Journey Read online

  … the secretary of defense once abused him so badly that he was moved to complain to Rumsfeld’s senior military assistant, Admiral Edmund Giambastiani. If Rumsfeld ever so disrespected him again, Newbold said, he would “put his stars on the table”—that is, resign. “And Admiral Giambastiani said, ‘Oh, Greg, you know, it’s too bad, but that’s the way he deals with people, and he doesn’t mean anything by it. It’s just his style.’ And [Newbold] said, ‘It isn’t with me. You make sure he knows it.’”

  In the course of our phone call, Greg was candid about the demands of the position; his deep, distinctive, baritone voice familiar to many from his Pentagon press briefings, yet another task that’s often undertaken by the J-3. He concluded with a perspective not unlike the one Giambastiani had shared with him: “Just relax and don’t let him get to you. It’s just his style and he pretty much treats everyone that way.”

  Somewhere between Pete’s “don’t be too intimidated by him” and Newbold’s “he pretty much treats everyone like that,” I started to wonder whether prudence dictated that I wear body armor to the interview, rather than the customary dress blues.

  I arrived in Washington a day early, which allowed for some final preparation and a good night’s rest in the DV (distinguished visitor) quarters at Fort Myer, just north of the Pentagon. For some reason I had the misconception that the interview day would consist of a vigorous early morning run followed by a light breakfast, then a short drive to the Pentagon for my interview with Secretary Rumsfeld. Not even close. Turned out to be more of a forced march. Seven sequential interviews with seven different “screeners” in seven different offices. Had I known that I’d be hustling through the 17.5 miles of corridors from one meeting to the next, I might have forgone that morning run.

  First up was Ken Krieg, executive secretary of the Senior Executive Council. Until I read the plaque affixed to Ken’s door, I had made it through almost thirty years of military service without even knowing that we had a Senior Executive Council. That would also be the last time I heard of it. Ken was one of Rumsfeld’s special advisors and a trusted member of his inner circle. Not long after our meeting, he’d be promoted to undersecretary for acquisition, technology, and logistics where he oversaw every DoD purchase from $6 billion aircraft carriers to Wrigley’s for the vending machines. Good man, good interview. We spent about an hour together—all the while Krieg was taking copious notes—then he stood, shook hands, and informed me that I was to meet with Ray DuBois, another special advisor to the secretary, with an even longer title—two of them, in fact. Besides his responsibilities as director of administration and management and principal staff assistant for manpower, real estate, and organizational planning, Ray was concurrently director of Washington Headquarters Services—commonly referred to as the “Mayor of the Pentagon”—no small task as he directly managed twenty-five hundred employees and a $1.3 billion budget. Ray would go on to become undersecretary of the Army. Like Ken in the prior interview, after every one of my responses, Ray would pause and scribble something onto his notepad. I didn’t think too much about it at first, but as the day progressed, I noticed that almost everyone I met with had the same ritual. I’d say something and they’d write it down. Strange.

  The interviews continued as I was led from one civilian advisor to another, then finally taken in for a short visit with Deputy Secretary of Defense Paul Wolfowitz. Surely this would be my final stop before being escorted to the secretary’s office, just a stone’s throw down the third floor E-ring corridor.

  Wolfowitz had been undersecretary of defense for policy under George H. W. Bush during the 1991 Persian Gulf War, after which he made no secret of his belief that Saddam could have been eliminated had it not been for a premature ceasefire. This became a recurring theme that escalated in the days immediately following 9/11, when he, along with Secretary Rumsfeld and Vice President Cheney, advocated regime change in Iraq. Hugh Shelton was chairman at the time. In his own autobiography, Without Hesitation: The Odyssey of an American Warrior, Shelton details how this unfolded in a series of high-level meetings between September 12 and September 15, 2001. There were two White House meetings on September 12, the first of which took place in the Cabinet Room. General Shelton describes what transpired behind closed doors, as President Bush was briefed on all that was known about the attacks:

  Needless to say it was a very somber meeting—probably about as serious a meeting as I’ve ever seen. Andy Card was present, as was the Secretary of the Treasury, the Attorney General, Scooter Libby, Condoleezza [Rice] and her deputy, Steve Hadley, and many more…. I was at the far end of the long table, immediately to the left of the vice president, who had the president on his right side, next to Colin Powell [secretary of state at the time]….

  First, George Tenet [director of Central Intelligence, CIA] said that everything clearly pointed to al Qaeda…. Bob Mueller [director of FBI] shared that 100 percent of what he had pointed to UBL [Usama bin Laden]. [We went around the room and at some point] Rumsfeld and Wolfowitz started pushing hard to attack Iraq. In their minds, this disaster could be turned around into an ideal opportunity to end the problems we were having with Saddam.

  By the time I walked into deputy’s office in August of 2002, the president’s sights were focusing in on Iraq. Operation SOUTHERN WATCH—the military response to violations of the southern Iraqi no-fly zones—was long underway; from June until the war began in March of 2003, we flew 21,736 sorties over southern Iraq, attacking just under 350 targets. James Baker (secretary of state under Bush 41) had just written an op-ed in the New York Times in which he outlined what he believed would be required to institute a regime change in Iraq, including the following on the issue of troop strength:

  The only realistic way to effect regime change in Iraq is through the application of military force, including sufficient ground troops to occupy the country (including Baghdad), depose the current leadership and install a successor government. Anyone who thinks we can effect regime change in Iraq with anything less than this is simply not realistic. It cannot be done on the cheap. It will require substantial forces and substantial time to put those forces in place to move. We had over 500,000 Americans, and more soldiers from our many allies, for the Persian Gulf war.

  Wolfowitz would publicly reject this advice, instead advocating much smaller numbers both for the war itself and the subsequent occupation of the country. In February 2003, General Eric Shinseki estimated that “several hundred thousand soldiers” would most likely be required for the postwar occupation. Wolfowitz challenged that estimate in his testimony before the House Budget Committee, when he countered that fewer than 100,000 troops would be required. It wouldn’t be long before Congress would draw me into this contentious issue of troop strength. How it played out nearly derailed my confirmation as chief of the Air Force. More on that to come.

  My meeting with Deputy SECDEF Wolfowitz was short and cordial. In no time I was finally heading down the hall toward the distinctive blue flag and wall-mounted seal that identified the entrance to suite 3E880; the brass plaque affixed to the ornate wooden entry door read DONALD H. RUMSFELD. SECRETARY OF DEFENSE.

  I approached the nearest of four desks, each of which was occupied by a thoroughly engrossed assistant who brought order to the horde of calls, correspondence, and every sort of administrative task that ended up in the highest office of the Department of Defense. I smiled at the smartly dressed woman seated behind the desk as she concluded a phone call on one of the two sophisticated phone devices immediately beside her oversized computer monitor.

  “Good afternoon, Lt General Schwartz to see Secretary Rumsfeld,” I said.

  She looked up and returned the smile with the confident demeanor of a protective gatekeeper who took seriously her responsibility of insulating the boss from those who inappropriately tried to gain access, either on the phone or in person. Considering the heightened security surrounding the building after 9/11, the “crashers” were predominantly pre-c
redentialed regulars who felt entitled to forgo the appointment process and “drop by” for a quick tête-à-tête: legislators, lobbyists, defense contractors, and of course the press. But they were no match for Arlene Nestel, who always had the boss’s back. It was really no different than the corporate world, where she served the same function for Rumsfeld in Chicago before accompanying him to Washington when he took the job as the leader of the Department of Defense and principal defense policy advisor to the president.

  “Good to see you, sir,” she began. “But I’m afraid the secretary didn’t make it in today. He’s still recovering from some minor surgery on his thumb he had earlier in the week.”

  I thought: After flying over four thousand miles (including connections) and enduring a half a dozen pre-meetings, he’s not even going to meet with me?

  “But he does very much look forward to seeing you today,” she said, obviously having picked up on my disappointment. “We’ll have a car drive you to his home so that you two can have some private time without all the interruptions that seem to pop up around here.” She then glanced over my shoulder. “But first, I believe the admiral would like to spend a few minutes with you. General, have you met Vice Admiral Giambastiani, the secretary’s senior military assistant?”

  Wearing bright Navy summer whites, Ed Giambastiani’s gold wire-rimmed glasses projected an intellectual aptitude that would continue to be reinforced the more I got to know him. At fifty-four, he was still in excellent shape; his thinning hair had not yet begun to display the strands of gray that would appear in just a few years, once he became vice chairman and head of the Pentagon’s powerful Joint Requirements Oversight Council, a vital link in the process of deciding which new weapons programs would go forward. “Good to see you, Norty,” he said with a broad smile and firm handshake that were naturally welcoming. “Come on in and let’s see if we can solve the problems of the world.”

  “I look forward to that,” I replied, following him into a small conference room within the SECDEF’s suite of offices. We didn’t know each other well at this point, but I’d always found his background in submarine warfare to be impressive, likewise his keen grasp of military budgets and programs.

  “Have a seat and make yourself comfortable,” he said, gesturing to one of six thick brown leather chairs surrounding a well-polished mahogany table. It was barren, except for a single unopened bottle of water next to a yellow pad and pencil at the spot that he had indicated. Unlike the day’s prior sessions which entailed exclusively verbal interplay, once I took a seat the admiral—still standing—presented me with a challenge:

  “It’s 2:10 a.m. and you are now the J-3. You’ve been asleep for hours when you’re jarred awake by the bedside red switch phone. Get used to it—an uninterrupted night of sleep is not a perk that comes with this job. It’s the NMCC DDO [National Military Command Center Deputy Director of Operations] advising you that there has just been a confirmed UBL sighting in the Kunar province of Afghanistan. So what I want you to do now is prepare a briefing sheet for the secretary, along with your recommendations on potential courses of action.” He paused and just stared at me for a beat. “Any questions?”

  “None, sir. Got it,” I snapped back.

  With a quick nod of approval he headed for the door, then turned back toward me. “I’ll be back in thirty minutes. Good luck.”

  It struck me that not even a year had passed since the acrid smoke of 9/11 filled the very suite in which I sat, a fact that somehow made my assignment feel more like a premonition than a fictional exercise. It was a realistic scenario that could very well fall under my watch if I were to get the J-3 position. Glancing down at the blank pad of paper, I knew that as fast as those thirty minutes would fly by in this exercise, a real-world situation would require far swifter action. I took a deep breath and let history be my guide—roughing out various options based on responses that had been utilized in the past:

  • Cruise missiles—They’d been used by President Clinton following the 1998 U.S. embassy bombings in Tanzania and Kenya, and it was realistic to assume that we had platforms in place from which a similar strike could be launched today. (As J-3, I’d be well aware of such positioning.)

  • Predator strike—Although still in their embryonic stage, unmanned aerial vehicles (UAVs) were already an option to consider. In his autobiography, George Tenet shared how the CIA believed they had spotted UBL on a Predator trial run in September 2000, but that was before the devices were armed, so they were forced to go the cruise missile route. By the time the missiles arrived on target, bin Laden had departed and once again slipped off the grid. Just a few months earlier, the Air Force had been given direction to explore the possibility of arming the aircraft (under its BIG SAFARI program). Wings were reinforced to handle the added load of munitions, and laser designators were installed to maximize targeting capability. Systems were refined as testing ensued near Indian Springs, Nevada. Once perfected, the armed Predator was given the new designation of MQ-1A. Even before 9/11, Hellfire missile simulated attacks were conducted on an approximate replica of UBL’s complex in Tarnak, Afghanistan, that was built on one of the Air Force Nevada test sites. But it wasn’t until early October 2001 that the United States received host nation approval to fly armed Predators. On October 7, 2001, such flights began.

  I refined these options and included a few more—spending the bulk of my limited time compacting the data to a concise format that I believed would best serve the SECDEF’s need to make an immediate, informed decision.

  I wouldn’t be surprised if it was thirty minutes to the second when I heard the admiral’s voice in the doorway. “How are you coming, Norty?” he asked.

  “You tell me, sir,” I said as I stood and presented him with the brief that I’d prepared—about three pages handwritten on the yellow legal pad. “I’m hoping this would serve the SECDEF well.”

  “I’ll be surprised if it doesn’t,” he replied even before looking at the brief. “Are you ready to meet the boss?” he asked, my cue to follow him down the stairway immediately outside the suite and out through the River Entrance, where a black SUV was waiting to transport me to Secretary Rumsfeld’s residence.

  Greek for “beautiful view,” the Kalorama neighborhood of Washington, DC, is one of the wealthiest residential communities in the United States. William Howard Taft, Woodrow Wilson, Warren Harding, Herbert Hoover, and Franklin D. Roosevelt all lived there before or after their time at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue; on January 20, 2017, while Donald Trump was being sworn in as our forty-fifth president, a fleet of moving vans was transporting the Obama family possessions from the White House to their new home within its borders—ironically, just a block away from where Ivanka Trump and Jared Kushner had recently moved in. I was finally about to meet with Donald Rumsfeld at his home on Kalorama Road.

  “It’s just up ahead, sir,” said the government driver who was shuttling me from the Pentagon to the interview. We passed a stately beige edifice on my right—the red, white, blue, white, red horizontal stripes on its flag identifying it as the Royal Thai Embassy—then made a slight jog onto Kalorama Road. While I naturally had assumed the secretary would live in an impressive residence (after all, he’d run three major corporations in the private sector), the expansive estate that we approached was beyond my wildest expectation. A chateau in the Tudor Revival style, I’d later learn that its 27,000 square feet of living space had nineteen bedrooms and twelve bathrooms. I’d also learn that it was not the Rumsfeld abode. “That’s actually the French ambassador’s home,” the driver clarified with a hint of a grin. “The secretary’s home is right across the street.” He pulled into the driveway of the federal style brownstone, parked, and walked around to open my door. Over five thousand square feet with seven bedrooms and six and a half baths, the home was impressive nonetheless.

  Following another interview with LTG John Craddock (who was interviewing for the position of senior military advisor to the SECDEF, which he ultimatel
y got), I was led to a spacious garden room at the rear of the home. Bright and airy, it was an enclosed patio of sorts, with white lattice walls, a vermilion sofa, distressed antique tables, and a pair of white ceiling fans that kept the room comfortable in spite of the harsh summer sunlight that reflected off the swimming pool and into the makeshift study.

  The secretary rose as I entered the room; at five feet seven inches tall, he was shorter than he came across on TV, yet certainly every bit as imposing. With a squint of his eyes and a warm smile, he simultaneously extended his right hand to shake mine while raising his left, which was heavily bandaged. “Serves me right for too much hitchhiking during my younger days,” he deadpanned, with the same sarcastic wit we’d witness in the coming four years. “Good to meet you, General.”

  “A real pleasure, sir,” I replied.

  He gestured toward the red sofa where I sat across from him for the next hour, talking about my background, Special Ops, and 9/11. It was an informal, comfortable exchange, with his only apparent “reference material” being a single manila file folder that he retrieved from his desktop. Scanning the dozen or so pages, he gave a slight nod and mumbled, half to himself and half to me, “Tough game today but it appears you slammed it out of the ballpark.” It suddenly struck me that all the writing that took place in each of the day’s meetings was actually contemporaneous notes for the SECDEF’s review prior to my meeting with him. I felt it went fairly well, and I certainly did not experience any of the tension I’d heard so much about.

  Later I would find out that Ron Keys—another Air Force three-star who was in Europe at the time—was also in prime contention for the J-3 position. Ultimately, it played out that Ron became the XO of the Air Force and I ended up with the incredible honor—and responsibility—of the J-3 slot.

  Suzie and I headed back to Washington in early October 2002, and thus began the busiest and most demanding two years of my career—of my life. Those two years would be the only time in my life, since I was eighteen years old, that daily runs would not be a routine part of my early-morning ritual. They were sorely missed, but on many days there was just no time. I would awaken at 3:30 a.m., be in my second-floor, D-ring Pentagon office not later than 5:30 a.m., work nonstop for the next fifteen hours or so, then hop into my car for the twenty-minute drive back to our home at 64 Westover Avenue SW, Bolling AFB, where I’d join Suzie for a quick dinner and be in bed by 9:00 p.m.