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“The first gun we shall call the assault rifle.” Halstead drew a short rifle with an elongated cartridge half as long as the gun’s barrel. “An infantryman will be able to fire it either automatically or semi-automatically, depending on his preference, automatically at the rate of five hundred times per minute. The secret to its success will be the diversion of some of the propellant gases into a cylinder above the barrel. These gases will drive a piston that will force the bolt back against its spring and cock the hammer for the next round. Obviously, it will be extremely lethal in capable hands.” The youthful Schmeisser, not much older than Goebbels, kept his eyes on the sketch and his hands behind his back. “Yes, mein Führer.” Halstead reached for a second sheet of paper. “The second gun I want you to produce for me is the paratrooper rifle.” “‘Paratrooper,’ mein Führer?” one of the lesser designers asked in non-comprehension of the new word. “Soldiers who parachute out of airplanes into enemy territory, my good man,” Halstead responded. “Those soldiers will need a lightweight rifle that’s sturdy, yet can give a high amount of firepower.” The dictator’s sketch hand was on the second sheet, and all of his observers were leaning over the table once more. “The FG Twenty, Twenty-One, or whatever year you produce a working prototype, will weigh only four kilograms,” the artist was already outlining a machine that could have been the skeleton of the first, “but can be fired in full automatic mode, have retracting bipod legs, and sport a bayonet for close-in combat.” Schmeisser started to speak once more, but Halstead’s pencil-bearing hand cut back and forth through the air to cut him off. “No arguments, Herr Schmeisser. You and your men may take ten years, if you must, but I want these guns for my troops. The restorers and defenders of German dignity and honor deserve and need nothing less.” Schmeisser bowed slightly and stared at the floor. “It will be done, mein Führer.” |