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 immediately 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 met 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 mess 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 time.
As Carter passed, Miller performed 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 met, Carter's gaze sharpened, recognizing the specific, unique aura possessed only by men baptized by fire.
"Are you... a soldier?" Carter asked.
"I am Miller. Formerly 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 Mexican 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 meet 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, immediately recognizing the truth in the statement. "You are absolutely right, Sergeant. They think war is a glorious adventure. They don't know that hunger, cold, and disease are a hundred times more terrifying than enemy bullets."
"Exactly," Miller said slowly, leaning closer. "That's why a group of us veterans and patriotic businessmen couldn't sit still. We can't fight, but we can use the experience and connections we have to do something practical for the men on the front lines."
"Do something 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 Mexican 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 meeting. "Sergeant, you didn't just come to see me for a drink today, did you?"
"I cannot hide anything from you, Lieutenant," Miller admitted frankly. "I, and the patriots behind me, need help. We know how difficult it is to get such a good product onto the army's procurement list. We know that some people in the Quartermaster Department 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 recommender. We need someone 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 Department who meets all our requirements. That is you, Lieutenant Carter," he said, word for word.
Carter's heart pounded, a fusion of deep satisfaction and immediate 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 some 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 something right, sometimes you need some not-so-right methods. 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 immense risk and temptation next to his knee. "You... you are asking me 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 merchants 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 become a social focal point. The legend of "Argyle Lead-Free Canned Food" was beginning to ferment 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 Department 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 met Senator Thomas Clark. His silver hair was meticulously combed, and his hawk-like eyes were sharp.
"Miss O'Brien, welcome 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 time." Catherine placed the beautifully packaged Gold Label can on his large desk. "My employer, Mr. Felix Argyle, sent me 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 Mexican-American 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 fundamentally eliminates heavy metal 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 means 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 meat," 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 medical 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 came to retrieve the opera invitation."
"Anna, my darling. Come in, I'll introduce you. This is Miss O'Brien from New York."
"Argyle & Co. Foods?" Anna exclaimed, 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 endorsement, a pure market judgment, 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 judgment for me." He stood, extending his hand. "Miss O'Brien, you performed 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 Department of the Army. In the letter, I will strongly recommend that the Department of the Army lead a top-level, priority, and comprehensive evaluation of the new individual ration system proposed by your company."
This power-backed recommendation was worth far more than any initial contract.
"Thank you very much, Senator!" Catherine exclaimed.
"Don't thank me," 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 meeting 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.