Journey

by Norty Schwartz

  The sixty-five-foot, sixty-ton mini-sub was built to accommodate the SEALs, including two operators. It would ride piggyback on much larger attack submarines until its release for independent propulsion to the insertion point.

  When I stepped in, it was beset with problems. It was intended to be a type of stealth vehicle, but the propellers generated so much noise that the chances of any surreptitious approach would be highly unlikely. If that weren’t bad enough, there were severe deficiencies in the silver-zinc batteries that caused them to deplete far more quickly than required for the mission.

  I spent a fair amount of time trying to right that project. For starters, was it something that we still believed was needed? If so, were there realistic—and affordable—ways to correct its many deficiencies?

  In my opinion, Northrup Grumman really was not a submersible builder, so they had a steep learning curve to even operate effectively in this field. The time delays were unacceptable and cost overruns approached epic proportions. The original projection called for six subs at a total cost of $527 million, with the first delivery to take place in 2000. By the time they delivered the first sub in 2003, costs had spiraled to a staggering $885 million. Three years later that would jump to almost $2 billion.

  The good news is that ultimately they were able to come up with a material that obviated the propeller noise problem. The same could not be said for the battery issue. After many years, the endurance and heat management issues still precluded its ability to operate effectively in the field. Ultimately, this led to the program’s demise.

  In November of 2008, while the unit was being recharged at its Pearl City home port, the batteries started sparking and the vehicle became engulfed in flames. By the end of the day, the repair estimate came to $237 million. Eight months later, SOCOM came to the conclusion that the deficiencies were so severe that it was not worth investing additional resources. The project died.

  On the personnel side, there were concerns from both DoD and the media that we had not worked diligently enough to have a sufficiently diverse team. At the time, the major concern was African Americans, and later women. Pete agreed, and our challenge was to work with the service components to energize their efforts to assess a more diverse cadre of operators. This had the attention of the vice chairman, General Joe Ralston, who challenged USSOCOM to be more creative and effective in recruiting and retention efforts.

  General Schoomaker convened the leadership of the community to make diversity a priority. “It’s time to recognize that effectively connecting with foreign audiences increasingly requires a broader array of experiences, backgrounds, and language skills,” he asserted to the leaders of the respective components, both joint and service specific (Army, Navy, Air Force). He scanned the assemblage, which at the time consisted entirely of white males. “Look around you and tell me that we don’t have a problem with diversity.”

  It was a good beginning. We then set about invigorating the recruiting and retention efforts to make minority outreach and recruiting—and career path management for SOF operators—a commander priority. These efforts continue with the SEALS and pilots in particular.

  Chapter Five

  THEY MUST HAVE THE WRONG SCHWARTZ

  SEPTEMBER 2000–AUGUST 2008

  Eight months later the temperature was in the nineties when the phone rang. I picked up and heard, “Hold for the Chief of Staff of the Air Force,” followed by the voice of General Mike Ryan. “Norty, pack your bags. Charlie Holland’s getting SOCOM and you’ll be moving to Alaska for the Stevens’ account.” The “Stevens’ account” referred to a “three-hatted” command based in Anchorage, Alaska. I was being reassigned to take over the Alaskan Command, the regional NORAD command, and the 11th Air Force.

  I thanked him, disconnected, and called downstairs to Suzie. “The Chief called and he said we’re going to Alaska.”

  Suzie yelled back up, “They must have the wrong Schwartz!”

  Sure wish we’d have kept that snow shovel, I thought.

  I glanced outside as a gust of wind caught the palm trees lining our street. They all swayed in unison, as if to mock the irony of the call.

  Later that week Suzie bumped into Pete Schoomaker loading up his truck in the back alleyway behind our houses, and she had tears in her eyes. “I don’t want to go to Alaska, there’s no special operations there. I love everything about this life here.”

  Schoomaker said to her, “Suzie, the reality is you are never coming back. The Air Force has bigger plans for Norty but they will no longer involve special operations.” She felt like a piece of her heart had just been removed. I tend to be more staid, but Suzie took it very personally—not just for herself, but for me, because she knew my entire professional life had in one way or another been connected to special operations. These were our people, our family. I felt disappointed, too, but by this time I had long since learned to get beyond it. I recognize it, accept it, and quickly move on. Her emotions won’t allow her to do that. It’s another reason why we’re so good for one another. Looking back, I now realize that this wasn’t just Pete’s spin on how my career would play out. He’d been privy to inside conversations and meetings where these things are discussed—and determined, for that matter. This was not merely speculation on his part—it was inside information. But of course we didn’t know that at the time.

  * * *

  I had been assured that Alaska was a prestige assignment and everyone who had gone before me went on to get their fourth star. Somewhat to our surprise, it turned out to be one of our favorite assignments, but simultaneously overseeing three commands was no small task. Between Alaskan Command, Alaskan North American Aerospace Defense Command Region, and 11th Air Force at Elmendorf, I had my hands full.

  * * *

  9/11/2001: While the world is well aware of the two planes that crashed into the World Trade Center and the third into the Pentagon, most have never heard of Korean Air Flight 85, a 747 with over two hundred passengers onboard en route to Anchorage. I had just put eight fighter jets on high alert when I got word that KAL 85 had reported being hijacked, and when asked to confirm, they did so by transmitting the international hijack transponder code.

  We scrambled two armed F-15s to intercept them, then established direct radio contact with the pilots to confirm our rules of engagement. “Recognize this voice,” I commanded, “and know that this is the only voice that can give you authority to engage the target and shoot it down. Do you copy?” In the event it became necessary for them to fire their missiles to destroy the 747 packed with innocent civilians, I wanted that responsibility to be 100 percent on my head, not theirs. The airplane was headed in my direction, and ultimately running low on fuel.

  After directing an intentionally circuitous routing, I picked up the phone and called my counterpart from the Canadian NORAD region, Lieutenant General Angus Watt, who would go on to become the Canadian chief of air staff (now president and CEO of the Canadian Air Transport Security Authority, similar to our TSA).

  “Angus, I need to take KAL 85 into Whitehorse.”

  “You want to do what? That’s a potential hijack and you want to bring it here?”

  “Here’s the deal,” I said. “I’m becoming skeptical about the hijack element, but either way, they don’t have enough fuel to make it back to Anchorage or Fairbanks after our attempt to redirect the aircraft to Yakutat in southeast Alaska. Whitehorse is a right place and with your permission we will provide a fighter escort for it all the way to touchdown.”

  He knew that this was the real deal and that we needed his help. And of course the Canadians were tremendously supportive of diverting aircraft from U.S. airspace.

  “Stand by, I’ve got to go upstairs with this. I’ll get back to you,” he said before disconnecting. My assumption was that he had to get ministry approval, if not even higher. He did get right back to me, and agreed to allow the plane into Whitehorse—as long as we provided the escort and maintained control in Canadian airspace
.

  The fighters stuck with it right up to the moment when the wheels safely touched down onto the runway, then they engaged full throttle and made steep climbing turns to the west. The Royal Canadian mounted police surrounded the airplane and the crew was taken off. They confirmed that it was not, in fact, a hijack, but rather a mistaken signal.

  Had the crew not adhered to the air traffic control instructions as precisely as they had, it might have turned out differently. I was fully prepared to shoot the airplane down; I was not going to have a repetition of what happened on the East Coast. And we had authorization to make that call. Ed Eberhart, commander of NORAD, had communicated to me that we had authority to declare targets hostile and engage them according to the standing rules of engagement, and so we proceeded according to that guidance. But he did accompany the authorization with the admonition not to be precipitous. Those words still ring in my ear. Very crisp, very clear. “Don’t be precipitous,” he warned.

  The takeaway is that we performed professionally, dispassionately, and with diligence, and it turned out that our restraint was justified.

  In the weeks that followed, it was clear that life around that base would never be the same. Secure phones showed up in places where there had never been secure phones before. Secure VTCs (video teleconferences) became daily events. There were new protocols for how to handle potential hijacked airplanes and how to avoid creating debris over populated areas—lots of procedures came into being that had not existed prior to 9/11. It was an exciting thing to be a part of, and those procedures are still practiced today.

  * * *

  It took seven high-level interviews for Donald Rumsfeld to approve me as the J-3 (director for operations) on the chairman’s Joint Staff at the Pentagon. Two months later, he was so upset with me I was certain I’d be fired.

  The Joint Chiefs of Staff (JCS) is a body of senior uniformed leaders in the Department of Defense who advise the president, the secretary of defense, and the National Security Council on military matters. The chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff (CJCS) serves as principal military advisor to the president and SECDEF. To understand how the chairman is able to ensure the personnel readiness, policy, planning, and training of an organization consisting of over two million men and women (2017 = 1,281,900 active duty, 801,200 reserve) with an annual budget of $600 billion (FY 2015 = $597 billion), it’s helpful to understand the basic structure of the Joint Chiefs.

  Under the chairman are the vice chairman (VCJCS) and four service chiefs (each a four-star flag officer), who represent the various military branches, and the chief of the National Guard Bureau:

  Service Chiefs

  Chief of Staff of the United States Air Force

  Chief of Staff of the United States Army

  Chief of Naval Operations

  Commandant of the Marine Corps

  Chief of the National Guard Bureau

  Assisting the chairman and vice chairman is the Joint Staff, about a thousand exceptional officers and civilians from the Air Force, Army, Navy, and Marines—many of whom have advanced degrees from top universities. The director of the Joint Staff (DJS), a three-star flag officer, manages the Joint Staff much like the chief of staff of any organization.

  The J-3 (director for operations) assists the chairman as principal advisor to the president and SECDEF in the area of current operations and plans. As the senior officer of the Operations Directorate and member of the Joint Staff, the J-3 works very closely with the Joint Chiefs. Supervising over three hundred employees at the Pentagon and providing guidance to combatant commanders on every U.S. military operation anywhere in the world, it’s often considered the most important—and demanding—three-star staff job in the military.

  Suzie and I had thoroughly enjoyed our two years in Alaska—surprisingly so, in fact. I’d been told that we would be leaving and coming back to Washington, and the scuttlebutt was that I was about to be assigned to the top Air Force operations position, the AF/XO (now called A-3). If those rumors were true, that would place me on the Air Staff as one of the senior leaders of the Air Force, reporting directly to the chief of staff—General John Jumper at the time. A fighter pilot and past commander of Air Combat Command, Jumper also served as senior military assistant to two secretaries of defense. Working so closely with him would be a tremendous learning opportunity for me.

  It was sweltering hot on a bright summer day when General Jumper called me at Elmendorf AFB to officially advise me of the new position. (In Anchorage, Alaska, that meant it was in the midfifties.)

  “Norty, looks like you’re coming back to the building,” he said. “They want you to fly out and interview with the boss.”

  “Sir, if I’m not mistaken, you’re the boss,” I said, not really following where he was going with this.

  “Not if you ask my wife, I’m not. Secretary Rumsfeld has requested a meeting.”

  Now this was making even less sense. “Sir, if I may ask … since when does the SECDEF get so involved with Air Force staff selections?”

  “Norty, you’re not under consideration for the Air Staff; you’ve got quite the constituency of advocates who believe you would make an outstanding J-3. Myself included, by the way.”

  I did not see this coming, and getting that job would be a game changer. It meant bypassing the Air Force operations position and working directly for the chairman on the Joint Staff. That is, if the interview with Rumsfeld went well. While I certainly had great respect for the man, from what I’d heard, that meeting could be a real challenge.

  I immediately began prepping for the interview, as best I could. I reviewed Rumsfeld’s history and considered what I had heard of his agenda, as well as the demands of the J-3 job. I researched reports, books, and articles to see what others had to say about him, reviewed Congressional Record and C-Span videos to glean insight from his testimonies, and read as many press clippings as I could secure: Washington Post, Wall Street Journal, Military Times, and the New York Times, in which Elaine Sciolino and Eric Schmitt had written a thorough overview just prior to him assuming the office in 2001: Eagle Scout … NROTC at Princeton where he was captain of his football and wrestling teams … political science degree … naval aviator … young congressman from Illinois … early proponent of all-volunteer military … served as Ford’s chief of staff and subsequently secretary of defense—the youngest to have held that office … fought hard for increased military spending (including development of cruise missile and B-1 bomber) … ultra-organized … politically adept … master bureaucrat … CEO of two Fortune 500 companies … philosophy on the military: “‘You can be provocative by being belligerent, and you can also be provocative by being too weak and thereby enticing others into adventures they would otherwise avoid’’ … structured workplace culture … highly disciplined, no excuses—I liked that … takes the Boy Scout motto “Be prepared” to the extreme—if you’re not, watch out. Finally, I picked up—and thoroughly enjoyed—Rumsfeld’s Rules, a witty and poignant collection of reflections and quotations he had consolidated over the past forty years. A few samples:

  • Don’t be a bottleneck. If a matter is not a decision for the president or you, delegate it. Force responsibility down and out. Find problem areas, add structure, and delegate. The pressure is to do the reverse. Resist it.

  • “First law of holes: If you get in one, stop digging.”

  • “History marches to the drum of a clear idea.” (W. H. Auden)

  • When cutting staff at the Pentagon, don’t eliminate the thin layer that assures civilian control.

  • “If you get the objectives right, a lieutenant can write the strategy.” (General George Marshall)

  • [As secretary of defense … ] Reserve the right to get into anything and exercise it. Make your deputies and staff realize that, although many responsibilities are delegated, no one should be surprised when the Secretary engages on an important issue.

  I called vice chairman Pete Pace for pre-interview poin
ters. Pete had served as J-3 under General Hugh Shelton (my old boss when Shelton commanded SOCOM), and would go on to become the first chairman from the Marine Corps. Loyal, smart, and seldom seen without a smile, Pete is one of those guys who it’s impossible not to like. He has always made the time to share his keen perceptions with me—guidance that has consistently steered me in the right direction. We spoke for over an hour about what it takes to meet the demands of the J-3 position without allowing it—or the bureaucracy of the building—to eat away at you to the point of diminishing your effectiveness and taking a toll on you personally.

  “Just relax, and don’t be too intimidated by him,” he counseled. “Good luck, Norty.”

  “Thank you, sir. I’ll let you know how it goes.”

  I then called Lieutenant General Greg Newbold, then the serving J-3. Greg had held the position since October 2000, which put him smack in the center of the 9/11 storm. You’d never guess from Greg’s slight build that he was the tough Marine infantry commander who led the first boatload into Mogadishu in 1992, then went on to command the 1st Marine Division. I’d heard that there had been friction between the three-star and the SECDEF, but those were mostly just rumors until Greg went public with an op-ed in Time a few years after his retirement, followed up in even greater detail by David Margolick’s “Night of the Generals” piece in Vanity Fair.

  “It was not a secret that Rumsfeld and I were not on our respective Christmas-card lists,” Greg shared with Margolick. The article continues: