New York.
Unlike Washington, with its political maneuvering and high-society glitz, Sergeant Miller's battlefield remained in the most down-to-earth places, mixed with sweat, alcohol, and discontent.
After receiving Allen's instructions, he did not immediately go to look for Lieutenant Carter.
A wary fish will not bite any bait that suddenly appears before its eyes.
He needed a more natural setting.
Based on his observations over several days and the intelligence he extracted from his drinking buddies, Miller pinpointed a fixed habit of Lieutenant Carter.
At least twice a week, Lieutenant Carter would leave the barracks alone during lunchtime and head to a steakhouse named "Old Helmsman" near the Governors Island ferry terminal for his meal.
It was a decent but not luxurious restaurant.
The customers were mostly captains, merchants, and some independent-minded officers who preferred not to go with the flow in the officers' mess hall.
This was the fishing ground Miller had chosen.
At noon that day, Miller changed into a clean tweed coat, his hair meticulously combed, and the long scar on his face added a touch of military sternness.
He arrived at the Old Helmsman Steakhouse early and chose an inconspicuous seat near the door.
He didn't order a main course, only a cup of black coffee, then took out a newspaper from that day and read it quietly.
At around half past twelve, a young officer in a crisp military uniform and with a tall, straight posture pushed the door open precisely on time.
This was Lieutenant Edward Carter.
Lieutenant Carter was clearly a regular here; he walked directly to a single seat by the window.
As he passed Miller's table, Miller "accidentally" let the newspaper in his hand slip to the floor, landing right at Carter's feet.
"Sorry."
Miller got up, preparing to pick it up.
"It's alright."
Lieutenant Carter gracefully bent down, picked up the newspaper, and handed it back to Miller.
Just as their eyes met, Lieutenant Carter's gaze slightly sharpened.
He saw the unique aura on Miller, one that only soldiers who had experienced the baptism of war possessed.
"Are you... a soldier?"
"Yes, Miller."
"Formerly served in the Second Dragoons."
Miller took the newspaper and gave him a standard military nod.
"My apologies, Sergeant."
"I am Edward Carter, and you are a hero who fought in the Mexican War."
Lieutenant Carter immediately stood at attention and returned a standard military salute.
A weathered smile appeared on Miller's face.
"I'm 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 like you, who still retains a sense of military honor, here."
These words both flattered the other party and stated his own veteran status, instantly closing the distance between them.
Lieutenant Carter gladly accepted the invitation and sat opposite Miller.
"Sergeant, do you live in New York after retirement?"
"Yes. Doing a small business with a group of old buddies, barely making ends meet."
Miller's answer was half-truth, half-fiction.
"However, recently, us old fellows haven't been able to sleep soundly."
"Oh? Why?" Carter asked curiously.
"Because of the war."
Miller's expression became serious.
"Lieutenant, we are not like those politicians waving flags and shouting in the newspapers. We know what war is truly like. We know that what a soldier needs most on the battlefield is not empty slogans, but hot meals to fill his stomach and comrades to protect his back."
These words immediately resonated with Lieutenant Carter.
A worried look also appeared on his face.
"You are absolutely right, Sergeant."
"The recruitment offices now are full of young people who don't understand anything. They think war is a glorious adventure. But they don't know that hunger, cold, and disease are a hundred times more terrifying than enemy bullets."
"So, us old fellows couldn't sit still," Miller said slowly, looking at him.
"We have no money or power, so we can't go to the battlefield. But we want to use the little experience and connections we've accumulated in our lives to do something practical for the soldiers on the front lines."
"Do something practical?"
"Yes."
Miller took two cans from his satchel and gently placed them on the table.
One was a standard red label, and the other was a more exquisitely packaged premium gold label.
"For example, solving their food problem."
Lieutenant Carter's gaze fell on the two cans. He recognized the shield logo.
"This is... a Williams Food Company can?" He was a bit surprised. "I've heard of it. They say it tastes very good."
"It's not just good, Lieutenant."
Miller's tone was full of pride.
"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 can towards Carter.
"This is a military ration specially improved for the army by one of our partners, Williams. We old veterans have all tasted it, and we unanimously agree that if we had had this on the Mexican battlefield back then, casualties could have been reduced by at least thirty percent."
Lieutenant Carter was attracted by these words; he picked up the can and examined it carefully.
"Sergeant, I'm afraid you didn't just come to see me for a drink today, did you?"
He was a smart man and had already realized that this chance encounter was no accident.
"It seems I can't hide anything from you, Lieutenant," Miller admitted frankly.
"I, and the patriotic businessmen and veterans behind me, need help."
"We know how difficult it is to get such a good product onto the army's procurement list. We also know that some people in the Quartermaster Department don't care what the soldiers eat; they only care how much gold they can stuff into their pockets."
These words struck a raw nerve with Lieutenant Carter.
"We need an officer who truly cares about soldiers, has courage and responsibility, and is not afraid of powerful forces, to be our recommender."
Miller's gaze burned into him.
"We need someone to present this sample, and the respect for the lives of frontline soldiers it represents, to the person who can truly make a decision."
"According to the information we've gathered, there is only one person in the entire New York Quartermaster Department who meets all our requirements."
"That is you, Lieutenant Carter," Miller said, word for word.
Lieutenant Carter's heart began to pound.
He was deeply moved by Miller's words, full of trust and expectation.
Because this was precisely what he had always wanted to do but couldn't.
"But... I'm just a lieutenant." Carter hesitated. "My report won't even reach General Reed's desk; it will be stopped by Colonel Hudson."
"Therefore, you need some assistance."
Miller took the thick envelope from his satchel and discreetly placed it under the table, next to Lieutenant Carter's knee.
"Lieutenant, we veterans and businessmen understand one truth. To accomplish something right, sometimes you need some not-so-right methods. Inside here is five hundred dollars. It's not a bribe; this is special activity funding provided to you by our 'Patriots Alliance'."
"You can use it to smooth things over. Or use it to buy off people around Colonel Hudson to ensure your report can bypass him. In short, how you use it is up to you. Our goal is only one: to let General Reed personally see and taste this thing that can change the logistics landscape of war."
Lieutenant Carter's body instantly stiffened.
He could feel the thickness of the envelope next to his knee, and the immense risk and temptation it carried.
"You... you are asking me to make a huge gamble."
Carter's voice was a bit dry.
"Yes."
Miller did not deny it, but admitted it directly, though with a 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 that West Point graduates never lack the courage to bet everything."
With that, Miller stood up and once again gave Carter a standard military salute.
"The sample and the funds have been delivered. The decision is entirely yours. Goodbye, Lieutenant."
He didn't say another word, turned, and left the steakhouse decisively.
Lieutenant Carter sat alone in his seat, motionless for a long time.
In front of him lay the can representing the future.
Beside his knee was the envelope representing immense risk.
His heart was also engaged in a fierce internal struggle.
Finally, he slowly and quietly slipped the envelope into his briefcase.
Then he picked up the gold-label can, his eyes becoming more resolute than ever before.
Allen's first nail had successfully wedged itself into the slowly decaying system of the Federal Army.