Combat

by Stephen Coonts

  He moved pretty quick for a big guy. His lips were on hers before she knew it, but she welcomed his kiss like a pearl diver welcomes that first deep, sweet breath of air after a long time underwater.

  The beach was beautiful, soothing and relaxing, but they did not spend much time there. They knew that the world was going to come crashing down on them very, very soon, and they didn’t have much time to get reacquainted. The Visiting Officers’ Quarters were only a short walk away … .

  “Damn shit-hot group we got, that’s what I think,” Colonel Harry Ponce exclaimed. He was “holding court” in the Randolph Officers Club after breakfast, sitting at the head of a long table filled with fellow promotion board members and a few senior officers from the base. Ponce jabbed at the sky with his unlit cigar. “It’s going to be damn hard to choose.”

  Heads nodded in agreement—all but Norman Weir’s. Ponce jabbed the cigar in his direction. “What’s the matter, Norm? Got a burr up your butt about somethin’?”

  Norman shrugged. “No, Colonel, not necessarily,” he said. Most of the others turned to Norman with surprised expressions, as if they were amazed that someone would dare contradict the supercolonel. “Overall, they’re fine candidates. I wish I’d seen a few more sharper guys, especially the in-the-primary-zone guys. The above-the-primary-zone candidates looked to me like they’d already thrown in the towel.”

  “Hell, Norman, ease up a little,” Ponce said. “You look at a guy that’s the ops officer of his squadron, he’s got umpteen million additional duties, he flies six sorties a week or volunteers for deployment or TDYs—who the hell cares if he’s got a loose thread on his blues? I want to know if the guy’s been busting his hump for his unit.”

  “Well, Colonel, if he can’t put his Class A’s together according to the regs or he can’t be bothered getting a proper haircut, I wonder what else he can’t do properly? And if he can’t do the routine stuff, how is he supposed to motivate young officers and enlisted troops to do the same?”

  “Norm, I’m talkin’ about the real Air Force,” Ponce said. “It’s all fine and dandy that the headquarters staff and support agencies cross all the damned t’s and dot the i’s. But what I’m looking for is the Joe that cranks out one hundred and twenty percent each and every damned day. He’s not puttin’ on a show for the promotion board—he’s helping his unit be the best. Who the hell cares what he looks like, as long as he flies and fights like a bitch bulldog in heat?”

  That kind of language was typical in the supercolonel’s verbal repertoire, and he used it to great effect to shock and humor anyone he confronted. It just made Norman more defensive. Anyone who resorted to using vulgarity as a normal part of polite conversation needed an education in how to think and speak, and Ponce was long overdue for a lesson. “Colonel, a guy that does both—does a good job in every aspect of the job, presenting a proper, professional, by-the-book appearance as well as performing his primary job—is a better choice for promotion than just the guy who flies well but has no desire or understanding of all the other aspects of being a professional airman. A guy that presents a poor appearance may be a good person and a good operator, but obviously isn’t a complete, well-balanced, professional officer.”

  “Norm, buddy, have you been lost in your spreadsheets for the past nine months? Look around you—we’re at war here!” Ponce responded, practically shouting. Norman had to clench his jaw to keep from admonishing Ponce to stop calling him by the disgusting nickname “Norm.” “The force is at war, a real war, for the first time since Vietnam—I’m not talkin’ about Libya or Grenada, those were just finger-wrestling matches compared to the Sandbox—and we’re kicking ass! I see my guys taxiing out ready to launch, and I see them practically jumpin’ out of their cockpits, they’re so anxious to beat the crap outta Saddam. Their crew chiefs are so excited they’re pissin’ their pants. I see those guys as heroes, and now I have a chance to promote them, and by God I’m gonna do it!

  “The best part is, none of our officers are over there in the ‘Sandbox’ ordering someone to paint the rocks or having six-course meals while their men are dying all around them. We’re going over there, kicking ass and taking names, and we’re coming home alive and victorious. Our troops are being treated like professionals, not conscripts or snot-nosed kids or druggies or pretty-boy marionettes. Our officers are applying what they’ve learned over the years and are taking the fight to Saddam and shovin’ Mavericks right down his damned throat. I want guys leading the Air force that want to train hard, fight hard, and come home.”

  “But what about … ?”

  “Yeah, yeah, I hear all the noise about the ‘whole person’ and the ‘total package’ crapola,” Ponce interjected, waving the cigar dismissively. “But what I want are warriors. If you’re a pilot, I want to see you fly your ass off, every chance you can get and then some, and then I want to see you pitch in to get the paperwork and nitpicky ground bullshit cleaned up so everyone can go fly some more. If you’re an environmental weenie or—what are you in, Norm, accounting and finance? Okay. If you’re a damned accountant, I want to see you working overtime if necessary to make your section hum. If your squadron needs you, you slap on your flying boots, fuck the wife good-bye, and report in on the double. Guys who do that are aces in my book.”

  Norman realized there was no point in arguing with Ponce—he was just getting more and more flagrant and bigoted by the second. Soon he would be bad-mouthing and trash-talking lawyers, or doctors, or the President himself—everyone except those wearing wings. It was getting very tiresome. Norman fell silent and made an almost imperceptible nod, and Ponce nodded triumphantly and turned to lecture someone else, acting as if he had just won the great evolution vs. creation debate. Norman made certain he was not the next one to leave, so it wouldn’t appear as if he was retreating or running away, but as soon as the first guy at the table got up, Norman muttered something about having to make a call and got away from Ponce and his sycophants.

  Well, Norman thought as he walked toward the Military Personnel Center, attitudes like Ponce’s just cemented his thoughts and feelings about flyers—they were opinionated, headstrong, bigoted, loudmouthed Neanderthals. Ponce wasn’t out to promote good officers—he was out to promote meat-eating jet-jockeys like himself.

  It was guys like Ponce, Norman thought as he entered the building and took the stairs to the Selection and Promotion Branch floor, who were screwing up the Air Force for the rest of us.

  “Excuse me, Colonel Weir?” Norman was striding down the hallway, heading back to his panel deliberation room. He stopped and turned. Major General Ingemanson was standing in the doorway to his office, smiling his ever-present friendly, disarming smile. “Got a minute?”

  “Of course, sir,” Norman said.

  “Good. Grab a cup of coffee and c’mon in.” Norman bypassed the coffee stand in the outer office and walked into Ingemanson’s simple, unadorned office. He stood at attention in front of Ingemanson’s desk, eyes straight ahead. “Relax and sit down, Colonel. Sure you don’t want some coffee?”

  “I’m fine, sir, thank you.”

  “Congratulations on finishing up the first week and doing such a good job.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “You can call me ‘Swede’—everybody does,” Ingemanson said. Norman didn’t say anything in reply, but Ingemanson could immediately tell Weir wasn’t comfortable calling him anything but “General” or “sir”—and of course Ingemanson noticed that Weir didn’t invite him to call him by his first name, either. “You’re a rare species on this board, Colonel—the first to come to a promotion board from the Budget Analysis Agency. Brand-new agency and all. Enjoying it there?”

  “Yes, sir. Very much.”

  “Like the Pentagon? Wish you were back in a wing, running a shop?”

  “I enjoy my current position very much, sir.”

  “I had one Pentagon tour a couple years ago—hated it. Air Division is okay, but boy, I miss the flyin
g, the flight line, the cockpit, the pilots’ lounge after a good sortie,” Ingemanson said wistfully. “I try to keep current in the F-16 but it’s hard when you’re pulling a staff. I haven’t released a reallive weapon in years.”

  “Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.” He was sorry he didn’t get to drop bombs and get shot at anymore? Norman definitely didn’t understand flyers.

  “Anyway, all the panel members have been instructed to call on you to explain any technical terminology or references in the personnel files relating to the accounting and finance field,” Ingemanson went on. “A few line officer candidates had AFO-type schools, and some of the rated types on the panels might not know what they are. Hope you don’t mind, but you might be called out to speak before another panel anytime. Those requests have to come through me. We’ll try to keep that to a minimum.”

  “Not at all. I understand, sir,” Norman said. “But in fact, no one has yet come to me to ask about the accounting or finance field. That could be a serious oversight.”

  “Oh?”

  “If the flyers didn’t know what a particular AFO school was, how could they properly evaluate a candidate’s file? I see many flyers’ files, and I have to ask about a particular school or course all the time.”

  “Well, hopefully the panel members either already know what the school or course is, or had the sense to ask a knowledgeable person,” Ingemanson offered. “I’ll put out a memo reminding them.”

  “I don’t suppose too many AFOs will rate very highly with this board,” Norman said. “With the war such a success and the aircrews acquitting themselves so well, I imagine they’ll get the lion’s share of the attention here.”

  “Well, I’ve only seen MPC’s printout on the general profile of the candidates,” Ingemanson responded, “but I think they did a pretty good job spreading the opportunities out between all the specialties. Of course, there’ll be a lot of flyers meeting any Air Force promotion board, but I think you’ll find it’s pretty evenly distributed between the rated and nonrated specialties.”

  “If you listen to the news, you’d think there was a pilot being awarded the Medal of Honor every day.”

  “Don’t believe everything you hear in the press, Colonel—our side practices good propaganda techniques too, sometimes better than the Iraqis,” Ingemanson said with a smile. “The brass didn’t want to give kill counts to the press, but the press eats that up. Helps keep morale up. The talking heads then start speculating on which fictional hero will get what medal. Stupid stuff. Not related to the real world at all.” He noticed Weir’s hooded, reserved expression, then added, “Remember, Colonel—there was Operation Desert Shield before there was Operation Desert Storm, and that’s where the support troops shone, not just the aircrew members. None of the heroics being accomplished right now would be even remotely possible without the Herculean efforts of the support folks. Even the AFOs.” Weir politely smiled at the gentle jab.

  “I haven’t seen any of the personnel jackets, but I expect to see plenty of glowing reports on extraordinary jobs done by combat support and nonrated specialties,” Ingemanson went on. “I’m not telling you how I want you to mark your ballots, Colonel, but keep that in mind. Every man or woman, whether they’re in the Sandbox or staying back in the States, needs to do their job to perfection, and then some, before we can completely claim victory.”

  “I understand, sir. Thank you for the reminder.”

  “Don’t mention it. And call me ‘Swede.’ Everyone does. We’re going to be working closely together for another week—let’s ease up on some of the formalities.” Norman again didn’t say a word, only nodded uncomfortably. Ingemanson gave Weir a half-humorous, half-exasperated glare. “The reason I called you in here, Colonel,” Ingemanson went on, “is I’ve received the printout on the scoring so far. I’m a little concerned.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you seem to be rating the candidates lower than any other rater,” the general said. “The board’s average rating so far is 7.92. Your average line officer rating is 7.39—and your average rating of pilots, navigators, and missile-launch officers is 7.21, far below the board average.”

  Norman felt a brief flush of panic rise up to his temples, but indignation shoved it away. “Is there a problem, sir?”

  “I don’t know, Colonel. I asked you here to ask that very same question of you.”

  Norman shrugged. “I suppose someone has to be the lowest rater.”

  “Can’t argue with that,” Ingemanson said noncommittally. “But I just want to make sure that there are no … hidden agendas involved with your ratings decisions.”

  “Hidden agendas?”

  “As in, you have something against rated personnel, and you want your scores to reflect your bias against them.”

  “That’s nonsense, sir. I have nothing against flyers. I don’t know many, and I have little interaction with them, so how can I have a bias against them?”

  “My job as board president is to make sure there is no adverse bias or favoritism being exercised by the panel members,” Ingemanson reminded him. “I look at the rater’s individual average scores. Generally, everyone comes within ten or fifteen percent of the average. If it doesn’t, I ask the rater to come in for a chat. I just wanted to make sure everything is okay.”

  “Everything is fine, sir. I assure you, I’m not biasing my scores in any way. I’m calling them like I see them.”

  “A flyer didn’t run over your cat or run off with your wife … er, pardon me, Colonel. I forgot—you’re divorced. My apologies.”

  “No offense taken, sir.”

  “I’m once divorced too, and I joke about it constantly—way too much, I’m afraid.”

  “I understand, sir,” Norman said, without really understanding. “I’m just doing my job the way I see it needs to be done.”

  Ingemanson’s eyes narrowed slightly at that last remark, but instead of pursuing it further, he smiled, rubbed his hands energetically, and said, “That’s good enough for me, then. Thanks for your time.”

  “You aren’t going to ask me to change any of my scores? You’re not going to ask me how I score a candidate?”

  “I’m not allowed to ask, and even if I was, I don’t really care,” the two-star general said, smiling. “Your responsibility as a member of this board is to apply the secretary’s MOI to the best of your professional knowledge, beliefs, and abilities. I certify to the Secretary of the Air Force that all board members understand and are complying with the Memorandum of Instruction, and I have to certify this again when I turn in the board’s results. My job when I find any possible discrepancies is to interview the board member. If I find any evidence of noncompliance with the MOI, I’ll take some action to restore fairness and accuracy. If it’s a blatant disregard of the MOI, I might ask you to rescore some of the candidates, but the system is supposed to accommodate wild swings in scoring.

  “I’m satisfied that you understand your responsibilities and are carrying them out. I cannot change any ratings, try to instruct you in how to rate the candidates, or try to influence you in any way about how to carry out your responsibilities, as long as you’re following the MOI. End of discussion. Have a nice day, Colonel.”

  Norman got to his feet, and he shook hands with General Ingemanson when he offered it. But before he left, Norman turned. “I have a question, sir.”

  “Fire away.”

  “Did you have this same discussion with anyone else … say, Colonel Ponce?”

  General Ingemanson smiled knowingly. Well well, he thought, maybe he’s not as stuck in the world between his ears as he thought. “As a matter of fact, Colonel, I did. We spoke last Saturday evening at the O Club over a few drinks.”

  “You spoke with Colonel Ponce about the board, at the Officers’ Club?”

  Ingemanson chuckled, but more out of exasperation than humor. “Colonel, this is not a sequestered criminal jury,” he said. “We’re allowed to speak to one another outside the Selection Board
Secretariat. We’re even allowed to discuss promotion boards and the promotion process in general—just not any specifics on any one candidate or anything about specific scores, or attempt to influence any other board members. You probably haven’t noticed, but Slammer spends just about every waking minute that he’s not sitting the panel at the Club. That seemed to me the best place to corral him.”

  “‘Slammer’?”

  “Colonel Ponce. That’s his call sign. I thought you two knew each other?”

  “We were assigned to the same wing, once.”

  “I see.” Ingemanson filed that tidbit of information away, then said with a grin, “If I’d run into you at the Club, Norman, I would’ve spoken to you there too. You seem to spend most of your time in your VOQ or out jogging. Neither is conducive to a heart-to-heart chat.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Harry and I have crossed paths many times—I guess if you’ve been around as long as we have in the go-fast community, that’s bound to happen. I’ve got seven years on the guy, but he’ll probably pin on his first star soon. He might have been one of the Provisional Wing commanders out in Saudi Arabia or Turkey if he wasn’t such a hot-shit test pilot. He designed two weapons that were developed in record time and used in the war. Pretty amazing work.” Norman could tell Ingemanson was mentally reliving some of the times they’d had together, and it irritated Norman to think that he could just completely drift off like that—take a stroll down Memory Lane while talking to another officer standing right in front of him.

  “Anyway,” Ingemanson went on, shaking himself out of his reverie with a satisfied smile, “we spoke about his scores. They’re a little skewed, like yours.”

  “All in favor of the flyers, I suppose.”

  “Actually, he’s too hard on flyers,” Ingemanson admitted. “I guess it’s hard to measure up with what that man’s done over his career, but that’s no excuse. I told him he’s got to measure the candidates against each other, not against his own image of what the perfect lieutenant colonel-selectee is.”