The Hoboken coast of New Jersey was once a desolate tidal flat, but now it is covered by the deafening roar of steam forging hammers and the pungent smell of red lead anti-rust paint.
Towering cast-iron gantry cranes stand like a forest of steel along the coastline, obscuring the sky.
Tens of thousands of riveters, welders, and carpenters are busy in the massive shipyards.
This is the shipyard of the Atlantic Dynamics Company.
In the past few years, through secret capital injections and ruthless mergers, Hayes has forcibly transformed this once nearly bankrupt shipyard into one of the largest and most technologically advanced integrated heavy industry shipyards on the East Coast of North America.
The special train slowly came to a halt on the tracks inside the factory area.
As soon as Felix stepped off the carriage, a sea breeze mixed with the smell of salt and black coal smoke blew against his face.
A burly man with a full beard strode forward to meet him.
He wore a coarse canvas jumpsuit covered in oil stains and scorch marks, and on his head was a sailor's cap whose original color was no longer discernible. An unlit pipe dangled from his mouth, and he exuded a rugged aura from years spent on slipways and in engine rooms.
This was the general manager of Atlantic Dynamics, Ian MacGregor.
A top-tier naval architect who had come out of the shipyards along the River Clyde in Scotland, he was also a practical madman who dared to turn any crazy concept on a blueprint into reality as long as he was given enough funding.
"Mr. Argyle, welcome to the steel slaughterhouse."
MacGregor's voice was as loud as thunder, clearly audible even in the noisy factory area.
He extended his large hands, which were covered in calluses and scars.
Felix shook his hand, feeling a friction like that of sandpaper.
"MacGregor, don't brag to me about your slaughterhouse. I'm here today to see the goods."
Felix didn't waste words and cut straight to the point.
"Europe is about to turn into a mess. I need armed merchant ships capable of crossing the Atlantic without fear of any naval interception, as well as warships that can be sold directly to the warring nations."
MacGregor grinned, revealing a mouthful of teeth, and thumped his chest hard.
"You've come at just the right time, Boss. Please follow me."
MacGregor led the way, with Felix and Frost following close behind.
They passed through mountains of steel plates and piles of teak logs, arriving at Dry Dock No. 1 in the deepest part of the shipyard.
Standing at the edge of a fifty-foot-high scaffold, Felix looked down at the dry dock below.
A behemoth was lying there quietly.
Its bow featured an aggressive inverted acute-angle ram design. The hull surface was not traditional wood but was covered in a thick layer of dark gray armored steel plate.
Under the sunlight, this alloy armor, specially supplied by Lex Steel Company, emitted a cold and ruthless metallic luster.
"Look, Boss. This is my baby, the prototype ship 'Poseidon'."
MacGregor pointed at the warship, his eyes sparkling with fanatical light.
"Displacement of four thousand five hundred tons. The power system uses the double-expansion steam engine we just successfully developed, powered by two giant horizontal boilers. Twin-screw propulsion. The top speed can reach a staggering fifteen knots!"
In this era where navies were transitioning from sailing ships of the line to steam ironclads, a speed of fifteen knots meant it could leave most old warships that still relied on wind assistance far behind.
"What about the armor thickness?"
Felix narrowed his eyes, carefully examining the seams at the ship's waterline.
"The waterline armor belt is eight inches thick, and the armor on the turrets and conning tower is ten inches thick. It's all carburized hardened steel from Lex Steel."
MacGregor proudly patted the iron railing of the scaffolding.
"The Frenchmen's so-called ironclads with wooden hulls wrapped in iron plates are like papier-mâché in front of it. Even if they use sixty-pound Armstrong rifled guns to fire directly at a distance of five hundred yards, they can forget about penetrating its core compartment!"
Felix nodded, but then raised a more practical question.
"What about its range? If I want to sail it from New York to Europe, how many times will it need to refuel with coal midway?"
The fanaticism on MacGregor's face subsided slightly.
"That's a common problem with current steam ironclads, Boss. To pursue speed and armor, its coal capacity is limited. Calculating at a cruising speed of ten knots, its combat radius is about two thousand nautical miles. To cross the Atlantic, it must refuel with coal once at the Azores or Bermuda."
"What about the firepower configuration?" Felix continued to press.
"That's the best part."
MacGregor excitedly pointed to two giant circular bases in the middle of the hull.
"We didn't use traditional broadside guns; instead, we installed two twin-mounted, fully enclosed rotating turrets, fore and aft. The main guns are eight-inch breech-loading rifled guns customized from Vanguard Armaments. Additionally, we've reserved six machine gun mounts on the superstructure deck."
MacGregor lowered his voice and leaned closer to Felix.
"Boss, Frank Cole sent me two new gatling guns using Smokeless Powder from the Whitneyville Armory last week. I've already had them installed. My God, if those things are used to sweep away enemy sailors attempting to board, or to intercept approaching torpedo boats, it would be a veritable metal storm."
Felix looked at the nearly completed steel beast, quickly calculating its commercial value in his mind.
"Not bad, MacGregor. How many more ironclads like this does the company have?"
"The one in Dry Dock No. 1 is ninety percent fitted out and can undergo sea trials next month."
MacGregor pointed to Dry Docks No. 2 and No. 3 in the distance.
"There are two more sister ships of the same class over there having their keels laid and hulls riveted. They're expected to take another eight months before they can be launched."
"Too slow." Felix frowned.
"The war won't wait eight months for us."
Felix turned around and looked at MacGregor.
"Besides these pure warships, what is the progress on those ocean-going steam cargo ships used for hauling goods?"
"Cargo ships are much faster. They don't need such thick armor, and the structure is simpler. We can launch two three-thousand-ton steam freighters every month," MacGregor answered without hesitation.
"Alright, listen, Ian."
Felix patted MacGregor's shoulder with a serious expression; it was the first time he had called the other man by his first name.
"Immediately halt the construction plans for the ironclads in Dry Docks No. 2 and No. 3. Transfer all workers and resources to the production of freighters."
MacGregor grew anxious and snatched the pipe from his mouth.
"Boss! You must be joking! The hulls of those two ironclads have already taken shape! If we stop now, the initial investment will all go down the drain! Besides, didn't you say Europe is going to war? It's the perfect time to sell warships!"
"Warships will indeed be sold, but I have a better way to sell them." Felix's gaze was deep.
"Pure warships leaving American ports during peacetime will face neutrality inspections from the State Department. Those politicians will look for all kinds of trouble. What we want to build are the 'armed merchant ships' we've had before."
Felix pointed to the slipways where the freighters were being built.
"Modify the newly built freighters. Add a layer of two-inch thin armor at the waterline, enough to withstand stray shots from light artillery. Reserve hidden gun mounts and machine gun rails below the deck. Normally, they are honest merchant ships loaded with wheat and canned food. Once they encounter an undiscriminating cruiser at sea..."
Felix gave a cold laugh.
"Strip off the tarpaulins, raise the cannons. They become the fastest auxiliary cruisers. This is called defensive armament—perfectly reasonable."
MacGregor listened in stunned silence, then burst into a wild laugh of realization.
"To hell with defensive armament! Boss, you're planning to release a pack of wolves in sheep's clothing onto the North Atlantic! This is entirely feasible technically, and the construction speed will be extremely fast!"
"It's not just that."
Felix glanced at Frost behind him.
"Heinrich White of General Electric reported to me yesterday that they have developed high-power marine searchlights and internal lighting networks. Install all that equipment on the new ships. I want our merchant ships to be as bright as day even when sailing at night. If they encounter an enemy, a beam of intense light will go over and directly blind the opposing gunners' eyes."
MacGregor nodded vigorously.
"No problem at all! Atlantic Dynamics never asks why, only how. Give me three months, and I'll build you an ironclad transport fleet that can rule the Atlantic!"
"That would be for the best."
Felix straightened his collar, which had been ruffled by the sea breeze.
"Now take me to your office. A special guest from Europe should already be waiting impatiently. It's time to sell that completed 'Poseidon' in Dry Dock No. 1 for a good price."
Atlantic Power Company, General Manager's Office.
The room was a mess, with blueprints plastered across the walls and the air thick with the scent of aged rum and cheap tobacco. A massive desk, fashioned from salvaged ship planks, sat at the heart of the room.
Felix pushed the door open and entered.
Seated before the desk was a European gentleman in a well-tailored French double-breasted suit and gold-rimmed glasses, looking restless. The mud from the shipyard clinging to his leather shoes clearly made him very uncomfortable.
Seeing Felix walk in, the gentleman stood up immediately and gave a slight bow.
"Good day, Mr. Argyle. I am François Laurent, Special Envoy for the Naval Ordnance Procurement Bureau of the Second French Empire."
Laurent's English carried a heavy French accent. Though he tried his best to maintain an aristocratic composure, the anxiety in his eyes was impossible to hide.
"Have a seat, Mr. Laurent."
Felix didn't sit down when he reached the desk. Instead, he leaned on the surface with both hands, looking down at the French envoy from a position of authority.
MacGregor and Frost stood behind Felix like two guardian deities.
"Has Marshal Le Boeuf at the Tuileries Palace finally changed his mind?"
A look of undisguised mockery played at the corners of Felix's mouth.
"I recall that a month ago, your ambassador to Britain and Baron Valois were still in Paris mocking my armory as a scam. What's the matter? Is the Mitrailleuse no longer working well?"
Laurent's expression turned awkward, and he gave a dry cough.
"Mr. Argyle, there were some misunderstandings in the past. Marshal Le Boeuf has gained a new appreciation for your company's technological innovations. With the current tension in Europe, the Imperial Navy needs to expand its strength as quickly as possible. We heard in Paris that you have several ironclads nearing completion here..."
"It's not hearsay; it's a fact you can see for yourself. It's right outside in Drydock Number One," Felix interrupted.
"Four thousand five hundred tons, fifteen knots, eight inches of case-hardened armor, and twin eight-inch main guns. The most advanced killing machine currently on this planet."
Laurent's eyes lit up, and he leaned forward.
"The French Empire is willing to purchase this warship. As long as its performance matches your description, the price is negotiable. We need it to join the Atlantic Fleet immediately to blockade Prussia's northern ports."
"Negotiable?"
Felix straightened up and pulled a cigar from its case. MacGregor, with perfect timing, struck a match and lit it for him.
Exhaling a cloud of blue smoke, Felix looked at Laurent through the haze.
"Mr. Laurent, business is business. The construction cost of this 'Poseidon' is two million dollars. According to the conventions of the arms trade, if I sell it to you, the price doubles to four million dollars. Plus the Smokeless Powder ammunition and the new gatling guns equipped on this ship, the package price is five million dollars."
Laurent gasped and bolted upright.
"Five million dollars?! Oh no, that's absurd! That's equivalent to twenty-five million francs. We could order an ironclad of the same class from the Royal Navy Dockyard in Britain for at most one and a half million pounds. You're committing extortion!"
"Ha... Extortion?"
Felix let out a cold laugh, his gaze turning extremely dangerous.
"Mr. Laurent, if you go to Britain to order one, how long will it take for them to deliver? Two years? Three? If Bismarck's army crosses the Rhine River tomorrow, will a warship delivered in two years be able to save Paris?"
Felix walked up to Laurent, his presence overwhelming.
"Understand this: I'm not selling blueprints here; I'm selling stock. It's ready-to-go stock that can sail out and fire on the Prussians next month. At this moment, five million dollars for an ironclad that can seize command of the sea is a bargain. The fact that I haven't sold it to Prussia is an act of mercy toward you."
Laurent wiped the sweat from his forehead. He knew Felix was telling the truth.
French shipyards were inefficient. While the British could build ships quickly, their neutral stance meant they would never sell ready-made warships to a belligerent nation at such a critical juncture.
They could only come to this unscrupulous American arms dealer.
"We can accept the price," Laurent said, gritting his teeth.
"However, the French Treasury's current cash flow is needed for army mobilization. We hope to pay this five million dollars through ten-year war bonds issued by the Central Bank of France, with an annual interest rate of six percent."
Hearing this, MacGregor, standing behind Felix, couldn't help but let out a sneer.
The smile on Felix's face vanished completely.
He walked back behind his desk and looked at the other man with a cold gaze.
"Mr. Laurent. Do you think American businessmen are unsophisticated and easy to swindle?"
Felix leaned his hands on the desk and said, emphasizing every word.
"I don't want your war bonds, which could turn into scrap paper at any moment. The value of war bonds depends on whether you can win. And to be honest, I don't trust the combat capabilities of your French army."
Laurent was infuriated. His pride as a Frenchman wouldn't allow him to tolerate such an insult.
"Mr. Argyle, watch your language! The French army is the strongest in Europe; we cannot lose to those Prussian barbarians!"
"Tsk... Then go fight your war with your'strongest army.' Goodbye, I won't see you out."
Felix bluntly issued an order for him to leave, turning his back on Laurent to study the shipyard's master plan on the wall.
Laurent froze in place, caught in a dilemma.
He couldn't go back empty-handed. If he didn't get this ironclad, the Minister of the Navy Department would skin him alive.
"Fine, how do you want to be paid?"
Laurent's tone softened, asking almost imploringly.
Felix didn't turn around.
"Gold, of course. Physical gold with a purity of no less than ninety percent."
Felix's voice echoed in the office.
"The equivalent of five million dollars in gold reserves must be deposited into a secret account at the ArgyleImperial Bank in London or Geneva by the end of next month. If I don't see the gold, this ship won't leave America, even if it rusts in the dock. Of course... it might just end up in Prussia instead."
Laurent closed his eyes and nodded with difficulty.
"Very well. I will telegraph Paris to request the use of the treasury's gold reserves."
"Oh, and don't forget to remind Marshal Le Boeuf."
Felix turned around, a mocking smile on his lips.
"Major Alvensleben of Prussia just took a shipload of Smokeless Powder rifles from me last month. If you Frenchmen don't want to be turned into sieves on the battlefield, you'd better bring an extra two million dollars when you transport the gold. Perhaps I can sell you the armory's production capacity for next month."
Laurent's eyes widened in horror.
"You... you sold those weapons to the Prussians? Aren't you aiding the enemy?"
"No, no, no... in my ledger, there are no enemies or friends, only buyers."
Felix sat back in his high-backed leather chair and picked up the whiskey on the table.
"You're the ones who started the war; I'm just providing the cutlery. As for who eats whom in this feast, that's a matter for you Europeans."
Laurent left the office, looking dejected and soul-crushed.
He had arrived with the pride of a great power's envoy, but he left like a prisoner drained of his lifeblood.
MacGregor walked to the desk, took the whiskey bottle from Felix's desk, and poured himself a glass.
"Boss, you're ruthless. Playing both sides. If those politicians in Washington find out we're selling active-service-grade ironclads to belligerent nations, President Grant might be angry enough to send troops to shut this place down."
"Grant won't find out."
Felix picked up a fountain pen and signed the delivery manifest.
"Once this ship is launched, it won't fly any country's flag. It will sail out of the Hudson River at night and complete the handover on the high seas. The accounts will be laundered clean through a bank in Switzerland. It'll be called a 'Disappearance of a Stateless Merchant Vessel' incident."
Berlin, a gray brick building on the banks of the Spree River.
Rain washed against the glass windows.
Hans Richter pulled out a backless wooden stool and sat down.
He wore the dark gray uniform of the Prussian Army Logistics Department, his riding boots stained with mud.
He casually unbuckled his sword and placed it on the corner of the table.
Standing across the table was Samuel Bowen, the manager of the European branch of the Metropolitan Trading Company.
"General Richter, time is precious. Why don't we look at the goods directly?"
Bowen inserted a crowbar into the gap of a pine crate and pressed down hard.
As the nails were pulled from the wood, Bowen lifted the lid.
Inside were hundreds of unlabeled tin cans neatly stacked.
Bowen took out a can and handed it to Richter.
At the same time, he also handed over a military dagger specifically designed for opening cans.
Richter took the can; it was heavy.
He pierced the tin with the tip of the dagger and cut an opening along the edge. A strong scent of fat and salt wafted out.
Richter used the tip of the knife to pick up a dark red piece of meat and put it in his mouth.
However, after chewing a few times, his brow furrowed.
"Too much salt, and the meat is coarse; it's like chewing a saddle," Richter evaluated.
Bowen threw the crowbar onto the floor.
"General, this is made from beef mixed with scraps from the Chicago slaughterhouses and compressed. I don't think it needs to taste good; it just needs to last for three months in a dark, damp trench without rotting. When your soldiers march with these tin cans, they won't need to start a fire; they can fill their stomachs as soon as they open them. The salt can replenish the stamina they lose from sweating."
Bowen pulled a manifest from his pocket and slapped it onto the table.
"One million cans, already in the warehouse at the Port of Hamburg. As soon as the gold is settled, your quartermasters can load them onto trains for the front lines tonight."
Richter picked up the manifest.
"Price."
"A bargain, fifteen cents per can," Bowen replied.
"No haggling; after all, we are bearing the transport risks on the Atlantic Ocean. If this shipment is intercepted by the French Navy, we lose everything."
Richter took a pen and made a checkmark on the manifest.
"We'll take them. Next."
Bowen turned toward a second, slightly smaller wooden crate. He pulled the nails and opened the lid. It was filled with shock-absorbing hay.
He took a glass bottle and a kraft paper package out of the hay.
"This is the field first-aid kit from the Umbrella Pharmaceutical Company."
Bowen pushed the glass bottle in front of Richter.
The bottle contained a transparent liquid.
"Carbolic Acid (Phenol), diluted solution," Bowen pointed at the bottle.
"When your military surgeons perform amputations, use this to clean the saws and wounds. It prevents the wounds from festering and rotting. This stuff can increase the survival rate of your wounded by thirty percent."
Next, Bowen opened the kraft paper package. Inside was a row of small glass ampoules connected to steel needles.
"Purified Morphine injections, in single-dose packaging. After a soldier is shot, snap off the top of the glass tube and stab it directly into the flesh. He won't be rolling on the ground in pain, nor will he die from shock due to intense agony. He can lie quietly on a stretcher and wait for the doctor."
Richter picked up a Morphine ampoule.
He had seen too many soldiers on the battlefield go mad from wound infections and pain.
"It seems you Americans learned quite a lot during the Civil War," Richter said, looking at Bowen.
"All experience paid for with human lives, General."
Bowen pulled over a chair and sat down.
"One hundred thousand first-aid kits, also at the Port of Hamburg. Priced at five hundred thousand dollars."
Richter did not agree immediately; he was calculating the Logistics Department's budget.
"This money is not in the regular military expenditure; I need to apply to the General Staff."
"General, the French are massing at the border. General Moltke's train schedule is packed. If your soldiers get sick on the train, or if they are sidelined by an infection from stepping on a nail on the first day, your numerical advantage will be weakened," Bowen leaned forward.
"Buying these is buying your soldiers' lives."
Richter made another checkmark on the manifest.
"What else?" Richter asked.
Bowen stood up and walked toward the corner, where blue tin barrels were placed.
He unscrewed the lid of a tin barrel, and a pungent chemical smell filled the air.
"Blue-can kerosene from the Standard Oil Company."
Bowen took a box of matches from his pocket.
"General, your railway scheduling plan is perfect. But when your trains are loading and unloading supplies at night, they need light."
Bowen struck a match and lit a kerosene lamp sitting on the table.
The flame was steady and the light was bright.
"No need to go around collecting spermaceti oil or lard candles anymore. Those things produce black smoke and have short burn times. One barrel of this refined kerosene is enough to light a train station platform for three whole nights. It isn't afraid of wind or rain."
"One hundred thousand barrels, one million dollars," Bowen quoted the price.
Richter looked at the kerosene lamp; he knew the importance of night marches and scheduling.
The Prussian army needed to complete its assembly before the French could react, not to mention this price was a bit cheaper than the market rate.
Light was time.
"Deal." Richter closed the manifest.
"The payment will be made to your designated account through Deutsche Bank within three days. It must be settled in gold, right?"
"Of course, rules are rules, General."
Bowen blew out the kerosene lamp.
Richter stood up and picked up his sword, preparing to leave.
"Wait, General. I have one last thing here."
Bowen walked to the desk and pulled open a drawer.
He took out a kraft paper roll. Untying the cord, he spread several large blueprints flat on the table.
Richter turned around, his gaze falling on the blueprints. It was the structural diagram of a ship.
"This is the ironclad 'Poseidon' from the Atlantic Power Company."
"Four thousand five hundred tons, fifteen knots. It features eight-inch armor and twin-mounted main guns."
Richter's eyes narrowed.
"Major Alvensleben mentioned this ship in his telegram, but it's in a New York shipyard. War is about to break out; it probably won't be able to make it over."
"It has already been launched," Bowen broke the startling news.
"As we speak, it is flying the Liberian flag and crossing the Atlantic Ocean under the escort of two armed colliers. In another half-month, it will reach the North Sea."
Richter strode to the table, bracing his hands on the surface.
"You sailed it over? Without a signed contract?"
"My boss is a man who likes to take risks, General." Bowen looked at Richter.
"Your North Sea Fleet needs a capital ship to anchor it. The French navy could blockade your ports at any time. This ship is the wedge you need to break the blockade."
"Oh, by the way, France has already placed an order."
Richter's brow twitched violently as he stared at the firepower configuration on the blueprint.
"Price."
"Six million dollars, plus all the Smokeless Powder ammunition equipped on the ship."
Bowen's opening price was one million dollars more expensive than what was offered to France, but there was no other way.
France was already a naval power; Prussia? They weren't even in the same league.
Richter straightened up upon hearing this.
"The price Major Alvensleben negotiated in New York was five million."
"That was the price in a New York shipyard; now it's already on the Atlantic Ocean. We have borne the risks of sinking and being intercepted by the French Navy. Shipping costs and risk premium: one million dollars. Not a cent less," Bowen said, refusing to budge.
Richter paced back and forth in the room for a few steps.
"I cannot make the decision on this; it exceeds the authority of the Logistics Department. I must see Chancellor Bismarck and the people from the Navy Department."
"Then you'd better hurry, General."
Bowen rolled up the blueprints and stuffed them back into the tube.
"My boss is a pure businessman; if you don't buy it, when this ship passes through the English Channel, it can turn into the Port of Le Havre at any time. The French would be very happy to pay six million dollars for this monster that can sink all your warships."
Richter's footsteps paused, and he turned his head to look at Bowen.
"You are playing with fire."
"Wrong, we are doing business," Bowen replied with a smile.
Richter pushed open the door and strode out into the Berlin rain.
Bowen walked to the window and watched Richter's carriage depart. He went to the desk and picked up a pen and paper.
He began drafting a coded telegram to Paris.
"The bait has been cast, the fish is biting. Keep a close eye on the French pockets. — Bowen."