I reached into my small satin evening bag.
I did not pull out a handkerchief or a lipstick.
I pulled out a faded velvet box and placed it on the white linen tablecloth.

Albright looked down. He opened the lid with a weathered thumb.
Inside lay my father’s Distinguished Service Cross, its ribbon slightly frayed.

“I know this medal,” Albright whispered.
“He earned it at the parallel, saving his platoon.”

“He did,” I said. “And Colonel Harrington claimed his own accolades from the very same sector, years later. Except Cole wasn’t in the valley when the fire started.”

Cole stepped forward, his boots clicking sharply on the parquetry.
His face was flushing deep red under the chandelier light.
“General, my wife is unwell. The stress of the recent transition—”

“Captain Merritt,” Albright said, his eyes never leaving the velvet box. “Keep the Colonel back.”

Merritt stepped between Cole and the table, his hand resting near his leather belt.

“You stood on the podium last month, Cole,” I said, turning to face him.
“You took credit for the extraction at Glass Ridge. You took a silver star for it.”

Vanessa Cross cleared her throat, her fingers tightening on Cole’s arm.
“That operation is classified, Mrs. Harrington. You have no clearance to speak on these matters.”

“I used to write the intelligence summaries, Major,” I said. “I know exactly who was where.”

I pulled a small silver digital recorder from my bag and set it beside my father’s medal.
It was a standard military-issue unit, the metal casing scratched at the corners.

“What is that, Eleanor?” Albright asked, his voice dropping an octave.

“It is a record of the communication log from the night of the ambush,” I said.
“A conversation between Colonel Harrington and Major Cross while the perimeter fell.”

Cole took a step toward the table, but Merritt’s shoulder remained a solid wall.
“General, this is a breach of federal law,” Cole hissed.