Rank Read online

  Table of Contents

  Synopsis

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-one

  About the Author

  Books Available From Bold Strokes Books

  Synopsis

  Integrity. Service before self. Excellence in all things. The U.S. Air Force core values matter to Second Lieutenant Harris Mitchell, out and proud since the military ditched its “don’t ask, don’t tell” policy. But though the Air Force may be gay friendly, Harris isn’t so sure about his demanding new boss, Brigadier General Seamus O’Neill—unit commander, cargo pilot, perfectionist, infidel—hiding behind bluster, a magnificent mustache, and a secret. Harris is certain that General O’Neill hates him. So what’s a lieutenant supposed to do when he discovers that he’s fallen in love?

  Rank

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  http://www.boldstrokesbooks.com

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  Rank

  © 2016 By Richard Compson Sater. All Rights Reserved.

  ISBN 13: 978-1-62639-846-7

  This Electronic Book is published by

  Bold Strokes Books, Inc.

  P.O. Box 249

  Valley Falls, New York 12185

  First Edition: November 2016

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission.

  Credits

  Editor: Jerry L. Wheeler

  Production Design: Stacia Seaman

  Cover Photo of Airman by Wayne R. Comer

  Cover Design By Sheri ([email protected])

  Acknowledgments

  Rank stands as a testament to those I worked with, for, and against during twenty-four years in the U.S. Air Force. Thanks to my spouse, Wayne Comer, for his patience and understanding—and for giving me time to write. Thanks in particular to my friends Leland Bard and Bob Burt for their detailed constructive criticism of this manuscript in draft form, and in general to everyone who took the time to read and comment on earlier drafts of Rank. Their honest feedback was invaluable during the writing and revision process. Finally, thanks to an old friend and longtime mentor, Dr. Robert Gale, for his inspiration and encouragement.

  For Wayne Comer, and in memory of my mother, Dolores J. (Kline) Sater

  Chapter One

  A week of leave at Christmas had done little to reverse my impression that I was not aiming as high as the U.S. Air Force intended.

  I arrived at the personnel building a few minutes after seven on the second day of the new year. As I walked through the lobby, I barely noticed the mural on the wall spelling out the mission: FLY, FIGHT, WIN.

  That to-do list would have to wait.

  More immediate were sixteen messages scrawled on pink slips, most marked “urgent,” taped to my office door. Inside, the phone answering machine blinked on and off, informing me of forty-one new voice mails. A stack of airman performance evaluations to complete and award nomination packages to revise and submit sat where I’d left it on my desk.

  I hung up my coat and hat and sank into the chair. Out of habit, I logged onto the computer. My inbox contained two hundred and thirty-five unread emails, over half of them red-flagged as important. According to my appointment book, the morning was already shot, reenlistments and retirement counseling from eight until noon. Four dreary meetings, back to back, would likewise kill the afternoon. Tomorrow was similarly full, and the next day. How had the Air Force gotten along without me for an entire week?

  I affixed a fresh calendar to the wall with dull certainty that the new year would be just like the old one. Not for the first time, I brooded about my decision to seek a commission in the Air Force as a solution to a post-graduate school career going nowhere. After high school, I’d tried the enlisted route, and that little adventure hadn’t panned out as promised, either. What made me think the officer recruiter would be any more trustworthy than the enlisted one?

  The military personnel field was hardly the target I’d had in mind, and my position as deputy chief of personnel was as impressive and interesting as its name suggests. The glamour-and-excitement quotient registered zero, but I suppose the Air Force can only do so much with a recruit holding a master’s degree in American literature.

  I still owed three and a half years against my four-year commitment. Would I ever reach the flying, fighting, and winning part?

  Certainly not today. I headed for the break room in search of motivation. Perhaps our chief master sergeant had brought doughnuts, but no luck. And no coffee either, an ongoing stalemate. Everyone drank it, but it was never anyone’s turn to make it. Maybe I could brew a pot and start the new year with an unselfish gesture of goodwill toward my fellow airmen and colleagues.

  Right.

  I boiled a mug of water in the microwave and stirred in a spoonful of dark-roast instant. Back at my desk, I sipped carefully and wondered if enough caffeine could somehow dispel my winter’s discontent. I surveyed the pile on my desk, uncertain where to begin. Get organized, I told myself, stern. Buckle down. Eliminate the most tedious tasks first. Get them out of the way so they aren’t hanging over your head all week.

  That resolution cooled as quickly as my coffee.

  At half past seven, the chief unlocked the waiting-room door, and we were open for business. At the same moment, the phone rang. Inwardly, I recoiled, and very nearly let the answering machine pick up instead. Regardless of my frame of mind, I wouldn’t be able to ignore it indefinitely, however. I picked up the receiver.

  “Air Base Wing Office of Personnel. Good morning. Lieutenant Mitchell speaking. How may I help you?”

  I’d answered the phone that way too many times to muster even a spark of enthusiasm. Quite possibly, I did not actually want to be of assistance.

  “Second Lieutenant Harris Mitchell?” a deep voice barked. I detected a hint of a Southern drawl. Where had I heard that voice before?

  “Speaking.”

  “General O’Neill here.”

  I drew a blank, offering a tentative “Um, who?” Clearly an unsatisfactory response.

  First, a noisy, impatient exhale, then he said, “U.S. Air Force Brigadier General Seamus O’Neill. Your boss’s boss’s boss, Lieutenant.”

  Rudeness was not a habit with me, but I was in no mood for jokes. Why would the commander of Sixth Air Force call me?

  “Oh, come on,” I said. “I
t’s too early in the day for prank calls.”

  The blowback from the other end of the line nearly singed my hair. Making any more assumptions would not be smart, particularly if he was in fact the Sixth Air Force commander. I apologized profusely.

  “I want you in my office at 0745 hours, sharp,” he said.

  I glanced at the clock. I had thirteen minutes. At least the headquarters building was close by.

  “Yes, sir. Is there anything else I can do for you, sir?”

  “Be on time,” he said, hanging up before I could ask any of the questions that immediately crowded my mind. What did he want? Was I in trouble? Had I been guilty of some breach of courtesy, or worse? How was it possible, when I’d never met the man?

  I’d seen him but once, six months back, at the newcomer’s briefing required of all personnel assigned to the base. I recollected a tall, rangy man in dress blues with an impressive mustache that clearly exceeded the Air Force regulation size limit. He’d welcomed us to the unit with a short speech delivered in a countrified accent, his deep voice weaving together a string of clichés about duty, honor, and patriotism with complete and mesmerizing conviction. He was in and out of the room in ten minutes.

  I had been sufficiently intrigued to make a detailed examination of his official photo, part of the portrait gallery in the main hallway of the headquarters building. Each framed eight-by-ten had a brass plate identifying the name and position of our leaders, from the wing commanders all the way to the President of the United States, Commander in Chief. I noted General O’Neill was a handsome man up close, and then I’d promptly forgotten about him.

  An unexpected directive from a one-star general could certainly shake off one’s new-year lethargy, at least temporarily. The clock reminded me three more minutes had ticked away. I grabbed my jacket and hat and stopped by my supervisor’s office.

  “What’s up, L.T.?”

  “I’m not sure, Major Beckett. I’ve just been summoned to General O’Neill’s office.”

  “What kind of mischief have you gotten yourself into now, L.T.?”

  This stereotype about second lieutenants surfaces at the least provocation. As a breed, we couldn’t possibly be as inept and ignorant as we are often painted, nor as guilty. I’d developed a thin skin about the kidding, so naturally, I was a frequent target.

  “He doesn’t even know me! I saw him once, at the newcomer’s orientation briefing last year when he gave us a pep talk.”

  “He’s famous for that.”

  “Why would he want to see me? I don’t get it.”

  “You will, especially if you’re late.” He checked his watch. “You got, like, seven minutes.”

  “I have a senior master sergeant coming in at eight to process her retirement paperwork, and three reenlistments after that,” I said.

  “We’ll cover,” Major Beckett said. As I headed out the door, he yelled “L.T.! Wait!”

  I backtracked, a little alarmed. “What is it?”

  He grinned. “Happy New Year, L.T.” Really? I tried to formulate a suitable retort. “Run,” he said.

  *

  I felt like an errant student being called in to see the principal as I raced to the headquarters building. I stopped in the restroom briefly to make sure my tie was straight, thankful I’d worn a clean and pressed shirt that morning. I also took a moment to catch my breath and reinspect General O’Neill’s official photo.

  Under different circumstances, he might have made a fine pin-up.

  I marched into the staff suite with a minute to spare and found him in the outer office, talking with a secretary. I came to attention as I waited for him to acknowledge me, close enough so he could see me but distant enough to get a good look at him.

  My ill humor vanished, and even the dread subsided a bit.

  The portrait in the hall didn’t half do him justice. He wore the standard haircut, cropped short, his hair still mostly jet-black but streaked haphazardly with gray. Only his bushy eyebrows and even bushier mustache remained stubbornly true to their original color. Under the black push broom, in his teeth, he clamped the stem of a pipe. It wasn’t currently lit, although a faint and pleasant rum-and-maple aroma in the air suggested he did not strictly heed the base’s no-smoking indoors policy. Given his clearly robust constitution, one would never guess smoking could be detrimental to good health.

  I noticed immediately how well the flight suit hung on his lanky six-foot-plus frame. I also noted idly he wore no wedding band, only an ostentatious ring on his right hand that announced an Air Force Academy pedigree. The south stretched across his loping drawl like a warm blanket covering a bed. A voice like his could lull me to sleep or arouse me fully.

  His pieces fit in a most pleasing assemblage.

  The general turned to me abruptly, short-circuiting my reverie, and extended his right hand. I returned his firm grip. I liked the way his brown eyes looked into mine, and the approval reflected in his when I refused to look away. I found no censure in his gaze, and that eased my mind as well.

  “My aide position is vacant. I need to fill it immediately, Lieutenant Mitchell,” he said.

  “Yes, sir.”

  That was it? I was an aide-de-camp candidate? He might have warned me. It would have saved me a little sweat, if not exactly tears and blood. I wondered immediately why he had singled me out, less than a year after my commission, since a one-star general usually rated a first lieutenant or even a captain as his aide. Besides, the position was not only subservient by definition but also very conspicuous, with a high potential for blundering, the last thing a second lieutenant needed.

  Would I be given the option to decline?

  He walked all the way around me, inspecting. I stood up a little straighter and held my breath. He came to a stop in front of me again and crossed his arms. “This isn’t an interrogation,” he said. “Stand at ease.”

  I exhaled and relaxed my posture a little. “Yes, sir.”

  “Who’s your boss?” he demanded.

  “Major Beckett. Dan Beckett, commander of the personnel flight.”

  “Who’s his boss?”

  So actually it was an interrogation. The personnel flight fell under the support group, and I’d interacted with the commander frequently: “Lieutenant Colonel Margaret Corelli.”

  “Her boss?”

  The support group came under the wing. “That’s Colonel…Abrahms.” His first name escaped me.

  “His?”

  Our wing, and three others, fell under the Numbered Air Force, in our case, Sixth. “That’s you, sir.” If he went any farther, I would run out of answers.

  He did. “Mine?”

  I wished immediately I’d paid more attention to the other photos in the leadership portrait gallery. I couldn’t even picture the man who was one step above General O’Neill, let alone recall his name. My silence prompted the next logical question. “My boss’s boss?” A heavy, sad sigh came before he asked, “Who’s the Secretary of the Air Force?” Silence. “Jesus. Can you at least name the Commander in Chief?”

  “Oh, yes, sir. Of course. The President of the United States.” If every prospective aide underwent similar grilling, how many fared well enough to be hired?

  “How can you work for an organization when you don’t even know who’s in charge?”

  He had a valid point. However, we all take some things for granted. A framed poster on the wall behind the secretary’s desk reminded me of the Air Force core values, which I had committed to memory and which did matter to me: integrity, service before self, excellence in all things.

  I indicated the poster. “Right there, sir. The core values make sense to me. They’re good practices, no matter what you do for a living. That’s a code of conduct I can respect, and the kind of organization I’m proud to serve.”

  The general nodded. “Good save, Lieutenant.” He cleared his throat. “I’m sure you know what a Numbered Air Force is, and why the NAFs are critical to the mission of the United Stat
es Air Force.”

  “Oh, yes. Certainly, sir.”

  “Mmm-hmm,” the general said. “A NAF is a tactical organization with an operational focus consisting of two or more air wings, grouped with smaller auxiliary units, forming a large striking organization to provide one major aspect of air strength—either airlift, with cargo planes, or refueling capability with tankers, or tactical defense, with bombers and fighters.”

  “Yes, sir.” I was not, in fact, up to speed on the finer points of the NAF structure and mission. I was grateful he chose to lecture rather than ask more questions I couldn’t have answered to his satisfaction.

  “The NAFs, running consecutively from First Air Force through Twenty-Fifth Air Force, form the senior war-fighting echelon of the U.S. Air Force. As commander of Sixth Air Force, I oversee nine active-duty air wings spread out across nine installations,” he said. “That’s nearly one hundred twenty-eight thousand acres of real estate, incidentally. Each wing consists of four or five groups. There are sixty-seven squadrons under those groups, comprised of eighteen thousand six hundred forty-three airmen. In addition to y’all, I’m responsible for seven hundred thirty-nine civilians, including my invaluable secretary, Linda Swanson here.”

  The invaluable Linda Swanson rolled her eyes. I suspected she’d heard this before.

  “Our mission is to facilitate the training, equipping, and deployment of assigned units in support of Air Mobility Command,” he said. “I own three hundred fifty-two cargo aircraft, the C-5 Galaxy, the C-130 Hercules, and the C-17 Globemaster. Currently, eighty-one of my airframes are involved in one way or another with the Global War on Terrorism. I’ve got two hundred seventy-seven airmen deployed to various points around the globe, including ninety-eight on the ground in Afghanistan. I have a lot on my plate.”

  I didn’t doubt it.

  “A general casts a long shadow,” he said. “A good general casts a longer one. I make every effort to be the best general I can be. I accept my responsibilities wholeheartedly. I take them seriously, and I expect y’all to do the same. I set high but attainable standards. I’m quick to praise a job well done and equally ready to criticize when I see a problem. I make the best decisions I can, based on the facts tempered with judicial opinion and honed by thirty years of service in the United States Air Force.”