by Dale Brown
"What the hell kind of screwed-up logic is that, Weir?" Ponce shouted. But Norman felt good, because he could see that the little lightbulb over Ponce's head came on. He was getting through to the supercolonel.
"You know why, Colonel," Norman said confidently. "If he doesn't get promoted, he'll have a better chance of staying in his present assignment-in fact, I'd put money on it, if he's the acting squadron commander. He's a kick-ass major now-no one can touch him. He's certainly top of the list in his wing for ACSC. As soon as he gets back from Saudi Arabia, he'll go. When he graduates from ACSC in residence, he'll have all the squares filled and then some. He'll be a shoo-in for promotion next year."
"But he'll miss his primary zone," Ponce said dejectedly. He knew Norman was right, but he still wanted to do everything he could to reward this outstanding candidate. "His next board will be an above-, the-primary-zone board, and he'll be lumped in with the has-beens. Here's a guy who works his butt off for his unit. Who deserves it more than him?"
"The officers who took a little extra time in professional career development and got their education requirements filled," Norman replied. "I'm not saying Waller's not a top guy. But he obviously knew what he had to do to be competitive-after all, he's taken the course twice, and he still didn't do it: That's not a well-rounded candidate in my book. The other candidates have pulled for their units too, but they also took time to get the theoretical and educational training in. Four other guys in that stack finished ACSC, and two of them have been selected to go in residence already. They're the ones that deserve a promotion."
"Well of course they had time to do ACSC-they're ground-Pounders," Ponce shot back.
The remark hit a nerve in Norman's head that sent a thrill of anger through his body. "Excuse me?"
"They're ground-pounders-support personnel," Ponce said, completely ignorant of Norman's shocked, quickly darkening expression. "They go home every night at seventeen hundred hours and they don't come to work until oh-seven-thirty. If they work on weekends, it's because there's a deployment or they want face time. They don't have to pull 'round-the-clock strip alert or fly four scrambles a day or emergency dispersals.""Hey, Colonel, I've done plenty of all those things," Norman retorted angrily. "I've manned mobility lines seventy-two hours straight, processing the airmen at the end of the line who've been up working all night because all the flyers insisted on going first. I've worked lots of weekends in-processing new wing commanders who don't want to be bothered with paperwork or who want to get their TDY money as soon as they hit the base or their precious teak furniture from Thailand got a scratch on it during the move and they want to sue the movers. Just because you're a flyer doesn't mean you got the corner on dedication to duty."
Ponce glared at Norman, muttered something under his breath, and chomped on his cigar. Norman steeled himself for round two, but it didn't happen. "Fine, fine," Ponce said finally, turning away from Norman. "Vote the way you damned want."
Resolving the "gray area" candidates took an entire workday and a little bit of the evening, but they finished. The next morning seemed to come much too quickly. But it started a little differently-because General Ingemanson himself rolled a small file cabinet into the room. He carried a platter of breakfast burritos and other hot sandwiches from the dining hall atop the file cabinet.
"Good morning, good morning, folks," he said gaily. "I know you all worked real hard yesterday, and I didn't see most of you in the Club this morning, so I figured you probably skipped breakfast, so I brought it for you. Take a couple, grab some coffee, and get ready for the next evolution." Hungry full birds fairly leaped for the food.
When everyone was seated a few moments later, General Ingemanson stepped up to the head of the room, and said, "Okay, gang, let's begin. Since you worked hard yesterday to finish up your gray area candidates, you're a little ahead of the game, so I have a treat for you today.
"As you may or may not know, once a promotion board is seated, the Military Personnel Center and the Pentagon can pretty much use and abuse you any way they choose, which means they can use you for any other personnel or promotion tasks they wish. One such task is below-the-zone promotions. We're going to take two hundred majors who are two years below their primary promotion zone, score them, then combine them with the other selected candidates, resolve the gray areas, and pass their names along for promotion along with the others. This panel gets one hundred jackets."
"Shit-hot," Harry Ponce exclaimed. "We get our hands on the best of the best of the best."
"I don't fully understand, sir," Norman said, raising a hand almost as if he were in grade school. "What's the purpose of such a drastic promotion? Why do those officers get chosen so far ahead of their peers? It doesn't make sense to me. What did they do to deserve such attention?"
"As in all promotion boards, Colonel," Ingemanson replied, "the needs of the Air Force determine how and why officers get promoted. In this case, the powers that be determined that there should be a handful of individuals that represent the absolute best and most dedicated of the breed."
"But I still don't…"
"Generally, below-the-zone promotions are incentives for motivated officers to do even better," Ingemanson interrupted. "If you know that the Air Force will pick a handful above the rest, for those who care about things like that, it's their chance to work a little harder to make their jacket stand out. It's been my experience that generally the BTZ guys become the leaders in every organization."
"That's to be expected, I suppose," Norman said. "You give one person a gold star when everyone else gets silver stars, and the one with the gold star will start behaving like a standout, whether he really is or not. Classic group psychology. Is this what we want to do? Is this the message we want to send young officers in the Air Force?"
Ponce and some of the others rolled their eyes at that comment. Ingemanson smiled patiently and responded, "It sounds like a never-ending 'chicken-or-the-egg' argument, Colonel, which we won't get into here. I prefer to think of this as an opportunity to reward an officer whose qualities, leadership, and professionalism rise above the others.
That's your task.
"Now, I must inform you that some of these jackets are marked classified,' " General Ingemanson went on. "There is nothing in these files more classified than 'NOFORN' and 'CONFIDENTIAL,' but be aware that these files do carry a security classification over and above a normal everyday personnel file. The files may contain pointers to other, more sensitive documents.
"Bottom line is, that factoid is none of your concern. You evaluate each candidate by the physical content of the file that you hold in your hands. You won't be given access to any other documents or records. You should not try to speculate on anything in the file that is not on a standard promotion board evaluation checklist. In other words, just because a candidate has annotations and pointers regarding classified records doesn't mean his file should be weighed any heavier than someone else, or because a candidate doesn't have any such annotations shouldn't count against him. Base your decisions on the content of the files alone. Got it?" Everyone nodded, even Norman, although he appeared as perplexed as before.
"Now, to save time, we do below-the-primary-zone selections a little differently," Ingemanson went on. "Everyone goes through the pile and gives a yes or no opinion of the candidate. The candidate needs four of seven 'yes' votes to go on to round two. This helps thin out the lineup so you can concentrate on the best possible candidates in a shorter period of time. Round two is precisely like a normal scoring routine- minimum six, maximum ten points, in half-point increments. Once we go through and score everyone, we'll resolve the gray areas, then put those candidates in with the other candidates, then rescore and resolve until we have our selectees. We should be finished by tomorrow. We present the entire list to the board on Thursday, get final approval, and sign the list Friday morning and send it off to the Pentagon. We're on the home stretch, boys. Any questions?"
"So what you're say
ing, sir," Norman observed, "is that these below-the-zone selectees could displace selectees that we've already chosen? That doesn't seem fair."
"That's a statement, not a question, Colonel," Ingemanson said. There was a slight ripple of laughter, but most of the panel members just wanted Norman to shut up. "You're right, of course, Colonel. The BTZ selectees will be so identified, and when their OSRs are compared with the other selectees, you panel members will be instructed that a BTZ selectee must really have an outstanding record in order to bump an in-the-primary-zone or above-the-primary-zone selectee. As you may or may not know, BTZ selectees usually represent less than three percent of all selectees, and it is not unusual for a board to select no BTZ candidates for promotion. But again, that's up to you. No more questions? Comments? Jokes?" Ingemanson did not give anyone a chance to reply. "Good. Have fun, get to work."
The Officer Selection Reports began their circulation around the table, each member receiving a stack of about fifteen. Norman was irked by having to do this chore, but he was intrigued as well. These guys must be really good, he thought, to be chosen for promotion so far ahead of their peers.
But upon opening his first folder, he was disappointed again. The photograph he saw was of a chunky guy with narrow, tense-looking blue eyes, crooked nose, irregular cheeks and forehead, thin blond hair cut too short, uneven helmet-battered ears, a thick neck underneath a shirt that appeared too small for him, and a square but meaty jaw. He wore senior navigator's wings atop two and a half rows of ribbons-one of the smallest numbers of ribbons Norman had seen in six days of scrutinizing personnel files. The uniform devices appeared to be on straight, but the Class A uniform blouse looked as if it had a little white hanger rash on the shoulders, as if it had hung in the closet too long and had just been taken out for the photograph.
He was ready to vote "no" on this guy right away, but he didn't want to pass the folder too early, so he glanced at the Officer Effectiveness Reports. What in hell were they thinking-this guy wasn't anywhere ready to be promoted two years ahead of his peers! He had only been to two assignments in eight years, not including training schools. Up until recently, he was a line navigator-an instructor, yes, but still basically a line officer, virtually the same as a second lieutenant fresh out of tech school. Sure, he had won a bunch of trophies at the Strategic Air Command Giant Voice Bombing and Navigation Competition, and several ratrs had called him "the best bombardier in the nation, maybe the world."
But one rater, a year before he left his first PCS assignment, had only rated him "Above Average," not "Outstanding." He didn't have a "firewalled" OER. One of his last raters at his first assignment had said "A few improvements will result in one of the Air Force's finest aviators." Translation: He had problems that he apparently wasn't even trying to fix. He wasn't officer material, let alone a candidate for early promotion! He wasn't even promotable, let alone leadership material! How in the world did he even get promoted to major?
What else? A master's degree, yes, but only Squadron Officer School done, by correspondence-no advanced leadership schools. What in hell was he doing with his time? One temporary assignment with the U.S. Border Security Force-which went bust before the end of its third year, disgraced and discredited. His OERs at his second PCS assignment in Las Vegas were very good. His last OER had one three-star and two four-star raters-the four-star raters were the chief of staff of the Air Force and the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, a very impressive achievement. But there were very few details of exactly what he did there to deserve such high-powered raters. He had some of the shortest rater's comments Norman had ever seen-lots of "Outstanding officer," "Promote immediately," and "A real asset to the Air Force and the nation" type comments, but no specifics at all. His flying time seemed almost frozen-obviously he wasn't doing much flying. No flying, but no professional military schools? One temporary assignment, totally unrelated to his primary field? This guy was a joke.
And he didn't have a runner's chin. Norman could tell immediately if a guy took care of himself, if he cared about his personal health and appearance, by looking at the chin. Most runners had firm, sleek chins. Nonexercisers, especially nonrunners, had slack chins. Slack chins, slack attitudes, slack officers.
Norman marked Patrick S. McLanahan's BTZ score sheet with a big fat "No," and he couldn't imagine any other panel member, even Harry Ponce, voting to consider this guy for a BTZ promotion. Then, he had a better idea.
For the first time as a promotion board member, Norman withdrew an Air Force Form 772-"Recommendation for Dismissal Based on Substandard OSR," and he filled it out. A rated officer who didn't fly, who was obviously contently hiding out at some obscure research position in Las Vegas twiddling his thumbs, was not working in the best interest of the Air Force. This guy had almost nine years in service, but it was obvious that it would take him many, many years to be prepared to compete for promotion to lieutenant colonel. The Air Force had an "up or out" policy, meaning that you could be passed over for promotion to lieutenant colonel twice. After that, you had to be dismissed. The Air Force shouldn't wait for this guy to shape up. He was a waste of space.
A little dedication to yourself and dedication to the Air Force might help, Norman silently told the guy as he signed the AFF772, recommending that McLanahan be stripped of his regular commission and either sent back to the Reserves or, better, dismissed from service altogether. Try getting off your ass and do some running, for a start. Try to act like you give a damn…
Mother Nature picked that night to decide to dump an entire week's worth of rain on Diego Garcia-it was one of the worst tropical downpours anyone had seen on the little island in a long time. The British civilian contracted shuttle bus wasn't authorized to go on the southeast side of the runway, and Patrick wasn't going to wait for someone to pick him up, so he ran down the service road toward the Air Force hangar. He had already called ahead to the security police and control tower, telling them what he was going to do, but in the torrential storm, it was unlikely anyone in the tower could see him. Patrick made it to the outer perimeter fence to the Air Force hangar just as one of the security units was coming out in a Humvee to pick him up.
Patrick dashed through security in record time, then ran to the hangar to his locker for a dry flight suit. Inside he saw maintenance techs preparing both Megafortress flying battleships for fueling and weapons preloading. Patrick decided to grab his thermal underwear and socks too-it looked as if he might be going flying very soon.
"What happened?" Patrick asked as he trotted into the mission planning room.
"An American guided-missile cruiser, the USS Percheron, was transiting the Strait of Hormuz on its way into the Persian Gulf when it was attacked by several large missiles," Colonel John Ormack said. "Two of them missed, two were shot down, two were near misses, but two hit. The ship is still under way, but it's heavily damaged. Over a hundred casualties."
"Do they know who launched the missiles?"
"No idea," Ormack replied. "Debris suggests they were Iraqi. The missiles were fired from the south, across the Musandam Peninsula over Oman. The warhead size was huge-well over five hundred pounds each. AS-9 or AS-14 class."
"The Percheron couldn't tag the missiles?"
"They didn't see them until it was too late," Ormack reported. "They were diving right on top of the cruiser from straight overhead. They were already supersonic when they hit. No time to respond. The Percheron is a California-class cruiser, an older class of guided-missile cruiser-even though it was fitted with some of the latest radars, it wasn't exactly a spring chicken."
"I thought every ship going into the Gulf had to be updated with the best self-defense gear?"
"That's the Navy for you-they thought they had cleaned up the Gulf and could just waltz in with any old piece of shit they chose," Lieutenant General Brad Elliott interjected as he strode into the room. He glared at Patrick's wet hair and heavy breathing, and added, "You don't look very rested to me, Major. Where's Tork?"
"On her way, sir," Patrick replied. "I didn't wait for the SPs to come get me."
"I guess it's not a very good night for a romantic stroll on the beach anyway," Elliott muttered sarcastically. "I could've used both of you an hour ago."
"Sorry, sir." He wasn't really that sorry, but he tried to understand what kind of hell Brad had to be going through-stripped of the command that meant so much to him-and he felt sorry for Brad, not sorry that he wasn't there to help out.
"The Navy's officially started an investigation and is not speculating on what caused the explosions," Elliott went on. "Defense has leaked some speculation to the media that some older Standard SM-2 air-to-air missiles might have accidentally exploded in their magazines. Hard to come up with an excuse for an above-deck explosion in two different sections of the ship. No one is yet claiming responsibility for the attack.
"Unofficially, the Navy is befuddled. They had no warning of the attack until seconds before the missiles hit. No missile-launch detection from shore, no unidentified aircraft within a hundred miles of the cruiser, and no evidence of sub activity in the area. They were well outside the range of all known or suspected coast defense sites capable of launching a missile of that size. Guesses, anyone?"
"How about a stealth bomber, like the one we ran into?" Patrick replied.
"My thoughts exactly," Brad said. "The Defense Intelligence Agency has no information at all about Iran buying Blackjack bombers from Russia, or anything about Russia developing a bomber capable of launching air-to-air missiles. They got our report, but I think they'll disregard it."
"I wonder how much DIA knows about us and our capabilities?" Wendy asked.
"I think we've got to assume that Iran is flying that thing, and it's got to be neutralized before it does any more damage," Patrick said. "One more attack-especially on an aircraft carrier or other major warship-could spark a massive Middle East shooting war, bigger and meaner than the war with Iraq." He turned to Brad Elliott and said, "You've got to get us back in the fight, Brad. We're the only ones that can secretly take on that Blackjack battleship."
