Rocket Assist Shells

Muzzle velocity is only the beginning

Jeff Taofledermaus and his best friend Mike had been best described as two guys with more ideas than sense. They spent their weekends in a cluttered garage outside a small town in Arizona, turning scrap metal and online orders into things that went bang in interesting ways. One Thursday evening, after a few beers and a long discussion about muzzle velocity, Jeff sketched out his latest brainstorm on the back of a pizza box.

"Look," he said, tapping the diagram with a grease-stained finger. "We pack solid rocket fuel into a shotgun shell. The regular powder charge fires the shell out of the barrel like normal. But right as it clears the muzzle, a tiny delay fuse lights the rocket motor inside. Instant boost. Like a mini missile, but from your twelve-gauge."

Mike grinned. "We are definitely going to regret this."

They built the first prototype the next weekend. Jeff machined a custom sabot that held a small pellet of ammonium perchlorate composite propellant. A simple pressure-activated primer in the base would ignite the rocket fuel the instant the chamber pressure dropped after leaving the barrel. They tested it in an old single-shot shotgun clamped to a heavy steel frame behind a dirt berm. The first three rounds were duds. The fourth one screamed out of the muzzle with a bright orange tail and kept accelerating for another two hundred yards before the fuel burned out.

They filmed the whole thing on a phone propped on a tripod. The video showed the shell streaking across the desert like a tracer round on steroids. Jeff uploaded it that night to a gun enthusiast forum called RangeRats with the title "Rocket Assisted Shotgun Shell. Because Why Not." He signed the post with his usual handle: Taofledermaus.

The thread exploded by morning. Comments ranged from "This is how you get on a watch list" to "I need twelve of these yesterday." Then, around noon on Sunday, a user with the handle "OrdnanceEcho" replied: "Impressive work. Mind if I ask what composite you used for the grain?"

Jeff answered politely. OrdnanceEcho asked a few more technical questions. The next morning, Jeff's phone rang with a number he did not recognize.

"Mr. Taofledermaus," a calm voice said. "This is Major James Farney, United States Army Research Laboratory. We saw your video. We would like to talk."

Two weeks later, Jeff and Mike found themselves in a nondescript conference room at a military testing facility in New Mexico. Major Farney slid a thick folder across the table. "Gentlemen, your concept has merit. We have been looking at ways to extend the effective range of shoulder-fired weapons without adding weight. Your exit-burn timing is elegant. We want to fund development."

Jeff blinked. "You mean you want us to keep doing this, but with actual money and safety protocols?"

"Exactly," Farney said. "And we want to scale it."

What followed was eighteen months of long days, tighter safety rules, and ever-larger calibers. Jeff and Mike became official consultants. They refined the ignition delay, strengthened the casing, and perfected the nozzle geometry. By month eight, they had a functional 40-millimeter grenade that could double its normal range. By month fourteen, they were working on 120-millimeter smoothbore tank rounds.

The final design was beautiful in a terrifying way. A standard kinetic energy penetrator sat in front of a long, fin-stabilized rocket motor. The tank's main gun propellant launched the round clear of the barrel. A millisecond later, the rocket lit, shoving the shell to hypersonic speeds. The military called it the Orbital Denial Round, though everyone on the project just called it the Taofledermaus Special.

During the first live-fire test at White Sands, the tank crew elevated the barrel to forty-five degrees to check maximum range. Jeff stood in the observation bunker with Mike and Major Farney, watching through binoculars. The round left the muzzle with the usual thunder. The rocket motor ignited on schedule. The shell climbed higher and higher, accelerating the entire way.

Telemetry went quiet at one hundred and twenty kilometers altitude. The tracking radar lost lock shortly after. A technician looked up from his screen. "Sir, that projectile just achieved escape velocity."

Farney lowered his binoculars slowly. "Come again?"

"Escape velocity, sir. It's not coming back. If the elevation had been any higher, we might have put a tank shell into solar orbit."

Jeff Taofledermaus stared at the empty sky, then turned to Mike. "Well," he said, "at least we know the timing works."

Mike started laughing first. Jeff joined him a second later. Somewhere behind them, Major Farney was already reaching for his phone to call Washington.

Two friends with more ideas than sense had just handed the Army something that could reach the stars by accident. And they were only getting started.