Late summer in Washington still carried the humid heat from the southern swamps, but this heat could not penetrate the thick granite walls of the War Department.
Here, every decision was cold and hard, enough to determine the lives and deaths of tens of thousands.
A secret firing range, with the highest level of security, was currently shrouded in an unusual silence.
Secretary of War Edwin Stanton and General-in-Chief Henry Halleck stood side-by-side in front of a reinforced observation platform.
Behind them were all the senior supervisors from the Ordnance Department and the Quartermaster Department.
Felix Argyle, along with Miller and Frank Cole, stood quietly in the center of the firing range.
In front of them, the menacing-looking vanguard 1863 gatling gun, with its six barrels, was covered by a heavy canvas, like a prehistoric beast yet to be awakened.
"Mr. Argyle."
Secretary Stanton glanced at his pocket watch, "Now let's see what you've brought us that's worth all of us dropping our work for."
"No problem, I believe it won't disappoint you, Mr. Secretary," Felix smiled, nodding at Frank beside him.
Frank stepped forward, his face showing the pride and nervousness of a creator about to display his masterpiece.
"General, gentlemen."
His voice echoed across the empty firing range, "Last time, we brought the Union a rifle that could increase a soldier's firepower fivefold.
And today," he suddenly pulled back the canvas, "what we've brought you is a steel fortress that can be moved at any time."
When the gatling gun, shimmering with cold metallic luster, was first fully exposed to everyone, a suppressed gasp rose from the observation platform.
Even the Ordnance Department experts, who were accustomed to all sorts of new weapons, were stunned by its violent aesthetic design.
"Its official name is the 'vanguard 1863 gatling gun'," Frank continued to introduce, "but the craftsmen who built it prefer to call it 'the Organ of Death'."
"It has only one purpose," Felix's voice rang out at the opportune moment, setting the tone for the demonstration, "and that is to turn any form of infantry charge into a suicide mission."
"Start, Miller."
Miller stepped forward, taking Frank's place.
He skillfully inserted a box magazine, loaded with one hundred rounds, into the top feeding port.
At the other end of the firing range, one hundred and fifty yards away, a simulated battlefield had already been set up.
There were no paper targets, only rows of human-shaped targets made of thick wooden boards, and a field fortification constructed from sandbags and logs, strong enough to withstand conventional rifle fire.
Miller took a deep breath and gripped the brass hand crank at the rear of the receiver.
He began to turn it slowly.
"Click… click… click…"
The six barrels began to rotate around the central axis with a steady and rhythmic pace.
He turned faster and faster.
Suddenly—
"Da da da da da da—!"
An unprecedented, continuous, and muffled roar, like tearing linen, erupted from the six barrels!
It wasn't individual gunshots, but a continuous torrent of fire and steel!
Hot brass casings, like a golden waterfall, furiously spewed from the side of the receiver, piling up into a growing mound on the ground.
One hundred and fifty yards away, the simulated battlefield instantly turned into a living hell.
The thick wooden human-shaped targets were instantly torn apart by the dense rain of bullets, sending wood chips flying, as if gnawed by an invisible pack of beasts, leaving only broken wooden stumps in a blink of an eye.
The field fortification, strong enough to withstand an infantry platoon's assault, also appeared so fragile in the face of that torrent of steel.
Sandbags were blown apart one by one, their sand spewing out like fountains.
The logs supporting the fortification were also continuously gnawed by bullets, finally collapsing with a grating sound of breaking wood.
In less than ten seconds, one hundred rounds were completely expended.
When the gunfire finally ceased, the entire firing range was dead silent.
The air was filled with a thick, suffocating smell of gunpowder.
On the observation platform, all the generals and officers stood as if frozen, staring blankly at the distant, now unrecognizable, firing range.
Colonel Dale, head of the Ordnance Department, unconsciously gaped, his mind, that of a military industry expert, completely ceased to function at this moment.
"My… God…" General-in-Chief Halleck, an old general who had experienced countless bloody battles, murmured.
He couldn't imagine what a desperate scene it would be if his soldiers on the battlefield faced such an insurmountable net of death.
Secretary Stanton's face was expressionless.
But in his always sharp eyes, a flame called "desire" burned.
"Colonel Dale," he slowly began, his voice hoarse, "tell me, in the most precise language of your Ordnance Department, what just happened?"
Colonel Dale swallowed hard, and he replied with a trembling voice: "Mr. Secretary… In… in the past nine point six seconds.
This area endured a firepower density equivalent to a full infantry company firing a volley in thirty seconds.
And… its accuracy far exceeds any form of volley firing."
This cold data was more impactful than any description.
Felix looked at everyone's shocked expressions, and he knew he had won.
He stepped forward, his voice calm, as if stating a fact.
"Gentlemen, this is the ultimate solution for 'defense' that we bring to the Federal Army."
"An 'organ' operated by two men is enough to suppress an entire infantry regiment's charge in an open area.
It consumes far less ammunition than an infantry regiment.
And the lives saved will be incalculable."
He looked at Secretary Stanton, "Is the War Department interested in this solution?"
Stanton slowly turned around.
He didn't answer Felix's question, but first looked at Colonel Bishop, the director of the Springfield Armory.
"Bishop," his voice was calm, "can your armory build this thing?"
Colonel Bishop's face was paler than ever.
He looked at the complex monster, then thought of the old machine tools in his factory.
After a long while, he shook his head with difficulty.
Stanton nodded, as if he had already anticipated the answer.
He refocused his gaze on Felix.
"Mr. Argyle, the War Department is very interested in it.
Now, name your price."
On the firing range of the Washington Armory, the smell of gunpowder had not yet dissipated, but the air was already filled with a stronger scent of money and power.
Secretary of War Stanton's words, "Name your price," were like a stone thrown into a lake, stirring ripples in the hearts of all the generals and officers present.
They were all curious what outrageous price this young man from New York would ask for the monster in his hand, a monster capable of overturning the very nature of warfare.
Colonel Dale, head of the Ordnance Department, had already begun to quickly calculate in his mind.
Complex structure, expensive alloy steel, a completely new ammunition system... He guessed that the unit price of this thing would probably not be less than one thousand dollars.
A figure that would cause all members of the Congressional Budget Committee to have a heart attack on the spot.
However, Felix's reply left everyone stunned.
"Mr. Secretary, this weapon… I'm not selling it."
"What?"
For the first time, Secretary Stanton's always sharp eyes showed obvious confusion. Even General-in-Chief Halleck instinctively leaned forward, thinking he had misheard.
"Not selling?" Colonel Bishop, director of the Springfield Armory, was the first to scoff in disbelief, "Mr. Argyle, are you trying the same trick as last time? This isn't funny at all."
Felix ignored his sarcasm; his gaze was fixed solely on Secretary Stanton.
"Gentlemen," he began slowly, his voice clearly reaching everyone's ears, "you are looking at this new weapon as if it were a rifle, a cannon. With all due respect, this perspective is wrong."
"What you see is not just a machine that can fire bullets."
He pointed to the Gatling gun, which was still radiating residual heat, "It is a completely new tactical system. It requires specially trained shooters who know how to use its sustained firepower for suppression; it requires mechanically proficient technicians to perform real-time maintenance and upkeep on the battlefield; and it requires an independent, efficient ammunition supply chain to meet its astonishing consumption."
"If," he looked at the generals present, "I were to simply sell a few hundred of these machines to the army today, I dare to swear to God that within three months, half of them would be damaged due to improper operation, and the other half would become piles of expensive scrap metal, abandoned in the mud of Virginia, due to lack of professional maintenance."
"At that time," his tone became serious, "it will not only fail to win us victory but will instead become a logistical disaster, a joke that will bring shame to the Ordnance Department."
The conference room was silent.
While Felix's words were unpleasant, they accurately pointed out the fatal difficulties encountered whenever new weapons are introduced.
"Therefore, I propose that Militech does not sell any 'vanguard 1863 gatling gun' to the War Department."
"We provide a service."
"Service?" General Halleck's brow furrowed tightly. "I don't quite understand what you mean, Mr. Argyle."
"It's very simple, General." Felix's Ideas was crystal clear.
"We will provide services to the Federal Army in units of 'Tactical Support Teams.' Each team will include one 'vanguard 1863 gatling gun,' one professional shooter personally trained, assessed, and paid by our Militech, and one equally professional weapon technician."
"We will equip each team with a monthly base supply of ammunition and be responsible for all maintenance, repairs, and parts replacement."
"These teams will be reinforced as independent tactical units to any infantry regiment or brigade you designate. On the battlefield, they will fully accept the operational orders of your frontline commanders. But their weapon operation and maintenance will be handled by our own personnel."
"What we are offering you is not a complex tool." Felix concluded, "but a complete solution that can be immediately put into combat. You only need to give the orders; the rest, leave to us."
These words stirred a real storm in the conference room.
"Mercenaries! This is blatant mercenary work!" Colonel Bishop stood up excitedly. "Allowing civilians to operate our army's most deadly weapons and participate in frontline combat? This is simply unheard of! It violates all military principles!"
"Mr. Secretary, I strongly object!"
Several generals, also from the traditional military system, also expressed their concerns.
However, Secretary of War Stanton did not immediately express his stance. In his deep eyes, there flickered a shrewdness befitting a politician.
He saw through the irresistible allure behind this proposal.
No additional training budget, no complex logistical problems, no lengthy adaptation period due to technological disparity.
All that was needed was to pay a fixed "rental fee" to immediately deploy this devastating weapon, capable of changing the course of battle, to where it was most needed.
For a war leader who was being tormented by congressional budgets and a slow bureaucracy, this was simply an irresistible gift.
"Mr. Argyle," he finally spoke, his voice hoarse, "what is the price of your… rental plan?"
"Each Tactical Support Team, including all equipment, personnel, and ammunition base. The monthly service fee is… two thousand dollars." Felix quoted a figure that Frost and Hayes had meticulously calculated.
This price was very expensive, enough to pay the salaries of an entire infantry company. But if it was exchanged for a mobile fortress that could withstand the charge of an entire infantry brigade, then it was incredibly cheap.
Stanton looked at Felix, then at the generals who were still arguing fiercely.
He made his decision.
"A very… bold, even outlandish proposal," he said slowly, "but I like it."
He turned to General Halleck and Colonel Dale.
"I have decided to approve a pilot program." His voice was unequivocal.
"The War Department will first lease twenty such 'Tactical Support Teams' from Mr. Argyle' Militech for a period of six months."
"All twenty of these teams will be immediately reinforced to General Sherman's Western Army. Their performance in the Vicksburg campaign will determine whether we will extend this cooperation model to the entire army in the future."
He finally looked at Felix, his gaze becoming extremely solemn.
"Mr. Argyle, you are sending your own company's employees to the most dangerous front lines. This is a gamble I have never seen any contractor dare to undertake."
"I hope, for the lives of those young men, and for the victory of the Union, that your confidence is not unfounded."
...As Felix and Miller walked out of the solemn War Department building, the Washington sun was bright.
"Boss…" Miller followed behind Felix, his mood incredibly complex, "Renting soldiers… This… Do we really have to do this?"
"No, Miller." Felix stopped, looking at the white Capitol Hill in the distance. "We are not renting soldiers. We are renting technology, standards, a whole new way of warfare."
He turned and looked at his most trusted commander of armed forces.
"More importantly," a profound curve appeared at the corner of his mouth, "my eyes and ears will be legally embedded deep within this nation's military machine."
"What they bring back will not just be weapon test reports."
On the special train returning to New York, the Virginia wilderness outside the window was already shrouded in night.
Inside the carriage, the gas lamps cast a soft, steady glow, completely separating this private space, adorned with velvet and polished wood, from the world of mud and death outside the window.
Miller sat opposite Felix, silent, his thoughts seemingly still lingering on the earth-shattering roar from the firing range that day, and Secretary of War Stanton's final, resolute words.
Edward Frost, meanwhile, sat at the writing desk in the corner, organizing all the meeting minutes from today by the light of the lamp. His pen glided quickly across the paper, trying to record the deep logic hidden behind each of his Boss's seemingly casual decisions.
"Boss," he stopped writing and broke the silence in the carriage. He adjusted his glasses, his eyes now filled with a thirst for knowledge, "With all due respect, I'm still trying to fully understand your decision today. Sending our employees to the front lines... the risks and costs involved seem to far outweigh the profits from directly selling weapons."
Miller's wiping motion also stopped, and he looked up; this was clearly his own confusion as well.
Felix was leaning back in the soft seat, looking out at the occasional flicker of farmhouse lights in the dark night outside the window. Hearing Frost's question, he turned his head, a gentle smile on his face, like a mentor testing his students.
"Edward, you're right," he began, "If we were just an ordinary arms factory, then the best choice today would have been to sell those 'Organs' to the War Department at an exorbitant price, then take the money back to New York and continue to expand our production line. That would be a good business deal."
"But we're not," his tone shifted, "What I need has never just been a good business deal."
He looked at Frost, and he looked at Miller.
"I ask you, if I sold all one hundred machine guns to Colonel Dale's Ordnance Department today, what would happen a year from now?"
This question made Miller speak first. His soldier's practical mindset immediately saw the answer.
"Unlike rifles, they will disassemble them for study, then reverse-engineer them," his voice was calm, "Perhaps the Springfield factory could produce their own, cheaper but also inferior knock-offs in a year. Then, they would no longer need us."
"Exactly right," Felix nodded approvingly, "What we sell are one-time weapons, but what we leak are our core technology and future continuous orders. And now, the technology itself is our most valuable asset."
"So," he extended his first finger, "the first bird my plan aims to capture is absolute technical control. As long as the core operation and maintenance of the 'Organ' remain in the hands of our own people, we will always be the only ones in this country who can provide this weapon. We are not selling guns; we are selling a monopoly."
"As for dispatching company employees, you should know that many places now have people who volunteer to join the army; they may not even have military pay or weapons, and they even bring their own food.
So, finding suitable people is simply too easy. They are all working for the country, and joining the company allows them to receive compensation. Isn't that better for them?"
Frost's pen moved rapidly across his notebook, recording everything.
"Then the second point," Felix continued, "If a soldier, in the mud, causes his rifle to jam due to improper operation, who will he curse?"
"He'll curse the gun, he'll curse Militech," Frost answered without hesitation.
"Yes. A reputation that we spent hundreds of thousands of dollars and countless efforts to build could very likely be utterly destroyed because a soldier forgot to oil his gun on the battlefield."
Felix's tone became serious, "But now, it is operated and maintained by our own most professional team. Every time it lets out a perfect roar on the battlefield, it is forging an unshakeable monument for the name 'Vanguard.'"
"This second bird is the guarantee of an impeccable reputation."
Felix picked up the teacup on the table and took a light sip.
"Edward, calculate this for me. Financially, if we sell twenty machine guns at once, assuming a net profit of one thousand dollars per gun, we make twenty thousand dollars. And then what?"
"Then... there's nothing else," Frost replied, "unless the War Department places new orders."
"But now, every month, we receive an unwavering service fee totaling forty thousand dollars from the War Department's account. As long as the war still needs this weapon, this cash flow will not be cut off." Felix's face showed a businessman's smile, "It's more stable and more profitable than a one-time transaction. We're not selling products; we're selling continuous service contracts."
"So this third bird is long-term and stable high profits."
The carriage was quiet, with only the rustling sound of Frost writing furiously. Miller was completely captivated by his Boss's progressively layered analysis.
For the first time, he realized that behind a seemingly simple arms deal lay such complex business logic.
"Finally," Felix's voice lowered slightly, his gaze falling on Miller, "and most importantly."
"Miller, when those 'technical experts' you send out are deployed to General Sherman's army, or the Army of the Potomac, what will they see every day? What will they hear?"
A sharp glint instantly flashed in Miller's always calm eyes.
He finally understood the deepest, and most terrifying, intention behind his Boss's plan.
"They... they will see everything."
"The enemy's latest movements, the true morale of our army, the actual performance of all other weapons on the battlefield, the generals' command styles, and even... the loopholes in every link of the logistics supply line."
"Precisely."
Felix's eyes sparkled with an almost joyful light, "They will become our most legitimate and most acute eyes and ears, embedded in the heart of the Union Army. What they write every night will not just be weapon maintenance reports, but the most authentic and vivid intelligence about this war."
"The value of this intelligence far outweighs any contract. It will allow us to always make the most correct judgments one step ahead of our competitors, whether commercially or otherwise."
"This is the fourth bird," Felix leaned back in his chair, making his final summary, "and it is the biggest and plumpest one."
Technological monopoly, reputation guarantee, long-term profits, and a legitimate intelligence network deep within the military.
Frost put down his pen. He looked at his Boss, feeling like a mortal who had just glimpsed a divine layout.
He had thought he was working for a genius industrialist. Now he understood that he was serving a terrifying strategist who treated the entire nation as his chessboard.
Miller let out a long breath. He finally understood his Boss's ambition, which transcended mere money.
"I understand, Boss. I will personally recruit, select, and train this group of people. They will not only be the best technicians, but also... the best observers."
Felix looked at the expressions on his two confidants' faces, a mix of shock and comprehension, and nodded with satisfaction.
"What's wrong, Edward?" He looked at his young assistant, who still seemed to be digesting what had just been said, and asked with a smile, "Are you scared?"
Frost looked up at Felix and said sincerely, "No, Boss. I'm just grateful to be working for you, and not to be your enemy."
By the time the train pulled into New York's smoky station, Felix's "leasing" plan had transformed from a bold idea into a concrete action plan ready for implementation.
The next morning, at Militech's temporary liaison office in New York—an office Felix had specifically reserved for Miller on the top floor of the Argyle Bank building, to ensure he could maintain constant information flow with Wall Street and the head office.
"Boss."
Miller placed a drafted plan in front of Felix. "I have some preliminary thoughts on the selection and training program for the 'Tactical Support Teams'."
Felix motioned for him to sit down. "Tell me about them."
"The nature of this unit dictates that its members must be the elite of the elite." Miller's thoughts were very clear; he had obviously been up all night. "I believe there are three essential selection criteria that must be met."
"First is discipline. All members must be veteran soldiers with combat experience. They must know how to remain calm under fire and how to obey orders unconditionally. The Company doesn't need cowboys or heroes; it needs reliable soldiers."
"Second, an intuition for machinery," Miller continued. "Courage alone isn't enough. The 'organ gun' is a precision machine, and its operators and technicians must have an almost instinctive understanding of it. Frank Cole and I will personally design an assessment to test their comprehension of mechanical structures and their practical skills. Those who worked as watchmakers, locksmiths, or machine tool operators before enlisting will be given priority."
"Finally, psychology. They will face the most brutal and direct slaughter on the battlefield. The weapon in their hands can turn a company-sized charge into a bloody, mangled abattoir in one minute. Not everyone can withstand that kind of psychological pressure. I will need to conduct one-on-one interviews to weed out those with insufficient resolve."
Felix listened quietly, very satisfied with Miller's detailed and professional plan.
It seemed he had entrusted this task to the most suitable person.
"Excellent standards, Miller." Felix nodded. "As I said, you will be fully responsible for personnel recruitment. Salaries and pensions will be set according to Militech's highest standards. I want every selected individual to know that the risks they take for the Company will provide their families with security sufficient to change their destiny."
"What about the training ground?" Felix asked.
"I've already chosen it," Miller replied. "It's in the newly acquired valley next to the factory in Connecticut. The terrain is secluded, and there's enough space for us to conduct large-scale live-fire and simulated battlefield training."
"Good." Felix made his decision. "I'm giving you one month and an initial budget of one hundred thousand dollars. In one month, before the official order from Washington is placed, I want to see the first elite unit, consisting of twenty teams and a total of forty people, complete all their training."
He looked at Miller, his gaze becoming incredibly solemn.
"Miller, remember. Officially, they are the Company's technical experts, but in reality, they will be my personal... private army."
Over the next month, the once tranquil valley outside Whitneyville, Connecticut, transformed into a secluded "hell" filled with sweat and the smell of gunpowder.
Miller personally selected one hundred candidates from mutual aid societies of retired veterans in New York and surrounding states.
They were all volunteer soldiers who had survived the bloody battles of Gettysburg or Antietam and understood the cruelty of war.
During the first week of training, they didn't even touch a gun.
Their daily task was to disassemble and reassemble a vanguard 1863 gatling gun over and over again, under the guidance of Frank Cole and several master craftsmen.
"Not fast enough!"
Frank Cole's stern voice echoed through the massive training facility. "You must turn it from a pile of parts back into a firing machine within three minutes! On the battlefield, the enemy won't give you a fourth minute!"
By the second week, the training escalated. They were required to complete all disassembly and assembly blindfolded, relying solely on their sense of touch. The hands that once pulled triggers and wielded bayonets now had to learn to feel the threads of every screw and the meshing of every gear.
Only half of them passed this brutal assessment.
The remaining fifty finally qualified for live-fire training.
On the valley's firing range, gunshots never ceased from morning till night.
They were no longer learning the precise marksmanship of traditional infantry but a completely new tactic—suppressive fire. How to cover an area with the shortest, most effective bursts; how to gauge the machine's operational status through sound and vibration while firing; how to perform timely barrel changes and cooling before the gun overheated.
The final "graduation assessment" was a seventy-two-hour simulated combat exercise.
Miller threw all remaining personnel into a network of trenches he personally designed, filled with mud, standing water, and simulated artillery fire. They had to endure wave after wave of frenzied charges from "enemies" played by members of Miller's Operations Department, all while in a torrential downpour and severely sleep-deprived.
Ultimately, only forty-odd individuals, dragging their exhausted bodies and their equally mud-caked but still roaring "organ guns," emerged from this simulated hell.
On the morning the exercise concluded, Felix personally came to the valley.
He looked at the forty men before him, ragged and mud-stained, but with eyes as resolute as tempered steel, and a satisfied smile appeared on his face.
"Gentlemen," he began, his voice echoing in the silent valley, "welcome back from hell."
"From today," he looked around, "you are no longer merely employees of Militech. Within the Company, you will have a new name."
He looked at Miller.
Miller stepped forward and unfurled a black flag before everyone. The flag bore no ornate designs, only a simple yet powerful Militech emblem embroidered in silver thread.
"You are the Shadow Force." Felix's voice was filled with power. "Your mission is not to win medals and honors. Your mission is to appear silently, like shadows, wherever the Union Army needs you most. With the weapons in your hands, you will bring them victory and bring destruction to the enemy."
"Your loyalty belongs to Militech, it belongs only to me, and only then to the Union."
Felix looked at these first warriors he had personally forged. "Now, your first mission has arrived."
He handed Miller an official deployment order sealed with the War Department's wax.
"Secretary Stanton has approved our pilot program. General Sherman's Western Army is massing in Tennessee, preparing to launch a full-scale assault on Chattanooga."
"He needs twenty Tactical Support Teams to go to the front lines immediately."
Miller stood before the forty team members who had passed the final assessment.
They wore brand-new, dark black combat uniforms, and although they still carried the fatigue and mud from the drills, their eyes were as firm as steel after quenching.
Twenty tightly wrapped vanguard 1863 gatling guns and mountains of ammunition boxes had already been loaded onto the military train waiting on the dedicated line.
"Your training is over," Miller's voice echoed in the silent valley, devoid of any superfluous emotion, "but your war has just begun."
His gaze swept across the face of each team member, finally resting on a man of medium build, with a face as resolute as rock and eyes as calm as water.
"Cole Jackson."
"Present, sir." The man whose name was called stepped forward, his voice deep and powerful.
"I appoint you Commander of the First Task Force."
Miller handed him the War Department's deployment order and another authorization document personally signed by Alan. The insignia on his collar was a small silver gear representing his leadership position.
"From now on, these forty brothers, and this batch of weapons capable of changing a battle, are entirely your responsibility."
Cole Jackson, codenamed "Stonewall," was a veteran who survived the Battle of Gettysburg.
In Miller's brutal selection process, he not only displayed unparalleled mechanical talent but also earned everyone's respect with his rock-solid composure and command ability under extreme pressure.
"Your mission," Miller continued, his words directed at Jackson and everyone present, "is to go to Tennessee and report to General William Sherman of the Western Theater Army. You will serve as an independent tactical support unit, reinforced to the front lines where fire support is most needed."
"Remember the Boss's four-fold directive," his voice became incredibly solemn, "First, demonstrate the absolute power of the weapons to win the next order for the Company. Second, protect our technical secrets; no machine, not even its wreckage, can fall into enemy hands. Third, prove the value of our employment service model. Fourth, and most importantly—you are the Boss's eyes and ears. Secretly record everything that happens on the battlefield and bring back the most valuable intelligence."
He walked up to Jackson and placed his hand on his shoulder.
"Cole," he looked at his most trusted subordinate, "the Boss has placed our sharpest sword in your hands. Do not disappoint him."
"Rest assured, sir." Jackson's reply, like his codename, was concise and firm, "We will not disappoint him."
...Five days later, Tennessee, the front-line supply base on the outskirts of Chattanooga.
When the unmarked military special train came to a stop at its dedicated military platform, Major Thomas Reed, commander of the Third Army's Second Infantry Brigade, was waiting on the platform with his adjutant, Hansen.
"Private company tactical assets…"
Major Reed looked at the train, his tone carrying a hint of the suspicion and disdain a front-line officer felt towards rear-echelon bureaucracy.
"I'd like to see what treasures those gentlemen in Washington have sent us this time."
The carriage door was pulled open.
The first to alight were not the corpulent contractors he imagined, but a team of black-clad men with synchronized movements and stern eyes. Cole Jackson, who was at the forefront, walked directly up to him.
"Major Reed?" He gave an impeccable salute, but his posture was closer to that of a disciplined company employee.
"I am Cole Jackson, Commander of the Militech's First Task Force. I have been ordered by Secretary of War Stanton to report to you with my team."
Major Reed scrutinized the man before him, sensing something unusual in the cold and professional demeanor of the other party.
"Mr. Jackson?" He returned a salute, deliberately maintaining distance in his address, "My orders are to receive you. Frankly, I'm curious what a private company can bring us."
He knew of the Militech; the Vanguard 1863 Rifle was indeed very good, but that didn't mean the Company's employees could help them on the battlefield.
Jackson did not answer directly. He simply turned and waved towards the carriage.
Twenty huge wooden crates were carefully carried off the train by the forty team members.
"Open one."
The box was pried open, and when the monster, gleaming with cold metallic luster and possessing six barrels, was exposed to the Tennessee sun.
Major Reed slowly walked forward, extending his hand, only to stop just before touching the cold gun barrels.
He could feel that this thing was different from any weapon he had seen before; it looked like an industrial beast.
"The vanguard 1863 gatling gun, or you can call it 'the Organ of Death'."
"My men will be responsible for operating and maintaining them on the battlefield." Jackson's voice broke his reverie, "You just need to tell us where the position to defend is and the enemy's main direction of attack."
"Your men?" Major Reed turned his head, his professional sensitivity seizing on that word, "Mr. Jackson, I must remind you. This is the front line, not a firing range in Washington. My soldiers, every one of them, have crawled out of piles of dead bodies. I cannot entrust my flank to a group of… civilians I know nothing about."
"We are not civilians, Major." Jackson met his gaze, unyielding, "Just wearing different uniforms and serving the Union. We don't need your logistical supplies; we brought all our own ammunition, spare parts, and maintenance tools."
Major Reed looked at this disciplined, well-equipped private force, which was even entirely self-sufficient in logistics, and said no more… That night, at General Sherman's front-line command post. A top-level pre-battle meeting was underway.
On the huge sand table, the steep and treacherous terrain of Missionary Ridge was clearly reproduced.
"…Gentlemen," General Sherman pointed with his baton to the southern flank of the sand table, an open area directly exposed to Confederate flanking artillery fire, "I need a unit, like an anvil, to be firmly hammered here. To withstand all possible enemy counterattacks and buy enough time for our main assault force."
All the commanders fell silent. They knew this was a nearly suicidal mission.
Just then, Major Reed stood up.
"General, I am willing to lead the Second Infantry Brigade to hold that anvil."
General Sherman looked at him, a flicker of approval in his eyes.
Major Reed added, "However, I need the 'tactical support team' sent by the Militech to be reinforced to my defensive line."
In the entire command post, everyone's gaze focused on him.
General Sherman was silent for a moment. He glanced at Cole Jackson, who was also present at the meeting and had remained silent throughout.
"Alright, Major." He made his final decision, "I'll entrust those monsters to you."
He walked up to Reed and placed his hand on his shoulder.
"Remember, Thomas." His voice became incredibly solemn, "The fate of the entire Western Theater Army will rest on your anvil."
On the southern flank of Chattanooga, an unnamed highland locally known as "Widow's Ridge."
Its terrain was gentle, yet it was the only barrier guarding the open ground on the flank of the Second Infantry Brigade. At this moment, Major Thomas Reed had transformed it into a hastily constructed but sturdy fortress. Engineers had dug three parallel breastworks overnight, and felled trees were sharpened into crude abatis.
The darkness before dawn was the deepest, with icy rain mixed with mountain mist, reducing visibility to less than twenty yards. The air was filled with the pungent smell of overturned earth and the suppressed breathing of tense soldiers.
"They will come."
The veterans of the Second Infantry Brigade, huddled in muddy foxholes, were convinced of this. They wrapped their beloved Militech 1863 rifles in tarpaulins, as if that could ward off the biting cold.
But in the center of the position, the area personally designated by Major Thomas Reed as the core strongpoint, the atmosphere was entirely different.
Twenty independent firing positions, constructed from sandbags and logs, spaced ten yards apart, were like twenty fangs embedded in the ridge. Behind each firing position, a grotesque metal monster, tightly wrapped in canvas, was mounted.
Cole Jackson and his thirty-nine men were conducting their final pre-battle checks.
Their movements in the pre-dawn gloom were silent and efficient. There was no conversation, no complaints, only the faint clinking of metal parts and the subtle friction of machinery being oiled.
Major Thomas Reed stood behind an earthen mound, propped up by a few waterproof tarpaulins, observing these "men in black" through his binoculars.
"Sir," his adjutant, Captain Hansen, said in a low voice, rubbing his cold hands, "They look… not like our soldiers."
"I know."
Thomas Reed's reply was brief. Their focus and silence, as well as the almost man-machine integrated coordination between them and the cold weapons in their hands, sent a chill down his spine.
"Have all companies check their ammunition." Thomas Reed lowered his binoculars. "Tell them that today, we only need to hold our positions. Leave the guests to those 'monsters' in the center."
At six-thirty in the morning, a glimmer of dawn appeared on the eastern horizon.
A long, piercing bugle call, which the soldiers called the "fox's cry," came without warning from the opposite mist.
"They're here!" The veterans on the position instantly tensed up.
Immediately after, the ground began to tremble.
"Boom! Boom! Boom!"
The Confederates' artillery fire, far more ferocious than yesterday, poured onto "Widow's Ridge." Screaming shells exploded in clouds of dirt and black smoke on the Union lines. This was not a probing attack; this was a devastating bombardment aimed at crushing everything.
"Take cover! Get down!" Major Thomas Reed's roar seemed somewhat powerless amidst the thunder of artillery.
The bombardment lasted a full fifteen minutes. When the shelling finally ceased, the entire "Widow's Ridge" was completely enveloped in smoke and dust.
However, before the Union soldiers could recover from the ringing in their ears caused by the concussion.
"Eee—ha—!"
A deafening, scalp-prickling roar, like an overwhelming tide, came from the mist. It was the Confederates' dreaded "Rebel Yell."
Immediately after, a gray wave appeared.
Thousands of Confederates, bayoneted rifles in hand, surged out of the mist. They did not form neat lines but charged the Union positions in a frenzied, almost bestial manner, in a desperate assault.
"Hold steady! Prepare to fire!" Major Thomas Reed drew his revolver.
"Bang! Bang! Bang!"
At the front of the position, over two thousand Militech 1863 rifles of the Second Infantry Brigade fired their first volley under the officers' commands.
The dense hail of bullets instantly tore bloody gaps in that gray wave.
The Confederates' momentum faltered for a moment.
But only for a moment.
Driven by the frantic urging of their officers and the inherent ferocity of Southerners, subsequent soldiers surged forward, stepping over the bodies of their comrades. They knew that as long as they crossed this open ground, as long as they endured the short lull in the Yankees' firepower, victory would be theirs.
"They're coming! Quick! Reload!" Captain Hansen's face showed panic for the first time.
However, just as the Confederates' charging wave was about to crash against the Union lines' fragile embankment.
Major Thomas Reed fired a red signal flare towards the central position.
Cole Jackson saw that red spark, particularly glaring in the gray sky.
He did not shout, but calmly made a simple, downward gesture to his men at the twenty firing positions.
Twenty heavy tarpaulins were simultaneously ripped open.
Twenty "Organs of Death" revealed their six cold, death-glowing barrels.
"Free fire."
Cole Jackson's voice was drowned out by the enormous noise of the battlefield, but his command was clearly conveyed to every team member through his gesture.
The next second.
"Da da da da da da—!"
An unprecedented, continuous, and muffled roar, like a chainsaw cutting steel, erupted from the center of the position!
Twenty unceasing torrents of steel, composed of fire and death, swept across the entire battlefield with irresistible force!
That frantically charging gray wave seemed to hit a giant anvil made of countless bullets.
The Confederates in the front row didn't even have time to scream; their bodies were instantly torn to shreds by the dense hail of bullets.
Flesh, fragments of uniforms, and dirt mixed together, forming a horrifying red mist in the air.
The "Rebel Yell" instantly turned into piercing screams filled with fear and disbelief.
"What… what is that?!"
"Devils! It's the devils' weapons again!"
The Confederates' line completely dissolved into chaos.
Their vaunted courage seemed so ridiculous and fragile in the face of that deadly curtain of fire. They couldn't even see the enemy, only their comrades falling in rows, as if swept by an invisible giant scythe.
The charge turned into a rout.
The surviving soldiers threw away their rifles and scrambled backward, desperate to escape this hell on earth, dominated by tireless steel monsters.
"Cease fire." Cole Jackson made the gesture again.
The gunfire ceased abruptly.
A deathly silence fell over the entire area in front of "Widow's Ridge." Only the wind, blowing across the open ground covered with gray bodies, made a sound like a sob.
Major Thomas Reed slowly lowered his binoculars. He looked at the position, which a minute ago had been bustling with activity, but was now a slaughterhouse. His hand trembled uncontrollably.
He turned his head and looked at the men in black in the center of the position, who were silently replacing hot barrels and ammunition boxes.
"Captain Hansen," he said hoarsely, "Did you see it?"
"Yes… yes, sir."
"Go," Thomas Reed's voice carried a complex expression of relief, mixed with awe and a touch of fear, "send a telegram to General Sherman."
"Tell him, our position…"
"…is held."
Washington, War Department.
The building, which never extinguished its lights during wartime, was now enveloped in an unusual excitement.
Inside Secretary of War Edwin Stanton's office, the smell of cigar smoke in the air was thicker than ever.
"Say that again, Halleck."
Stanton's voice was hoarse, and he pointed to the large map of the Western Front on the wall, his finger trembling slightly from the force.
"Are you sure every word in McPherson's report is true?"
General-in-Chief Henry Halleck, an old-school general who always seemed steady and even a bit conservative, now also wore an expression of shock that he hadn't fully processed. He didn't answer, merely pushing a still-ink-smelling telegram, just transmitted via the military telegraph office's highest-level encrypted line, to the center of the table.
"This is a confirmation telegram personally sent by General Sherman himself at three o'clock this morning," Halleck's voice was low.
"He said Reed's Second Brigade, like a red-hot anvil, had brutally smashed two successive charges by two Confederate brigades. The enemy... collapsed before our positions."
"What's the casualty ratio?"
Colonel Dale, head of the Ordnance Department, pressed, this being the data he cared about most.
"The Second Brigade suffered a total of one hundred and twelve casualties," Halleck replied, "And according to preliminary post-battle counts and prisoner interrogations, the enemy facing us suffered over two thousand casualties."
A deathly silence fell over the office.
Everyone present was a battle-hardened general; they had commanded charges of tens of thousands and signed death lists of thousands. But this number, this absurdly disparate casualty ratio, still completely overturned all their understanding of land warfare.
"It's those... 'organs,'" Colonel Dale murmured, his tone filled with both regret at his failure to create such a thing and reverence for the person who had.
"Yes." Stanton crumpled the telegram, then slowly smoothed it out again. "General Sherman made only one request at the end of the telegram."
"He needs more, at least a hundred, of these weapons. He wants to use them to completely smash open all roads leading to Atlanta before winter."
"A hundred..." The Quartermaster Department's director's face showed a troubled expression. "Mr. Secretary, our contract with Mr. Argyle only includes twenty units. And that's a 'lease,' not a purchase. We don't even know how much production capacity his Militech actually has."
"Then go ask!" Stanton's reply was simple and blunt. "Immediately send a telegram to New York! I don't care if Argyle is in Philadelphia or hell right now! I want a clear answer from him regarding his production capacity and a new contract before noon today!"
...Meanwhile, at the Fifth Avenue mansion in New York.
In Felix's study, the atmosphere was distinctly different from the tension in Washington.
He was discussing the opening of the community orphanage and school with Catherine. The flames in the fireplace danced quietly, and the air was filled with the scent of coffee and new books.
"Boss."
Frost knocked and entered, his face showing an irrepressible excitement. He respectfully placed a document, also delivered via an encrypted channel, in front of Felix.
This report was not an official telegram from the military, but a detailed battle report sent overnight from Tennessee by Cole Jackson, via Militech's independent courier network.
It was more detailed and bloodier than General Sherman's telegram.
...The Confederate charge completely collapsed at one hundred and twenty yards from our position. Their attack formation was entirely broken within the first minute. Our 'organs' consumed a total of eighteen thousand rounds of ammunition during the battle, with no fatal jams or malfunctions. The only damage was to the cooling tank of firing position number three, which was pierced by a stray bullet; the technician completed battlefield repairs within five minutes..."
Jackson's report was as calm as a machine's test log. But at the end of the report, he appended a personal observation note.
...Boss, the federal soldiers' eyes changed when they looked at us after the battle. They no longer saw us as contractors, but with awe. They dared not approach our weapons, only whispered from a distance, saying they were things forged by 'blacksmiths from hell.'"
"And those captured Confederate soldiers, their spirits are completely broken. What they keep muttering is not defeat, but 'unfairness,' believing that we are not using mortal weapons."
Felix slowly put down the report. He walked to the window, looking at the peaceful and bustling street below.
"Catherine," he said softly, "It seems we've opened Pandora's Box."
"But that's what war needs, isn't it?" Catherine walked to his side, her voice gentle but full of strength, "You've given the Union a knife that can end this slaughter faster."
"Yes."
Felix nodded, his occasionally uneasy modern soul quickly replaced by the ruthlessness of a 19th-century entrepreneur.
Turning around, his face had regained that calm, in-control expression.
He issued new instructions, "Edward, immediately send a telegram to Miller. Tell him to continue expanding Militech's production capacity. I have a hunch the Union will need more, many more rifles and machine guns. And expand the training staff as well."
A shrewd glint, belonging to a businessman, flashed in Felix's eyes, "Secretary Stanton's next order will arrive soon, and there might be extra gains as well."
"Also," he added, "send a telegram to Mr. Hayes. Tell him to immediately and quietly acquire all stocks of companies related to brass, copper ore, and chemicals on the market. Every roar of our 'organs' consumes gold."
...Just as Felix began to mobilize his entire industrial and financial machine for the impending massive order, another group of equally keen-scented sharks cast greedy glances from across the ocean.
London, Whitehall, the British Department of the Army office.
A white-haired military attaché, wearing a colonel's insignia, was presenting an urgent dispatch marked "Top Secret," just returned from Washington, to his superior.
"General, our observer embedded with the Federal Western Army has sent back a preliminary report on the Battle of Chattanooga."
"Read it."
...A multi-barreled rotary machine gun developed by the private company 'Vanguard' was deployed in combat for the first time. According to the observer's preliminary estimate, its firepower density is at least fifty times that of Prussia's latest breech-loading rifle. A two-person team completely routed a frontal charge by an entire Confederate infantry brigade in less than ten minutes. Our military observer described it as... an 'industrialized slaughter.'"
The office was silent.
After a long time, the general slowly spoke, his voice hoarse.
"Do the French and Prussians know as well?"
"Yes, General. Their military attachés also sent equally urgent reports back home yesterday."
The general stood up and walked to the large world map, his gaze falling on the young and chaotic American continent. "Go, in Her Majesty the Queen's name, issue the highest directive to our embassy in America."
"At all costs," his voice was like the cold winter to come, "get us a physical example of that weapon."
"And," he added, "all information about that young man named Felix Argyle and all his companies."
Kingdom of Prussia, Berlin.
Unlike the war-torn America, the streets of this city in the late summer of 1863 appeared stark and solemn.
Uniform gray buildings, the crisp sound of patrolling soldiers' boots on the cobblestones, and the faint, ever-present scent of coal smoke and discipline in the air, together formed a massive barracks accumulating strength for the future.
However, beneath this veneer of order, within the Prime Minister's residence on Wilhelmstrasse, the atmosphere was like a volcano on the verge of eruption.
"They rejected it again."
Otto von Bismarck, a man who had been appointed Prime Minister of Prussia less than a year ago, casually tossed a document from parliament into the firewood basket beside the fireplace.
He didn't light it, merely looked at the liberal rhetoric about military budget cuts written on it, a look of disdain and annoyance on his face.
"A bunch of merchants, lawyers, and professors who only know how to govern with their mouths and ink."
He exhaled a thick cloud of cigar smoke at his chief secretary in the room, "They want a unified Germany, but they aren't willing to pay the price of even a single new breech-loading cannon for that unity. Do they think Germany's borders can be decided by votes and speeches?"
The secretary silently refilled his coffee, not daring to interrupt. He knew that the Prime Minister was in the most intense period of his conflict with parliament, following his famous "Iron and Blood Speech."
Just then, the heavy oak door of the office was knocked upon.
"Come in," Bismarck's voice was devoid of emotion.
A dusty officer, dressed in the uniform of the Prussian General Staff, walked in. His face was tanned by the Atlantic sea breeze and the American sun, but his blue eyes were exceptionally bright, and his steps were steady and powerful.
"Mr. Prime Minister," he saluted impeccably, "Major Albrecht von Alvensleben, Army Attaché to Washington, is here to deliver an urgent report from General Moltke, Chief of the General Staff."
"Alvensleben?"
Bismarck looked up from the pile of maps and documents, recognizing the name. "I thought you were still enjoying that ridiculous civil war between the Northerners and the Southerners. What could make you cut your vacation short?"
"Sir, it's no longer a ridiculous civil war."
Major Alvensleben's reply made Bismarck's brow slightly raise. "It's turning into a... laboratory. A laboratory for testing the future of warfare. And they have just created a monster."
He respectfully presented a tightly sealed, wax-stamped Kraft paper envelope.
Bismarck impatiently cut open the seal.
He had expected it to be more of the same old clichés about the Union Army's chaotic logistics and poor command. But when he pulled out the document inside and saw the rough sketch of a six-barreled Gatling gun, hand-drawn by the attaché on the first page, his somewhat languid eyes instantly sharpened.
He didn't immediately read the text, but first looked at the key data annotated in red ink below the sketch.
"Rate of fire: six hundred rounds per minute. Effective range: one thousand yards. Ammunition: .44 caliber brass cartridge."
"What is this?" Bismarck's voice took on a serious tone.
"They call it the vanguard 1863 gatling gun, sir," Major Alvensleben replied. "But the Union soldiers who saw it in Chattanooga prefer its other name, 'The Organ of Death.'"
He began to report, in an objective tone without any embellishment, the intelligence he had personally witnessed and verified through multiple sources. From the astonishing casualty ratio of the Black River campaign to the devastating firepower demonstration at the Washington Armory firing range.
...Twenty two-man teams, in less than ten minutes, completely routed a frontal assault by two elite Confederate infantry brigades. Their positions were described as an 'impassable anvil.'"
"Most importantly, sir," Alvensleben emphasized, "this is not a one-time miracle. The production of this weapon is being carried out by a private company called 'Vanguard' in an industrialized manner. And behind it stands a man named Felix Argyle. A... an emerging industrial giant whom we had completely overlooked before."
Bismarck read the report from beginning to end, meticulously, twice. His mind, full of political strategy and realistic calculation, instantly assessed the value of this intelligence.
He stood up and paced back and forth in the office, the cigar smoke blurring his figure somewhat.
"What does General Moltke think?" he suddenly asked.
"His Excellency, the General, believes," Alvensleben replied, "that this weapon, if the intelligence is accurate, will completely change the tactical value of infantry in defensive operations. It can elevate the firepower density of the defending side to an unprecedented level, sufficient to offset any numerical advantage. It can make the word 'charge' synonymous with 'slaughter' on future battlefields."
Bismarck stopped, extinguishing the cigar in his hand. "Go, prepare the carriage. I must see His Majesty the King immediately. You will come too."
...Half an hour later, in a study at Sanssouci Palace filled with military models and books on war history.
King William I of Prussia, and his most trusted Chief of the General Staff, Helmuth von Moltke, were listening to Bismarck's powerful retelling.
"...Therefore, Your Majesty," Bismarck concluded, "while our parliament is still endlessly arguing over whether to equip our infantry with a few thousand more Dreyse needle guns, the Americans across the ocean have already created a weapon that makes our needle guns look as ridiculous as medieval pikes."
William I, a king who was a pure soldier at heart, looked at the fearsome machine gun sketch, his breathing becoming somewhat ragged.
"Is this... is this true? Two men, operating such a... death machine?"
"Absolutely true, Your Majesty," Major Alvensleben stepped forward and bowed in response.
General Moltke, who had been silent, finally spoke. He did not, like the King, focus on the weapon's destructive power itself. In his always calm eyes, there gleamed the light of a strategist who had discovered a brand new chess piece.
"Mr. Prime Minister," he asked, "the report mentioned that this company provides weapons and operators to the Union Army on a 'lease' basis?"
"Yes, General."
"Remarkable."
Moltke's assessment was brief but weighty. "This is not just an innovation in weaponry; it is a completely new model of the military-industrial complex. It combines the innovative efficiency of private enterprise with the nation's war needs in an unprecedented way."
He looked at Bismarck, and then at the King.
"Your Majesty, Mr. Prime Minister. We need more than just the blueprints of this machine. We need to understand how that American named Argyle built his industrial system, one that can continuously create such miracles."
"That is precisely what I was going to say, General," a smile that only the three of them understood appeared on Bismarck's face.
He walked to the large map of the German Confederation on the study wall. His finger slowly traced the borders of Denmark, Austria, and France.
He turned around and bowed deeply to William I. "Your Majesty, you know I promised you that the unification of Germany could only be achieved with iron and blood."
He pointed to the report from America on the table.
"And now, someone has brought us the sharpest and hottest 'iron' of this era."
William I looked at his Prime Minister, then at his most trusted General. His Hohenzollern heart, yearning for glory and unity, was completely ignited at this moment.
"We must obtain it," the King's voice was like a final command.
Bismarck nodded, then turned to Major Alvensleben.
"Major, your vacation is over. You will return to Washington immediately, and I will have the Ministry of Foreign Affairs arrange a new identity for you. You have only one mission: to find every possible way to establish direct contact with this Mr. Felix Argyle."
"Tell him that the Kingdom of Prussia has the deepest interest in him and all the weapons he possesses. We are willing to pay any price he desires for them."
"Furthermore," he added finally, "select our best engineer from Krupp's factory. Have him accompany you."
"We need to know," he looked at the map as if he could already see the future battlefield, "how exactly this American monster's heart beats."