"Hell, Norman, ease up a little," Ponce said. "You look at a guy that's the ops officer of his squadron, he's got umpteen million additional duties, he flies six sorties a week or volunteers for deployment or TDYs-who the hell cares if he's got a loose thread on his blues? I want to know if the guy's been busting his hump for his unit."
"Well, Colonel, if he can't put his Class A's together according to the regs or he can't be bothered getting a proper haircut, I wonder what else he can't do properly? And if he can't do the routine stuff, how is he supposed to motivate young officers and enlisted troops to do the same?"
"Norm, I'm talkin' about the real Air Force," Ponce said. "It's all fine and dandy that the headquarters staff and support agencies cross all the damned t's and dot the i's. But what I'm looking for is the Joe that cranks out one hundred and twenty percent each and every damned day. He's not puttin' on a show for the promotion board-he's helping his unit be the best. Who the hell cares what he looks like, as long as he flies and fights like a bitch bulldog in heat?"
That kind of language was typical in the supercolonel's verbal repertoire, and he used it to great effect to shock and humor anyone he confronted. It just made Norman more defensive. Anyone who resorted to using vulgarity as a normal part of polite conversation needed an education in how to think and speak, and Ponce was long overdue for a lesson. "Colonel, a guy that does both-does a good job in every aspect of the job, presenting a proper, professional, by-the-book appearance as well as performing his primary job-is a better choice for promotion than just the guy who flies well but has no desire or understanding of all the other aspects of being a professional airman. A guy that presents a poor appearance may be a good person and a good operator, but obviously isn't a complete, well-balanced, professional officer."
"Norm, buddy, have you been lost in your spreadsheets for the past nine months? Look around you-we're at war here!" Ponce responded, practically shouting. Norman had to clench his jaw to keep from admonishing Ponce to stop calling him by the disgusting nickname "Norm." "The force is at war, a real war, for the first time since Vietnam-I'm not talkin' about Libya or Grenada, those were just finger-wrestling matches compared to the Sandbox-and we're kicking ass! I see my guys taxiing out ready to launch, and I see them practically jumpin' out of their cockpits, they're so anxious to beat the crap outta Saddam. Their crew chiefs are so excited they're pissin' their pants. I see those guys as heroes, and now I have a chance to promote them, and by God I'm gonna do it!
"The best part is, none of our officers are over there in the 'Sandbox' ordering someone to paint the rocks or having six-course meals while their men are dying all around them. We're going over there, kicking ass and taking 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 warriors. If you're a pilot, I want to see you fly your ass off, every chance you can get and then some, and then I want to see you pitch in to get the paperwork and nitpicky ground bullshit cleaned up so everyone can go fly some more. If you're an environmental weenie or-what are you in, Norm, accounting and finance? Okay. If you're a damned accountant, I want to see you working overtime if necessary to make your section hum. If your squadron needs you, you slap on your flying boots, fuck the wife good-bye, and report in on the double. Guys who do that are aces in my book."
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?"