“Watch,” growled Secretary of the Interior George Chehab from his sulky slouch at the very end of the table, “I’ll bet this becomes the longest, drawn out business of the whole damned evening. Mark my words—”
But then his jaw shut with a snap, followed by a guilty gulp: Eddie Cantrell stuck his head into the room. He looked a little puzzled as he scanned all the faces.
“Uh . . . hello, Mr. President, gentlemen. I’m sorry if I’m interrupting. I was told you’d be concluded by this ti—”
Piazza smiled and waved him in. “There’s always more work to do than there are hours in which to do it, Eddie. No worries.”
The recording secretary looked at Eddie, then Piazza, then turned a new page, and started scribbling.
Eddie glanced uncertainly at Anton and back again to Piazza.
Piazza nodded faintly, so faintly that he was pretty sure that the only two people who saw it were Eddie, who was looking straight at him, and Nasi, who saw everything, anyway. “No need to itemize the report from Admiral Simpson, Eddie. Just leave it with us. We’ll probably go over it after Mr. Roedel departs.”
Anton seemed to start slightly, then resumed his scribbling.
Eddie nodded. “I understand, sir. Perfectly.”
And he and Piazza shared a smile, just as they shared a complete understanding of why a review of the report was being deferred. By waiting until Anton was gone, there would be no official record of Admiral Simpson’s strident, not to say fulminative, arguments about the materials, money, specialists, priorities, and other assets he wanted—no: needed!—in order to have a snowball’s chance in hell of getting a blue water navy ready by the promised date.
“Those folders under your arm,” Piazza said, nodding at the leather-bound attachés that passed for “folders” in Early Modern Germany, “I take it they also contain brand new requests from Admiral Simpson?”
Eddie’s smile was rueful. “Yes, Mr. President. They most certainly do.”
“And what would the esteemed admiral want now?”
“Well, pretty much everything he wrote you about last month. Except lots more of it.”
Piazza put out his hand for the folders. Eddie moved to walk them over. Piazza saw the limp, remembered the missing leg, jumped to his feet to get the folders, mentally cursing his forgetfulness and excusing it at the same time. Damn it! Eddie was just a kid—just a smart, awkward kid—only four years ago, staring at cheerleaders, dealing with acne, and coping with the low ceiling of his possibilities in a small West Virginia mining town. And now he’s a handicapped veteran. But I still see that kid, when I look at him.
And that was when Piazza saw the look on Eddie’s face: that “kid” wanted to walk the folders over himself. And the way he held himself as he limped closer—straighter, in a military posture—shamed the image of Eddie Cantrell, Nice Kid, forever out of Piazza’s mind. He was sad to see that old image go, but felt an almost tearful pride at the image that had now permanently replaced it: Lieutenant Commander Edward Cantrell, veteran and hero at the tender age of twenty-three.
Piazza extended his hand for the folders that Eddie could now reach out to him and he said, quietly, and as seriously as he had ever said anything in his life, “Thank you for bringing these to us, Commander Cantrell.”
“My pleasure, sir.”
“—And my duty,” Piazza heard as the unspoken subtext behind those words. He nodded. “Before you go, Commander, we have something that you need to take with you.”
“A return communiqué, Mr. President?”
Piazza smiled. “No, Commander.” He turned. Francisco Nasi held out a large, varnished wood box, with a strangely intense look in his dark eyes, as if he was hoping they would convey something that he could not, or dare not, frame as spoken words.
“Sir?” said Eddie, puzzled, as Piazza turned and proffered the box to him.
“Open it.”
Eddie did and seemed to redden for the briefest moment. “Is this—?”
“That’s the finished medal, Commander. Allow me.”
Piazza took the box back, lifted out the first Navy Cross that the United States of Europe had awarded to a living recipient, and put it around Eddie’s neck. Who straightened and saluted.
Piazza straightened, “For your actions in and around Wismar, 1633, as per the citations read at the official ceremony,” and saluted back. Then he relaxed a bit. “I know you did this last year in Magdeburg, with all the pomp and circumstance, but since the artisans and politicos were still arguing over the final design of the medal, and hadn’t gotten around to—”