names, and we're coming home alive and victorious. Our troops are being treated like professionals, not conscripts or snot-nosed kids or druggies or pretty-boy marionettes. Our officers are applying what they've learned over the years and are taking the fight to Saddam and shovin' Mavericks right down his damned throat. I want guys leading the Air force that want to train hard, fight hard, and come home.'
'But what about…?'
'Yeah, yeah, I hear all the noise about the 'whole person' and the 'total package' crapola,' Ponce interjected, waving the cigar dismissively. 'But what I want are
Norman realized there was no point in arguing with Ponce-he was just getting more and more flagrant and bigoted by the second. Soon he would be bad-mouthing and trash-talking lawyers, or doctors, or the President himself-everyone except those wearing wings. It was getting very tiresome. Norman fell silent and made an almost imperceptible nod, and Ponce nodded triumphantly and turned to lecture someone else, acting as if he had just won the great evolution vs. creation debate. Norman made certain he was not the next one to leave, so it wouldn't appear as if he was retreating or running away, but as soon as the first guy at the table got up, Norman muttered something about having to make a call and got away from Ponce and his sycophants.
Well, Norman thought as he walked toward the Military Personnel Center, attitudes like Ponce's just cemented his thoughts and feelings about flyers-they were opinionated, headstrong, bigoted, loudmouthed Neanderthals. Ponce wasn't out to promote good officers-he was out to promote meat-eating jet-jockeys like himself.
It was guys like Ponce, Norman thought as he entered the building and took the stairs to the Selection and Promotion Branch floor, who were screwing up the Air Force for the rest of us.
'Excuse me, Colonel Weir?' Norman was striding down the hallway, heading back to his panel deliberation room. He stopped and turned. Major General Ingemanson was standing in the doorway to his office, smiling his ever-present friendly, disarming smile. 'Got a minute?'
'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 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.'
