The sun was barely resting over the Paris skyline when Major Étienne Moreau arrived at the industrial grounds of Hotchkiss et Cie.
The towering factory buildings looked like quiet fortresses.
It was here, within these ti-hardened walls, that war and machines t on the drafting tables.
And today is a very important day not only for Moreau but for Hotchkiss as well.
Inside the central hall Hotchkiss foundry roared in full noise.
Moreau, dressed in a field coat rather than his uniform, entered with engineers Delor and Chevalier flanking him.
His eyes swept across the wide assembly floor with determination.
This was not a visit.
It was an order of battle.
They were received by François Berlot, the newly appointed Director of Armant Production at Hotchkiss, and Mada Celeste Proulx, Head of Strategic Industrial Operations.
Behind them stood a team of foren, tallurgists, logistics officers, and lead draftsn all waiting.
"Major Moreau," Berlot greeted, offering a firm handshake.
"Welco to the forge."
"Glad to see you still burn coal rather than papers, Monsieur Berlot," Moreau replied dryly.
Celeste smiled faintly. "We've cleared Bay Line 2, rerouted the armored car shells to Limoges. You'll have five days of uninterrupted capacity before the next rotation."
Delor opened a leather case and pulled out the refined production blueprints.
"You'll need to reorganize Tooling Set A. There's a new bore spec for the venturi cone and chamber sleeve."
Chevalier handed over a typed list. "And these are the alloy compositions. Barrel casing will require a specific chromium-molybdenum ratio."
Berlot scanned it briefly and raised an eyebrow. "That's high-grade stuff. Expensive."
Moreau stepped forward. "It's also the only mix that doesn't shear under rapid thermal stress. You'll be machining chamber locks that hold thirty-five kilonewtons of force in a pressure spike. Unless you want our soldiers firing grenades from tubes that lt like butter, use the right mix."
Berlot didn't argue.
He signaled to his materials director, who took the sheet and vanished toward the procurent offices.
"Alright," Celeste said.
"Let's talk scale. We were told to expect a production request in the thousands. We're talking eight-week tilines?"
"Six," Moreau corrected. "You'll prototype in five days, first batch by Day Twelve. I've cleared railway priority through Beauchamp's office."
Berlot blinked. "Major, that's not an armant tiline. That's a textile schedule."
"It's war, not haute couture," Moreau shot back.
Delor chid in. "We've already stress-tested the design. Your boys won't be starting from zero."
Berlot exhaled slowly, then turned to his production manager. "We'll need to triple night shifts on all lines. Pull Line 3 from the tank guns and reconfigure."
Chevalier flipped through his notes. "Also, the cartridge casings require a different press mold. We've included the die specs."
Celeste leaned in. "Supply-wise, we'll need a firm count on how many units and shells you want in the first month."
Moreau replied, "Initial order 3,000 units. With 15,000 shells. You'll manufacture the rifle body. Shells will be assembled at Verdun under military supervision. If that bottlenecks, we'll shift to Lyon."
Berlot made a note, then looked up sharply. "And cost?"
"Don't worry," Moreau said evenly. "The Republic is buying you more than machines. It's buying ti."
That silenced the room.
Celeste finally spoke again. "We'll also need soone from your end embedded here. For oversight. No delays."
"You'll have Delor, he is yours and mine as well " Moreau laughed.
"He sleeps in boiler rooms. Perfect match."
The older engineer gave an exaggerated sigh.
Berlot nodded and looked to his line chief. "Get ready to brief the foren. I want preliminary layouts by tomorrow morning."
"Already in motion," the man replied.
They shifted into the next stage facility walk-through.
Down in the barrel shop, foren sward over lathes and heat-treatnt stations.
Delor inspected bore reaming units, barking at an apprentice for using the wrong coolant mix.
"Bring moly oil," he snapped. "Or I swear I'll fire this rifle through your desk."
Chevalier moved to the press stations, checking alignnt jigs integrity.
A technician demonstrated the folding bipod bracket system.
Chevalier nodded.
"Acceptable. Test for mud-lock under battlefield gri next."
At the cartridge bench, Moreau inspected the brass casings. "Where's the inner sleeve?"
The loader looked up. "They said it was optional."
"It's not." Moreau picked up the shell, turned it in his fingers. "The buffer sleeve reduces pressure volatility. Without it, a third of these explode prematurely. Fix it. Refit every last mold if you have to."
The loader swallowed and nodded quickly.
They reconvened after three hours, back in the upstairs boardroom.
Celeste opened her ledger. "Alright, recap. You'll have bay lines, tooling, and alloy intake secured by Monday. First batch test-fire scheduled for Day Twelve. Logistics assigned. Oversight in place."
Berlot leaned forward. "Now the question. What do you call it?"
Moreau hesitated.
Delor grinned. "You an besides 'miracle cannon'?"
Chevalier raised an eyebrow. "Or 'The Stick That Killed the Panzer?'"
Celeste allowed herself a chuckle.
Moreau replied flatly, "Model 36-R. 'R' for Recoilless."
Berlot nodded. "Functional. I like it."
The eting ended.
There were papers to sign, stamps to press, schedules to finalize.
But as Moreau looked out over the smokestacks from the window, his mind wasn't on docuntation.
It was on velocity.
It was on muzzle heat dispersion.
It was on how many lives each unit could save.
It was on failure rates, on dirt, on snow, on field jamming, on conscripts and wounded engineers and broken lathes and grit.
"You alright?" Delor asked quietly.
Moreau nodded. "Just calculating."
Celeste approached. "You'll be expected at the Ministry again next week. Publicly."
He sighed. "Fine. But this ti, no speeches."
"We'll see," she said with a grin.
They walked back through the factory floor, the noise louder now, engines fully active.
Steel bars rolled from conveyors.
Sparks ca from the grinders.
Moreau stood for a long mont beside a box of unpainted barrels.
One was lifted by a crane, hooked to a mount.
A weapon.
A tool.
A whisper of defiance in a century of war.
And they had just begun.
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