I held up my index finger and middle finger to confirm that I was counting with him.

He blipped, like a tape skipping a frame. Generals aren’t used to having two fingers waved at them. “Two. We are going to reunite this country. And three.” He added his ring finger and concluded loudly and firmly, “We are going to keep America safe! Whatever it takes to do that.” He repeated that last line slowly, emphasizing each word as if in warning: “What. Ever. It. Takes.” He took a step back, satisfied.

I guess I was supposed to get caught up in his fervor, but I was no longer capable of a standing ovation. Whatever his objective, I didn’t like being threatened. “Is there something specific I’m supposed to know,” I wondered, “or is this just a, you know…” It was my turn to emphasize the words: “General. Warning.”

In my last life we’d told every possible variation of that old joke: Did you hear about the general who made the mistake of being specific? But to my surprise it almost slipped by Hunter. I can report from experience that most general officers are about as funny as a six A.M. barracks inspection.

The meeting continued this way for several more minutes. While Hunter never made any direct threats, his belligerent and dismissive tone made the point. He reminded me that on the battlefield we’d had to deal carefully with reporters to prevent them from disclosing strategic information. “We used to say the media was an important tool,” he explained. “It can help you hammer things down or screw things up.” Then he flashed me a smile, displaying a mouthful of sparkling white teeth.

If the intent of this meeting was to intimidate me, it failed. Woe was he. As I was leaving his office, he made the mistake of stepping quickly in front of me to open the door. I’d neglected to turn off Chair’s GPS system, which continued to target him, and somehow I ran right over his highly shined left shoe, digging a dirt-brown tread mark into the soft European leather.

Hunter was stunned silent, having no idea how to respond. His jaw opened and closed as he searched unsuccessfully for the right words.

Cher spoke up in her decidedly feminine voice. “Rollie, I’m sorry we hit that bump.”

The vice president was confused. He began looking quizzically around the office for the source of that voice.

“Oh, sir, I’m sorry,” I said as earnestly as I could manage. I lowered my voice and said, “That’s just Cher. You know women.” And winked.

As I left, I heard him ordering an assistant to find a shoeshine kit.

When I got back to the office, Howie had asked what I’d learned.

“I’m an influencer,” I said proudly.

“Wow,” Howie said, “that’s great. Who are the influencees?”

“He didn’t tell me.”

Howie tapped his index finger against his lips to show me he was considering the value of that information, then decided, “I’d put it on my résumé.”