“Unless someone more senior than I am tells you to leave, stay.”
I appreciated the boss’s vote of confidence.
But one glance around room suggested the odds of my staying were probably low.
We were the only officers not wearing stars on our shoulders.
And given the sensitive nature of the discussion, it seemed likely one of those admirals or generals would tell me, the lowly lieutenant, to skedaddle.
The boss was definitely staying.
He’d been called, by name, to testify before the Commission.
The 9/11 Commission.
He’d been the senior watch officer in the National Military Command Center the morning of September 11, 2001.
Once it was clear the planes had struck the Twin Towers intentionally, the boss had helped direct the nation’s military response to the attack.
So, yes, he was staying.
We’d spent much of the previous week driving back and forth between the Academy and the Pentagon.
There’d been prep meetings to attend. Lawyers to consult.
I hadn’t been involved in any of that.
My job was simply to deliver the boss.
After that, I’d go find a cup of coffee or bullshit with a buddy until it was time to leave.
I assumed I’d play a similar role here.
We’d navigated our way to the hotel in Crystal City, not far from the Pentagon.
The main floor held the ballroom where the hearing was to be held, presided over by Thomas Kean, former Governor of New Jersey.
The ballroom was set up like one of those Senate hearing rooms you see on the news.
A row of chairs was arranged behind a long table for the witnesses, facing a raised dais for the Committee members.
Reporters were scurrying around, claiming little patches of floor in the area beneath the dais.
Behind the witness chairs were parallel rows of seats where guys like me were supposed to sit.
And keep their damn mouths shut.
Having surveyed the ballroom, the boss and I made our way to the private conference room several floors up.
There was to be a final prep meeting before my boss and other witnesses made their appearances before the Commission.
Upon entering the room, I noticed faces whose pictures I’d seen in newspapers and on television.
The boss started working his way around the room, presenting himself to each, while I moved to the most out-of-the-way corner I could find.
There, I stood, at semi-attention, having no idea what to do next.
After a few minutes, a voice called out, “Gentlemen . . . the Chairman.”
And then in walked General Richard B. Myers, U.S. Air Force.
The Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff.
The most senior officer in the entire U.S. military.
Instinctively, I shifted from semi-attention to rigid, eyes-locked-forward, Full-Metal-Jacket-style attention.
And I stayed like that until the Chairman worked his way around the room to me.
When the boss noticed General Myers approaching, he deftly maneuvered to my side and said, “General, I’d like you to meet my EA, Dan Bozung.”
EA. Executive Assistant. Complete nobody, compared to the heavyweights in the room.
“Nice to meet you, Dan,” said the Chairman. “Glad to have you here.”
He extended his hand. I shook it.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, General,” I managed.
After the Chairman finished working his way around the room, he took his seat at the head of the table.
As the others were taking their chairs, General Myers asked, politely, “Could all the JAGs please excuse us?”
Judge Advocates General. Lawyers.
The Chairman was kicking them all out.
Some of them were full colonels, holding a rank three times greater than mine.
Should I leave, too? I wondered.
I mean, if the colonels have to go, would it make sense for the lieutenant to stay?
Then I remembered my boss’s instructions.
No one more senior than he was had told me to leave.
And I was not a JAG.
So, I stayed put, fully expecting to get booted at any moment.
But I didn’t.
As soon as the JAGs cleared the room, General Myers launched into a summary of the various military activities that had taken place the morning of 9/11, the rationale behind each, and the questions he anticipated from Committee members.
It was fascinating.
And historic. This was like George Marshall briefing his service chiefs on the Pearl Harbor attack.
And there I was. The lowly lieutenant.
The Chairman concluded by issuing a directive to those us who would be observing from the audience.
“Do not react, in any way, to anything that is said during testimony,” he said. “The last thing we need is a camera catching one of you rolling your eyes or smirking.”
Makes sense.
Later that night, my wife and I watched excerpts of the hearing on CSPAN.
And when the camera turned to my boss, there I was, sitting right behind him.
And it was clear I had taken the Chairman’s words to heart.
I was completely frozen the entire time I was in the frame.
My face registered no expression whatsoever.
Except, unfortunately, for my eyes.
“You look like one of those lizards,” my wife said.
Even though my entire body was immobilized, my eyes were darting around the room, seemingly independent of one another.
Shit. She was right.
“I’m sure no one noticed,” she said.
The next morning, my boss told me he and his wife had also watched the hearing.
And, like my wife, his had apparently cracked up at my weirdo eye movements.
“She said you looked a little uptight,” he laughed.
Funny coincidence, I said, and told him about the lizard comment.
“Well, whatever,” he continued. “At least the Chairman let you stay.”
Yes, the Chairman had let me stay.
And in so doing,
Allowed me to witness history.
I did exactly what you told me, boss.
And I’ll always be grateful I did.