"But most importantly, the men and women you'll choose in the next two weeks will be the future leaders of our Air Force, our armed forces, and perhaps our country," Ingemanson went on. "Most of the candidates have completed one or more command and staff education programs; they might have a master's degree, and many even work on doctorates. They've maxed out on flying time, traveled to perhaps five or six different PCS assignments plus a few specialty and service schools. They're probably serving in the Sandbox now, and perhaps even served in other conflicts or actions. They are beginning the transition from senior line troop, instructor, or shop chief to fledgling unit commander. Find the best ones, and let's set them on track to their destinies.
"One more thing to remember: Not only can you pick the candidates best eligible for promotion, but you are also charged with the task of recommending that candidates be removed from extended active duty. What's the criterion for removal? That, my friends, is up to you. Be prepared to fully justify your reasons to me, but don't be afraid to give them either. Again, it's part of the awesome responsibility you have here.
"One last reminder: it is still our Air Force. We built it. I'd guess that most of the candidates you'll look at didn't serve in Vietnam, so they don't have the same perspective as we do. Many of our buddies died in Vietnam, but we survived and stayed and fought on. We served when it was socially and politically unpopular to wear a uniform in our own hometowns. We played Russian roulette with nuclear weapons, the most deadly weapons ever devised, just so we could prove to the world that we were crazy enough to blow the entire planet into atoms to protect our freedom. We see the tides turning in our favor-but it is up to us to see that our gains are not erased. We do that by picking the next generation of leaders.
"It is our Air Force. Our country. Our world. Now it's our opportunity to pick those who we want to take our place. In my mind, it is equally important a task as the one we did in creating this world we live in. That's our task. Let's get to it. Please stand, raise your right hand, and prepare to take the oath of office to convene this promotion board." General Ingemanson then administered the service oath to the board members, and the job was under way.
Norman and the other board members departed the small theater and headed toward the individual panel meeting rooms. There was a circular table with comfortable-looking chairs arrayed around it, a dry-marker board with an overhead slide projector screen, a bank of telephones, and the ever-present coffeepot and rack of ceramic mugs.
Norman's seven-member panel had five rated officers-four pilots and one navigator, including one officer who looked as if he had every possible specialty badge one person could have: He wore command pilot and senior paratrooper wings, plus a senior missile-launch officer badge on his pocket. The flyers all seemed to know each other-two were even from the same Air Force Academy class. To them, it was a small, chummy Air Force. None of the flyers wore any ribbons on their uniform blouses, only their specialty badges on one side, name tags on the other, and rank on their collar; Norman almost felt self-conscious wearing all of his three rows of ribbons before deciding that the flyers were probably out of uniform.
Introductions were quick, informal, and impersonal-unless you were wearing wings. Along with the flyers and Norman, there was a logistics planning staff officer from the Pentagon. Norman thought he recognized the fellow Pentagon officer, but with almost five thousand Air Force personnel working at the "five-sided puzzle palace," it was Pretty unlikely anyone knew anyone else outside their corridor. None of the panel members were women-there were only a couple women on the entire board, a fact that Norman found upsetting. The Air Force was supposed to be the most progressive and socially conscious branch of the American armed services, but it was as if they were right back in the Middle Ages with how the Air Force treated women sometimes.
Of course, the five flyers sat together, across the table from the nonflyers. The flyers were relaxed, loud, and animated. One of them, the supercolonel with all the badges, pulled out a cigar, and Norman resolved to tell him not to light up if he tried, but he never made any move to do so. He simply chewed on it and used it to punctuate his stories and jokes, shared mostly with the other flyers. He sat at the head of the semicircle of flyers at the table as if presiding over the panel. He looked as if he was very accustomed to taking charge of such groups, although each panel didn't have and didn't need a leader.
The supercolonel must've noticed the angry anticipation in Norman's eyes over his cigar, because he looked at him for several long moments during one of the few moments he wasn't telling a story or a crude joke. Finally, a glimmer of recognition brightened his blue eyes. "Norman Weir," he said, jabbing his cigar. "You were the AFO chief at Eglin four years ago. Am I right?"
"Yes; I was."
"Thought so. I'm Harry Ponce. I was the commander of 'Combat Hammer,' the Eighty-sixth Fighter Squadron. Call me 'Slammer.' You took pretty good care of my guys."
"Thank you."
"So. Where are you now?"
"The Pentagon. Chief of the Budget Analysis Agency."
A few of the other flyers looked in his direction when he mentioned the Budget Analysis Agency. One of them curled his lip in a sneer. "The BAA, huh? You guys killed an ejection-seat modification program my staff was trying to get approved. That seat would've saved two guys deploying to the Sandbox."
"I can't discuss it, Colonel," Norman said awkwardly.
"The first ejection seat mod for the B-52 in twenty years, and you guys kill it. I'll never figure that one out."
"It's a complicated screening process," Norman offered disinterestedly. "We analyze cost versus life cycle versus benefit. We get all the numbers on what the Pentagon wants to do with the fleet, then try to justify the cost of a modification with its corresponding…"
"It was a simple replacement-a few feet of old worn-out pyrotechnic actuators, replacing thirty-year-old components that were predicted to fail in tropical conditions. A few thousand bucks per seat. Instead, the budget weenies cut the upgrade program. Lo and behold, the first time a couple of our guys try to punch out near Diego Garcia-actuator failure, two seats. Two dead crewdogs."
"Like I said, Colonel, I can't discuss particulars of any file or investigation," Norman insisted. "In any case, every weapon system from the oldest to the newest has a cost-reward break-even point. We use purely objective criteria in making our decision…"
"Tell that to the widows of the guys that died," the colonel said. He shook his head disgustedly and turned away from Norman.
What an idiot, Norman thought. Trying to blame me or my office for the deaths of two flyers because of a cost-analysis report. There were thousands, maybe tens of thousands of factors involved in every accident-it couldn't all be attributed to budget cuts. He was considering telling the guy off, but he saw the staff wheeling carts of personnel folders down the hallway, and he kept silent as they took seats and got ready to work.