Commander Cantrell in the West Indies(16)

“Thank you, sir.” Eddie looked Piazza in the eyes and then around the table. “It means more than I can say that you—that all of you—did this.” All present had risen and come to attention as the real medal was conferred. Then Eddie frowned and glanced back in the box. “Uh—”

“Yes, Commander?”

“Kind of a big box for a medal, sir. And damned heavy.”

Piazza smiled again. “I thought a congratulatory gift was in order. To commemorate the occasion and to help you in your future endeavors.”

Eddie lifted out the wooden panel upon which the medal had rested. He stared, and then looked up at Piazza. “How did you know?”

Francisco Nasi may have smiled briefly. “I was sitting just down the table from you at your state dinner in Magdeburg last year. Perhaps you remember having a friendly dispute with the admiral over preferred side arms?”

Eddie lifted out the gift with almost reverent hands. An almost slender automatic pistol caught the light and sent gleams skittering off a blued hammer. “An HP-35. Manufactured just after the World War II, if I read the markings correctly.”

Piazza grinned. “You do. Although you may be the only person in this world who would call it an HP-35. ‘Browning Hi-Power’ was the preferred term in the States, Commander.”

Eddie, completely oblivious to Piazza’s correction, turned the weapon over to confirm that no magazine was inserted. “How—where did you find this?”

Piazza looked down, shrugged, and was slightly annoyed when Nasi almost drawled, “Actually, it wasn’t hard to find at all. It seems a person we know very well had it in his possession. Had an opinion of the gun similar to your own, Commander, and chose it over many others. Even though it was distinctly nonregulation in your up-time US Army. This person has often claimed that it never failed him, and that he preferred the larger magazine size to the stopping power of the larger . . . er, ‘forty-fives’?” Nasi sent a glance at Piazza, checking his terminology.

Eddie followed Nasi’s gaze. “You, Mr. President? This is your gun?”

“Was my gun, Commander. It is yours, now. Use it with pride and honor. As I know you will.”

“Sir, I can’t take it. I couldn’t—”

“Rubbish, Commander. You’ve already taken it. And it’s the right gift for a young man who has no choice but to go in harm’s way with only one leg. By comparison, I am an increasingly paunchy man whose fate is to sit at a big desk although I have two perfectly good legs. Seriously, now, who has more use for that gun? Who needs every bit of advantage they can get?”

Eddie’s eyes raised from the weapon and fixed on Piazza’s face, assessing. “Mr. President, you’re about fifty-five, now, right?”

“Not a day over fifty-four. Don’t put me in the grave any earlier than I have to go, Commander!”

“So during your tour in the Army, you were in—?”

“Yes, I was there, Commander. And since the Browning worked in the jungles on one side of this planet, I’m pretty sure it’ll work just as well in the jungles on the other side. I hope you don’t have to use it at all, of course, but if you do, you may find it’s nice to have a thirteen-round magazine when you can’t usually see what you’re shooting at very well—if at all.” He left unspoken the fact that there were plenty of Glocks and M-9s to be had, which boasted even larger magazine sizes. But the Hi-Power was renowned for its reliability and kindness to small-handed or easily unbalanced shooters—as Eddie Cantrell now might be.

Eddie looked down and held the gun firmly with both hands, almost as if it were a holy relic. For a second, Piazza saw the eager, earnest kid again.

Eddie looked up. “I don’t know what to say, Mr. President.”

Piazza laughed. “I think ‘thanks,’ will be sufficient. Otherwise, I can tell you’re going to get maudlin on me. Well, more maudlin. Now look here, Commander, I do have one bone to pick with you.”

“Sir?”

“How dare you come down to Grantville and not bring your bride?”

“Sir, I didn’t think that protocol—”

Always Earnest Eddie. “Protocol be damned, Commander, we just wanted to see her again.”

“‘See her,’ sir?”

Really? You still don’t get the ribbing? “See her, Commander. Perceive her form. Appreciate her beauty. Feast upon her feminine pulchritude with our own, envious eyes. You get the picture?” And he grinned.

Before Eddie could get the surprised look off his face, George Chehab rasped, “How could you not know what we meant, son? She’s a class-A knockout, that Danish Ann Margaret of yours.”