A Passion for Leadership (21 page)

Over the years, I have worked for and with a number of people who thought they were the smartest in the room. A couple were presidents of the United States. I can think of at least two White House chiefs of staff, a handful of cabinet secretaries, a few corporate executives, and assorted others in less august positions. A leader who feels that way has a tough time taking seriously what anyone else thinks, especially if he disagrees. Such a leader might solicit opinions from others on a particular subject, but it quickly becomes apparent to all others that his interest is phony: he believes he has already thought about everything everyone has said—and made up his mind before walking in the door. The folks who believe themselves to be the smartest in the room tend to condescend and subtly or not so subtly bully their interlocutors. Sometimes they can be downright insulting. They are not much fun to work for—or with. There is a remarkable overlap between arrogant egotists and those who believe they are the smartest people in the room. A telltale sign of both is, in the middle of a meeting, a long-suffering sigh intended to convey impatience at having to put up with inferior minds.

The Supreme Court justice Oliver Wendell Holmes Jr. once observed of Franklin D. Roosevelt that he had a second-rate intellect but a first-rate temperament. I believe most of our greatest presidents fit that description: George Washington, Abraham Lincoln, FDR, Truman, Eisenhower, Reagan. No one around any of them ever forgot who was in charge, but each surrounded himself with extremely capable people, listened to them, integrated their opinions with his own judgment and instincts, and made historic decisions. The historian Gordon Wood wrote of Washington, “Lacking the genius and intellectual confidence of the advisors, he consulted them often and moved slowly and cautiously to judgment; but when ready to act, he acted decisively, and in the case of controversial decisions he did not second-guess himself.” Some senior advisers and cabinet officers of several of these presidents—Lincoln, Eisenhower, and Reagan among them—fairly openly derided their intelligence and judgment. But guess who history remembers and honors?

Leaders of institutions who approach their jobs with some humility are far more likely to get from subordinates the kinds of ideas and advice critical to success and to build a solid team than those who presume to know all the answers. No matter what room I was in, I always knew I was not the smartest person there. This was not false modesty. A D in freshman calculus and being in the presence of anyone who had mastered biochemistry, mathematics, or engineering—which I could never have done—were constant reminders to me of my limitations. What I brought into the room was a willingness to listen (I got better at that with every passing year), an ability to analyze and synthesize large and diverse amounts of information, opinions, and recommendations and come up with practical solutions to problems and proposals for reform. That, and a willingness to be bold.

Courage is essential for reform.

“Courage” is not a word that automatically pops into mind when thinking about bureaucracies. But anytime a mid-level leader tells his boss and his colleagues that the old way of doing things is no longer adequate and that change is necessary, it is a courageous act. Even when the man in charge takes a stand that most people, at least initially, oppose, it requires courage.

Acts of courage by institutional leaders for the sake of principle or the national interest are more common than you might think. But not so much when it comes to institutional reform. The truth is that dramatic reform efforts in public institutions, certainly at the federal level, are so rare that examples are hard to come by. There are more examples of significant change among governors and local leaders, whose hands are often forced and strengthened by budgetary crises.

Transformational reform takes courage because so many people have a stake—political, financial, or emotional—in the status quo. The defense of what “is” begins within the institution but then quickly involves potentially affected businesses, lobbyists, stakeholders, politics and political donors, and, perhaps most daunting of all, the legislature. A leader has to fight everyone to implement reform. The foregoing chapters have talked about the how of doing so. But the process begins with the act of courage required just to start.

Of course, if the would-be reformer isn't at least somewhat daunted by the challenge of bringing change to his institution, he doesn't understand the strength of the forces that will be arrayed in opposition. As on the battlefield, a realistic appreciation of one's adversaries is the first step toward success.

When a leader is fighting bureaucratic battles for reform, she needs a few senior associates who are trustworthy, share a commitment to her agenda for reform, and are capable of effectively implementing her decisions.

A leader's battle for bureaucratic reform will be a lonely one because she will not have many allies inside the institution—at least at senior levels. Upper-level officials will be concerned about their own careers and turf and eager to protect whatever “empires” they have assembled. Some may offer their support only selectively.

Upon taking her job, a leader may have the opportunity to fill vacant senior positions. She should look for capable, independent-minded people who share her goals but are willing to give candid recommendations for how to achieve them. As should be clear by now, I believe a leader must avoid yes-men. Once a decision has been taken, though, those new colleagues should be committed to implementing it.

A new leader will also have to decide if she needs to replace some executives. She should not be in a rush to do so. Everyone should be given a chance to prove herself. No one should be fired just so the new woman in charge can portray herself as being tough.

At A&M, I felt there was an urgent need to send the message that a change in outlook and culture was required, and I concluded that most current senior administrators needed to go. I let a couple go pretty quickly; I told others to announce their retirement a year ahead of time so I could signal change was coming in his or her area and we could get searches under way for replacements. As I've said, I intended to reorient the entire university away from an administrator-dominant culture to one where the academic leaders dominated the decision-making process. To do that, I needed a new team of administrators.

I replaced no senior officials at the CIA when I became director and had no authority to replace the leaders of the other agencies that I nominally led. At Defense, I replaced no one when I arrived. As I said earlier, I wanted to send a message of my confidence in the incumbents. But there was a practical reason as well: with two wars ongoing and going badly, and the unpredictability of the Senate confirmation process, I wanted to take no chances on important chairs being empty. I knew I had to make a number of tough decisions on programs and issues, and I wanted a generous sampling of opinion. Meanwhile, I could determine whom I could count on in the long term. (I was immensely relieved to discover that was nearly everybody.)

In some ways, as important as who occupies the senior operating positions for a leader's success is the immediate staff with which he surrounds himself. Who they are and how they conduct themselves reflect directly on him.

I had been on the staff of one national security adviser, executive assistant to another, executive assistant to one DCI, and chief of staff for another. So I knew better than most what kind of person I wanted right outside my door. I wanted someone who was a facilitator, not a guard dog; someone who could ascertain whether a senior officer's need to see me was truly urgent and, if so, find a way to get him through my door in a timely way; someone who could identify and expedite high-priority decision papers; someone willing to ask me to clarify directions I had given—or report a dissent objectively; someone who kept the lines of communication open between my office and my senior associates. I wanted someone seen by the bureaucracy as an asset to them as well as to me. I wanted a mix of experience and new eyes and people who would be absolutely honest with me, who would tell me what I needed to hear, not just what I wanted to hear. I did not want any of my staff to be self-important or, worst of all, “wearing my epaulets”—a phrase describing staff who behave as though they have their boss's rank, treating others arrogantly and with disdain.

I wanted people competent and self-confident enough to make sure my wishes and directions were being carried out. From time to time when I was secretary, we would send one of the middle-ranking noncommissioned officers from the office into the field to help prepare for my trips. On one occasion, in Afghanistan, one of these men (all of whom I admired a great deal), Staff Sergeant Jason Easom, was doing the advance work and had a face-off with a full colonel who was working on my visit to the front lines. Jason had politely told the colonel what I wanted, but the colonel had a different plan, which he insisted upon. (He wanted me to spend most of my time in briefings; Jason knew I just wanted to visit troops.) Finally, Sergeant Easom walked over to the colonel's phone, picked up the receiver, held it out, and told the colonel, “One of the two of us can call the secretary of defense and be put through immediately.” The colonel got the point and acceded to the guidance I had given Easom.

I ran a very lean front office in all three institutions I led, especially given their size. I suggest all leaders do the same. Too big an immediate staff becomes an obstacle to good communications and getting things done. After all, someone who is part of a large front office staff needs to keep busy and usually does so by bothering the rest of the institution—asking unnecessary questions, interposing himself unnecessarily in decision making, and generally creating problems for everyone, including the boss, who probably doesn't know the staffer is out there meddling in everybody's business trying to justify his position. A big staff also makes a boss look self-important and oblivious to cost, not good things when he is trying to lead reforms. With small staffs, there is much less jockeying for position or face time or petty gamesmanship. There was a lot of trust among my staffs at all three places I led and an environment that not only encouraged but was conducive to real candor. Even with a small staff, a leader can still get a mix of perspectives so that in the front office itself every problem is seen from different vantage points and experiences, a huge benefit for a decision maker.

This approach served me well. At the CIA, my personal secretary was a woman I had worked with for nearly a decade and whom I could count on to tell me exactly what she thought. (One time I wanted to go to a corporate-sponsored social event and asked the agency's general counsel if it was okay. She brought in his memo, sort of flipped it onto my desk, and rather snidely said that the general counsel had offered a wishy-washy opinion concluding that there was no problem, but she went on to say that in her opinion it didn't pass the
Washington Post
smell test. I didn't go to the event.) My executive assistant was a very bright career CIA economic analyst, Janice Williams. And, finally, I had a special assistant, Neal Wolin, a young lawyer my predecessor, Bill Webster, had brought in for a year to serve in that role—a practice he had followed with young lawyers as FBI director and then continued at the CIA. I was very impressed with Wolin and quickly moved him into a much more substantive role reviewing all paperwork coming to me with his lawyer's eye and acting as my surrogate monitoring all the task forces. (Years later he would be appointed deputy secretary of the Treasury.) Overseeing the CIA and an intelligence community of some fifteen other agencies, a budget of several tens of billions of dollars, and more than a hundred thousand people, I had an immediate staff of three. It worked just fine.

At A&M, my staff was about the same size—a personal secretary, a director of special events, an office manager, a receptionist, and two support staff (all women). I created, for the first time at A&M, the position of chief of staff to the president, which I filled with a young lawyer from the provost's office, Rodney McClendon. I told him I knew nothing about Texas law pertaining to higher education and needed him to keep me out of trouble. He was amazingly well-informed about what was taking place on campus and was very effective in facilitating communication both from and to my office. This small group, together with the vice president for governmental affairs who shared our office suite, was brutally candid with me to the point of near insubordination on a daily basis. That small team kept me grounded, extremely well-informed, well-advised, and accessible and was an asset to the entire university community.

Finally, at Defense, the inner circle was somewhat larger but, compared with those of predecessors and successors, still quite small. The de facto chief of staff was Robert Rangel. I never heard Robert raise his voice—although one eyebrow often seemed to be especially upwardly mobile—but I think he was one of the most intimidating figures in the Pentagon because his standards for materials coming to me were so high, his discipline in keeping the trains on the track and on time was so rigorous, and his knowledge of the department and, indeed, all of Washington was so extraordinary. My confidential secretary kept the schedule and guarded the door to my office. I also had a senior military assistant, two junior military assistants, and two civilian assistants who played an instrumental role in almost every initiative I undertook.

I have described these staffs in some detail simply to underscore the point made earlier: leaders in all organizations—including the biggest ones—are well served by a small front office staff. It is more effective, and for a leader focused on transformational reform, it sends a powerful message.

In the real world of bureaucratic institutions, you almost never get all you want when you want it. A good leader must compromise, adjust his plans, prioritize, and show flexibility and pragmatism.