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  “I’ll bet,” she said. She kept me standing there, maybe trying to think of some additional humiliation, but she finally dismissed me with one parting shot. “You won’t last any longer than the rest of them, Lieutenant Mitchell,” she said. In a fierce whisper, she added, “And I’ll put my money where my mouth is.”

  I wondered if she might be right. And Julia later corroborated my suspicion about who was behind the betting pool.

  Chapter Four

  After the first-day scolding I received for being late, I really did intend to be punctual. I started getting up an hour earlier on work days and usually arrived at the office at least thirty minutes before the general. But the planets and stars sometimes conspired against my best intentions, and all day long, opportunities for tardiness were plentiful. The second time I arrived late, the general gave me another thorough dressing-down. I’m sure his rant could be heard in the next state, not to mention Lieutenant Colonel Cartwright. Once again, he had no interest in my perfectly legitimate excuse.

  When I arrived belatedly for some staff function, my third offense, the general laid down the law like some old gunslinger. “From now on, you’re docked a dollar for every late minute or portion thereof,” he said, clearly enjoying himself. And why not? He had a rapt audience, representatives from half a dozen agencies in the NAF.

  “The fine is payable at the time of the infraction,” the general said. “No exceptions. Exact change, or the amount is doubled. Understood?”

  I was embarrassed as well as outraged. Could he do that? Charge me for being late? I looked to the others, frozen in their chairs, but no one came to my defense. I bit my lip. “Understood, sir.”

  After the general established the policy, he found every excuse to enforce it. At first, I didn’t much mind paying out a few dollars, even though I’m sure he deliberately set me up to be late on more than one occasion. When I didn’t improve quickly enough to satisfy his impatience, he upped the rate to two dollars a minute and then three. By the time the stakes increased to five dollars, I had made a real effort to reduce my tardiness, in part because I was angry as hell. Gradually, punctuality became a habit, or else I hit a lucky streak.

  I lost count of how much it cost me. I didn’t want to know.

  A good aide remains virtually invisible, but my boss took perverse pleasure in aiming the spotlight directly at me. He reminded me daily that any junior airman currently serving in the U.S. Air Force could do my job better than I. As one week followed the next, I continued to assume the axe was imminent. But it never came. Perhaps he felt disconcerted by his significant failure in the aide department thus far and was determined to succeed with me, molding me into the perfect sidekick. Perhaps he wanted to set an example of tolerance in our newly gay-friendly Air Force. Perhaps the extortionist liked the extra income.

  Perhaps, although I didn’t consider this angle until later, he simply liked me, and he wanted to be sure I noticed.

  *

  My relationship with Lieutenant Colonel Cartwright would never thaw. After our first run-in, she seemed distrustful of me, possibly because I served by default as a sort of sentry, a filter. I know she resented having to ask an aide for an appointment to see the general, but that’s what he wanted, as he made clear the first time she went directly to him in spite of my protest. As long as the general was at my back, she had little recourse except to seethe in silence.

  Thankfully, I enjoyed more congenial relationships with others on the staff. I could not have navigated the first month without the assistance of Julia, Colonel Blankenship, who remained grateful to me for helping him dodge the general’s bullets after the cell phone incident, and Mark Sinclair, the civilian budget chief and a retired officer himself, who, I discovered, was gay as well. They offered useful pointers and endless encouragement.

  After some preliminary misgivings on her part, I also persuaded Linda to join my team. As the general’s secretary, she drafted all his correspondence, kept the files, answered the telephone, kept track of his calendar, and so on. She was in a unique position to know how demanding the general could be. A good aide deflected a lot of the heat from her, but since none of my predecessors had lasted more than a few months, I didn’t blame her for being skeptical at first.

  The federal repository for NAF scuttlebutt, Linda had been secretary under six commanders in her twenty-three years, but even she couldn’t shed any light on the general’s conspicuous consumption of aides before me. I figured I’d find out for myself soon enough when he fired me too, but I kept that thought to myself. After six weeks on the job, in a burst of confidence, I offered to relieve her of coffee-brewing duty. She was especially pleased, since she didn’t even drink the stuff.

  The general congratulated me for my initiative. I didn’t realize what I’d gotten myself into.

  Fixing coffee sounds easy enough, but not so fast. A drip coffee-maker? Barbaric. Instant? The downfall of empires. Only an electric percolator could deliver appropriate brew. General O’Neill spent forty minutes with me one morning to instruct me of its proper use, an indicator that it was as critical as jet fuel around here. He’d concocted a precise blend of French roast and Columbian with a scoop of plain Maxwell House thrown in. I wondered how long he’d worked to devise the recipe, like some alchemist. Could he actually discern the various ingredients when he tasted the viscous, sturdy broth, or was he simply exerting his right to be a general, to establish rules and demand that others follow?

  My final exam was to brew a pot. Happily, I made the grade. Later in the morning, I noticed that his mug was half empty, so I brought in the pot and a single sugar cube for a refill. As I was leaving, he cleared his throat. Uh-oh.

  “Sir?”

  He sighed. “Goddamn it, Mainspring. You’ve thrown my coffee-to-sugar proportion out of balance,” he said. I wasn’t sure if he were truly angry or not, but I apologized, dumped the offending brew and brought him a fresh cup. After that, I never refilled his mug until it was empty. And since he drank coffee all day long, I developed the habit of peering into his mug, always kept on a leather coaster in the same place on his desk, without being too obvious about it.

  *

  My gaffes were usually more spectacular than upsetting the general’s coffee-to-sugar ratio, and he never conserved volume when informing me of his displeasure. February included breakfast with the recently elected governor, which provided my baptism of fire. The assignment seemed simple enough at the outset. I called the governor’s office and verified the place, the date, and the time. I emailed a biography of the general to the governor’s secretary and received one in return. Checked with the club to reserve a suitably elegant table. Called the front gate and requested a welcome message to run on the electric signboard. Talked with the governor’s driver, gave him specific directions, and assigned an escort to meet them at the gate and bring them onto the base. I was proud of myself for having figured out that all these things needed to be done.

  On the morning of the breakfast, General O’Neill sat in the waiting area outside his office and had a cup of coffee with Mark Sinclair and Lieutenant Colonel Cartwright.

  “Have a seat, Lawnchair,” the general said. I sat, a little nervous at the attention. “Ever met a governor?” he asked.

  “No, sir.”

  “This is your lucky day. Tell me about the guy.”

  Confident, I rattled off the relevant facts from the official biography.

  “He sounds dull,” the general said. “Military service?”

  “There’s none listed in his biography, sir.”

  “What are his politics?”

  “He’s a Republican, sir.”

  “Yes, but what are his politics? How does he vote?”

  I was mystified. “On what?”

  The general’s exasperation brought out his sarcasm. “Agricultural issues impacting local farmers. What else? What’s his position on military base realignment and closure?”

  Ah. I didn’t know.

&n
bsp; “How does he feel about units shutting down?” the general said. “Is he in favor of expanding the base? There’s talk of an Air National Guard unit relocating here. What does he think about that?”

  I didn’t know.

  “Was he supportive of homosexuals being able to serve openly in the military?” he said. “You should be able to tell me that, at least.”

  I flushed, and my temper rose, but I could say or do nothing. The general knew it, but he forged on with his point. “Damn it, Lawnchair, I’m not asking just for the hell of it. I’ve got to spend an hour and a half with this man, and it’s bad business for me to be stupid about what he stands for. You think I put up with these damn things because I like soggy French toast?”

  He raged, warming to his task as if he’d rehearsed it thoroughly beforehand, and I perspired accordingly. Lieutenant Colonel Cartwright enjoyed watching me squirm, as usual. Mr. Sinclair seemed a bit embarrassed to be caught in the middle of it.

  “This is my chance to put in a good word for the NAF and this base,” the general said. “We’ve got another round of closures coming up next year. We’re not guaranteed to make the cut. Our asses might be on the line. If I’m not prepared, I’m wasting my time and his, too. When I was at the Academy…”

  He railed at me until it was time for us to head over to the club. I was relieved to have any kind of respite, though I expected the diatribe to continue en route. To my surprise, he was well behaved, even genial during the ride in the car, and the breakfast itself went surprisingly well. You’d never have guessed that he wasn’t intimately informed about the governor’s politics, but I suspect the general had done the necessary homework himself. After breakfast, back in the car, we made more small talk until we reached the office again—where he picked up his rant with a new and predictably petrified audience.

  I was sure I’d be dismissed that same afternoon, but all the same, I was angry at him for not being more specific in his instructions. I could easily have accomplished the required research, if he’d only hinted it needed to be done. Perhaps I should have thought to ask if he required any preparation, but I still believed his wrath was far out of proportion to the perceived infraction. I fumed for the rest of the day, and I’m sure he knew it. And I could not give voice my resentment, which seemed to amuse him all the more.

  At the end of the day, he called me into his office. I assumed the worst. As I stood there, sullen, he looked up from his paperwork and grinned. “Sit, Horsethief.”

  I sat.

  He gave me his full attention. “I know you think I’m a prick. Admit it.”

  “All right, sir, if you insist. You can be a prick sometimes.” I resisted the urge to embellish with more colorful analogies.

  He beamed. “You’re the first one who’s ever been willing to own up to it,” he said. “I work hard at being a prick, and damn it, I want people to notice.” Leisurely, he set his papers aside, found his pipe, tamped tobacco into it, and lit it. After a contented puff, he looked at me again. “You’re doing a great job, you know, but you screwed up today.”

  “Yes, sir.” His remark about my doing a great job intrigued me most. He had never indicated as much before, and my outlook brightened considerably, though I did wish for other witnesses to my moment of triumph.

  “It won’t happen again?”

  “It won’t, sir.” At least that particular mistake wouldn’t. I knew there would be others, but I was relieved that he seemed to have forgiven me.

  He grinned. “Get the hell out of here. See you on Monday.”

  I was more than ready for the weekend.

  Chapter Five

  After winter comes the spring. We awake from hibernation. Green appears. We reach for the sun and grow. In spite of his very public displeasure, General O’Neill came to trust me, and my duties expanded accordingly. He complained sometimes that his job was three-quarters decorative and one-quarter actual work. An outsider might think so, but I knew better. Like a good social secretary, I spent half of my day on the phone, working closely with our protocol staff and Julia in the public affairs office to engineer his appearance at various events, changes of command, important promotion ceremonies, official dinners, and so on. The rest of the time I spent with the general, shadowing him, catering to his mercurial nature. At the end of every work day, I synchronized my calendar with Linda’s to make sure the schedules were identical.

  Three times a week, his schedule included a rigorous workout of stretching, calisthenics, and distance running. With all his nervous energy, he would never be overweight, but he firmly believed in the health benefits of regular exercise, preferably outdoors. In the dead of winter, he frequented the gym, and I was left to pursue my own workouts beyond his watchful eye. By late February, he was restless to escape the confinement of the walls and the monotony of the treadmill and determined to hit the streets on the first day of March, with me by his side.

  Despite sun on that day, the thermometer read thirty-one degrees, which deterred the general not in the least. Though my track-star past was some years behind me, I fell into that groove again easily, silently grateful his sport of choice wasn’t fencing or weight-lifting. On the road, I matched his speed with ease, but after five miles, I was barely winded and he was whipped, much to my satisfaction and his annoyance.

  We fell into a routine. We’d begin at the gym, changing into our running togs, stretching, and then hitting the road. We’d return damp and thoroughly exercised. Alas, he received the key to the distinguished visitors’ locker room, while I had to content myself with the cattle barn reserved for the rest of the lowly others. It was just as well. I’d reprimand myself sternly every time my thoughts strayed to the unexplored territory under the general’s T-shirt and baggy shorts. Lusting for Seamus O’Neill could only lead me in every wrong direction.

  *

  For all the tedious aspects to the workday, there were perks I didn’t expect. My favorite came in the form of travel. As the NAF commander, the general routinely made one or two brief trips a month. From the start, he insisted I accompany him, primarily because it relieved him of having to bother with any of the details like meals, lodging, and ground transportation. My favorite trips were those from base to base, when he’d visit the various wings attached to our NAF and under his command. He’d pilot one of our C-5s and put me in the jump seat next to him. Plugged into a headset, I could listen to the soundtrack for the flight as he explained the various aspects of maneuvering an airframe. Someone who is enthusiastic about his job takes great delight in showing it to the uninitiated, and I found such learning opportunities rewarding and fascinating, though I had no interest in becoming a pilot myself.

  Under the general’s critical eye, I reluctantly became a better officer as well, though I was not the most apt pupil. Being a second lieutenant is like singing along with the radio. No matter how good you are at the job, no one’s going to pay attention. I found much about military ritual to be a little absurd, with no practical application, though I didn’t dare breathe a word to suggest that my opinion differed from his.

  “You have every right to be proud. Act like it. You’re serving in the United States Air Force. Stand up straight. Don’t slouch,” he barked at me regularly when we walked together. “Keep up with me. Don’t follow.”

  He began hauling me outside during his official smoke breaks so he could continue instructing me or, more often, telling stories of his own experiences. And there we were, twice a day for twenty minutes, himself parked on the front stoop of the NAF headquarters, puffing contentedly in all weather, and myself sitting awkwardly next to him, much to the consternation and unease of those coming and going from the building. How does one greet a general sitting on the step in a cloud of blue smoke? Most people chose to err on the side of caution and snapped a salute. He’d grin and return the salute with a wave of his pipe and a terse greeting. It unsettled everyone, which is certainly why he chose to do it.

  Anyone passing by could learn a thin
g or two from one of the general’s monologues if he was in the mood to hold forth on the subject of customs and courtesies, traditionally a big part of day-to-day life in the Air Force. The general was a strong advocate of insisting upon on all he was due, but he also insisted I receive my share as well. I hated being saluted as much as most people disliked saluting a lieutenant. I went out of my way to avoid it if possible. Nor could I ever bring myself to upbraid anyone who failed to salute. We all had better things to do. But the general had no use for lack of professionalism from any rank.

  “You look sharp,” he said, “so be sharp. Salute with pride, like you mean it. They’re not saluting Harris Mitchell, the lieutenant. They’re showing respect for centuries of military tradition. As you advance in rank and become more experienced at your job, the word will get around. You’ll be saluted for who you are, because they’ll respect you for being a good officer and a good leader.”

  Easy for him to say. He virtually never had to salute first. I had no aspirations to be a leader. I preferred to follow. It was less complicated. I was not merely passive, I just liked to watch. At the end of his break, the general knocked his pipe against the railing, emptying it of sparks and ash. He concluded this ritual with a pinwheel peppermint, a sort of dessert, as we headed back inside.

  *

  After a relatively calm month, during which General O’Neill earned not a single dollar from me for being late, he summoned me into his office at the end of the workday.

  “Stopwatch, what are your plans tonight?”

  Hmm…laundry, a microwavable pizza, a little mindless internet surfing, and a good book. “Nothing worth mentioning, sir.”