Supplanted
Chapter 4: O'Malley's Pub

“A test run!” The local pilots, my fellow flyers and comrades, were all yelling their boldest complaints throughout the town. A large number of their most colorful complaints greeted me at the door as I entered O’Malley’s Pub after parking my four wheeler outside in a most conveniently unoccupied space. “They blast us out of bed for a fucking test run!”

The Pub was packed with disgruntled fly boys who had all apparently just been collectively rudely awakened; and if not that, were more than happy to add their voices to the overall barrage of complaints about the collective competency, or lack thereof, of our new command staff.

The loudest protests were coming from a group of pilots I recognized. They were from the Socrates. I knew that they had just come back from their most recent tour of duty less than one day ago, and it was reported to have been a rough one, peace talks pending or not. To have been unnecessarily forced out of bed after a difficult tour got my full sympathy.

The alert siren had been sounded in error, or at least that was the commonly held perception. The official explanation was that it was sounded as a test run, something to gauge our level of readiness and responsiveness; though why a perimeter front line combat unit should need to be tested is such a way was beyond the comprehension of the assembled pilots, most of which now seemed to have been interrupted en flagrante or worse. I briefly allowed myself to wonder how the local working girls were handling the situation.

It seemed that all the pilots who had been unnecessarily rushed to their ships in anticipation of a non-existent attack had chosen to drown their anger in beer and assorted alcohol at the most popular watering hole in town; i.e., O’Malley’s. It took some time to find the Sergeant Major in this overcrowded den of unsettlement.

Ron was sitting at the bar. He insisted on knowing everything that had transpired in the General’s office. I only told him as much as I wanted him to know, mainly about the sudden promotion. I made up the rest.

“Promoted to Major?!” Ron bellowed. “Well, I don’t know whether to toast your success or curse your damned luck. Imagine, out of all the units your old friend could have ended up running . . . and he conveniently plops down in your lap.” If anyone around him heard, which I doubted that they couldn’t, they obviously didn’t care about this tidbit of information as they were previously employed in commiserating over the recent test run fiasco. Sudden seemingly unearned promotions would have to wait their turn at the gossip mill.

“It’s not like I’m the only friend he has in the universe,” I argued defensively. “He was one of the most popular kids at induct. I’m sure he’d have done the same for any of his other old friends anywhere he would’ve ended up being stationed.”

“Connections,” Ron grumbled loudly so as to be heard. “It’s always about connections. It’s not what you know, it’s who you know.” I decided not to keep arguing with him. Partly because I felt that he was right. What other explanation was there for my sudden rise in rank?

We drank several beers in silence. Well, without speaking to one another, the noise in the bar was deafening. 8:15 came and went. I was beginning to wonder if LT had stood us up. Since Ron hadn’t mentioned it, I rightly gauged that he wasn’t here for the tardy officer’s company anyway. Then, just as I was about to suggest a change of venue to the Sergeant Major, I spied the First Lieutenant standing just a few feet inside the front door of the pub. I motioned to Ron to help me get his attention. It was hardly necessary, the Lieutenant was quite aware of our position at the bar. Turns out he is very adept at surveying a room and making mental notes of everyone and everything inside of it; an admirable quality in an aide-de-camp officer, if not just a little creepy.

Moments later, Lieutenant Lemonjello LaTourno was seated with Ron and me at a booth in the back room of the bar. The clamber of loud voices and louder music was more subdued here and we were able to talk to each other by shouting. The conversation quickly turned to business.

“So, what’s this about pruning the patrols?” the SGM grilled the General’s aide-de-camp.

LT seemed unfazed. “It’s a necessary step toward peace.” He said no more. He either couldn’t or wouldn’t elaborate. Apparently the lieut. was a company man and not willing to loosen up over a few drinks in public. He would hold the company line and not let loose, and he apparently didn’t plan to drink enough to loosen up either.

Ron was undeterred. “Well, when this new leader of ours has his first strategy meeting, I intend to be there to add the voice of reason. We shouldn’t trust our enemy, ever! By letting down our guard, we invite disaster. If I’ve learned anything from my thirty years of service. . .”

“Your presence at that meeting is not required,” LT shouted blandly. “All necessary steps toward peace will be observed.”

Ron’s eyebrows arched. “He sounds like a bloody party political announcement,” Ron shouted at me in a mock English accent. At least that’s what it sounded like over the din. I smiled and nodded. “So, LT,” Ron continued, “I take it that you are in perfect agreement with this bullshit?”

I thought I saw an actual emotion cross the Lieutenant’s face. He put his drink down and shouted clearly, “My personal opinions do not shape military nor diplomatic policy. I’ve had enough to drink. Goodnight gentlemen.” He left with an air of dignity.

“He’s had enough to drink?!” Ron bellowed. “He barely touched his Shirley Temple.” I laughed along with several patrons in hearing distance. The lieut. apparently didn’t notice, or was as adept at ignoring people as he was at surveying them. He left the bar upright and quietly; not the usual exit for a patron of O’Malley’s, I should mention.

Ron and I spent a few more minutes in the bar finishing off a pair of pitchers. We then tottered our way out of the bar and into the Wilson’s World night. Ron wanted to try his luck at the nearest casino. I felt the itch for a woman. My suggestion sounded better to Ron.

We made our way to Main Street and headed for the brothels. As we passed the casinos, I thought I saw our new General being escorted by half a dozen of our top carrier captains into a bank of slots across the street. I tried to shield myself from their view, but I was too late.

“Major Johansson, come; join us.” It was the unmistakable voice of General Josten coming from across the street. I looked at Ron; he looked more perturbed than I think I’ve ever seen him look.

Ron stepped aside to give the superior officers a clear view of me. “Go on,” Ron chided. “I’m not invited.” With that he disappeared into a crowd on the opposite sidewalk. I was exposed and alone. I made my way over to the General, and tripped on the curb.

“Fancy meeting you here,” Eric grinned. “Gentlemen, I’d like you to meet Major James Johansson, commander of first fighter squadron, Wilson’s Wildmen.”

I already recognized the assembled brass, and they undoubtedly recognized me. “We’ve met,” I couldn’t stop myself from saying.

“Ah, they’ve met the Captain. I’m presenting the Major.” Our new commander in chief corrected me. My beer soaked brain had no argument for that.

It was Admiral Ben Bowen, commander of my carrier group, who first chimed in. “I’m very pleased to meet you, Major Johansson.” He winked. “It’s a pleasure to have you aboard. We’re just giving the General a tour of the city sites. Care to join us?”

He damn well knew that I was trapped in this situation. The other Admirals and Colonels snickered at my predicament. I stifled a burp.

“Why, I’d be be-lighted to join yous,” I slurred. “Shall we get a table, or would the General prefer a booth?” Even I had no idea why I’d said that.

Eric laughed heartily. “I see that our esteemed colleague has preceded us to the bar room. May I suggest that we repair to the nearest watering hole and try to catch up with him? Although, I myself will refrain from achieving the Major’s particular state of inebriation, I have to go to work in the morning.” Everyone laughed; even me. We went inside.

Outer world casinos are built with the same obnoxious lights and bells that have plagued gambling houses since the founding of Las Vegas. The idea is to dazzle the customer with sensory overload until he or she fails to realize that they are out of money. Money in our day and time is completely based on credit. Thumb print identification is used to access accounts, make payments or transfers, etc., and overruns are dealt with in the most complex form of accounting, that I can’t possibly describe it to you without first spending the rest of my natural life engaged in the study of modern accounting techniques at the nearest off world university, and then trying to condense that knowledge into an understandable explanation that even I could understand without having the education to understand it. Maybe I should have stopped drinking.

Our entourage crossed the sparsely peopled slot machine rows and entered the casino bar. Once there, the General ordered a whisky sour on the rocks, just like our fathers used to, and offered me the same. I think that I agreed.

Talk amongst our group eventually came to the tasks at hand; namely, the war. I don’t remember much of the conversation. I also don’t remember how I came to be at home in my own bed afterwards. I do remember vehemently suggesting that we not go to O’Malley’s Pub for a nightcap.

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