The looming war did not immediately bring the devastating artillery fire that ordinary people imagined.
Instead, after the initial clamor, the entire nation fell into a peculiar stalemate, caught between peace and war.
Both sides were frantically recruiting and training new soldiers, raising supplies, and preparing for a long-term war of an unpredictable scale.
This atmosphere of "war preparation" provided the perfect breeding ground for Allen's plan.
In a small tavern near the Governors Island naval base in New York.
This was a place where ordinary soldiers and low-ranking officers numbed themselves with alcohol and vented their frustrations during their brief leisure time.
The air was thick with the pungent smell of cheap beer, sweat, and tobacco.
Sergeant Miller, dressed in the most inconspicuous old clothes, sat alone in the furthest corner of the bar.
Unlike the others, he wasn't boisterous; he just sat quietly, drinking rye beer glass after glass, his ears catching the surrounding conversations.
He had been here for three days now.
Three days, and a thousand dollars in intelligence funds, had made him familiar with everyone here.
Everyone thought he was just a poor old veteran who couldn't find a job after retirement and lived on a meager income.
"Hey, Sergeant!"
A young corporal with a flushed face approached, holding a glass.
"Drinking alone again? What, still thinking about those girls in Mexico?"
"Ha… No, no, no, I was thinking, whether the military rations we ate in Mexico back then were as bad as the pig slop you're eating now."
Miller smiled and ordered a drink for the corporal.
"Pig slop? Sergeant, you're insulting pigs!"
The corporal sat down and began to pour out his grievances.
"You haven't seen the corned beef we're eating now, it glows green! And the hardtack, I swear, Billy, that guy, once used it to smash a rat to death!"
"It seems the gentlemen in the Quartermaster Department are still the same," Miller subtly guided the conversation.
"Who's in charge now? Is it still that fat and greasy Colonel Smith from back then?"
"Smith? He was transferred long ago! Now Colonel Hudson is in charge of our logistics. A hundred times more greedy than Smith, that bastard!"
The corporal lowered his voice, a look of disdain on his face, clearly dissatisfied with him.
"He eats steak and drinks champagne imported from France for every meal, but he gives us moldy biscuits! We all suspect he's put all the military funds into his own pocket!"
"Isn't anyone going to do anything about him?"
"Do anything? Who dares to? Who can?"
The corporal sneered, clearly hopeless about the situation.
"However, there is one fearless hothead who tries to go against the colonel every day."
"Oh?" Miller's eyes subtly lit up.
"It's Lieutenant Carter. A genius graduate of West Point. I heard his grades were even better than General Grant's when he was in school. He's an honest man, but a bit stubborn. He writes reports every day about problems with military rations and substandard equipment provided by suppliers. What's the result? The reports are submitted and then disappear without a trace. Colonel Hudson has long considered him a thorn in his side. If it weren't for his teacher being General Reed, he probably would have been kicked to some godforsaken frontline long ago."
Lieutenant Carter, General Reed.
Miller silently repeated these two names in his mind.
Perhaps the person he was looking for had been found.
Without asking more questions, he just continued drinking with the corporal, chatting about some trivial old military stories.
That night, Miller reported all the intelligence he had gathered to Allen.
"Lieutenant Edward Carter, a high-achieving West Point graduate, an upright man full of ideals, but due to his unwillingness to go along with corruption, he is severely suppressed in the Quartermaster Department."
Allen's fingers tapped lightly on the table, analyzing the man's character profile.
"His superior is the greedy and corrupt Colonel Hudson. And his backer, or rather, his respected mentor, is Brigadier General Reed, the overall commander of the New York defense zone. A rumored impartial, old-school military man."
"Sir," Miller asked, "Our next step, is it to directly contact this Lieutenant Carter?"
"No, not yet." Allen shook his head.
"A fish that hasn't yet taken the bait, we cannot startle him. Before contacting him, our other front must first make progress."
…Hundreds of miles away, in Washington, D.C.
This city, the heart of the nation, was currently enveloped in a fervor and anxiety peculiar to the eve of war.
Officers in various military uniforms, hurried politicians, and war profiteers flocking from all over the country filled every corner of the Willard Hotel.
Catherine had rented a luxurious suite with a small balcony on the third floor of the hotel.
She was not in a hurry to visit anyone.
Instead, she strictly followed Allen's instructions, first turning herself into a "topic" within the city's social circles.
She first spent a large sum of money to order the freshest roses from the best florist in the city, decorating the suite's living room like an elegant Parisian salon.
Then, through the hotel's concierge, she sent out an exquisitely crafted invitation, in a very private capacity, to dozens of important figures on Capitol Hill and in the Department of the Army, as well as their wives.
The invitation did not mention any business cooperation, only stating that an entrepreneur from New York humbly offered a tribute and support from the North to the leaders working tirelessly for the nation, with her company's proudest "culinary art crystallization."
What truly made this invitation unique was the few keywords Catherine had the concierge manager "casually" disclose privately to the congressional aides he knew.
"…Yes, it's Mr. Williams, the one who conquered the Tilford Trading Company…"
"…I heard that kind of canned food is completely lead-free and absolutely safe…"
"…I saw the samples myself, packaged like jewelry, with a golden label printed 'General's Special Supply'…"
Curiosity is the best key to open the door to power.
Two days later, the "tasting event" held in this small suite achieved unexpected success.
Although there were not many true VIPs present, only seven or eight members of Congress and two logistics colonels from the Department of the Army.
But each of them, after tasting the "Premium Gold Label" stewed beef served on silver tableware, showed the same shocked expression as Mr. Tilford had initially.
"My God! Is this really canned food?"
"Unbelievable! If our frontline soldiers could eat this, their morale would at least double!"
"Mr. Williams… I remember that name. He is a true patriot!"
Catherine, with her impeccable etiquette and conversation, moved among these important figures.
She didn't discuss orders, didn't discuss prices, only discussed quality, safety, and the "strategic value" of this food for improving the army's combat effectiveness.
When the tasting event ended and she saw off the last guest, the hotel waiter brought a new letter.
The seal of the letter bore the wax impression of the Senate Military Committee.
"Miss O'Brien," the waiter said respectfully.
"Senator Clark's chief aide just sent it. Senator Clark invites you and Mr. Williams, who is behind you, to his office tomorrow morning for a discussion."
Catherine took the thin, yet heavy, letter, her heart pounding with excitement.
She knew that Allen's "High-Altitude Decapitation" plan had succeeded in its most crucial step.
That night, an urgent telegram was sent from Washington to New York.
The content of the telegram was very short, only a few words:
"Fish has bitten, Senate, together tomorrow. —Catherine."
When Allen received the telegram, he was in his office, studying a map of New York. He finished reading the telegram, a calm smile on his face.
He picked up another blank telegram paper, wrote a line, and handed it to Miller, who was beside him.
"Sergeant," he said, "Now, it's time to go meet our 'upright' Lieutenant Carter."