ShaneHarris.net

The Liberator

by Shane Harris
Friday, September 21, 2007

Mike Wertheimer may be the most dangerous man in U.S. intelligence. You would probably never guess it, judging from his lengthy and opaque title -- assistant deputy director of national intelligence for analytic transformation and technology. A perfect testament to the well-worn bureaucratic tradition of offering little insight by tossing around a lot of words.

Wertheimer's squishy and unassuming title only hints at some vague, general notion of what he actually does for a living. Particularly for the uninitiated, the moniker buries a sense of authority beneath a pair of prefixes (assistant deputy) and offers an unsatisfying buzzword descriptor (transformation), whose etymology points to some consultant's pocket glossary. The title screams "middle management" and thus reassures, "This guy is not a threat."

That message is especially ironic, because to thousands of powerful career employees in the American intelligence community, Wertheimer is, in fact, very threatening. He threatens to upend their world, to change the way they work, and to foist on them the values of a younger generation of spies, who happen to outnumber them. He also threatens to change the way that policy makers use intelligence to reach decisions, and so to "transform" the intelligence agencies' role in the government. All of this makes Mike Wertheimer very dangerous to people who oppose his basic assumptions. And he knows that. He also knows that, to many thousands more in the intelligence field, he is something of a savior.

To understand the origins and purpose of Wertheimer's office, of which he is the first occupant, it helps to refer to a document that also bears a lengthy title, the report by the Commission on the Intelligence Capabilities of the United States Regarding Weapons of Mass Destruction. Better known as the WMD commission report, it provides a painstaking explanation of how 15 intelligence agencies collectively failed to discover that Saddam Hussein's Iraq possessed no weapons of mass destruction.

The contrary assertion that he did have those weapons -- and thus was a threat to the Middle East and a potential benefactor for terrorists -- was, of course, the Bush administration's chief casus belli for the Iraq war. The claim was backed up at the highest levels of the intelligence community in a National Intelligence Estimate released to Congress in October 2002. The WMD commission, which published its findings in 2005, echoed the sentiments of many intelligence professionals, including some who had participated in and blessed the flawed prewar analysis, by pronouncing the episode "one of the most public -- and most damaging -- intelligence failures in recent American history."

Wertheimer's job is to prevent any more such failures and to make sure that the intelligence agencies can accurately predict a host of catastrophic events, including terrorist attacks and disease outbreaks. The commission laid much of the blame for the bad call on Iraq at the feet of analysts, whom it called "the voice of the intelligence community." Although the problems begin with the failure to collect the right information in the first place, the commission particularly faulted the analysts' inability to make sense of intelligence, and to present their judgments to decision makers. During his time in government, Colin Powell was widely regarded among professionals as a decision maker who understood this inherently murky process. He would say to his intelligence officers, "Tell me what you know, tell me what you don't know, and then tell me what you think is most likely to happen." When that analysis breaks down, as it did with Iraq, "the consequences can be grave," the commission wrote.

To be sure, many career analysts object to the "flaws" the commission cited in their tradecraft, regarding both Iraq and another notorious intelligence failure: the September 11, 2001, terrorist attacks. But very few argue with the substance, or the roots, of these breakdowns. The "intelligence community," as the agencies are collectively known, hardly operates as one, and this lack of coordination and -- especially -- collaboration among analysts means that agency leaders and their clients often don't know what the analysts don't know. The disconnect also means that contrary analysis -- of which there was a significant amount in the run-up to the Iraq war -- may find no quarter in analysts' final judgments. It is a disastrous situation for policy makers, who are increasingly turning to nongovernment experts and the news media for rapid, cogent analysis that the intelligence agencies can't always provide.

The WMD commission identified the fix: "Integrate the community of analysts." That's easier said than done, of course, but Wertheimer and others who understand how very un-integrated the analysts are today know that it is prescriptive advice that they can't afford to reject.

The Threat Within

"Post-9/11, we coined a term, the 'asymmetric threat,' " Wertheimer says. "That's a fancy way of describing a future in which the targets for intelligence, the things that we will focus on, are built, designed, and operate completely differently than the way we do." Transformation, that fuzzy word in his title, means "removing that asymmetry."

Before the attacks, the intelligence community was "like a power builder -- very muscular but not very fast," Wertheimer says. Today, the agencies need to be swift. They need to analyze more information faster. But analysts also need new ways to connect to one another, to benefit from one another's knowledge. If a specialist on sub-Saharan Africa at the Defense Intelligence Agency is studying terrorist inroads into tribal communities, shouldn't a CIA expert in Africa studies know that? Might she have something useful to contribute to the inquiry?

Collaboration isn't an especially novel concept, and the WMD commission wasn't the first to suggest that analysts do more of it. But Wertheimer is the first official in the Office of the Director of National Intelligence -- the "czar" of the community -- to make collaboration a full-time job. Gen. Michael Hayden, the former principal deputy director of national intelligence who is now the CIA director, created the position after talking with Wertheimer two years ago about how to change the way the community operates. The new intelligence director, Mike McConnell, has forcefully backed the transformational efforts, as has his deputy in charge of analysis, Tom Fingar, a career analyst who used to run intelligence at the State Department. Fingar, who is essentially the only official layer between Wertheimer and McConnell, is the political muscle in this endeavor. Wertheimer is the idea man, "my philosopher of transformation," as Fingar recently put it.

Transformation has less to do with changing procedures than with changing people. A key pillar is a suite of new information-sharing and collaborative technologies that look and feel a lot like Google, Wikipedia, and MySpace, the networking and search tools that younger analysts grew up using at home and in their dorm rooms. These newcomers have been baffled to find that these 21st-century staples aren't widely used within the intelligence community.

The first of the new intelligence tools came online recently. Analysts can now log on to Intellipedia, a collaborative knowledge base that they can use to swap leads and examine one another's work. (Officials say that Intellipedia helped one group of analysts create a helpful report on Iraqi insurgents' use of chlorine gas to increase the lethality of improvised explosive devices.) Later this year, Wertheimer's team will launch A-Space ("A" for analyst), modeled after MySpace and the popular website Facebook. Officials hope the new site will help analysts create social networks outside established channels.

In addition to the new tools, Wertheimer and his colleagues have created unusual training programs. One sends analysts to a monthlong retreat at a classified location where they work alongside private-sector experts to investigate complex intelligence topics. Another takes young analysts out of their assigned jobs for two years and puts them through an intensive training program where they learn the tradecraft but also such on-the-ground spy skills as defensive driving and weapons handling. Agencies will ultimately deploy these analysts to global hot spots to support spies in the field.

It's no accident that Wertheimer and his team are aiming these new tools and programs at the younger crowd. Sixty percent of U.S. intelligence analysts have five years of experience or less on the job. In the larger intelligence community of about 100,000 employees, which includes clandestine operatives and support staff, those young workers are about 40 percent of the rolls. America's spies are decidedly green, and they're not comfortable -- or particularly useful -- working in bureaucratic silos without Internet browsers, instant messaging, and social networking sites on their desktops.

In his quest for transformation, Wertheimer is playing to this youthful workforce that finds collaboration neither newfangled nor threatening. For these analysts, networking is just the way information moves. But to the intelligence establishment, information is power, and relinquishing it means losing that power, as the WMD commission and many other critics have repeatedly lamented. It seems illogical to the generation of electronic socializers, but when information moves around, and becomes known to people who don't have the "need to know," veteran members of the community view it as no longer special because it's no longer secret. Too much collaboration also threatens to reveal the sources and methods by which agencies obtain information -- secrets they must zealously guard lest those sources dry up or get killed.

Sharing and secrecy are opposing forces. So this is Wertheimer's task: Transform the massive intelligence bureaucracy into a collaborative network, in which loose lips are, in a way, encouraged; introduce technologies that many seasoned analysts neither understand nor trust; and build a cadre of young, ambitious rookies, who just can't believe they're not allowed to check their personal e-mail at work, into the future of the business.

The opposition is fierce. When The New York Times wrote about A-Space recently, analysts commented about the piece, and about Wertheimer, on a private intelligence community blog. Some recorded their dramatic dissent. "I guarantee," one intelligence employee wrote, "Mike Wertheimer will cause people to get killed over this."

"I am threatening the status quo," Wertheimer says. "And that's a hard pill to swallow for anybody."

Taking the Blame

Wertheimer, 50, is a mathematician who earned his master's and Ph.D. from the University of Pennsylvania. He spent 21 years as a cryptologist at the National Security Agency, and rose to become the agency's most senior technical leader. On paper, he fits the stereotype captured in an old joke among NSA hands: "How can you tell an extroverted analyst? He's the one who looks at your shoes when he's talking."

But Wertheimer defies typecasting. When he speaks, he looks people in the eye, but often from above -- he is 6 feet, 1 inch tall. He has arching eyebrows that signal when he's listening but also serve as a warning for when he's about to descend with an impassioned argument or an analogy that he thinks perfectly captures what he's up against. (In a recent conversation, Wertheimer compared the government's attempts at collaboration to the Borg, the supremely villainous race of cyber-aliens on Star Trek: The Next Generation who "assimilate" whole societies by stripping people of individual character traits and turn them into one giant collective.) If you spotted Wertheimer in a room, or even better, watched him work a room, you might wonder why he hasn't sought his fortune on the motivational speaking circuit.

When he speaks, you get the feeling that he's talking to you. He reveals a lot about himself, which might be unsettling if he weren't so earnest about connecting his flaws and fears to his intelligence work. At a recent conference on analytic transformation in Chicago, Wertheimer confessed to a crowd of more than 400 people that after the 9/11 attacks he felt personally responsible for not anticipating Al Qaeda's strike. He became depressed, he said, and was inconsolable until his father snapped him out of it. "I don't blame you for this," Wertheimer's dad told him, and then warned, "You're scaring your kids," who thought that whenever their father had to rush back to the office, something very bad was about to happen. Wertheimer briefly left government in 2003 to work as a technology consultant but returned two years later.

Wertheimer is like a number of other veteran intelligence officials who were involved in the global hunt for terrorists before 9/11. They feel that their own actions -- more precisely, their inactions -- allowed the disaster. Wertheimer says he blames himself and his colleagues. He thinks he personally failed and, accepting his part in a broken system, he seems to have no qualms about tearing it down and rebuilding.

"It is something that he can appreciate as being absolutely critical to the future of this country and the protection of the country, and when you hear him speak, you get caught up in that emotion," says Tim Sample, a former analyst and staff director of the House Select Committee on Intelligence who knows Wertheimer well. Sample is president of the nonprofit Intelligence and National Security Alliance, which co-hosted the Chicago conference with the intelligence director's office.

In large measure, Wertheimer's charisma comes from his willingness to defy tradition. "We are going to share more," he said in his Chicago speech. "We are going to take risks." Directing his remarks at those who would rather preserve the status quo, he said, "For the first time, the challenge is not why we can't do it; it's how you're going to find a way to secure this." Rather than appeasing members of the intelligence community who blanch at collaboration and its attendant security risks, Wertheimer lays the burden on their shoulders and tells them that if collaboration doesn't happen, they'll take the blame.

But if Wertheimer succeeds, it probably won't be by convincing his intransigent opponents. Rather, he will work with that younger generation at whom transformation is aimed. By and large, these newer members of the community are optimistic and, like him, believe that the intelligence community is dangerously broken.

"It's Huge"

Sean Wohltman, a 25-year-old counter-terrorism analyst with the National Geospatial-Intelligence Agency, embodies the kind of optimistic disillusionment that Wertheimer wants to harness. Two years after defending his master's thesis in geographic information science at Virginia Tech University, Wohltman joined the government "following a call for patriotism," he said. He encountered "disappointment and disillusionment" in his first three months on the job, however.

As Wohltman explained to the Chicago conference, "When I first logged on to what I expected to be a terminal from 24's [counter-terrorist unit] command center, I was instead driven to my agency's home page, which flashed information about an upcoming picnic and links to fill out my health insurance. And not only that, it launched in Netscape." Those in the audience who laughed understood that Netscape is an obsolete Internet browser.

Later, Wohltman explained why it mattered to him that the intelligence agencies were so far behind the technological curve. In 1999, when the popular and controversial music file-sharing system Napster debuted, he pointed out, Ricky Martin's "Livin' la Vida Loca" and other corporately manufactured pop hits topped the Billboard charts. Only artists from big record labels got mass recognition, and listeners were cut off from the bounty of independent and innovative artists who excelled in a variety of musical styles. But that year, Napster's collaborative technology allowed fans of lesser-known artists to share songs, which in turn boosted their recognition, fanned their popularity, and led to greater awareness of the wider music scene. It also fueled the market for independent music and challenged the record companies' dominance of the industry.

Taking Wohltman's analogy, Wertheimer says that the intelligence agencies could be compared to the record companies. Information is filtered through a hierarchical process that culminates in senior executives choosing what intelligence to disseminate to customers. Similar to Napster, tools such as Intellipedia and A-Space -- known as "disruptive technologies" -- bypass this process and get more information out to a wider audience.

But will collaboration guarantee better analysis? Did Napster improve music quality? Did it benefit the industry as a whole? Recording artists and companies sued Napster for copyright infringement, and the network shut down in 2001, eventually to be reborn as a pay-for-service system.

Napster did pave the way for other innovative technologies, which adapted to customers' demands to buy music a la carte, rather than having to pay for an entire album. Today, Apple's iTunes sells songs for 99 cents and threatens the record companies' control of their own products. Collaboration, in a sense, won out, and customers' demand for more music, delivered in new ways, has opened the market to more artists. "Will this lead to better music?" Wertheimer asks. "I can't believe that it will not."

Wertheimer and other transformation proponents often point to iTunes, and the hugely successful iPod music player, to support their theory that collaboration can fundamentally change and improve people's lives. And they reason that A-Space, Intellipedia, and other innovative services will create demand in the intelligence community and overwhelm the transformation naysayers.

Wertheimer channels the enthusiasm of Apple's CEO and co-founder, Steve Jobs, whose rousing keynote speeches, known as "Stevenotes," command more press coverage and world attention than speeches by most members of Congress. But as with Jobs, some skeptics question both the substance and the goal behind Wertheimer's zeal.

Early in Jobs's career, a co-worker coined the term "reality distortion field" to describe the aura that the Apple prophet cast over his spellbound audiences. The term could easily apply to Wertheimer's enthusiastic showmanship. Wikipedia describes RDF as "the idea that Steve Jobs is able to convince people to believe almost anything with a mix of charm, charisma, exaggeration, and marketing. RDF is said to distort an audience's sense of proportion or scale. Small advances are applauded as breakthroughs. Interesting developments become turning points, or huge leaps forward." (The phenomenon has been applied to other leaders, as well.)

Wertheimer does, in fact, applaud certain advances as breakthroughs that others -- particularly those outside of government -- might find underwhelming. For instance, one planned transformation program, the Library of National Intelligence, would be a repository of all the documents produced by all of the agencies. Eventually, Wertheimer hopes, analysts will search the library for key terms, and an automated system will help to judge who should have access to classified materials. He calls this program "huge."

Why is it huge? Some observers would have a hard time believing that the agencies didn't already have such a resource, the kind that most large organizations take for granted. LexisNexis, for example, contains copies of every article published in most of the country's periodicals. Following basic business practices, most companies compile and retain their internal documents for research and for legal purposes.

Wertheimer is careful to put things in perspective. "It's big," he says of the library. But then he quickly follows up: "For us, it's huge." And he's right. Much to the consternation of the WMD commission and others, this is a giant leap for the intelligence community, a kind of moon-landing moment.

But do collaborative libraries -- and wikis, blogs, networking websites, and special training -- make transformation worthwhile?

Change Without End

Mark Lowenthal retired in 2005 as the assistant director of central intelligence for analysis and production. Among seasoned intelligence officials, he is considered one of the most knowledgeable authorities on analysis, the agencies' shortcomings in that regard, and the education of young analysts in the ways of the tradecraft. So in Chicago, when Lowenthal stood up to question why Wertheimer and the DNI's office are expending so much energy on transformation, people listened intently.

"You are urging this transformation for an end that I do not understand," he told Wertheimer. "Collaboration is not an end in itself, to my mind. You want to do this, I think, ... to make analysis better. What does that mean? It means it would be faster? It would be more comprehensible? It would be more accurate more often? I don't think you have a way of knowing at the end of the day when you get there."

Lowenthal doesn't dismiss collaboration out of hand, and he has spent a sizable part of his career trying to create a true intelligence community. But his remarks reflected a palpable skepticism among those who think that it is impossible to know whether Wertheimer's ideas will actually fix intelligence. Lowenthal told him, "I think, unfortunately, a lot of this is pandering to a bunch of commissions that have no understanding of what we do for a living, or the nature of our work, and to a workforce. And I don't think that's a sufficient ground for a transformation. And so I'm left here wondering, what's the end state? For what reason?"

Wertheimer responded that he didn't have a satisfactory answer. The best he could offer, he said, were anecdotes. He has spent the past two years talking to analysts and trying to figure out what those who achieved real breakthroughs -- overcoming "hard problems," he said -- had in common.

The few successes were not enough to prove a theory, he admitted. But the one trait these breakthrough-makers shared was -- perhaps not surprisingly -- collaboration. These were analysts who challenged old assumptions, re-examined evidence that had been set aside as useless, and shared information beyond normal channels. They also, Wertheimer said, ignored their bosses' admonitions that such inquiries -- going back to ground that had been plowed unproductively before -- were "career killers." Bucking authority is another of Wertheimer's recurring themes. He says that a colleague once told him, "You will have succeeded when you become really hard to manage."

Wertheimer, however, plays down the notion of analysts as revolutionaries. "I don't like the thought that transformation is changing something from the past to something new," he says. Rather, transformation is about "creating an environment in which more things could happen than could happen in the past. It's liberating. Let's call it 'analytic liberation.' "

Wertheimer seems perfectly comfortable working in this gray area, where there is no obvious way to know whether his ideas are working and where concepts change on the fly (transformation becomes liberation) and the end goal isn't defined at the outset. Were it not for the DNI's backing, such a nebulous, high-risk approach to preventing another intelligence disaster might never take flight. Wertheimer might still go down in flames, but taking that risk appears to suit him just fine. "We can't afford the kinds of mistakes that we're making based on the way we're doing business today. It's just the bottom line," he said. Riffing off the intelligence blogger's comments, he added, "If I'm the first one to get killed, so be it."

The Hard Sell

Bravado may obscure Wertheimer's pragmatic streak. He is provocative and excitable, and sometimes brash. But those who know him well say that he is also humble and self-deprecating.

He frets that he will become too personally associated with his cause. "I'm a little worried about this being too personality-driven," he says. "This has got to be about ideas. We have to sell people on the ideas."

Wertheimer knows that the reason his pitch isn't resonating with enough people his own age is because he has failed to demonstrate how middle managers and veteran analysts -- the people who are feeling most threatened -- can take part in this grand enterprise, how they can be "liberated." Wertheimer, the realist, has promised to find a place for them. But he does not apologize for embracing young analysts and for assaulting the culture that reared him. "We don't allow our people to reach their full potential," he told the audience in Chicago. "This is a society, this is a community, that tamps down potential."

"We treat [analysis] like a guild," Wertheimer said later, a society of apprentices who study at the feet of masters. "This is like making a fine violin or studying opera. That [approach] makes a lot of sense at the scale that you build violins or have opera singers. But we're talking about massive [numbers] of young people coming in.... They learn on their own. They don't read the rule book. They don't read the owner's manual," he said. "They click buttons and investigate, and if they get bored, they do something else."

If the two sides of this generational divide are irreconcilable, Wertheimer doesn't seem worried, because the rookies have the clear majority. "It's simply a matter of time," he said. "Now, the question we all have in our minds is, how much time can we afford? We can't afford another day."

Several younger colleagues once asked Wertheimer to name his greatest career achievement at the National Security Agency. At one time, he said, he was the world's leading expert on a certain cryptographic technology, the smartest man alive on that one subject. But "that's not what makes me so accomplished," he said. "It's that I'm no longer the No. 1 expert, and that the experts are in this room, because I taught them. And they exceeded everything I could have done on my own."

That's one way Wertheimer judges success: Someone comes along and does it better. It doesn't quite answer his critics' concerns that his ideas might be flawed to begin with. But Wertheimer is a strong believer in the "wisdom of crowds." He and his bosses are betting that collaboration is the way to fix what's broken with intelligence and, by extension, to keep people from dying. If they are right that transformation, in all its forms, is the key to stopping another terrorist attack, or to avoiding another catastrophic intelligence failure, then it seems a decent bet that the next generation of analysts will follow Wertheimer's lead.

"If I can just start something for which a handful of folks better and smarter than me take over," he said, "if you could put that in my epitaph, I would die a happy man."

Published in National Journal

Labels: Director of National Intelligence, Human Capital, Intelligence, Management, Technology, Terrorism

Full Article

The Coming Storm

by Shane Harris
Friday, June 01, 2007

On November 2, 2004, top officials from the Homeland Security Department held a small Election Night party at a Washington restaurant to watch the presidential election returns come in on television. Nearly every leader there owed his job to the man then fighting for his own job -- George W. Bush.

The department was almost two years old and run almost entirely by political appointees. Twenty-three months earlier, they had been tapped to lash together 22 disparate, frequently dysfunctional agencies, some of whose failures to safeguard domestic security contributed to the 9/11 attacks.

As the returns trickled in, there was an hour or so when it appeared that Bush's Democratic rival, Sen. John Kerry of Massachusetts, might overtake him in the electoral vote count. Rather suddenly, some partygoers recalled, it dawned on them that they might be out of a job.

As they looked around the room, they realized they hadn't fully considered who would replace them. Who, they wondered, would keep the department running while President-elect Kerry picked a new leadership team? What career officials, whose posts are designed to outlast any one administration, would step in to ensure that planes flew safely, that borders were patrolled, that the government could respond swiftly to a natural disaster? No one could say for sure, because DHS had no plan.

"All the politicals thought we were out," says Stewart Verdery, then the department's assistant secretary for policy and planning for border and transportation security. Verdery was an energetic and experienced Capitol Hill staffer who had come to Homeland Security after a stint as senior legislative adviser to Vivendi Universal, the media conglomerate. But DHS was uncharted territory. "There was a definite sense that the transition was going to be rocky," he recalls.

The department's top echelons, of course, never had to experience what horrors a clunky handover of power could bring. But whether those leaders knew it or not, they possibly had just averted more than a management disaster.

The 1993 bombing of the World Trade Center and the attacks of September 11, 2001, both occurred within eight months of a change in presidential administrations. (At the time of the first attack, Bill Clinton had been president exactly 37 days.) In March 2004, Qaeda-linked terrorists bombed four Madrid commuter trains three days before Spain's national elections. Periods of political transition are, by their very nature, chaotic; terrorists know this, and they exploit it. This is the reality: Terrorists strike when they believe governments will be caught off guard.

As of June 2, there are 597 days until the next presidential inauguration, on January 20, 2009. As the Bush administration's days wind down, the government's level of vulnerability -- and the nation's risk level -- increase, and they will stay high until the next president gets on his or her feet. This is true in any transition. "The first year and a half of a new administration is really the most vulnerable in terms of political leadership," says Paul Light, a professor at New York University's Wagner School of Public Service.

Be Prepared

January 2009 has current and former officials particularly worried, because it marks the first time since 9/11 that the reins of national and domestic security will be handed off to a completely new team. At the Pentagon, this changeover doesn't matter as much. It has an entire joint staff of senior military officers who oversee worldwide operations, as well as regional military commands whose senior leadership stays in place. The Homeland Security Department, however, is another story. It is still run almost entirely by political appointees and stands to be the most weakened during the transition.

"Any of the other main Cabinet departments have civil servants that step in" as acting officials during a transition, says Stephen Flynn, a senior fellow at the Council on Foreign Relations and a leading expert on the department and its history. "Homeland Security doesn't have any of those.... And that's extremely unusual."

In the four and a half years since the department opened for business, few career officials have been promoted into positions of senior or even middle management. As a result, most of the responsibility for running the department, and its plethora of critical missions, is still in the hands of people who will be walking out the door as the Bush administration wanes or leaves en masse after the election. "The department virtually has no backbench," Flynn says.

The upheaval that strikes all organizations during presidential transitions will be magnified at Homeland Security, which has the third-largest workforce of any Cabinet department. And because the department's primary mission is to prepare for and respond to catastrophes, the magnitude of a terrorist attack or natural disaster during the transition could be compounded.

"The attack, when it happens, will be far more consequential," Flynn says. Light echoes that sentiment, and alludes to the department's most notorious disaster response. "The odds of a repeat of [Hurricane] Katrina are higher."

Former officials and experts are alarmed that so few Bush administration officials or lawmakers of either party have fully grasped this, and they worry that come Inauguration Day, national security could suffer.

"My fear is that on January 20, where does that transition team go to triage, quickly, the first 10 decisions they need to make?" asks Randy Beardsworth, who left the department in September 2006 as the assistant secretary for strategic plans. "There's not going to be a senior official with broad experience to answer that unless the transition team gets a couple of key folks to stay on a while."

When he departed DHS, Beardsworth was one of the last remaining senior officials who had helped the department stand up. And at the time of the 2004 election, he was one of the few career civil servants -- and the most senior one -- in a leadership post, and thus one of the few senior leaders who would have stayed on without having to be asked.

What people like Beardsworth -- career, nonpartisan security experts -- fear now is that another storm is heading the department's way. It makes landfall in 597 days, and the consequences could be severe. Hurricane Katrina was tracked on radar for several days before it struck; federal officials did make some preparations, but obviously they were inadequate. Will the department be ready for this next season of vulnerability? Some officials and homeland-security experts say that the Bush administration -- and even the presidential candidates -- should take action now to avoid a crisis.

Political by Design

The predicament in which the department now finds itself is almost entirely of its own and the White House's making. President Bush, who initially opposed creating a different domestic security bureaucracy after 9/11, ultimately assented amid mounting evidence about what clues the administration missed in the run-up to the attacks. Indeed, the White House changed its stance at the same time that Congress held hearings into pre-9/11 intelligence failures, in the summer of 2002. Before the year was out, Bush signed legislation to establish the department, which opened officially in January 2003.

From its inception, Homeland Security was run by political appointees or by other officials on loan to headquarters from the various agencies the department had absorbed. There wasn't a lot of time to post job notices and staff the ranks with career employees, who take much longer to hire, former officials say.

DHS had to be fully operational on day one. So, the White House and then-Secretary Tom Ridge largely handpicked their leadership team from the ranks of Bush loyalists. Before the 2004 election, Ridge's deputy secretary, his chief of staff, and almost all of his assistant and undersecretaries and their deputies were political appointees, people who by design would not stay long.

Former officials and experts recognize that haste dictated those early decisions. The problem, they say, is that the trend toward political appointees never subsided.

According to figures compiled in the quadrennial Plum Book by the Office of Personnel Management, as of September 2004 the 180,000-employee Homeland Security Department had more than 360 politically appointed, noncareer positions.

By contrast, the Veterans Affairs Department -- the government's second-largest department, at 235,000 employees -- had only 64. And the Defense Department -- far and away the largest department in the government, at 2.1 million employees, including military and civilian -- counted 283 appointed, noncareer billets. That figure includes political appointees at the Army, Navy, and Air Force. DHS's own reports show that since 2004, it has often added more political positions to its ranks, and more frequently, than other large departments.

It's common in government to find political appointees concentrated in policy shops, public-affairs offices, and legislative liaison posts. But that has never been the case at Homeland Security, where appointees run the first- and second-tier layers across almost all of the department's units.

"Early on, there was a sense that the administration wanted mostly political people," Beardsworth says. "They were very much concerned about loyalty and shaping the department where they wanted it to go." He says he always believed that his boss, Asa Hutchinson, the first undersecretary for border and transportation security, as well as Ridge "had the good of the country at heart.... I never had the feeling that we were making partisan decisions."

But after the 2004 election, when Bush announced that he "earned capital in the campaign, political capital, and now I intend to spend it," things changed. Under the new DHS secretary, Michael Chertoff, former officials say that the tone and tenor of political appointments took a turn. Personal connections and political fealty became litmus tests, these ex-officials say. Faithfully shepherding administration policy was to be expected, but the department's leaders seemed more beholden to individuals with close ties to the White House.

In September 2005, for instance, the administration sought to install Julie Myers, a 36-year-old lawyer with little management experience, as the assistant secretary in charge of the Immigration and Customs Enforcement division. ICE was poorly run and a constant problem for the department, and during her nomination hearing, Sen. George Voinovich, R-Ohio, told Myers she was unqualified to helm the unwieldy agency.

For many critics, Myers's strong political connections explained her swift rise to power. She is the niece of Air Force Gen. Richard Myers, then the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. She is married to John Wood, who was Chertoff's chief of staff and an ex-aide to Attorney General John Ashcroft. (Wood is now the U.S. attorney for the Western District of Missouri.) Despite Julie Myers's lack of experience, President Bush gave her a recess appointment to the job.

The Land of Misfit Toys

Charges of nepotism, cronyism, and incompetence continued to dog Homeland Security's senior ranks, particularly after the fumbled response to Hurricane Katrina, which was initially directed by an official with meager experience in disaster response -- Michael Brown. Nominees who would normally have slid into their jobs with little notice were now held up to scrutiny and sometimes ridicule. Take the case of Andrew Maner, a former staffer to President George H.W. Bush, who became the department's chief financial officer. Responsible for a multibillion-dollar budget, Maner couldn't point to any obvious credentials in accounting and finance on his resume.

And then there was Douglas Hoelscher. The former White House staffer and Republican campaign aide was 28 years old when he became executive director of the Homeland Security Advisory Committee last year. The policy group gathers advice on such critical issues as protecting infrastructure and countering weapons of mass destruction.

Hoelscher had no management experience, but had apparently proven himself as a Bush campaign staffer. At the time of his appointment, he was the department's liaison to the White House, where, in the words of a Homeland Security spokeswoman, he "made sure [that political appointees] were all placed in the office where they were happiest and ... fit best."

Most recently, Philip Perry, the department's now ex-general counsel, stirred critics' ire. Perry is Vice President Cheney's son-in-law. In February, David Walker, the comptroller general of the United States and Congress's chief watchdog, told House overseers that his office faced "systemic" and "persistent" problems trying to obtain DHS documents because it had to go through Perry. Walker complained that Perry's office reviewed documents before their release, and that his staff sat in on investigative interviews with Homeland Security employees.

Of all the departments in the government, Homeland Security has the most notorious reputation for placing political appointees in jobs over their heads. In fact, even before the bungled response to Katrina, critics warned that the department could be come a haven for patronage if officials didn't work hard to beef up DHS's career ranks.

Indeed, Homeland Security has earned a reputation as a political dumping ground, a sort of Land of Misfit Toys, where GOP fundraisers or apparatchiks are sent to pad their resumes or to cool their heels. There is more than a little truth to this -- the department does have a lot of political appointees whose main strength seems to be loyalty to Bush and connections to the White House. But former officials and observers say that the department has many well-intentioned and hardworking political employees, including in the senior ranks.

Nevertheless, the stain of incompetence and cronyism hasn't faded, nor has the reality that Homeland Security is something of a revolving door. According to Flynn, of the 60 top officials at the department, only one has been there since 2003 when Homeland Security opened its doors.

"This is essentially the most challenging merger and acquisition in government history, and it's being managed with this turnover in people," Flynn says. His fear, shared by other experts, is that the limited institutional memory of the Ridge years was lost under Chertoff, and that that memory will be lost again when a new administration takes over.

The department's leaders have virtually no playbook for transition, something other departments and agencies of that size literally pull off the shelf every four or eight years. "They're almost starting from scratch," Flynn says.

The Exit Strategy

If the department is to weather the storm of transition, it will largely depend on the efforts of one man -- Michael Jackson, Homeland Security's deputy secretary.

"If a day goes by and I don't use up some of my brain cells focusing on this problem, it's a very unusual day," he says. The administration has a set of policy goals it wants to achieve before the transition. But underpinning that, Jackson says, is a plan to leave the department stronger than it is now, "so that people [will] start a new administration with the sense that the department has reached a level of maturity." The possibility of a major attack before or soon after the transition factors into his planning.

Jackson says he is drawing up succession plans for "every operational component": the Secret Service, the Immigrations and Customs division, the Federal Emergency Management Agency, and others, as well as the top layers of management. The basic idea is to find talented career, nonpolitical employees who can move up into more-senior ranks, and then serve in an acting capacity when the administration changes hands. (It will be the next president's prerogative to keep or dismiss those officials.)

"We've gone throughout the entire organization and looked for people like this to promote," Jackson says. "We're trying to nurture a cadre of owners. I am the part-time help at DHS."

Jackson acknowledges that it hasn't been easy to keep good help. "We've had a significant turnover," he says. "And that turnover has been below the top-level jobs as well." But, he insists, preparations for the transition are well under way. "I would say we are well beyond the halfway point in what we have to get done."

Certain agencies within DHS ought to fare better than others. The Coast Guard, for instance, has an entrenched military culture, so command will shift more smoothly. The Secret Service, although now headed by a presidential appointee, will still likely draw from within its own ranks in the next administration. And in the intelligence directorate, officials have implemented a slew of training programs to cultivate junior officers for more-senior posts.

But it's the headquarters operation, not the front-line agencies, that has observers most worried. The constant turnover and reliance on political appointees has effectively stunted the growth of a management class.

There are notable exceptions. The current commissioner of Customs and Border Protection, Ralph Basham, and FEMA Director David Paulsion have spent most of their careers in government and have held other senior positions in the department.

But across the top layers of Homeland Security, critics say, the department is still far more reliant on political appointees than other large departments. And this state of affairs causes some national security experts to pose a challenge to the field of 2008 presidential hopefuls: Commit now that if you win the election, you will keep the top leaders at Homeland Security, and across the intelligence agencies, perhaps indefinitely.

Permanence in Transition

It might seem anathema that, say, a President Hillary Rodham Clinton would ask Michael Chertoff or any of his lieutenants to serve in her administration. It might seem even less likely that any candidate of either party, given how forcefully they'll try to distance themselves from the security policies of the Bush administration, would throw out an open invitation for the architects of those policies to hang around. But that might just be the soundest move in the interests of national security.

"It's possible," Jackson says. For example, even if Chertoff left, his replacement could ask the director of FEMA or his deputy to stay. "That would be one thing I'm prepared to advise," Jackson says. And there is precedent for such a move.

Michael Hayden, now the director of the CIA, served under two presidents -- Clinton and the second Bush -- as National Security Agency director. Ex-CIA Director George Tenet also held on to his job in that transition. True, Tenet lobbied to stay, and the CIA director's success has always depended on a personal rapport with the president. (Tenet and Bush got along from the start.) But Hayden and Tenet proved that professionals can overcome politics, at least during a transition.

Members of Congress have considered awarding top intelligence and security jobs political immunity. In the mid-1990s, House Republicans contemplated making the CIA director the head of the agency -- rather than an overall intelligence czar as the director was then -- and giving the position some statutory longevity. The idea was to make the job more like the FBI director's post, which doesn't automatically turn over on Election Day, says Tim Sample, who was the staff director of the House Permanent Select Intelligence Committee at the time.

"The only reason we did not take that step in our recommendations was the issue of the personal rapport with the president," says Sample, who is now president of the Intelligence and National Security Alliance, a nonprofit intelligence advocacy group. Lawmakers understood that the president and the CIA director had a unique relationship, one they thought should be preserved. But they still believed that, fundamentally, the job should be above politics, and Sample says this is truer than ever today.

This idea is gaining traction again in security circles, especially in the intelligence community, where many current and former officials think that the recent appointments of several seasoned experts to top slots has resulted in a "Dream Team." Defense Secretary Robert Gates is a former CIA director; career intelligence officer James Clapper is Gates's military spy chief; former National Security Agency Director Mike McConnell is now director of national intelligence; and Hayden, the ex-NSA chief, is running the CIA.

Former officials and experts recoil at the idea of losing such a deeply experienced, collegial, and by all accounts remarkably apolitical team of leaders at such a critical moment for national security. They want lawmakers and the presidential candidates to consider keeping those officials in their posts.

The same goes for Homeland Security. "The only reason there are all those [political] positions is just because of the way the department came together," Sample says. "One could argue those should not be political positions."

There's precedent for that, too. Before the Office of the Director of National Intelligence was established in April 2005, career assistant directors managed the intelligence agencies, and were charged with overseeing various programs and policies that stretched across administrations. On a practical level, the agencies needed that continuity, but officials also wanted to avoid politicizing intelligence, Sample says. It has always been a difficult goal, inconsistently achieved, but it's one that all presidents are encouraged to aim for.

Some experts have suggested that Congress cap the number of politically appointed senior posts at Homeland Security as a way of stanching future brain drains. Sens. Voinovich and Daniel Akaka, D-Hawaii, have proposed legislation to elevate the undersecretary for management to the third-ranking spot in the department. The bill would require a career employee to also serve in a five-year term as the secretary's "principal adviser" on management issues.

Jackson, the deputy secretary, strongly opposes the bill, saying it is unnecessary. He insists that the current leaders understand the problems Voinovich and others have expressed. "This is stuff we all talk about," he says. "The team gets it.

"I won't blow smoke at you and say everything is nailed down and perfectly fixed," Jackson continues. "The day that someone in my department tells you that about DHS is the day that person should get out of his job.... But [the transition plan] is not something I feel anxiety about."

Opportunity Lost

Those who know Jackson and have worked with him say he has never been one to put partisanship over security, and that he is not biased against career employees. But some have accused him of micromanaging the department and not handing over enough authority earlier to career officials. These failures, they say, have retarded the department's maturation process. For his part, Jackson says he's focused on the transition, and has drilled the urgency into all of his lieutenants.

In government, organizations mature by finding the right balance of politically motivated leaders and apolitical bureaucrats. The former have the ability, and the credibility, to make policy, and the latter actually know how to make it work. This is the tension that, sooner or later, leads to equilibrium.

Beardsworth, the former assistant secretary, has always adhered to that philosophy. He's now a vice president at Analytic Services, a nonprofit research group that advises security and intelligence agencies. Its Homeland Security Institute, a federally funded research and development center established in the same law that created DHS, is counseling senior officials on transition strategies. Knowing the department lacks a playbook, Beardsworth hopes the institute has enough experts to help ease the transition, and he praises Jackson for taking action now.

But like Jackson, Beardsworth isn't blowing any smoke. "Does the department have the right political and career mix to ensure a smooth transition?" he asks, sounding like a frustrated yet hopeful parent. "No. They've likely missed that opportunity."

Published in National Journal

Labels: Homeland Security, Human Capital, Politics, Transition

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The Spy Gap

by Shane Harris
Tuesday, May 01, 2007

Intelligence agencies must decode a human capital crisis.

When Tom Waters decided to become a spy, the first thing on his mind wasn't how much he'd get paid.

On the morning of Sept. 11, 2001, Waters, then a 36-year-old business consultant living in Tampa, Fla., packed his bags for a business trip to Montreal. His girlfriend, Cathy, called to say a plane had hit the World Trade Center in New York. Waters turned on the television and watched as a second plane, United Airlines Flight 175, plunged into the South Tower. "I thought, 'Oh crap, this is not an accident,' " Waters says.

What he did next tells you everything that is good, and that is truly regrettable, about life as an employee of a U.S. intelligence agency.

Three days after Sept. 11, Waters, along with more than 150,000 others, applied to work for the CIA. The CIA typically receives tens of thousands of applications, and accepts fewer than 1 percent. To handle the deluge of job-seekers, hiring officials brought in retired officers and seconded other staff. Nearly a year later, after a battery of interviews, medical exams and psychiatric tests, the agency offered Waters a job, and he joined the first post-Sept. 11 class of the National Clandestine Service - the country's top spies.

Waters, who wrote a book about his experience, called Class 11: Inside the CIA's First Post-9/11 Spy Class (Dutton, 2006), says he and his fellow spies-in-training were singularly motivated: "Everyone was there to make sure another attack didn't happen." The character of this class was unusual. "There was a strong business flavor. Investment bankers, corporate attorneys." Not the expected bunch of recent college graduates with no work experience and few marketable skills.

Waters had chosen a particularly inopportune time to join. Since applying, he and his girlfriend had married and were trying to have children. Waters writes that he "disappeared" for the first year of his marriage, "even when we [did] manage to live under the same roof."

Class 11 chronicles Waters' year of demanding training. The narrative is steeped in his sense of awe, intrigue and unbridled excitement about the lifelong adventure ahead of him. There is no doubt that he wanted to spy for his country. But by late 2004, he and Cathy were expecting their first child and planning for another. The path to parenthood had been difficult and expensive - they blew through much of their savings on fertility treatments. Cathy wanted to stay home with the baby. Waters knew promotions and pay raises in the CIA were based on time served; there was no accounting for his years of professional expertise, which would fetch higher wages in the private sector. Waters questioned whether he could support his family on an entry-level salary and pay for a home in the Washington area, all while pushing 40.

"I sat down and did the numbers and scared the hell out of myself," he says. "I would be 65 by the time my children got out of college. The first phrase that came to mind was, 'Welcome to Wal-Mart.' "

So in February 2005, Waters quit. "That last day, walking out, that was hard," he says. If the money had been right, "I would have never left." Today, Waters is a contractor for the Defense Department, working in counterintelligence at a security facility in the Army's Special Operations Command, back in Tampa. He also has done contract work for the CIA. In many ways, he hasn't left the intelligence community, but now his shopping options extend beyond the discount chain.

Mind the Gap

Tom Waters could be the poster boy for a new breed of intelligence agency employee. They are the future spies, analysts, technologists and linguists who signed up in the grips of a nationalistic furor over terrorism. They believe America has enemies, and they want to fight them. They hail from the best schools and come equipped with skills intelligence agencies desperately need.

Many of them also have no intention of spending a career in government. Pledging allegiance to a single agency and a 30-year career track is a foreign concept. Monetary concerns figure heavily in their professional calculus. Mobility isn't a ladder, but a hopscotch board. They might have multiple careers, maybe retire early, go to cooking school. Old hands have a name for these 21st century rookies, not all of whom are young. They call them, derisively, the "millennials."

The intelligence community is divided by a generation gap, one that threatens to undermine its ability to perform its missions, including keeping the country safe from terrorists. The intelligence workforce is out of balance. It can be plotted as two humps on a graph. At the beginning of the experience spectrum are the millennials, green, just learning the ropes, no more than a half-decade of experience under their belts. They make up more than 35 percent of the total intelligence workforce. At the far end is a large number of highly skilled, longtime employees, moving closer to retirement by the day. In between those two humps, where there should be a stockpile of experienced middle managers, the future leaders of the community, there is instead a deep, unsettling valley.

The agencies' top leaders are laboring furiously to fill it. In the nearly six years since Sept. 11, the CIA and other agencies haven't wanted for applicants; there are more people who want jobs than there are billets. But training employees takes years. To fill the gap in the meantime, during wartime, the agencies have hired contractors in record numbers. The agencies have outsourced some of the most sensitive functions, including analysis, spying on foreign adversaries, prisoner interrogation and translation services.

The outsourcing could be temporary, assuming intelligence agencies eventually replenish their personnel stocks. Except that the agencies actually are competing with the contractors for workers. According to the five-year strategic human capital plan at the Office of the Director of National Intelligence, "those same contractors recruit our employees, already cleared and trained at government expense, and then 'lease' them back to us at considerably greater expense."

Today's competitive job market is defined not by the institution, but by the free agent. The federal intelligence community has become a place where the millennials learn spying tradecraft, obtain a coveted top-level security clearance and then bolt to contractors for heftier paychecks. This has become so common that intelligence observers now fear it could become the career path of choice - break into the private sector via the government.

Assessing the situation, Ronald Sanders, the intelligence community's top personnel manager, says the notorious phrase "human capital crisis" is not a bad choice to describe the predicament. "Certainly potential crisis is an apt description," says Sanders, chief human capital officer at ODNI.

The Wages of Peace

No one in the intelligence agencies is surprised it has come to this. The crisis was entirely predictable, they say, and can be traced, ironically, to a peace dividend. Following the collapse of the Soviet empire, Congress and the administration decreased intelligence funding and pruned back the workforce. The decision was not without controversy, but the prevailing wisdom held that with the country's main enemy out of the way, there was no need to maintain a wartime footing. Former CIA director George Tenet has said that in the 1990s, agencies eliminated or didn't fill 23,000 positions. "The intelligence community was literally gutted," Sanders says. "By design or by default, we were downsized dramatically. We lost core capability."

What was left of the Cold War workforce moved into the senior ranks and management positions. "Now, you turn around and look behind them, there's nobody there," Sanders says. That's the valley between the two humps.

Fast forward to Sept. 11, when the anemic agencies were thrust to the front lines of a new war on terrorism. The workforce had to scramble against a new enemy, one that few understood. The hiring push, and the contractor spree, ensued. Sanders says staffing levels are "finally getting back to where they were" before the 1990s cuts. But most of the new recruits are filling entry-level jobs. "Our bench strength at the midcareer level is really problematic," he says.

The millennials still aren't fully trained, and aren't ready to head into the valley. It takes, on average, three to five years to season an analyst, and about seven years of work "on the street" to sufficiently train for clandestine work, says Mark Lowenthal, who retired in 2005 as assistant director of central intelligence for analysis and production. He worked in the intelligence agencies for more than 30 years, and spent a good part of his career wrestling with the personnel crisis.

Historically, Lowenthal says, the agencies have trained independently. "If you join [the National Security Agency], you go to the NSA school. We put you in a stovepipe as soon as we get you." On the rare occasion employees want to transfer, managers see them as essentially untrained. "They treat you like they've never seen you before inside the system. You're an outsider," Lowenthal says.

Over time, employees developed narrower, agency-specific expertise about emerging threats. There was no spirit of collaboration, because the workforce wasn't designed for it. This is the institutional reason so many dots about terrorism remained unconnected before Sept. 11.

Now, policymakers are demanding that agencies share their knowledge and expand their targets beyond the old Soviet foe. "The subjects that we worry about have all changed dramatically," Sanders says. The experience gap impedes the agencies' evolution. Personnel managers know they can't fill it by speeding up training times. So they've decided to get smarter about using the expertise they have. To keep the human capital crisis from sinking the intelligence community, they say, the community needs to act like one.

Taking Stock

Before he retired, Lowenthal helped launch a communitywide catalog of intelligence analysts, a kind of Yellow Pages that lets managers see who has expertise on specific regions or issues. Such detail is essential for long-term human capital planning, managers say, and reflects a core belief - which is not universally shared - that an analyst is an analyst, regardless of which agency he calls home.

Managers have made some startling revelations in the catalog. For instance, "We are woefully deficient in the number of analysts who have expertise in sub-Saharan Africa," a region of great concern to policymakers, Sanders says. Previously, managers understood such shortfalls only "at the anecdotal level," he says, and couldn't efficiently plot to fill the gaps. In the coming months, managers plan to launch catalogs for intelligence collectors, technologists and acquisition specialists.

Knowing how employees spend their time also lets managers eliminate redundancies, which they can ill afford. Recently, ODNI asked agencies, "Who does what on Iraq?" "[It] took a couple of iterations before people understood the question," Thomas Fingar, the deputy director of national intelligence who oversees analysis policy, said in a speech in Denver in August. Some people replied, "We do everything on Iraq," and others said they did "important things on Iraq" and disseminated their work to "important customers" in all kinds of ways.

"We discovered a very large community of people acting like 8-year-olds playing soccer, bunched around a ball over here and a lot of areas of the field uncovered," Fingar said. But apparently, just knowing where the overlaps existed helped to get rid of them. "As soon as components of the analytic enterprise [the various agencies working on Iraq] saw that, they didn't need me to tell them to adjust; they began to adjust," Fingar said.

Managers are trying to fill other skills gaps quickly. To beef up the low numbers of linguists who can speak Arabic, Dari, Chinese and Korean - to name a few - agencies last year gave several hundred scholarships to college students. They agreed to study languages in exchange for a work commitment. ODNI also is paying for summer language immersion programs for elementary and high school students. "You've got to get to them as young as possible," says Lowenthal, who was in charge of language programs for analysts.

Officials want to close a gap in the security clearance process, as well. New Director of National Intelligence Michael McConnell wants to speed up that process, which can take more than a year, and to make it less rigorous for first- and second-generation Americans, the native language speakers who hail from immigrant neighborhoods. The clearance process generally nixes people with relatives and business ties overseas, fearing that recruits could be blackmailed or compromised.

All these near- and longer-term fixes might help keep the intelligence ship afloat. But there's also a softer side of management for which there's no easy solution - keeping employees happy.

In Search of Leaders

Every year, Fortune magazine publishes the authoritative ruling on where companies rank in terms of employee satisfaction, the "100 Best Companies to Work For" list. It's compiled through surveys that ask employees to respond to such statements as "I've got all the tools I need to do my job" or "There's a minimum of back-stabbing and politicking."

Fortune's Milton Moskowitz, who co-wrote the 2007 survey, says that regardless of a company's size or earnings, two key trends help dictate how great a workplace actually is: "a strong mission and a strong culture that people buy into," he says, and "communication between management and employees. Not just from the top down, but are there opportunities for employees of these companies to talk back."

The Fortune survey doesn't examine government agencies. But Moskowitz says the essential themes are constant. So, where would the intelligence agencies rank? According to the most recent Intelligence Community Employee Climate Survey, released in April, 74 percent of participants gave a "positive" response when asked, "Considering everything, how satisfied are you with your job?" Only 12 percent responded "negative." The positive rating exceeds that of the 2006 Federal Human Capital Survey, which gauges the governmentwide mood.

But intelligence employees aren't as positive about their managers. Only 57 percent of survey respondents said they "have a high level of respect for my organization's senior leaders." Twenty-four percent were neutral, and 17 percent had a negative response. Asked to rate their leaders' ability "generate high levels of motivation and commitment in the workforce" the numbers fell: 43 percent positive and 25 percent negative. The five-year human capital planning document concluded that "many employees across the [intelligence community] are looking for even stronger leadership, and leaders who will help them fulfill their potential."

Such people are called mentors. The millennials crave them. And that leaves some old hands scratching their heads.

The intelligence agencies have some official mentoring programs, but longtime employees say these don't amount to a widespread, institutional focus on rearing a new generation. Mentoring "is one thing we do badly," Lowenthal confesses. New recruits, particularly younger ones, "have this expectation that they will have a mentor. I don't know where they get it."

Intelligence veterans are flustered by their needier colleagues. Intelligence is a silent service, they say. Most victories never are celebrated publicly, and the culture "does not cater to individual attention," says a former CIA official.

This official recalls an anecdote that exposes the dark underbelly of the generation gap. A senior officer, who managed a pair of new analysts, arrived in the office one day to find that "one of the kids hadn't shown up for work," the former official says. Hours later, the young analyst appeared, and the boss asked, "Where have you been?" The analyst explained that "one of his friends had had a 'professional crisis. We had to sit down and work things out.' " The former official says his colleague was speechless, and later said in private, "You know, I had a bad day once. No one cared!"

Senior employees who think these usually younger millennials are soft blame the parents, suspecting they were too quick to reward the child's every achievement, no matter how insignificant. The old-timers call them "trophy kids," a nod to Ben Stiller's character in the film Meet the Fockers, whose parents built a shrine for their son's 9th place ribbons for various childhood sporting events. Stiller's future father-in-law, played by Robert DeNiro, is repulsed by this celebration of mediocrity. Fittingly, DeNiro's character is a retired CIA operative.

"This is not a system where everybody sits around the table with their Play-Doh and shares and applauds for each other," the former official says. "It values devotion to the system and overwork, and an absolute feeling of being part and parcel of that system." But that, the former official admits, "creates turnover." Whether that's an acceptable outcome depends on who's asking the question.

Sanders says in core skills - analysis and collection - "our retention is very high." His office has measured top-performing employees against the overall government figures. "The attrition rate for the people with the highest performance ratings is markedly lower than it is for overall attrition," Sanders says. "So, we are keeping the very best people."

But some former spies say otherwise. Lindsay Moran, who worked in the clandestine service at the CIA from 1998 until 2003, has written that the agency's official attrition rate - about 4.5 percent - is, "like almost everything else about the agency . . . deceptive." Spies, she argues, are leaving at a higher rate.

"When I was a clandestine service trainee, we used to joke about people who were on the 'five-year plan,' " Moran wrote in Government Executive in 2005. Recruits would join, undergo training and then quit after a short overseas tour. "Sometimes these officers left for personal reasons, but more often they came to the disheartening realization that the operations directorate [where the spies work] was poorly managed to the point of near dysfunction," she wrote. Contradicting Sanders, Moran wrote that the CIA suffers from "reverse Darwinism: The best left early, while mediocre officers stayed and inevitably were promoted."

Lowenthal bemoans attrition as an unfortunate byproduct of the intelligence system. Before he retired, the community was attracting bright crops of analysts. "They were not all refugees from failed dot-coms," he says. "They were joining because they felt we had been attacked, and they wanted to serve our country. What else could you ask for?"

The rookies come from companies where mentoring isn't a foreign concept, and from a workplace culture that encourages versatility. Once they get inside the intelligence system, with its demand for an outdated kind of devotion, the excitement that drove them to service dissipates. "We do things to them in terms of career management that beats that out of them," Lowenthal says.

But the millennials and the trophy kids have a thing or two to teach their bosses about management.

Generation Next

"Intelligence reform" is an umbrella term that encompasses the changes in workforce culture that agency managers want to make. They want to enhance employees' use of technology, to allow a new generation of analysts and collectors to collaborate, to share information so they can connect the dots. To a lot of managers, these are buzzwords, but they have real meaning. And no one understands that better than the millennials.

"If you think about what skills those kids bring in, they have grown up with cell phones, e-mails," says Tom Waters, the former spy. "They do not know how to stovepipe information. It's completely foreign to them. Their encyclopedia is not Britannica, it's Wikipedia."

These new workers approach their jobs in a fundamentally different way, Waters says, one that's an anathema to many old-timers, but completely in line with where legions of experts and critics say the community needs to go. "They'll hear something, and they're going to immediately bounce it off their buddies, who are cleared." Problem-solving sessions could look a lot like two young analysts sitting down together and "working it all out." Intelligence could evolve into a far more open, and informal, craft.

Managers are starting to catch on. In the past year, the intelligence community has launched its own version of Wikipedia, called Intellipedia, which lets more than 3,600 users share information - and challenge it - in a classified setting. Analysts write posts and add to entries about the most difficult targets the agencies face. This year, employees will begin using other online collaboration tools, including one that gives credit by name to anyone who provides "insight that fills an intelligence gap," according to a DNI planning document.

Intelligence managers also want to sate younger workers' appetite for mobility. In the future, all promotions to senior positions will require joint-duty assignments. Employees must serve at more than one agency and try their hands at different skills. Sanders says he has spoken to hundreds of rookies full of wanderlust. "I can scratch that itch," he tells them.

Sanders and his colleagues are in a rush against retirement to institutionalize their reforms. "I don't think we have time for this to take 10 years," he says. "We're about two years into something that I hope we can get done in four, and at least say, we've reached the tipping point."

However agencies get there - probably through a generational shift - managers are banking on the fact that, for a select and sufficient few, the allure of the intelligence business always will be unique, and will bring the most dedicated to their door.

In Class 11, Waters writes about his first day at CIA headquarters, when he and his colleagues huddled around the famous agency seal, carved in granite on the lobby floor. "We grin like maniacs. . . . This is where presidents and dignitaries take pictures commemorating their visits. To stand here is to truly appreciate the exclusivity of our new jobs."

Today, Waters still has some entree into that exclusive club. His contractor work brings him, on occasion, back to headquarters. And though that trip is tinged with nostalgia, he says some things remain the same. "I've got that same, stupid grin on my face when I drive in again." he says.

Published in Government Executive.

Labels: Human Capital, Intelligence, Management

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