by Dale Brown
"Brad?" John Ormack asked. "This mission is supposed to be a contingency mission, in case Iran opens a second front against the Coalition. We're not supposed to be flying so close to disputed territory-I don't think we were supposed to engage anyone."
"In fact, I don't ever recall being given an order to fly at all, sir," Patrick said. "I read the warning order, and it says we were supposed to stand by for possible action against Iran or any other nation that declares neutrality that might be a threat to the U.S. I never saw the execution order or the rules of engagement. We never received any satellite photos or tactical printouts. Nothing to help us in mission planning."
"What about that, General?" Wendy asked. "I never saw the execution order for our mission either. I never got the order of battle or any intelligence reports. Is this an authorized mission or not?"
"Of course it is," Brad said indignantly. His angry grimace was melting away fast, and Patrick knew that Wendy had guessed right. "We were ordered to stand by for action. We're… standing by. This is tactically the best place to be standing by anyway."
"So if we fired on an Iranian fighter, it would be unauthorized."
"We're authorized to defend ourselves…"
"If we were on an authorized mission, we'd be authorized to defend ourselves-but this isn't authorized, is it?" Patrick asked. When Brad did not answer right away, Patrick added, "You mean, none of the Me-gafortresses we have in-theater is specifically authorized to be up here? We've got three experimental stealth warplanes loaded with weapons flying ten thousand miles from home and just a few miles from a war zone, and no one knows we're up here? Jesus, General…"
"That will be all, Major," Elliott interjected. "The sorties were authorized-by me. Our orders were to stand by and prepare for combat operations in support of Desert Storm. That is what we're doing."
Patrick unstrapped, unplugged his interphone cord, got to his feet, leaned close to Brad Elliott, and said cross-cockpit, so no one else could hear, "Sir, we can't be doing this. You're risking our lives… for what? If we got intercepted by Iranians or Iraqis or whoever, we'd have to fight our way out-but we'd be doing it without sanction, without orders. If we got shot down, no one would even know we were missing. Why? What the hell is all this for?"
Brad and Patrick looked into each other's eyes for a very long moment. Brad's eyes were still blazing with indignation and anger, but now they were shadowed by a touch of… what? Patrick hoped it would be understanding or maybe contrition, but that's not what he saw. Instead, he saw disappointment. Patrick had called his mentor and commanding officer on a glaring moral and leadership error, and all he could communicate in return was that he was disappointed that his protege didn't back him up.
"Is it because you didn't participate in Desert Storm?" Patrick asked. The Persian Gulf War-some called it "World War III"-had just ended, and the majority of troops had already gone home. They were enjoying celebrations and congratulations from a proud and appreciative nation, something unseen in the United States since World War II. "Is it because you know you had something that could help the war effort, but you weren't allowed to use it?"
"Go to hell, McLanahan," Elliott said bitterly. "Don't try any of that amateur psychoanalyst crap with me. I'm given discretion on how to employ my forces, and I'm doing it as I see fit."
Patrick looked at his commanding officer, the man he thought of as a friend and even as a surrogate father. His father had died before Patrick went off to college, and he and his younger brother had been raised in a household with a strong-willed, domineering mother and two older sisters. Brad was the first real father figure in Patrick's life in many years, and he did all he could to be a strong, supportive friend to Elliott, who was without a doubt a lone-wolf character, both in his personal and professional life.
Although Bradley James Elliott was a three-star general and was once the number four man in charge of Strategic Air Command, the major command in charge of America's long-range bombers and land-based ballistic nuclear missiles, he was far too outspoken and too "gung ho" for politically sensitive headquarters duty. To Brad, bombers were the key to American military power projection, and he felt it was his job, his duty, to push for increased funding, research, and development of new long-range attack technologies. That didn't sit well with the Pentagon. The services had been howling mad for years about the apparent favoritism toward the Air Force. The Pentagon was pushing "joint operations," but Brad Elliott wasn't buying it. When he continued to squawk about reduced funding and priority for new Air Force bomber Programs, Brad lost his fourth star. When he still wouldn't shut up, he was banished to the high Nevada desert either to retire or simply disappear into obscurity.
Brad did neither. Even though he was an aging three-star general occupying a billet designated for a colonel or one-star general, he used "is remaining stars and HAWC's shroud of ultrasecrecy and security to develop an experimental twenty-first-century long-range attack force, comprised of highly modified B-52 and B-l bombers, "superbrilliant" stealth cruise missiles, unmanned attack vehicles, and precision-guided weapons. He procured funding that most commanders could only wish for, money borrowed-many said "stolen"-from other weapons programs or buried under multiple layers of security classification.
While the rest of the Air Force thought Brad Elliott was merely sitting around waiting to retire, he was building a secret attack force- and he was using it. He had launched his first mission in a modified B-52 bomber three years earlier, dodging almost the entire Soviet Far East Air Army and attacking a Soviet ground-based laser installation that was being used to blind American reconnaissance satellites. That mission had cost the lives of three men, and had cost Brad his right leg. But it proved that the "flying battleship" concept worked and that a properly modified B-52 bomber could be used against highly defended targets in a nonnuclear attack mission. Brad Elliott and his team of scientists, engineers, test pilots, and technogeeks became America's newest secret strike force.
"It's not your job or place to second-guess or criticize me," Elliott went on, "and it sure as hell isn't your place to countermand my orders or give orders contrary to mine. You do it again, and I'll see to it that you're military career is terminated. Understand?"
Patrick thought he had noted just a touch of sadness in Brad's eyes, but that was long gone now. He straightened his back and caged his eyes, not daring to look his friend in the eye. "Yes, sir," he replied tonelessly.
"General?" John Ormack radioed back on interphone. "Patrick? What's going on?"
Brad scowled one last time at Patrick. Patrick just sat down without meeting Brad's eyes and strapped into his ejection seat again. Elliott said, "Patrick's going to contact Diego Garcia and get our bombers some secure hangar space. We're going to put down until we get clarification on our mission. Plot a course back to the refueling track, get in contact with our tankers and our wingmen, and let's head back to the barn."
When Brad turned and headed back to the cockpit, Wendy reached across the cabin and touched Patrick's arm in a quiet show of gratitude. But Patrick didn't feel much like accepting any congratulations.
"I want to go over the highlights of the Secretary's MOI with you before we get started," Major General Larry Ingemanson, the president of the promotion board, said. He was addressing the entire group of board members just before they started their first day of deliberations. "The
MOI defines the quotas set for each promotion category, but you as voting members aren't required to meet those quotas. We're looking for quality, not quantity. Keep that in mind. The only quotas we must fill for this board are for joint-service assignments, which are set by law, and the Secretariat will take care of that. The law also states that extra consideration be given to women and minorities. Bear in mind that your scores are not adjusted by the Secretariat if the candidate happens to be female or a member of a minority-no one can adjust your score but you. You are simply asked to be aware that these two groups have been unfairly treated in the past.
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"You are also asked to keep in mind that since the start of hostilities in the southwest Asian theater, some candidates may not have had the opportunity to complete advanced degrees or professional military education courses. Eventually I believe this will become more and more of a concern as deployment tempos pick up, but so far the law has not been changed. You're just asked to keep this fact in mind: If a candidate hasn't completed PME or advanced degrees, check to see if he or she is serving in some specialty that requires frequent or short-notice deployments, and take that into consideration."
General Ingemanson paused for a moment, closed his notes, and went on: "Now, this isn't in the MOI-it's from your nonvoting board president. This is my first time presiding over a board but my fourth time here in the box, and I have some thoughts about what you are about to undertake:
"As you slug through all the three thousand-plus files over the next several days, you may get a little cross-eyed and slack-jawed. I will endeavor to remind you of this as the days go on, but I'll remind you now, of the extreme importance of what you're doing here: If you have ever thought about what it would be like to shape the future, this, my friends, is it.
"We find ourselves in a very special and unique position of responsibility," Ingemanson went on solemnly. "We are serving on the Air Force's first field grade officers' promotion board just days after the end of Operation Desert Storm, which many are calling the reawakening of America and the reunification of American society with its armed forces. We are seeing the beginning of a new era for the American military, especially for the U.S. Air Force. We are tasked with the awesome responsibility of choosing the men and women who will lead that new military into the future."
Norman Weir rolled his eyes and snorted to himself. What drivel. it was a promotion board, for Christ's sake. Why did he have to try to attach some special, almost mystical significance to it? Maybe it was just the standard "pep talk," but it was proceeding beyond the sublime toward the ridiculous.
"I'm sure we've all heard the jokes about lieutenant colonels-the 'throwaway' officer, the ultimate wanna-bes," Ingemanson went on. "The ones that stand on the cusp of greatness or on the verge of obscurity. Well, let me tell you from the bottom of my soul: I believe they are the bedrock of the Air Force officer corps.
"I've commanded four squadrons, two wings, and one air division, and the O-5s were always the heart and soul of all of my units. They did the grunt work of a line crewdog but had as much responsibility as a wing commander. They pulled lines of alert, led missions and deployments, and then had to push paper to make the bosses happy. They had the most practical hands-on experience in the unit-they usually were the evaluators, chief instructors, and most certainly the mentors. They had to be the best of the best. Us headquarters weenies could get away with letting the staff handle details-the 0-5s pushing squadrons never got that break. They had to study and train just as hard as the newest nugget, but then they had to dress nice and look sharp and do the political face time. The ones that do all that are worth their weight in gold." Norman didn't understand everything Ingemanson was talking about, and so he assumed he was talking flyer-speak. Naturally, Ingemanson himself was a command pilot and also wore paratrooper's wings, meaning he probably graduated from the Air Force Academy. It was going to be a challenge, Norman thought, to break the aviator's stranglehold on this promotion board.
"But most importantly, the men and women you'll choose in the next two weeks will be the future leaders of our Air Force, our armed forces, and perhaps our country," Ingemanson went on. "Most of the candidates have completed one or more command and staff education programs; they might have a master's degree, and many even work on doctorates. They've maxed out on flying time, traveled to perhaps five or six different PCS assignments plus a few specialty and service schools. They're probably serving in the Sandbox now, and perhaps even served in other conflicts or actions. They are beginning the transition from senior line troop, instructor, or shop chief to fledgling unit commander. Find the best ones, and let's set them on track to their destinies.
"One more thing to remember: Not only can you pick the candidates best eligible for promotion, but you are also charged with the task of recommending that candidates be removed from extended active duty. What's the criterion for removal? That, my friends, is up to you. Be prepared to fully justify your reasons to me, but don't be afraid to give them either. Again, it's part of the awesome responsibility you have here.
"One last reminder: it is still our Air Force. We built it. I'd guess that most of the candidates you'll look at didn't serve in Vietnam, so they don't have the same perspective as we do. Many of our buddies died in Vietnam, but we survived and stayed and fought on. We served when it was socially and politically unpopular to wear a uniform in our own hometowns. We played Russian roulette with nuclear weapons, the most deadly weapons ever devised, just so we could prove to the world that we were crazy enough to blow the entire planet into atoms to protect our freedom. We see the tides turning in our favor-but it is up to us to see that our gains are not erased. We do that by picking the next generation of leaders.
"It is our Air Force. Our country. Our world. Now it's our opportunity to pick those who we want to take our place. In my mind, it is equally important a task as the one we did in creating this world we live in. That's our task. Let's get to it. Please stand, raise your right hand, and prepare to take the oath of office to convene this promotion board." General Ingemanson then administered the service oath to the board members, and the job was under way.
Norman and the other board members departed the small theater and headed toward the individual panel meeting rooms. There was a circular table with comfortable-looking chairs arrayed around it, a dry-marker board with an overhead slide projector screen, a bank of telephones, and the ever-present coffeepot and rack of ceramic mugs.
Norman's seven-member panel had five rated officers-four pilots and one navigator, including one officer who looked as if he had every possible specialty badge one person could have: He wore command pilot and senior paratrooper wings, plus a senior missile-launch officer badge on his pocket. The flyers all seemed to know each other-two were even from the same Air Force Academy class. To them, it was a small, chummy Air Force. None of the flyers wore any ribbons on their uniform blouses, only their specialty badges on one side, name tags on the other, and rank on their collar; Norman almost felt self-conscious wearing all of his three rows of ribbons before deciding that the flyers were probably out of uniform.
Introductions were quick, informal, and impersonal-unless you were wearing wings. Along with the flyers and Norman, there was a logistics planning staff officer from the Pentagon. Norman thought he recognized the fellow Pentagon officer, but with almost five thousand Air Force personnel working at the "five-sided puzzle palace," it was Pretty unlikely anyone knew anyone else outside their corridor. None of the panel members were women-there were only a couple women on the entire board, a fact that Norman found upsetting. The Air Force was supposed to be the most progressive and socially conscious branch of the American armed services, but it was as if they were right back in the Middle Ages with how the Air Force treated women sometimes.
Of course, the five flyers sat together, across the table from the nonflyers. The flyers were relaxed, loud, and animated. One of them, the supercolonel with all the badges, pulled out a cigar, and Norman resolved to tell him not to light up if he tried, but he never made any move to do so. He simply chewed on it and used it to punctuate his stories and jokes, shared mostly with the other flyers. He sat at the head of the semicircle of flyers at the table as if presiding over the panel. He looked as if he was very accustomed to taking charge of such groups, although each panel didn't have and didn't need a leader.
The supercolonel must've noticed the angry anticipation in Norman's eyes over his cigar, because he looked at him for several long moments during one of the few moments he wasn't telling a story or a crude joke. Finally, a glimmer of recognition b
rightened his blue eyes. "Norman Weir," he said, jabbing his cigar. "You were the AFO chief at Eglin four years ago. Am I right?"
"Yes; I was."
"Thought so. I'm Harry Ponce. I was the commander of 'Combat Hammer,' the Eighty-sixth Fighter Squadron. Call me 'Slammer.' You took pretty good care of my guys."
"Thank you."
"So. Where are you now?"
"The Pentagon. Chief of the Budget Analysis Agency."
A few of the other flyers looked in his direction when he mentioned the Budget Analysis Agency. One of them curled his lip in a sneer. "The BAA, huh? You guys killed an ejection-seat modification program my staff was trying to get approved. That seat would've saved two guys deploying to the Sandbox."
"I can't discuss it, Colonel," Norman said awkwardly.
"The first ejection seat mod for the B-52 in twenty years, and you guys kill it. I'll never figure that one out."
"It's a complicated screening process," Norman offered disinterestedly. "We analyze cost versus life cycle versus benefit. We get all the numbers on what the Pentagon wants to do with the fleet, then try to justify the cost of a modification with its corresponding…"
"It was a simple replacement-a few feet of old worn-out pyrotechnic actuators, replacing thirty-year-old components that were predicted to fail in tropical conditions. A few thousand bucks per seat. Instead, the budget weenies cut the upgrade program. Lo and behold, the first time a couple of our guys try to punch out near Diego Garcia-actuator failure, two seats. Two dead crewdogs."
"Like I said, Colonel, I can't discuss particulars of any file or investigation," Norman insisted. "In any case, every weapon system from the oldest to the newest has a cost-reward break-even point. We use purely objective criteria in making our decision…"
"Tell that to the widows of the guys that died," the colonel said. He shook his head disgustedly and turned away from Norman.
What an idiot, Norman thought. Trying to blame me or my office for the deaths of two flyers because of a cost-analysis report. There were thousands, maybe tens of thousands of factors involved in every accident-it couldn't all be attributed to budget cuts. He was considering telling the guy off, but he saw the staff wheeling carts of personnel folders down the hallway, and he kept silent as they took seats and got ready to work.