Tanks roll Out

Mr. Van der Linde's special, armored trains, their massive engines hissing steam, continuously ferried between Blackwater and Valentine, a relentless, efficient shuttle, transforming terrified citizens into hopeful settlers. From the distant Wallace Fort, Captain Monroe, his face etched with the weariness of a long journey, also came to pledge his solemn allegiance, his hand pressed over his heart. He finally returned to Wallace Fort with tears streaming down his face and a heart brimming with joy, a man reborn.

Mr. Van der Linde, in a display of magnanimous foresight, gave him the same profound promises and generous treatment as the soldiers of Lemoyne, which undoubtedly meant that their future lives were now completely, gloriously hopeful, illuminated by a beacon of security.

Time, a relentless river, slowly passed, each day unfolding new miracles. Mr. Van der Linde's various infrastructure projects were perfected day by day, roads stretching like veins across the landscape, and his diverse measures, his social reforms, gradually showed their full, impressive scale, transforming communities.

And Mr. Van der Linde, the architect of this new world, also returned, with a subtle air of triumph, to his grand manor in Saint Denis from the whirlwind of Blackwater.

Time continued its slow, inexorable march, and in a blink of an eye, two weeks had passed, marked by the escalating hum of progress.

At this moment, within the opulent Saint Denis Van der Linde Manor, the revered Mr. Dutch Van der Linde, his presence commanding, walked down from the second floor of the villa, his footsteps firm and even, and entered the grand living room, a study in quiet power.

"Cough cough!" Dutch cleared his throat twice, a low, rumbling sound, then took out his intricately carved pipe, its bowl gleaming, and settled onto the plush sofa, a picture of leisurely contemplation.

"Arthur, Arthur!" he called out, his voice carrying easily through the open doors.

"What is it, Dutch?" Arthur's voice sounded, a little muffled but clear, from outside the villa. He was currently engaged in a lively game of billiards with John, his cue stick poised over the table, laughter echoing faintly.

As the self-proclaimed Governor of New Hanover, the effective Governor of Lemoyne, and the future, inevitable Governor of West Elizabeth, Mr. Van der Linde's residence naturally had to boast exceptionally complete and luxurious facilities, befitting his status. Although the full complement of gang members had not yet permanently moved in, all necessary amenities and leisure facilities were already meticulously complete within the sprawling villa.

"Where are the documents Hosea brought, son?" Dutch called out again, gesturing vaguely towards the table.

"They're on the table!" Arthur responded loudly, without looking up from his game. He then lit a fresh cigarette, its tip glowing, and picked up his cue stick to aim at the intricate billiard ball on the table, lining up his shot.

"Marston, you're really useless, man," Arthur drawled, a smirk playing on his lips, "you can't even learn to play snooker, can you? It's not that hard!"

"Sh*t! Arthur." Marston spat succinctly on the polished ground in front of Arthur, a crude but effective gesture of exasperated defiance, shaking his head.

Meanwhile, Dutch in the room picked up the documents that were neatly pressed under a heavy, ornate paperweight on the table and began reading them, his eyes scanning the pages with keen interest.

Hosea, Dutch noted, had been incredibly busy recently, his schedule packed with critical tasks. Of the ten formidable British warships purchased in installments in the name of the Saint Denis Government, a truly audacious acquisition, only five had arrived so far. The reason these five had arrived so quickly, Hosea's report explained, was because they had been strategically stationed near the British colony in Mexico and were sailed over immediately after purchase, a swift, decisive transfer. They were currently undergoing rigorous training, preparing combat personnel to expertly operate these massive vessels.

But Hosea's tasks were not limited to these naval acquisitions; he also had to travel tirelessly back and forth between Guarma and Saint Denis, a relentless journey, to personally monitor the arms production situation on Guarma, ensuring smooth operations.

Since its occupation, Dutch, with his trust in Hosea, had never been to Guarma again; everything had been centrally managed by his loyal, efficient lieutenant.

Currently, Guarma had established a continuous, sprawling factory park, a hive of industrial activity, and similarly employed a fortress cluster security system to ensure the absolute safety of Guarma, its vital production lines, and its workers.

Because the production of firearms was the main, most crucial part of Mr. Van der Linde's grand plan, the key to his financial and military might, there was currently a large-scale recruitment of firearm production workers to aggressively expand capacity and scale, churning out weapons at an unprecedented rate.

Currently, the number of dedicated workers on Guarma had reached over 1,500, a formidable workforce. These workers could produce an astonishing four to five hundred rifles (without magazines, as the external sales were intentionally reduced versions with eight-round stripper clips, a subtle tactic) per day on average, which translated to a staggering daily production capacity of sixty thousand dollars. Hope Ranch in Valentine could also maintain a similar, impressive production capacity, and could produce fifty Maxim guns each month, a fearsome output. (Dutch had looked up some historical information: Springfield Armory produced over 3.5 million Garands from 1936 to 1945, averaging over a thousand per day, so this production target shouldn't be too difficult to make, even with their limited resources).

New Hanover and Lemoyne, Dutch mused, could still absorb these quantities of guns, their markets hungry for weaponry, but it would be difficult to absorb significantly more if production continued at this rate, because this place, thanks to his governance, was now very peaceful and had no active wars, no ongoing conflicts to fuel the demand.

Therefore, their top priority, a pressing need, was to aggressively open up arms sales channels in Mexico and Cuba, vast, untapped markets, and transport their arms by water, through active sales or, if necessary, forced sales, to reluctant buyers. In short, they needed to open up sales channels as soon as possible, to prevent an excess of supply.

Dutch's gaze swept over the current, formidable arms production capacity outlined in the document, and his inner conviction, his self-assurance, grew even stronger, firm as bedrock.

In addition to the detailed arms report, the thick document contained various other crucial contents, a blueprint for his burgeoning empire.

Selling arms required sending out troops, a military presence to ensure safe passage and intimidate rivals, otherwise it would be far too dangerous in this lawless era, and they also wanted to actively sell arms, not just react to demand, so they needed a strong military force to deter rivals and enforce compliance.

And with their own soldiers deployed overseas, guarding vital supply lines, internal defenses could not be left empty, vulnerable. Therefore, the strategic plan he had given Hosea some time ago meticulously included comprehensive construction plans for internal defense structures, fortifying their core territories.

For example, many formidable bunkers had long been newly built at Saint Denis Port, rising like concrete sentinels, and heavy artillery towers had been expertly set up to ensure Saint Denis's naval defense, but this, Dutch knew, was still far from enough, a continuous arms race. Saint Denis's shipbuilding factory had been successfully built and was currently diligently studying the internal structure of British warships, reverse-engineering their designs, but it might take some considerable time to actually build their own fleet.

During this period, the Lemoyne army, now loyal to Dutch, at Mr. Van der Linde's subtle summons, had established formidable defensive lines and camps in the strategic area between Shady Belle and Saint Denis to ensure the absolute safety of Saint Denis and the entire state of Lemoyne.

Soldiers from New Hanover were also summoned by Mr. Van der Linde, their ranks swelling, to be stationed at the crucial junction of New Hanover and West Elizabeth to ensure the safety of New Hanover's eastern border.

With a single, decisive command from Mr. Van der Linde, the entire states of Lemoyne and New Hanover sprang into action, a perfectly synchronized, responsive machine.

Damn it, Dutch thought with a flicker of grim satisfaction, who would dare not obey Mr. Van der Linde's orders? Just look at his various policies, his meticulously crafted measures benefiting the people, and his exceptionally high welfare benefits, unheard of in this era. Let alone being stationed in New Hanover and Lemoyne, even if they were told to get on a train now and go to the East to start a brutal, protracted war, not a single person would hesitate! Their loyalty was absolute.

"When Van der Linde roars, the American West trembles." This, Dutch knew, had become a well-known, almost mythical saying in the West, a testament to his burgeoning power.

But this was still not enough for Dutch. Mr. Van der Linde, deeply traumatized from being shot three times in Blackwater, had since suffered from a debilitating 'firepower deficiency phobia.' He constantly yearned for more powerful, overwhelming force, a force that could crush everything in its path!

If he could only have a Tank now, a true, modern Tank, perhaps he would feel a little more at ease, his anxiety finally assuaged.

Dutch sighed, a soft exhalation, and placed his pipe carefully on the table, its embers glowing faintly.

The inherent backwardness of the era, he knew, could not be completely solved by one or a few geniuses, however brilliant. The complex formation of Tanks required many intricate technological breakthroughs, a web of interconnected advancements. Relying solely on Mr. Marko, however talented, might not put them ahead of the times by many years, merely a few.

But this Tank thing, he mused, it should be possible to build it earlier, right? After all, Tanks had surprisingly appeared in World War I, a mere fifteen years later. They were on the cusp of an industrial revolution.

While the Great Leader Mr. Dutch Van der Linde was feeling melancholic, lost in his strategic thoughts, Hosea walked quickly into the villa from outside, his steps urgent, his face alight with excitement.

"Dutch, Dutch!" Hosea's voice was high, almost breathless with excitement. He rushed towards Dutch, waving a piece of paper frantically. "Mr. Marko sent a letter! He's researched the Tank you mentioned! Damn it, buddy, he says he's researched the Tank you mentioned, the one from your drawings!" Hosea practically danced with excitement, holding the letter aloft.

"What?!" Dutch suddenly stood up from the sofa, his eyes widening in disbelief, knocking over his pipe. "Oh, sh*t! Mr. Marko, oh, dear Mr. Marko, I love you to death! You absolute genius!"

The slight fear of insufficient firepower he had just felt, the gnawing anxiety, instantly vanished, replaced by an ecstatic surge of relief and triumph.

"Buzz, buzz, buzz…"

A deep, grinding roar of machinery echoed from within the large wooden shed at Vulture Ranch, a distant, ominous growl. And with the sound of the machine, billows of thick, black smoke seeped through the gaps in the shed, like an old, overtaxed boiler burning fiercely inside, its fiery heart straining.

"Hahaha, Mr. Marko, you are a genius! You are a genius!"

Mr. Van der Linde, his face wreathed in a wide, triumphant smile, galloped in from outside Vulture Ranch, urging his horse forward, laughing heartily and shouting loudly, his voice ringing with unbridled joy.

It was a good thing he was at Vulture Ranch, a sprawling expanse of open land, otherwise he wouldn't have been able to run so fast, constrained by the dense city streets.

Hosea, Arthur, and John followed closely behind, their faces all bearing wide smiles and expressions of intense curiosity, jostling for a better view.

They all knew that Dutch had always wanted something called a 'Tank,' a mythical war machine from his strange visions, and although they had seen the bizarre, intricate designs Dutch drew in his notebooks, no one had ever seen a real one. So everyone was incredibly curious, their eyes wide with anticipation.

However, seeing the billowing, greasy black smoke rising from the top of the shed, fouling the clear sky, and hearing the machine roaring like an old man gasping for breath, struggling for life, a bad premonition slowly arose in their hearts, a chilling sense of dread.

Mr. Randy, his face streaked with grease but beaming, hurried out from the automatic firearms research shed nearby, drawn by the commotion. He stood outside Mr. Marko's laboratory, laughing loudly, extremely pleased with himself, rubbing his hands together.

"Quick, quick, move aside! The Tank is coming out!" A group of senior researchers who had been recruited during this period, their eyes bright with excitement, also ran out from other laboratories, each looking excitedly at the wooden shed that was still belching thick, ominous black smoke.

The Wright siblings, their faces smudged with grease and oil, also put down the intricate airplane parts they were meticulously researching and rushed over, their faces full of unbridled excitement, eager to witness this technological marvel.

It is worth mentioning that their airplanes, thanks to ample funding and the brilliant technical support of hundreds of dedicated researchers, had already achieved the astonishing technology to fly for an hour and a half and land smoothly, a feat of incredible engineering.

In other words, the airplane technology had begun to truly mature; what was currently lacking was overall refinement, minor tweaks, and some crucial improvements.

For example, engine technology still needed significant improvement, as well as addressing fuel range issues and increasing carrying capacity.

Now, this group of brilliant, eccentric researchers had even fallen into a strange, unspoken circle of fierce competition; everyone wanted to research more and better things first, to push the boundaries of science, all to gain Mr. Van der Linde's coveted praise and recognition, his ultimate approval.

These researchers, Dutch mused, were like highly intelligent, exceptionally well-trained dogs kept by Mr. Van der Linde; after running out to fetch a frisbee, performing dazzling feats, they eagerly awaited their master's praise and a well-deserved petting.

Damn, Dutch thought, a flicker of dark amusement, this was an extremely abnormal relationship, a bizarre psychological dynamic, but remarkably, when applied to Mr. Van der Linde, it was remarkably, terrifyingly reasonable. He commanded such devotion.

Under everyone's tense yet excited gaze, their breaths held, the large, heavy door of the wooden shed was slowly, dramatically pushed open from the inside, creaking ominously.

"Buzz, buzz, buzz!!!"

The thunderous roar of the engine instantly sounded, a deafening cacophony, the sound of the machine running was loud and heavy, feeling like an old ox straining to pull massive stones uphill, making one worry that the ancient engine might stall inadvertently, dying with a wheeze!

Countless billows of thick, acrid black smoke billowed out from the wooden shed, fouling the clear blue sky, dyeing it an ominous charcoal.

A choking smell of burning wood assailed the nostrils, making one's eyes sting, watering them instantly.

But even so, despite the discomfort, everyone still kept their eyes wide open, their gaze fixed on the huge and heavy silhouette slowly emerging from within the swirling black smoke, their curiosity overriding their discomfort.

"Buzz, buzz, buzz…" Accompanied by the clunking, rattling roar of the straining engine, finally, the monstrous creation in the wooden shed successfully started operating, lurching forward.

Massive iron wheels, their surfaces grimy, rolled heavily over the dirt, leaving deep, churning tracks, and amidst the spreading black smoke, a huge, massive iron box, its rear belching plumes of black smoke, slowly, agonizingly, drove out of the wooden shed. It looked like something from a nightmare.

Its silhouette was exceptionally tall, towering over them, its iron body hard and heavy, ponderous, even pressing a noticeable groove from its iron tires into the unyielding concrete road surface, leaving a permanent mark.

And on the smaller, secondary turret perched precariously on the second level, there was even a cannon-like barrel, short and stubby, and a Maxim gun mounted, its menacing barrel glinting.

"Buzz, buzz, buzz…"

Another roar of machinery, a slightly different tone, and billows of black smoke, mixed with faint, angry sparks, emerged from the exhaust port at the rear of this barely-a-Tank vehicle, a prototype, a crude experiment.

Dutch's wide, triumphant smile had frozen on his face, his jaw slack. He looked at this grotesque thing in front of him, which vaguely resembled a Tank yet clearly had vastly different, primitive internal structures, and felt a bit unstable in his composure, his usual self-assurance faltering.

"Cough, cough, cough, cough, cough, cough!"

Violent, racking coughing sounds came from inside the "Tank," muffled by the thick metal, and then the top entrance hatch of the Tank was slowly, laboriously opened.

Mr. Marko, his face blackened with soot and sweat, who was constantly coughing from the choking smoke, painfully crawled out of the Tank, his movements stiff. As he clumsily crawled out, an iron door at the rear of the Tank actually opened, swinging wide, and then a constantly coughing, equally soot-covered assistant crawled out from inside, gasping for air.

Looking inside through the unclosed iron door at the Tank's rear, one could clearly see the furiously burning boiler inside, its flames flickering, a rudimentary, dangerous engine.

Good heavens, Dutch thought, a jolt of disbelief, did he just put a train engine inside? A whole locomotive boiler in that thing?

"Oh, sh*t! Gentlemen, are you alright?" Dutch didn't even look at the monstrosity of the Tank, but instead first rushed to help the struggling Mr. Marko and the assistant who had just crawled out, his hands outstretched, his eyes full of genuine concern, a rare display of paternal care.

"Cough, cough, cough, cough! Oh, Mr. Van der Linde, I didn't expect you to come so quickly, sir!" Mr. Marko gasped, wiping his mouth. He happily pointed to the smoking Tank behind him that was still emitting plumes of acrid black smoke. "Look, sir, this is the sale version Tank I researched! Oh, I think this is simply a genius invention, a masterstroke!"

"Hahaha, alright, Marko, as long as you two are fine, that's all that matters!" Dutch laughed heartily, his earlier dismay quickly masked, as he helped Mr. Marko and the assistant to their feet, patting their backs. Even though the appearance and the core mechanics of the Tank in front of him were far, far from his grand expectations, from his visionary drawings, he showed no outward disappointment, only a facade of enthusiasm.

Damn, Marko thought, a sly gleam in his smoke-filled eyes, this was truly a good leader, because what he cared about most, from beginning to end, was the personal safety of Mr. Marko and his assistant! He valued them more than the machine itself.

"Oh, Dutch, my dear friend! I'll tell you about that later." Marko waved a dismissive hand, then shouted loudly towards the wooden shed, his voice raspy. "Joels, hurry and drive our other Tank out, let Mr. Van der Linde see it first! The real one!"

As his voice fell, another distinct, more refined sound of machinery echoed from within the wooden shed.

However, this time the sound was far less massive and heavy than the previous, clanking Tank, and there was no obvious black smoke coming from the shed, only a faint shimmer of heat.

But one could feel the ground vibrating with a deep, resonant rumble, a powerful, steady thrum. And as the sound of the machine running grew closer, becoming louder, everyone knew, with a thrill of anticipation, that a truly big fellow, something significant, was emerging from the wooden shed.

"Boom, boom, boom…" Accompanied by the powerful, steady roar of a well-oiled engine, a truly meaningful Tank, a sleek, imposing steel Tank emitting only a faint wisp of black smoke, a Tank with a complete, menacing cannon barrel, a powerful Maxim gun, and clear, functional observation windows, an undeniable steel behemoth with a robust track structure, slowly, majestically, drove out from the wooden shed.

The uniform force distribution brought by the intricate track structure meant that this Tank did not leave noticeable tire marks on the concrete ground, its immense weight distributed seamlessly. The roar of the internal combustion engine was much smaller, more controlled, than the primitive steam engine Tank that came out earlier, and even the black smoke was a clean, gasoline-smelling black smoke, not the acrid wood smoke. Its power was even significantly better, more efficient, than the previous, cumbersome Tank!

"Oh, sh*t!" Dutch felt his scalp tingle, a prickling sensation of profound shock, as he looked at this Tank, which was not much different, almost identical, to a World War I Tank, a machine of future warfare.

Damn, Dutch thought, a slow, dawning realization, he guessed wrong. A master is indeed a master; not only did he create a real, functional Tank, but he also created a censored version, a crude, smoking monstrosity, just so he could sell this censored garbage, tricking naive buyers into believing it was cutting-edge technology! Marko, you cunning devil!