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  The general was speaking with Linda. I came to attention a respectful distance away. Finally, he turned to me.

  “My instructions specified 0715.”

  “I apologize, sir. I left home in plenty of time, but—”

  “My instructions specified 0715. Did they not?” He spoke each word more distinctly and louder, as if perhaps I hadn’t heard him before.

  “Yes, sir.”

  He pulled a watch from his pocket, an old silver timepiece ticking audibly, hanging on a chain. He snapped the case open and consulted it. “It’s now 0723.”

  “I’m sorry, sir. There was an accident—”

  “I don’t give a damn!” he thundered. “You’re late!”

  “Yes, sir. I’m sorry, sir.” My antiperspirant would earn its money this morning.

  “You may set a land-speed record for the fastest trip in and out of the aide position. Is that your intent?” I’m sure he could be heard halfway down the hall.

  “No, sir.” Underneath the general’s admonishment, I was faintly aware of Linda clucking her tongue. I couldn’t tell if she was expressing sympathy or disgust. She had warned me, after all.

  He sighed and pointed to his office, its door wide open. “In there.”

  I went in and stood at attention in front of his desk, awaiting his entrance. He kept me standing there for a good ten minutes. My confidence wilted as the seconds ticked by, and my T-shirt was soggy under the arms by the time the general came in and took his seat.

  Finally, he motioned for me to do the same.

  “I’d rather be an hour early than a minute late,” he said.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I’m not angry at you, but when I say 0715 and you agree, we’ve made a pact. Your word is your bond, Timepiece.”

  “Yes, sir.” I vowed to myself never to be late again, even if it meant leaving home the night before to ensure I’d have plenty of time for contingency routing if necessary.

  “Who’s my boss?” he said.

  Relief washed over me. I’d committed the names to memory over the weekend, just in case. “General Raymond E. Johns Jr. at Air Mobility Command Headquarters.”

  “And his boss?”

  “Air Force Chief of Staff General Norman Schwartz, who reports directly to the President.”

  “Consider your ass saved. Coffee?”

  Whew. What could go wrong with serving coffee? I stood again. “Yes, sir. Cream or sugar?”

  He waved me back into the chair. “Do you drink it?”

  Oh. Hmm… “Yes, sir.”

  “Good. I don’t trust a man who can’t enjoy a good cup of coffee. How do you take it?”

  “Cream,” I said. “No sugar.”

  He disappeared. In his absence, I took my first good look around his office. An elegant walnut desk and credenza reflected good taste as well as his high position. Shelves crowded with books and memorabilia of a long career—model airplanes, trophies, insignia and other small souvenirs—were nonetheless exceptionally well ordered. A leather couch and matching chairs surrounded a coffee table with ornate carved legs. On its top were a neatly fanned selection of military and aviation magazines and an oversize Air Force history picture book. On the wall, instead of the usual aircraft prints and proof of military accomplishment, the general had opted for handsomely framed Monet and Van Gogh reproductions instead.

  I could hear music playing low, a soprano expressing her fervent opinion about something or other. The tune sounded familiar. I located the stereo, a top-of-the-line brand, and a rack next to it crammed with compact discs. From my seat, I could make out some of the names on the CD spines: Mozart, Bizet, Wagner, Verdi, Puccini. The general returned a moment later with two steaming mugs, and he handed one to me.

  “That’s quite a music library you have there, sir.”

  He arched an eyebrow. “And Maria Callas is your favorite singer,” he said.

  “Well, sir, I don’t know much about the performers, but my mom is a big opera fan, so I heard a lot of it at home,” I said. “That sounds like it could be Puccini.”

  “It is. Turandot. Very good.” He sounded equally pleased and incredulous. “I’d like to meet your mom someday. None of the heathens around this place appreciate good music.”

  He rummaged in his desk drawers for something, muttering under his breath until he produced a crumpled pouch of tobacco. He dug into his pocket for a pipe, tamped it full, lit it carefully with a wooden match, and then he directed his full attention to my aide lessons.

  “I drink coffee all day long,” he said. “One cube of sugar per cup. The box is next to the coffee pot.” I gathered he would not be bringing me coffee hereafter. We sipped in silence for a minute, eyeing each other over the rims of the mugs. As on our first meeting, I refused to look away. His eyebrows went up, and he finally grinned.

  “You talked to your immediate predecessor?” he said.

  “I did, sir.”

  “Did he tell you I’m a prick?” He smirked.

  “Oh, no, sir. Of course not.”

  He grinned. “Liar. But I’ll give you points for loyalty to a brother officer. What’s your impression?”

  I answered honestly. “Too soon to tell, sir.”

  “Good answer. Caution is a virtue. First impressions can kick your ass. Are you a quick study?”

  “Yes, sir, if the subject interests me.”

  “Does it?”

  I suspected it would, but caution being a virtue, I gave him the same too-soon-to-tell answer, and he liked it just as well the second time.

  “Do you learn from your mistakes?”

  “Yes, sir. Mistakes are good teachers,” I said. “If you don’t make mistakes, how much time are you going to spend examining your process to see how you can improve it?”

  He liked that, too. “You’ll do, Sparkplug. Major Beckett didn’t think you would be a good candidate for this job.”

  “Yes, sir. And I’ll bet I know why.”

  “You do, eh?”

  “He wanted to make sure you knew I was gay, didn’t he?”

  “He did. But I already knew that.”

  “Yes, sir. But I’m sure Major Beckett thought you wouldn’t want your aide to be gay.”

  “He was most insistent about it,” he said.

  “Thank you for giving me a chance, sir.”

  “Don’t thank me yet. Speak your mind and be straight with me—er, so to speak,” he said. “We’ll get along fine.”

  We stood and shook hands. He appeared to harbor no lingering ill will for my tardiness, for which I was truly thankful. He seemed like a different man from the one who’d dressed me down so thoroughly for being five minutes late.

  “One more thing,” he said. I waited, expectant. “What kind of softball player are you?”

  I knew the general was first baseman on the NAF team. Its last-place rank in the base league was a standing joke, in fact. As for me, I hadn’t played softball since high school as part of the mandatory physical education program. I’d been useless then, with no opportunity or desire to improve.

  “I suck, sir.”

  “You’re on the team anyway, Electrolux.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Being a general’s aide might be more complicated than I’d realized. But with snow on the ground and spring three months away, I wouldn’t concern myself with softball. He sat down again and turned his attention to a report on his desk, annotating it with a red pen. Left-handed, too. I stood before him, awaiting instruction, and a full minute passed before he seemed to notice.

  “Are you still here?” he barked. “What the hell are you waiting for, Sawbuck? Get to work!” The ghost of a smile lurked beneath his mustache.

  The carnival had begun.

  Chapter Three

  In spite of the warning I’d received about first impressions, I didn’t need a week to discover that Seamus Edwards O’Neill interested me tremendously. Complicating the matter was the fact that he may not have been the Wyatt-Earp
-crossed-with-Lincoln-and-Jesus of my dreams, but he was as close as I’d found. I liked him immediately, which set off all kinds of warning signals in my head. How long before liking crossed the line into its much more troublesome follow-up? I made a conscious effort to keep such thoughts away, however. A crush would be as painful as its name and uselessly doomed. Besides, I was sure I’d be fired any time, so the split would be easier for me if I wasn’t too fond of him.

  My predecessor in the aide position was right about one thing. The general ignored my name as well as my rank or even its commonly accepted shortcut, L.T. His peculiar habit was to call me some hardware or kitchen appliance or other inanimate object that made no sense in context except it crossed his mind at the moment. It took me more than one missed summons before I realized he meant me when he hollered “Domino!” or some other randomly generated term. Only his increased volume suggested I had better see what he wanted. At first, I just assumed he was too busy to be bothered with something as mundane as a name, or perhaps he thought little enough of me to remember mine. But I quickly realized that he didn’t subject anyone else to it. I assumed he was simply staking his claim to me, a sort of unspoken “your ass is mine.”

  And it certainly was. An aide’s primary responsibility is to serve as a kind of consultant to a single client, the assigned general, removing all possible obstacles from the general’s military life. To do so efficiently, the aide must be intimately familiar with his boss’s habits and preferences. Mind reading is a useful skill, as is the ability to predict the future. A general’s job does not include endearing himself to his aide, and mine didn’t even try. Imagine working for a man who will not always tell you what he wants—but will not hesitate to tell you when you get it wrong.

  Years of practice allowed him to perfect the fine art of the glare. His brown eyes telegraphed a full range of injury and outrage in direct proportion to the gravity of the issue at hand. A single raised eyebrow conveyed a dozen shades of meaning, and his mustache surely had its own posse.

  When the general was really bothered or intrigued, his mustache quietly mobilized the forces, as if it could worry through a solution all by itself. The bristle was so subtle I doubt he was even aware of it, but it proved to be a seismograph for his depth of concentration as well as a transom into his subconscious. Once his mustache was activated, short-circuiting him was impossible. The fuse was lit, and he would have his way or his mischief.

  My small office was located right next to his, well within earshot, in a suite shared by the vice commander, executive officer, protocol officer, and secretary. The general never used the intercoms to summon any of us, preferring to yell. In addition to a desk and chair, my office housed a hardwood armoire that actually belonged to the boss, stocked with an extra flight suit and cap, blue shirt, tie, belt, pair of boots and other spare parts. I called it the general store, and I added to it regularly as I learned his habits of work as well as play.

  Early in my tenure, I purchased a sturdy backpack with a lot of zippered pockets and pouches, and it became my constant companion, sort of the general’s aide’s aide. Since he refused to carry anything that would not fit into his pockets, the backpack served as a mobile office as well as dispensary and convenience store. I added to it regularly as I grew more familiar with the general’s routine—reading glasses, appointment book, the newspaper, a couple of the ceremonial coins he handed out sparingly as a souvenir of a job well done, a pouch of tobacco, a handful of red-and-white pinwheel peppermints, a bottle of water. I grew accustomed to lugging the pack around every time we left the office.

  General O’Neill’s normal operating mode seemed to be “crisis.” He came to depend on those of us who kept his life on track in big and little ways. That dependence naturally rankled him. Subconsciously, at least, he fought back.

  “Have you thought about carrying a cell phone, sir?” I asked him after my first week, which included two instances of my having to chase him down in the staff car to deliver an urgent message and one occasion when I’d been unable to reach him in time regarding a change of plans and had to bear his wrath. “I talked with our I.T. guys. They can issue you a phone, and it won’t cost you anything.”

  “I don’t want one.”

  I hadn’t yet learned not to ask why.

  “I’m a general. I don’t have to be available twenty-four seven for anyone’s convenience. That’s y’all’s responsibility!”

  There was, apparently, nothing he detested more than cell phones. As he warmed to his subject, his volume increased until Linda, sitting at her desk, covered her ears. No other single device played such a critical role in the undermining of polite society and civil discourse, he said. He hated hearing the private conversations of others in restaurants and banks and the commissary and the club and the gym and even the men’s room. He refused to be part of the problem.

  As soon as I had a minute to myself, I set my own cell phone to vibrate so he couldn’t hear it ring. I also decided the safest course of action would be never to answer it in his presence, no matter where we might be. He underscored his opinion by issuing me an actual pager. I hadn’t seen one in so long, it took me a moment to identify it when he handed it to me. I didn’t have the faintest idea how it worked.

  “If you can call the pager, couldn’t you just…um…call my cell phone, sir?”

  He seemed thunderstruck that I would even have the temerity to suggest such a thing. I found instructions online for using the pager and clipped it to my pocket. To my surprise, the general actually used it now and then to contact me, though he must have guessed how I returned those calls.

  He wasn’t above reinforcing his point of view with truly vigorous action when the situation called for it. A few days after our cell phone conversation, I attended my first staff meeting in my capacity as his aide. Per Linda’s instruction, I made the requisite announcement about turning off all electronic devices beforehand. Incredibly, halfway through the meeting, someone’s phone rang anyway, its obnoxious electronic beep spitting out “Off We Go into the Wild Blue Yonder” as the unfortunate owner, our vice commander, Colonel Dave Blankenship, frantically retrieved it from his pocket.

  The staff was aghast at this breach of clearly defined policy. Everyone present knew the general’s position on the subject of cellular phone technology.

  “Let me get that,” the general said, evenly. He reached for the phone, and the colonel, sheepish, handed over the offending instrument, still declaiming the Air Force’s theme song. “How do I answer it?” the general said. The colonel tapped the screen. “Now what? I just talk?”

  The colonel nodded.

  “Hello?” A pause. “No, ma’am, he can’t take the call. He’s in a very important meeting. He was told to turn this thing off, and he didn’t. It’s plain insubordination. Maybe demotion to the rank of major would be suitable punishment. What do you think?”

  Colonel Blankenship buried his head in his hands. He could, I suspect, see his career disintegrating before his eyes. There was a longer pause as the woman at the other end of the line offered an explanation or apology. “You’d like to leave a message?” the general said, when she was finished. “Hold on, let me find a pencil.” He got up and stepped into the hall and heaved the phone to the other end of it. We heard it clattering down the tiled floor.

  “Hey, Sodbuster,” the general said after he sat down again. I knew he was addressing me. “You think I’m a prick yet?”

  He had told me to be straight with him.

  “Well, since you asked, sir, you certainly can be a prick when you put your mind to it.” Julia, sitting to my left, kicked me under the table, but it was too late. The rest of the staff gasped, but once the general broke into laughter, so did everyone else. When the uproar subsided, the meeting continued, but he wore a self-satisfied grin for the rest of the hour.

  At the end of the meeting, the general gave everyone a last chance to bring up any other topic of interest before dismissing the group.
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br />   “Any alibis?” he said. No one offered. He cleared his throat. “By the way, I’m well aware of the office pool y’all have been running this past year against my aide position. Knock it off.”

  There was faint laughter, but the general didn’t seem to be kidding. My sense of goodwill evaporated in an instant. So they were already betting on how long I’d last. I wondered if Julia knew anything about it.

  After the meeting, I tidied the conference room and turned out the lights. The executive officer, Lieutenant Colonel Jennifer Cartwright, pounced as soon as I stepped into the hallway. “Lieutenant Mitchell, report to my office. Now.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  I followed her. She sat behind her desk, stern and unsmiling—her usual demeanor. She did not offer me a chair. I wondered if I should come to attention.

  “Lieutenant Mitchell, what were you even thinking?”

  “Ma’am?”

  “One does not speak like that to a general officer under any circumstances.”

  “But, ma’am, General O’Neill asked me to be straight with him. On my first day of work—”

  She shook her head. “No,” she said. “No. No.” The fact that General O’Neill had asked me to be frank in no way tempered the reality that I had been disrespectful, not just to his face but in front of his entire staff. My recollection of the meeting suggested he’d been thoroughly pleased with my remark, but I guess we see what we want to see. And if Lieutenant Colonel Cartwright was predisposed not to like me, I might never be able to change her opinion.

  “Didn’t you learn anything about customs and courtesies when you were enlisted?” she said.

  “Yes, ma’am. I’m sorry, ma’am.”

  “It’s not me you should apologize to. It’s General O’Neill.” I half expected her to grab me by the ear and march me into the office to beg his forgiveness. She put me in mind of the nuns from my elementary years in parochial school. I would not have been surprised to hear her say my infractions would go down in my permanent record and follow me for life, or at least into my next officer performance report. I could do little except look repentant and repeat, “Yes, ma’am. No, ma’am. It won’t happen again, ma’am.”