“Just a concerned citizen,” Jesse finally said. And then with a scorn so razor-fine only Mia could hear it, “America Honors the Warfighter.”
“The honor is ours,” Noonan replied, automatic as a pull string.
“The SEALs, that’s something,” Jesse said. “Weren’t you all auxiliary for the Volunteers? When they grabbed Abu Abdallah, I mean.”
He was now asking for a fight, there could be no doubt about it. Mercifully, the food arrived and the general appeared in the back of the room. A hush fell over the luncheon like a shroud. Jesse kept his arms crossed and winked at Mia. Liam Noonan’s face remained a hot crimson.
And Jesse wonders why 80 percent of the wedding are my invites, Mia thought.
General Collins moved to the podium with the self-possession fundamental to all flag officers, a practiced ease that both belied and sustained itself with every step. She was a stout woman, Mia observed, not big, not tall, yet a full presence. She wore a gray suit with a notched collar and no shoulder pads, and peep-toe flats that Mia admired. The general set an open manila folder upon the podium and smiled wide for the room. The West Point ring on her right hand rose and fell with her gestures like a black sun, and Mia had to blink a few times to keep from following it.
“Hello, Wall Street Veterans!” General Collins said. Her voice was throaty and hoarse; Mia knew a woman couldn’t make it in the military talking like velvet, no matter how capable. “To be among this group is an inspiration. I’m going to bottle some of the energy and brains here and bring it back to Langley. We sure could use it.”
Polite laughter filled the room. Mia didn’t dare look at Jesse.
“I want to begin by thanking each and every one of you for your service to our great nation. Particularly the younger veterans in the room who joined after Palm Sunday. Your generation is often slurred because of the supposed prosperity you were born into. ‘Found at freedom’s peak,’ former president Rockefeller said. Yet you still went to war. You knew you’d be going. You’ve been sent to Lebanon, Cyprus, Syria. All over the Near East, all over the world. You’ve conducted air campaigns in Persia, the Balkans, God knows where else. You kept Greece and Turkey from starting World War Three, even after nuclear disaster. ‘The Mediterranean Wars,’ they call it. What they really mean is ‘Endless Conflict.’ All that takes a special kind of commitment, a special kind of courage.”
She held up three fingers. “Only three percent of Americans serve in the military. Three percent that loves America enough to fight for it.
“Or, as another cranky old general once put it: ‘Those who can truly be accounted brave are those who best know the meaning of what is sweet in life and what is terrible, and then go out, undeterred, to meet what is to come.’ That’s you. I don’t say this lightly. You’re my heroes.”
The general led the room in applause before continuing. Mia ignored the impulse to tap at her prosthetic. An old habit from the first days, checking to make sure it was still there. She clapped along.
“Whenever we joined the military, wherever the homeland sent us, we are united in—and by—that service. Wearing the uniform for thirty years remains the honor of my life. To be a warfighter—what more could a person aspire to? The question I asked myself the morning after I retired—the question some of you may’ve asked, too—is ‘What now?’
“I’ve determined that continued service is the answer. And while continued service takes different forms for different people, it always involves giving back. Paying the war tax is something we all do, of course, but it’s such an intangible duty. Human beings need to see something for it to be real. We need to hold that something. For me—”
Hold that something, Mia thought. Like an infant. Why now? she thought again. They had too much going on now. She felt a tug at her elbow. She ignored it and tried to focus again on General Collins’s speech. She felt another tug.
“Gotta go,” Jesse mouthed, pointing to his phone and rising from his seat to a low crouch. “Work. E-mer-gen-cy.”
Mia’s face set like a flint. A Bureau emergency. There always was a Bureau emergency. And he had the gall to mock spooks for being secretive. At least they didn’t treat every hiccup like an imminent disaster. Whatever, she thought. This would keep him from suplexing Liam Noonan into a table. She raised an eyebrow to convey acceptance, if not approval.
“Thank you,” Jesse whispered as if she had a choice, and then he was gone.
Mia returned to the speech. General Collins spoke about the importance of veterans in American society, how in an era of an all-volunteer military and a fraction of the population serving, each and every vet from Wall Street to Main Street had become an envoy. She spoke about the ways young enlisted veterans could benefit any organization or business, but sometimes had difficulties communicating that in their resumes.
“We taught them how to speak military,” the general said. “Now they need to learn to speak business.” She spoke about the stereotypes citizens held because Mediterranean vets weren’t like the Greatest Generation or the Next Greatest Generation, because they hadn’t “won” their war. They weren’t all unemployed or crazy or bound for a rehabilitation colony. Besides, the colonies often worked! She spoke about how it was the responsibility of privileged veterans like those in this room to help their brothers and sisters in arms, and to do so in real, meaningful ways.
Mia listened to it all, transfixed. Privilege. Responsibility. Meaning. People didn’t talk about doing more on Wall Street, even at summer luncheons. People usually talked about what was already being done. She could see some of the other attendees shifting in their seats, especially the older men. A lady general was one thing, but a lady general who told them they needed to do more for others? They hadn’t been spoken to like that in a long, long time.
After the luncheon, a small group gathered around the general’s seat. She saw Liam Noonan, among others, beat a hasty retreat to the doors. I should’ve let Jesse throat-punch him, she thought, half-kidding. If only to keep him off TV for a little while.
Mia lingered to the side of the circle around General Collins, wanting to thank her and perhaps get her book signed, too. The general had other plans.
“Mia Tucker.” General Collins stood, parted the circle with knife hands, and grasped Mia by the palms. Mia tried to introduce herself but the general cut her off, saying, “Of course I know who you are.”
Despite being the same height, Mia found herself gazing up. A slight stoop tipped General Collins’s shoulders forward, something Mia hadn’t noticed during the speech. Thirty years in uniform, which meant thirty years of body armor and thirty years of ruck marches and thirty years of sleeping on cots and in the backs of humvees and cargo trucks. The wear and tear didn’t much show on the general’s face, though, something Mia thought remarkable. Deployments showed on everyone.
“Do you smoke, Mia?” General Collins sniffed, speaking low. “I always crave one after a speech.”
“No, ma’am,” she said.
“I have my assistant carry around packs,” General Collins said. “My family, bless their souls, are draconian about it. Walk with me.”