Leadership Material (patrick mclanahan)

by Dale Brown

  "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 flying, 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 real-live 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 MFC'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."

  "Which is himself," Norman added.

  "Probably so," Ingemanson said, with a touch of humor in his eyes. He looked at Norman, and the humor disappeared. "The difference is, Slammer is measuring the candidates against a rigid yardstick-himself, or at least his own image of himself. On the other hand, you-in my humble nonvoting opinion-are not measuring the candidates at all. You're chipping away at them, finding and removing every flaw in every candidate until you come up with a chopped-up thing at the end. You're not creating anything here, Colonel-you're destroying."

  Norman was a little stunned by Ingemanson's words. He was right on, of course-that was exactly Norman's plan of attack on this board: Start with a perfect candidate, a perfect "10," then whittle away at their perfection until reaching the bottom-line man or woman. When Ingemanson put it the way he did, it did sound somewhat defeatist, destructive-but so what? There were no guidelines. What right did he have to say all this?

  "Pardon me, sir," Norman said, "but I'm not quite clear on this. You don't approve of the way I'm rating the candidates?"

  "That's not what I'm saying at all, Colonel," Ingemanson said. "And I didn't try to correct Slammer either-not that I could even if I tried. I'm making an unofficial, off-the-record but learned opinion, on a little of the psychology behind the scoring if you will. I have no authority for any of this except for my experience on promotion boards and the fact that I'm a two-star general and you have to sit and listen to me." He smiled, trying to punctuate his attempt at humor, but Weir wasn't biting. "I'm just pointing out to you what I see."

  "You think I'm destroying these candidates?"

  "I'm saying that perhaps your attitude toward most of the candidates, and toward the flyers in particular, shows that maybe you're gunning them down instead of measuring them," Ingemanson said. "But as you said, there's no specific procedure for scoring the candidates. Do it any way as you see fit."

  "Permission to speak openly, sir?"

  "For Pete's sake, Colonel… yes, yes, please speak openly."

  "This is a little odd, General," Norman said woodenly. "One moment you criticize my approach to scoring the candidates, and the next moment you're telling me to go ahead and do it any way I want."

  "As I said in my opening remarks, Colonel Weir-this is your Air Force, and it's your turn to shape its future," Ingemanson said sincerely. "We chose you for the board: you, with your background and history and experience and attitudes and all that other emotional and personal baggage. The Secretary of the Air Force gave you mostly nonspecific guidelines for how to proceed. The rest is up to you. We get characters like you and we get characters like Slammer Ponce working side by side, deciding the future."

  "One tight-ass, one hard-ass-is that what you're saying?"

  "Two completely different perspectives," Ingemanson said, not daring to get dragged into that most elegant, truthful observation. "My job is to make sure you are being fair, equitable, and open-minded. As long as you are, you're in charge-I'm only the referee, the old man what's in charge. I give you the shape of one man's opinion, like Eric Sevareid used to say. End of discussion." Ingemanson glanced at his watch, a silent way of telling Norman to get the hell out of his office before the headache brewing between his eyes grew any worse. "Have a nice day, Colonel.

  Norman got to his feet, stood at attention until Ingemanson-with an exasperated roll of his eyes-formally dismissed him, and walked out. He thought he had just been chewed out, but Ingemanson did it so gently, so smoothly, so affably, that Norman was simply left wondering, replaying the general's words over and over in his head until he reached the panel deliberation room.

  The other panel members were already seated, with Ponce at his usual place, his unlit cigar clenched in his teeth. "Gawd, Norm, you're late, and you look a little tight," Ponce observed loudly. "Had a wild weekend, Norm?"

  "I finished my taxes and ran a ten-K run in less than forty minutes. How was your weekend?"

  "I creamed the general's ass in three rounds of golf, won a hundred bucks, met a cute senorita, and spent most of yesterday learning how to cook Mexican food buck naked," Ponce replied. The rest of the room exploded in laughter and applause. "But shit, I don't have my taxes done. What kind of loser am I?" They got to work amidst a lot of chatter and broad smiles-everyone but Norman.

  The day was spent on what was called "resolving the gray area." In the course of deliberations, many candidates had a score that permitted them to be promoted, but there weren't enough slots to promote them all. So every candidate with a potentially promotable score had to be rescored until there were no more tie scores remaining. Naturally, when the candidates were rescored, there were candidates with tie scores again. Those had to be rescored, then the promotable candidates lumped together again and rescored yet again until enough candidates were chosen to fill the slots available.

  In deliberating the final phase of rescoring the "gray area," panel members were allowed to discuss the rationale behind their scores with each other. It was the phase that Norman most dreaded, and at the same time most anticipated-a possible head-to-head, peer-to-peer confrontation with Harry Ponce.

  It was time, Norman thought, for the Slammer to get slammed.

  "Norm, what in blue blazes are you thinking?" Ponce exploded as the final short stack of personnel jackets were passed around the table. "You torpedoed Waller again. Your rating pushes him out of the box. Mind tellin' me why?"

  "Every other candida
te in that stack has Air Command and Staff College done in residence or by correspondence, except him," Norman replied. He didn't have to scan the jacket-he knew exactly which candidate it was, knew that Ponce would want to go to war over him. "His PME printout says he ordered the course a second time after failing to finish it within a year. Now why do you think he deserves to get a promotion when all the others completed that course?"

  ''Because Waller has been assigned to a fighter wing in Europe for the past three years."

  "So?"

  "Jesus, Norm, open your eyes," Ponce retorted. "The Soviet Union is doin' a free fall. The Berlin Wall came down and Russia's number one ally, East Germany, virtually disappears off the map overnight. A Soviet premier kicks the bucket every goddamned year, the Baltic states want to become nonaligned nations, and the Soviet economy is in meltdown. Everyone expects the Russkies to either implode or break out and fight any day now."

  "I still don't get it."

  "Fighter pilots stationed in Europe are practically sleeping in their cockpits because they have so many alert scrambles and restricted alert postures," Ponce explained, "and Waller leads the league in sorties. He volunteers for every mission, every deployment, every training mission, every shadow tasking. He's his wing's go-to guy. He's practically taken over his squadron already. His last OER went all the way up to USAFE headquarters. He flew one-fifth of all his squadron's sorties in the Sandbox, and still served as ops officer and as acting squadron commander

  when his boss got grounded after an accident. He deserves to get a promotion."

  "But if he gets a promotion, he'll be unavailable for a command position because he hasn't completed ACSC-hasn't even officially started it, in fact," Norman pointed out. "And he's been in his present assignment for almost four years-that means he's ready for reassignment. If he gets reassigned he'll have to wait at least a year, maybe two years, for an ACSC residence slot. He'll get passed up by officers junior to him even if he maintains a spotless record. A promotion now will only hurt him."