Stephen Coonts - Combat

“The good news is,” John Ormack interjected, “the weather report looks pretty good. I can’t think of a nicer place to be stuck at fixing our bird.”

“Amen,” Brad Elliott agreed. He waited a few moments; then, not hearing any other comments, added, “You agree, Muck, Wendy? Can you use a few weeks on Diego while our guys fix us up? Patrick? Wendy? You copy?”

Patrick let his lips slowly part from Wendy’s. He returned once more for another quick kiss, then drank in Wendy’s dancing eyes and heavenly smile as he moved his oxygen mask to his face, and replied, “That sounds great to me, sir. Absolutely great.”

“Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for your time, energy, dedication, and professionalism,” Major General Larry Dean Ingemanson said. He stood before the last assembly of the entire promotion board in the Selection Board Secretariat’s main auditorium. “The final selection list has been checked and verified by the Selection Board Secretariat staff — it just awaits my final signature before I transmit the list to the Secretary of the Air Force. But I know some of you have planes to catch and golf games to catch up on, so I wanted to say ‘thank you’ once again. I hope we meet again. The board is hereby adjourned.” There was a relieved round of applause from the board members, but most were up and out of their seats in a flash, anxious to get out of that building and away from OSRs and official photographs and sitting in judgment of men and women they did not know, deciding their futures.

Norman Weir felt proud of himself and his performance as a member of the board. He was afraid he’d be intimidated by the personalities he’d encountered, afraid he wouldn’t match up to their experience and knowledge and backgrounds. Instead, he discovered that he was just as knowledgeable and authoritative as any other “war hero” in the place, even guys like Harry Ponce. When it came to rational, objective decision-making, Norman felt he had an edge over all of them, and that made him feel pretty damned special.

As he walked toward the exits, he heard someone call his name. It was General Ingemanson. They had not spoken to one another since Ingemanson accepted the Form 772 on McLanahan, recommending he be dismissed from the active-duty Air Force. Ingemanson had requested additional information, a few more details on Norman’s observations. Norman had plenty of reasons, more than enough to justify his decision. General Ingemanson accepted his additional remarks with a serious expression and promised he’d upchannel the information immediately.

He did warn Norman that a Form 772 would probably push the candidate completely out of the running for promotion, not just for this board but for any other promotion board he might meet. Norman stuck to his guns, and Ingemanson had no choice but to continue the process. McLanahan’s jacket disappeared from the panel’s deliberation, and Norman did not see his name on the final list.

Mission accomplished. Not only strike back at the pompous prima donnas that wore wings, but rid the Air Force of a true example of a lazy, selfish, good-for-nothing officer.

“Hey, Colonel, just wanted to say good-bye and thank you again for your service,” General Ingemanson said, shaking Norman’s hand warmly. “I had a great time working with you.”

“It was my pleasure, sir. I enjoyed working with you too.”

“Thank you,” Ingemanson said. “And call me ‘Swede’—everybody does.” Norman said nothing. “Do you have a minute? I’m about ready to countersign your Form 772 to include in the transmission to the Secretary of the Air Force, and I wanted to give you an opportunity to look over my report that goes along with your 772.”

“Is that necessary, sir?” Norman asked. “I’ve already put everything on the 772. McLanahan is a disgrace to the uniform and should be discharged. The Reserves don’t even deserve an officer like that. I think I’ve made it clear.”

“You have,” Ingemanson said. “But I do want you to look at my evaluation. You can append any rebuttal comments to it if you wish. It’ll only take a minute.” With a confused and slightly irritated sigh, Norman nodded and followed the general to his office.

If Norman saw the man in a plain dark suit sitting in the outer office behind the door talking into his jacket sleeve, he didn’t pay any attention to him. General Ingemanson led the way into his office, motioned Norman inside, and then closed the door behind him. This time, Norman did notice the second plain-clothed man with the tiny silver badge on his lapel and the earpiece stuck in his right ear, standing beside Ingemanson’s desk.

“What’s going on, General?” Norman asked. “Who is this?”

“This is Special Agent Norris, United States Secret Service, Presidential Protection Detail,” General Ingemanson replied. “He and his colleagues are here because that man sitting in my chair is the President of the United States.” Norman nearly fell over backwards in surprise as he saw the President of the United States himself swivel around and rise up from the general’s chair.

“Smooth introduction, Swede,” the President said. “Very smooth.”

“I try my best, Mr. President.”

The President stepped from behind Ingemanson’s desk, walked up to the still-dumbfounded Norman Weir, and extended a hand. “Colonel Weir, nice to meet you.” Norman didn’t quite remember shaking hands. “I was on my way to Travis Air Force Base in California to meet with some of the returning Desert Storm troops, and I thought it was a good idea to make a quick, unofficial stopover here at Randolph to talk with you.”

Norman’s eyes grew as wide as saucers. “Talk to … me ?”

“Sit down, Colonel,” the President said. He leaned against Ingemanson’s desk as Norman somehow found a chair. “I was told that you wish to file a recommendation that a Major Patrick McLanahan should be discharged from the Air Force on the basis of a grossly substandard and unacceptable Officer Selection Record. Is that right?”

This was the grilling he’d expected from Harry Ponce or General Ingemanson — Norman never believed he’d get it from the President of the United States ! “Yes … yes, sir,” Norman replied.

“Still feel pretty strongly about that? A little time to think about it hasn’t changed your opinion at all?”

Even though Norman was still shocked by the encounter, now a bunch of his resolve and backbone started to return. “I still feel very strongly that the Air Force should discharge Major McLanahan. His background and experience suggests an officer that just wants to coast through his career, without one slight suggestion that he has or wants to do anything worth contributing to the Air Force or his country.”

“I see,” the President said. He paused for a moment, looked Norman right in the eye, and said, “Colonel, I want you to tear up that form.”

“Excuse me?”

“I want you to drop your indictment.”

“If you drop your affidavit, Colonel,” Ingemanson interjected, “McLanahan will be promoted to lieutenant colonel two years below the primary zone.”

“What?” Norman retorted. “You can’t … I mean, you shouldn’t do that! McLanahan has the worst effectiveness report I’ve seen! He shouldn’t even be a major, let alone a lieutenant colonel!”

“Colonel, I can’t reveal too much about this,” the President said, “but I can tell you that Patrick McLanahan has a record that goes way beyond his official record. I can tell you that not only does he deserve to be a lieutenant colonel, he probably deserves to be a four-star general with a ticker-tape parade down the Canyon of Heroes. Unfortunately, he’ll never get that opportunity, because the things he’s involved in … well, we prefer no one find out about them. We can’t even decorate him, because the citations that accompany the awards would reveal too much. The best we can do for him in an official manner is to promote him at every possible opportunity. That’s what I’m asking you to do, as a favor to me.”