New York.
Unlike Washington, with its political maneuvering and high-society glitz, Sergeant Miller's battlefield remained grounded in sweat, stale alcohol, and discontent.
After receiving Felix's instructions, Miller did not imdiately seek out Lieutenant Carter. A wary fish will not bite any bait that appears suddenly. He needed a more organic setting, a place where idealism t frustration.
Based on his observations, Miller pinpointed a fixed habit: at least twice a week, Lieutenant Carter ate lunch alone at the "Old Helmsman" steakhouse near the Governors Island ferry terminal. It was a decent, quiet spot favored by captains and officers who preferred independence over the conformity of the ss hall. This was Miller's chosen fishing ground.
That day, Miller exchanged his rough clothes for a clean tweed coat, his hair neatly combed. The long scar on his face lent him the appropriate air of military sternness. He arrived early, choosing an inconspicuous table near the door. He ordered only black coffee and silently read a newspaper, waiting.
Precisely at half past twelve, a young officer in a crisp uniform, tall and rigidly upright, pushed the door open. Lieutenant Edward Carter was exactly on ti.
As Carter passed, Miller perford his act with practiced ease. His newspaper "slipped" from his grasp, landing precisely at Carter's feet.
"Sorry, Lieutenant." Miller rose to retrieve it.
"It's alright, Sergeant." Carter gracefully bent down, picking up the paper.
As their eyes t, Carter's gaze sharpened, recognizing the specific, unique aura possessed only by n baptized by fire.
"Are you... a soldier?" Carter asked.
"I am Miller. Forrly served in the Second Dragoons." Miller took the newspaper, offering a standard military nod.
"My apologies, Sergeant. I am Edward Carter, and you are a hero who fought in the xican War." Carter snapped to attention, returning a precise salute.
A weathered smile crossed Miller's face. "No hero. Just a lucky man who crawled out of a pile of dead bodies. Lieutenant, if you don't mind, may I buy you a drink? It's rare to et a young man who still retains a sense of military honor in this town."
The combination of flattery and shared veteran status instantly bridged the distance between them. Carter gladly accepted and sat opposite Miller.
"Lieutenant," Miller began, his expression growing serious. "We old soldiers aren't like those politicians waving flags in the papers. We know the truth of war. What a soldier needs most on the battlefield isn't empty slogans, but hot food in his gut and a comrade to cover his back."
Carter's face clouded with concern, imdiately recognizing the truth in the statent. "You are absolutely right, Sergeant. They think war is a glorious adventure. They don't know that hunger, cold, and disease are a hundred tis more terrifying than enemy bullets."
"Exactly," Miller said slowly, leaning closer. "That's why a group of us veterans and patriotic businessn couldn't sit still. We can't fight, but we can use the experience and connections we have to do sothing practical for the n on the front lines."
"Do sothing practical?"
Miller reached into his satchel and gently placed two cans on the table: the standard red label, and the exquisitely packaged Premium Gold Label. "For example, solving their food problem."
Carter recognized the Argyle shield logo. "I've heard of it. They say it tastes very good."
"It's not just good, Lieutenant." Miller's tone was full of conviction. "It's clean, safe, ready to eat without cooking, and can be stored for over two years. It is a strategic material."
He pushed the Gold Label toward Carter. "This is a military ration specially improved by our partner, Mr. Argyle. If we had this on the xican battlefield, casualties from disease alone could have been reduced by thirty percent."
Carter was captivated, examining the can carefully. He was too smart to believe this was a chance eting. "Sergeant, you didn't just co to see for a drink today, did you?"
"I cannot hide anything from you, Lieutenant," Miller admitted frankly. "I, and the patriots behind , need help. We know how difficult it is to get such a good product onto the army's procurent list. We know that so people in the Quartermaster Departnt care only about how much gold they can stuff into their pockets."
This struck the rawest nerve.
"We need an officer who truly cares about soldiers, has courage and responsibility, and is not afraid of powerful forces, to be our recomnder. We need soone to present this sample, and the respect for the lives of frontline soldiers it represents, to the man who can truly make a decision."
Miller's gaze held his. "According to our information, there is only one person in the entire New York Quartermaster Departnt who ets all our requirents. That is you, Lieutenant Carter," he said, word for word.
Carter's heart pounded, a fusion of deep satisfaction and imdiate apprehension. This was the righteous fight he had longed for. "But... I'm just a lieutenant. My report won't even reach General Reed's desk; it will be stopped by Colonel Hudson."
"Therefore, you need so assistance."
Miller took a thick envelope, a crisp, five-hundred-dollar bundle, from his satchel and discreetly placed it under the table, near Carter's knee. "Lieutenant, we veterans understand one truth. To accomplish sothing right, sotis you need so not-so-right thods. This is not a bribe; this is special activity funding from our 'Patriots Alliance'."
"You can use it to smooth things over. To buy off people around Colonel Hudson to ensure your report bypasses him. How you use it is up to you. Our only goal is this: let General Reed personally see and taste this thing that can change the logistics landscape of war."
Carter instantly stiffened, feeling the imnse risk and temptation next to his knee. "You... you are asking to make a huge gamble."
"Yes," Miller agreed directly, but with a slight change of wording. "A huge gamble for the lives of tens of thousands of soldiers, and also for your own future and ideals. We believe West Point graduates never lack the courage to bet everything."
Miller stood up and gave a final, standard military salute. "The sample and the funds have been delivered. The decision is entirely yours. Goodbye, Lieutenant." He turned and left the steakhouse decisively.
Lieutenant Carter sat motionless, the can of the future before him, the envelope of risk beside his knee. After a fierce internal struggle, he quietly slipped the envelope into his briefcase, picked up the golden-label can, and his eyes grew resolute.
Felix's first nail had successfully wedged itself into the Federal Army's decaying system.
Washington, D.C.
The young capital was a nexus of anxiety and speculation, with rchants hawking everything from rifles to uniforms. In this arena of male ambition, Catherine O'Brien, poised and elegant, was a distinct anomaly.
Her suite at the Willard Hotel had already beco a social focal point. The legend of "Argyle Lead-Free Canned Food" was beginning to fernt in the marble corridors of Capitol Hill.
At 9:30 AM, Catherine arrived at Capitol Hill.
"Miss O'Brien, are you really not nervous?" Young Assistant Davis nervously adjusted his tie. "That's Senator Clark! Everyone says the Departnt of the Army can't buy a single bullet without his approval."
"Mr. Davis," Catherine said with a reassuring smile. "When you hold a trump card that your opponent cannot refuse, you don't need to be nervous. You simply decide how to play that card in the most dignified way."
In the solemn office of the Senate Military Committee chairman, Catherine first t Senator Thomas Clark. His silver hair was ticulously combed, and his hawk-like eyes were sharp.
"Miss O'Brien, welco to Washington," Senator Clark said, emotionless. "You have fifteen minutes. What brings the young 'Canned Food Hero' from New York to send his most capable assistant here?"
"Senator, I am here precisely to save you ti." Catherine placed the beautifully packaged Gold Label can on his large desk. "My employer, Mr. Felix Argyle, sent to present a solution to you, to Congress, and to the entire Federation."
Clark sneered. "Every day, hundreds pitch their 'solutions.' What can your little tin can solve?"
"It can solve the most critical, yet overlooked, problem for our future army, logistical attrition and soldier health."
"Senator," Catherine continued, holding his gaze. "In the last xican-Arican War, non-combat casualties due to food spoilage and malnutrition were nearly twice the combat casualties. For every soldier we lose on the battlefield, two fall due to our own terrible logistics."
Clark's expression turned serious.
"This little can," Catherine said, elevating the topic. "It significantly narrows that ratio. Its two-year shelf life eliminates spoilage. Its balanced nutrition maintains soldier health. Crucially, its lead-free process fundantally eliminates heavy tal poisoning. But these are superficial advantages."
She leaned slightly forward. "Sir, federal generals will no longer be constrained by traditional supply lines. An army carrying canned rations can conduct longer-distance infiltrations and longer periods of stealth. You understand better than I what this ans in future warfare."
Clark fell silent, contemplating the profound strategic possibility Catherine was selling.
"It sounds perfect, Miss O'Brien. But perfect things are usually expensive."
"Yes, its unit price is higher than a hard biscuit and salted at," Catherine admitted frankly. "But Senator, you oversee the national treasury. You must not look at the unit price, but the comprehensive cost."
She presented a prepared cost analysis model. "We calculated the spoilage rate of traditional rations, transportation weight, field kitchen costs, and dical expenses from intestinal diseases. The conclusion: by adopting our canned rations, the 'comprehensive logistical cost' for supplying a division will be reduced by at least twenty percent compared to the traditional model."
Just then, the office door opened, and an elegant young lady walked in. "Father, I'm sorry, am I interrupting? I just ca to retrieve the opera invitation."
"Anna, my darling. Co in, I'll introduce you. This is Miss O'Brien from New York."
"Argyle & Co. Foods?" Anna exclaid, her eyes lighting up. "I know it! It's the brand Mr. Tilford raves about! I even bought your golden-label canned food last week, and the taste was absolutely delicious! Father, you must try it; it's much better than what our chef makes."
Her daughter's heartfelt endorsent, a pure market judgnt, was instantly more convincing than all the data Catherine had presented.
Senator Clark burst into laughter. "Well, it seems my daughter has already made the market judgnt for ." He stood, extending his hand. "Miss O'Brien, you perford exceptionally well. I admire your boss, Mr. Argyle."
"So, Senator, regarding our proposal…" Catherine pressed cautiously.
"I cannot promise you a contract," Clark replied with political precision. "But I can tell you that I will personally write to the Secretary of the Departnt of the Army. In the letter, I will strongly recomnd that the Departnt of the Army lead a top-level, priority, and comprehensive evaluation of the new individual ration system proposed by your company."
This power-backed recomndation was worth far more than any initial contract.
"Thank you very much, Senator!" Catherine exclaid.
"Don't thank ," Clark said, weighing the gold-label can in his hand. "Thank your excellent product and your visionary boss. Tell him I very much look forward to eting him in person in Washington in the future."
When Catherine walked out of the office and into the Washington sunlight, she smiled. She had not failed Felix's trust.
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