Chapter 179:

Words : 1134 Updated : Sep 21st, 2025

Chapter 179: "Fine. I’ll weld your tutu.” The clanging of hammers rang across the halls of the Hotchkiss foundry. Molten light from the furnaces flared. To most men, it was chaos. To Major Étienne Moreau, it was something close to divine music. He stepped into the foundry with a folder tucked tightly under one arm and a cigarette already burning between his fingers. It had been nearly two weeks since the meeting at the Ministry two weeks of drafting, recalculating, redrawing. And now, with Beauchamp’s blessing and the full attention of Hotchkiss, the vision was becoming real. Delorme was already waiting in the corner. His eyes lit up when he saw Moreau. "You brought the full cross-section?" he asked "Down to the last millimeter," Moreau replied, setting the heavy roll of paper on the table. From another side room, Chevalier emerged, wiping graphite from his fingers with a rag already stained grey. "I’ve sent out the requisitions for the chromium alloy," he reported. "The delivery is scheduled for Tuesday. But the heat shielding’s going to be a problem." "We’ll layer the ceramic in," Moreau said. Chevalier shook his head. "Not at those temperatures. A single eighteen-hundred-degree burst will fracture the chamber walls unless we encase the shielding properly." Delorme scanned the notes. "We offset the core. Add a secondary pressure ring." "But machining something that small?" Chevalier muttered. "We’ve never done it." "You’ve never needed to," Moreau said simply, meeting his gaze. There was a pause. Then Delorme cracked a grin and leaned over the table. "Let’s see if physics agrees with you." The next few days were full of activity. Delorme supervised the machining floor. His voice rose above the grinders as he yelled at the toolmen and inspected the cold-forged barrel assemblies. The rifling grooves were checked under magnification, venturi cones polished to within fractions of tolerance. Chevalier took over the pressure tests. Every chamber design, every fuse, every variable was run through mock ignition systems and pressure rigs. His notebooks filled with careful data some hopeful, most not. And Moreau? He floated between them, adapting where necessary, translating his vision into components, angles, and brass. This was his battlefield. In one corner of the main drafting floor, they established a mock assembly zone. A corkboard was covered with overlapping schematics blast diagrams, venting cross-sections, ammunition comparisons, metallurgy notes. Underneath were crates filled with cartridge blanks, shattered fin prototypes, and lengths of steel warped by error. Each morning brought new revisions. Each night, exhaustion. The first major issue came with the stabilizer fins. Chevalier tossed the latest prototype onto the bench. "Tail assembly’s too soft. On firing, the launch torque folds the fins. No flight stability." "Material?" Moreau asked, already flipping to his notes. "Rolled brass. Standard issue." "We need hardened steel," Moreau said. "Or aluminum alloy, heat-treated. We sacrifice weight, gain form retention." Delorme rubbed his temple. "That’ll slow the round." Moreau grabbed a piece of chalk, working out figures on the wallboard. "By six percent. But we increase propellant by five grams. Slight chamber pressure increase, but still within the safety margin." Chevalier arched an eyebrow. "You’re going to stress the breech block." "No," Moreau said. "We double-vent the expansion ring. Channel the pressure rearward. Gases disperse evenly." Delorme ran a finger down the schematic. "I’ll see if the lathe can handle that curvature." By the third day, a courier from Toulouse arrived with the latest powder test data. The chemists had completed ignition samples using the modified base compound. The results were mixed. "Stable," Chevalier summarized, "but unpredictable under pressure. You’ll get twenty or thirty good rounds. Then one will blow your chamber open." "Too volatile?" Delorme asked. "Too inconsistent," Chevalier said. "We need a buffer. Something to slow the burn curve." Moreau tapped a pencil against the table. "Insert a dampener. Inner sleeve, aluminum or copper. Fit it between propellant and casing wall." "Cushion the pressure shock?" Chevalier asked. "Exactly." "Alright," Delorme said. "We’ll cut a mold tomorrow." By the end of the first week, the three of them were working late into the night. They took over an old storage room and converted it into a makeshift war room. Coffee mugs and ink bottles littered the desks. Blueprints were spread across every available surface, layered in pencil edits and thumbprints. Moreau slept only a few hours at a time, curling on a bench beneath the fuse chart wall. Chevalier napped under his desk. Delorme, one night, spent four hours perfecting the side-view of the prototype rifle. When he pinned it up to the central board, the room fell into silence. "It’s real," he said, voice hushed. Moreau nodded. "Not yet," he replied. "But close." Problems kept coming. The breech lock fractured during its first torque test. The tail fins delaminated after vibration simulations. One machinist nearly injured his hand when a support ring cracked during cooling. At one point, a newly forged housing was dented during assembly. Sёarᴄh the NôᴠelFirё.net website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality. "Scrap it," Delorme snapped. "Wait," Moreau said. "We can heat it. Press it back into tolerance. Regrind the channel." "It’s too thin." "No it becomes our failure test." Chevalier lifted the part carefully. "If it survives under full load, it stays." Delorme grunted. "Let’s break it properly, then." The most heated exchange came late on the seventh night. Delorme pounded the workbench. "The blast cone’s too wide. It’ll burn the shooter’s legs. Or worse." "Only if they kneel wrong," Chevalier said. "With a bipod, it’s clear." "You expect a boy with a week’s training to understand gas dynamics in the fog?" "We’ll include diagrams," Moreau said. "That’s not training. That’s suicide." Moreau stared at the schematic, silent for a long moment. Then he circled around the table, erased a section, and drew a new arc. "A conical backplate," he said. "Heat-resistant alloy. Light. Foldable. It extends behind the shooter to channel the blast." Delorme crossed his arms. "You’re building a skirt." "If it keeps the soldier alive," Moreau said, "call it a tutu." Chevalier burst out laughing. Delorme rolled his eyes but smiled. "Fine. I’ll weld your tutu." By the tenth day, they had their list. Barrel machined and rifled. Venturi cone tapered and polished. Tail fins heat-treated and vibration-tested. Chamber rings double-vented. Trigger assembly simple and mechanical. Backplate folding, steel-reinforced. The cartridge mold had been redesigned with a pressure buffer. The fuse passed its bench ignition without delay. Every part of the weapon, though still in pieces, now existed. That evening Moreau stood over the freshly cut venturi nozzle. He picked it up, holding it like a relic. It was smooth, flawless. Delorme walked up beside him. "We weld tomorrow." Chevalier added from behind, "If your ignition system holds."

Chapter 179:

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