precision requirements. This simply cannot meet the demands of mass production."
Rhys Griffiths, the lead of the Prometheus Project, was wearing a pair of safety goggles, carefully observing the steel plate that had only a shallow pit drilled into it. His always somewhat arrogant face showed the troubles brought by technical difficulties.
He had successfully created a new type of alloy steel in the laboratory that transcended its era.
But with the company's existing manufacturing processes, it was impossible to tame this steel beast that he had personally unleashed.
"Where is the problem?" he asked his assistant from Yale University, Arthur Vince, who was standing beside him.
Arthur Vince pushed up his glasses and replied, "Sir, I believe the problem may not be with 'force,' but with 'heat' and 'chemistry.' Our existing lubricants quickly lose their effectiveness under the high temperatures generated by high-speed cutting. I read in a German engineering journal that processing high-hardness steel might require a completely new cutting fluid, not just for lubrication, but also to react with the metal surface at a microscopic level to soften the cutting point."
"Chemistry..." Griffith murmured. The word reminded him of the chemist in New York, who was also full of genius.
"Frank." He immediately made a decision, "Send a telegram to New York headquarters immediately. Connect to Argyle Central Laboratory. I need to have a technical discussion with Dr. Thorne right away."
Over the next two weeks, a dedicated encrypted telegram line between Whitneyville and Brooklyn became exceptionally busy.
Griffith sent all the physical and chemical parameters of the new alloy to Dr. Thorne. And Dr. Thorne, as if he had found a new toy, locked himself in the laboratory and, at an astonishing speed, formulated three new, uniquely concocted cutting fluids for Griffith, based on sulfonated oil and chlorinated paraffin.
When the sample of the third cutting fluid was delivered to Militech and carefully poured onto the lathe's cutting head, a miracle occurred.
Accompanied by a pungent odor, the originally incredibly hard alloy steel, under the high-speed rotating cutting head, was cut into a smooth and fluid line, like a docile piece of butter.
"It worked! My God, we succeeded!" A long-suppressed cheer erupted in the workshop.
Interdisciplinary cooperation in this era demonstrated its unparalleled power.
After solving the biggest technical bottleneck, the manufacturing of the first "Militech 1863 Rifle" repeating rifle entered the fast lane.
Under Griffith's almost harsh precision requirements, under Silas's exquisite craftsmanship, and under Frank's efficient process management, every part was manufactured to the standard of a work of art.
A week later, when the last part of this rifle was assembled, the entire workshop fell silent.
It lay quietly on the workbench, its barrel a deep, obsidian-like blue, a unique color that the new alloy displayed after special heat treatment. Its lines were fluid and powerful, and every component fit perfectly. When the lever was pulled, the crisp and smooth "click" sound from the bolt was like heavenly music to anyone who understood machinery.
"It's beautiful." Silas looked at this piece assembled by his own hands, his eyes filled with fascination.
"Beauty doesn't win wars." A steady voice came from the workshop entrance.
Felix, who had just arranged for Jones to mass-produce compressed biscuits and water purification tablets, and had just received news that the rifle was about to take shape, had specially rushed from New York, and Mr. Miller were already standing there... The atmosphere at Militech's firing range was lively.
Frank Cole, as the chief supervisor of this rifle, personally performed the first test firing. He skillfully pressed ten rounds, one by one, into the tubular magazine under the barrel from the side loading port.
He raised the rifle, aimed at the target a hundred yards away, then abruptly pulled the lever under the rifle body. A brass casing was crisply ejected, and a new round was instantly chambered.
"Bang!"
The gunshot was louder than any rifle currently in service with the Union, and the recoil was also greater.
Frank 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 rounds were fired. On the distant target, the bullet holes were densely clustered in the center.
The entire firing range was silent. Everyone was shocked by the unprecedented firing speed and stability displayed by this rifle.
"Let me try it."
Mr. Miller, the president who had actually been on the battlefield and personally killed enemies, excitedly took the rifle, which still carried the warmth of gunpowder.
He did not shoot at the target. Instead, he subjected the rifle to the most severe abuse in an almost barbaric manner.
First, he emptied three magazines at the fastest speed until the barrel was burning hot. Then, he threw the hot rifle directly into a wooden bucket full of muddy water next to him.
"Mr. Miller!" Frank and Griffith couldn't help but exclaim. They knew that this extreme thermal expansion and contraction was a fatal test for the rifle's precise structure.
Mr. Miller ignored them.
He waited a few seconds, then fished the mud-covered rifle out of the muddy water. He didn't even wipe it, just simply tapped it on the ground to drain the muddy water from the bolt.
Then, he reloaded, raised the rifle, aimed, and fired.
"Bang!"
The crisp gunshot rang out again.
Mr. Miller's face finally showed an expression of ecstasy.
He turned around and handed the rifle, which was still firing normally, to Felix.
"Boss..." His voice trembled with extreme excitement.
"This... this is simply not like a rifle."
"This is a monster that can change wars."
Felix took the weapon, which embodied wisdom and painstaking effort, his heart also filled with excitement.
The series of tests just now showed that from this moment on, he finally possessed the hardest trump card that could truly establish him in this era.
He looked at Griffith.
"Rhys, you have created a miracle."
A heartfelt smile appeared on Griffith's proud face.
But he immediately composed himself, pointing in the direction of the design room, where an even more complex blueprint was still laid out.
"No, Mr. Argyle." he said.
"This is just a warm-up."
"The real challenge has only just begun."
On the Militech's firing range, the smell of gunpowder had not yet dissipated.
The "Militech 1863 Rifle" , which had just undergone a mud and water test and whose barrel was still warm, was being passed around like a rare treasure among Felix, Miller, Griffith, and Frank.
The joy of success was short-lived, but the shock it brought was lasting.
Miller, the company's president, with his hands that had truly seen battle, carefully inspected every component of the gun's action, his voice filled with an incredible reverence, "This thing... if we had a regiment equipped with it at the Battle of Antietam a year ago, the outcome of the battle might have been completely different."
"Yes." Frank Cole's face was also full of pride, "Its reliability exceeded our wildest imagination. Mr. Rhys's alloy steel is simply a miracle."
Rhys Griffiths listened to these praises. Although his always-tense face still maintained its reserve, an undisguised smugness showed in the corners of his eyes and brows.
However, Felix was not immersed in this atmosphere of success. He looked at the rifle, which was as perfect as a work of art, and asked the most practical question.
He turned to the chief craftsman with calloused hands, "Silas, how long would it take for you alone to make such a gun from start to finish?"
Silas Blackwood paused. He thought carefully for a moment and replied, "Boss, if every part is to meet the standard of this gun today, from forging the first screw to the final calibration, a skilled craftsman would need at least two weeks."
"Two weeks, one gun." Felix repeated the number. He nodded, then turned to Miller, "Miller, tell me, how many infantry regiments does the Federal Army currently have?"
"Over two hundred in active service, Boss," Miller replied immediately, "and they are still expanding."
"Two hundred regiments." Felix's gaze swept over everyone present, "Even if we invite all the best craftsmen in Connecticut and have them work day and night. By the time we produce enough rifles to equip an army, this war will probably be over long ago."
His words were like a bucket of cold water, waking everyone from the ecstasy of technological breakthrough.
Indeed, they had created a monster that could change the war. But if this monster could not be mass-produced, it would just be an expensive toy locked in a laboratory.
"Then... what should we do?" The young engineer James couldn't help but ask, "We can't lower our requirements for precision."
"Of course not."
Griffith immediately retorted, his tone full of pride in his work, "Every part of this gun is as precise as a clock. Any tiny deviation will cause it to become a pile of scrap metal on the battlefield. I will never allow any unqualified product to bear my name."
"I completely agree with that point, Rhys." Felix looked at him, giving his full affirmation, "Militech not only cannot lower its standards, but we must also establish a new production method that ensures every gun is as perfect as today's prototype."
He walked to an open space next to the firing range, picked up a branch, and started drawing on the muddy ground.
"Miller, Frank." Felix's voice attracted everyone's attention, "Do you remember how my food factory produced tens of thousands of identical cans in one day?"
Frank Cole's eyes lit up, "That's right, it was the assembly line you created."
"Yes, exactly, Miller, as the president of Militech, tell me how you would arrange it?" Felix looked at Miller, intending to see if his management of the company had improved during this time.
Miller was not intimidated. More than two months of managing Militech had made him familiar with the factory, so he quickly said, "Boss, I think Militech can also use an assembly line. After all, it's too slow and wasteful for one craftsman to be responsible for all processes. The manufacturing of a gun can be broken down into dozens or hundreds of the simplest, repeatable steps."
He picked up a branch and drew a diagram on the ground, beginning to elaborate on his ahead-of-its-time concept.
"Silas," Miller looked at the chief craftsman, "your specialty is heat treatment and precision grinding. So, from today on, your team will only be responsible for the final process of the barrel and action components. Your task is to control the tolerance of these two core components within one-thousandth of an inch."
After speaking, Miller looked at the young engineer, "James, you and your team are responsible for designing and manufacturing various specialized molds and fixtures. The goal is to allow an ordinary worker to cut out perfectly standard stocks and forends by simply operating a machine."
"And Frank, your task is to design this assembly line. From the first piece of steel entering the factory to the final assembly, you need to arrange every step and every workstation. The parts must flow like a river along this line."
"This... this is impossible." Griffith was the first to raise a question, his brows furrowed, "Mr. Miller, manufacturing a rifle and sealing a can are two completely different things. It requires experience, a feel, an... art. You are now going to break down this art into a tedious physical labor where everyone is only responsible for tightening a single screw. This... this is an insult to the craftsman's spirit!"
"No, Rhys, you are wrong." Felix shook his head, "This is precisely the highest respect for the craftsman's spirit."
"What is most valuable about a great craftsman, like you and Silas? Is it your hands? No, it's your brain. It's your understanding of technology and your creativity."
"By using assembly line standards, you will become the rule-makers, the standard-supervisors. Your task is to teach machines and ordinary workers how to meet your standards. Free yourselves from heavy manual labor to think about more important problems."
He walked to the door of the design office and motioned to Frank to retrieve another blueprint that had been locked in a cabinet.
It was a weapon design drawing with a more complex structure than the "Militech 1863 Rifle".
"Militech Machine Gun."
"Is this what was mentioned before?" Griffith murmured, looking at the terrifying design composed of six barrels, driven to rotate by a hand crank.
"Exactly, this is your next challenge." Felix replied, "Dr. Richard Gatling has already built something similar in Indianapolis. But he encountered an unsolvable problem—his feeding system used old paper cartridges and separate loading chambers, which were extremely unreliable and prone to jamming on the battlefield."
Felix pointed to his blueprint.
"And my design, from the very beginning, will use the exact same reliable brass fixed ammunition as the Militech 1863 Rifle. And," he pointed to a brand new structure at the top of the blueprint, "it will use a replaceable gravity-fed magazine capable of holding one hundred rounds, instead of Dr. Gatling's clumsy hopper."
"It will be lighter, more reliable, and have a faster rate of fire." Felix looked at Griffith, his eyes full of anticipation, "However, for this monster to operate as precisely as a clock, the requirements for material heat resistance and machining accuracy will be several times that of a rifle."
"Rhys," Felix looked at him, "your team must devote all other energy to this project. The company needs to prepare a grim reaper's scythe that can end all charges for them, while others are still marveling at the rifle's rate of fire."
Rhys Griffiths looked at the blueprint, then at Felix. He actually understood that the other party was right. He couldn't waste his talent on repetitive tasks that could be replaced by processes and standards.
"Alright, since you're the Boss."
He then turned around and grumbled to Frank and Silas.
"Frank, your damned assembly line better be finished quickly."
"Because," he picked up the machine gun design drawing, "I will soon need it to produce ten thousand identical, perfect parts."