Stephen Coonts - Combat

“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 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 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.