The Story of Personnel Reform in South America (4)
At 8:45 a.m., Sophia arrived at the Ministry of Foreign Affairs fifteen minutes early, as she always did — and immediately sensed that something was wrong. The superiors who, on any other morning, would have been slouched in their chairs putting on airs were instead hunched over, nervously reading the room.
What's going on?
These aren't the kind of people who act like this.
She hadn't been watching the atmosphere for long before she found out why.
BANG!
The heavy office door swung open, and the thud of combat boots rolled down the hallway.
"Your attention, please."
Armed soldiers in olive-drab uniforms filed inside. The cold black muzzles of their rifles and the killing frost in their eyes froze the air in an instant.
"Wh-what's going on? Why are there soldiers here…?"
And behind them, SIA agents in black suits followed, carrying stacks of documents.
Their boots struck the floor in a measured cadence. They walked with ramrod-straight posture toward the Vice Minister's office at the far end of the room.
Soon after —
"Let go of me! Do you know who I am?! I'm the Vice Minister of Foreign Affairs!"
With a tremendous shout, First Vice Minister of Foreign Affairs Antonio was dragged out. Sophia's mouth fell open and stayed that way.
Good heavens!
The man who had always prided himself on his lush head of hair was clutching a half-dislodged toupee, thrashing wildly. Every trace of his usual dignity had vanished; he flailed in terror, looking for all the world like a drowned rat.
One of the SIA agents read from a document in a dry, emotionless voice, loud enough for everyone to hear.
"Antonio, Vice Minister of Foreign Affairs. Your total score on the job performance evaluation was four points, placing you in the bottom five percent. You are hereby demoted to Grade 10. Be advised that your salary and protocol privileges will be reduced accordingly."
"What? Demoted?"
A man who had been, in effect, a Grade 0 civil servant — the highest-ranking figure in the entire ministry — had just been dropped to a Grade 10 that did not even exist. But Antonio's ordeal was not over.
"You are also hereby assigned to Tortilla Farm in the Central Basin. Here is your transfer order. Read it."
"Wh-what?! Tortilla Farm? You're sending me to the Gulag?! No! I'm not going! I'd rather resign!"
Antonio refused with his entire body.
"Shall I interpret that as a refusal of His Excellency's orders?"
"Th-that's…"
"Make your decision. Will you accept, or will you commit treason against His Excellency's will?"
Seeing the agent's hand drift toward the pistol at his hip, Antonio hung his head. The weight of the word treason, and the terror of the real purge that would follow it, left him no choice but to bow.
"…I'll go."
That was only the beginning.
"Fernando, Director of International Cooperation. Test score: twelve points. Demoted to Grade 10 and assigned to Tortilla Farm."
"Miguel, Chief of Protocol. Test score: eight points. Likewise demoted to Grade 10 and assigned to Tortilla Farm."
Every time a name on the purge list was called, the high-ranking bureaucrats who had once stood with their hands behind their backs, putting on airs, were dragged out one by one in the soldiers' grip.
Had about an hour passed? The transport truck parked at the entrance of the Foreign Ministry building was packed with people. Once the SIA agents confirmed the truck had left, they turned to the staff who remained.
"We will now distribute personnel appointment letters. When your name is called, step forward."
Her name was called first.
"Administrative Officer Sophia."
Sophia gripped her trembling legs and stepped forward.
It won't be bad news.
Three days ago, at the interview, Isabella — the most powerful figure in the current administration — had spoken of a promotion. And she had said it right in front of His Excellency, who was like the sun of San Marcos himself.
"Hoo."
She steadied herself and took the envelope the SIA agent held out.
"Please open it."
"H-here?"
"Yes. There's good news inside."
Sophia opened the envelope. The moment she saw the words written inside, she stopped breathing.
Sophia is hereby appointed
Senior Presidential Secretary for Foreign Affairs (Grade 1)
of the Presidential Secretariat.
"…What?"
Sophia rubbed her eyes and checked again. She, a Grade 7 administrative officer, was now a Grade 1 Senior Secretary? A staggering promotion leaping six ranks left her completely stunned. No — looking more closely, the grade wasn't even the issue. The fact that her assignment was to the Presidential Secretariat was even more astonishing.
Who was the current Chief of Staff? Isabella, the most powerful figure in the current regime. Working alongside someone like that meant she herself would become a power player.
Unable to believe it, Sophia rubbed her eyes once more and asked the agent,
"Um, excuse me… I think this might have been printed incorrectly?"
"His Excellency personally reviewed and approved this."
The agent added with a faint smile,
"Congratulations, Senior Secretary."
Sophia stood there in a daze. None of it felt real. And after that, the astonishing events kept coming.
"What? You're demoting me to Grade 9? I'm a bureau director with twenty years of service!"
"If you'd prefer, we can send you to Tortilla Farm instead."
"N-no, that's not what I meant…"
The director, famous for dumping his work on everyone else, held a demotion letter in his hands.
"I-is this real?"
Meanwhile, the Grade 8 employee at the next desk — the one who had taken on overtime every single day — stared in a daze at a promotion letter to Grade 4.
Watching it all, Sophia pressed the appointment letter to her chest.
Something… something is changing.
The stagnant water was draining away, and fresh water was rushing in to take its place.
Two weeks had passed since the personnel reform.
Slurp—
"Smells wonderful."
Was it because I was at ease? Even though I had brewed it myself instead of Isabella, the coffee smelled excellent. And of course it did — my mood was the best it had been in six months.
The incidents and accidents that used to blow up practically every other day had vanished as if they had never existed. Government paralysis? An administrative vacuum? There was none of that. Quite the opposite, in fact.
Fewer people working, and yet the work is getting done faster.
It barely seemed possible, but that was exactly what had happened. Twelve hundred incompetents — roughly 1.5 percent of all civil servants — had their desks yanked out from under them overnight. In a typical company, it would be like firing every department head, director, and managing director at once. Under ordinary circumstances, the entire workflow should have collapsed. Even a small business with five or fewer employees grinds to a halt the moment the boss disappears, doesn't it?
But not in the great nation of San Marcos. Despite the reduced headcount, a miracle occurred: the speed and accuracy of administrative processing actually increased. The reason was simple. Once the chief culprits of the arteriosclerosis — the ones who did no work and created every bottleneck — were gone, the blood vessels opened wide, and the administration began racing along at full speed.
It almost feels like a tumor was removed.
Before, it had taken a week for a single approval document to reach my desk. And even then, the contents were nothing but empty rhetoric, with no substance whatsoever. But now it was different. The moment I issued an instruction, the report came up directly. Reports never exceeded a single page, with the problem and the solution laid out in plain language. In the space where pointless protocol and ass-covering used to live, practicality and efficiency had moved in.
Of course, that didn't mean the capabilities of San Marcos bureaucrats had suddenly skyrocketed. Even if we had discovered a few talented people and promoted them, the organization as a whole hadn't been transformed. It was just that when you assigned work hoping for an A, you would get a B or a B-minus. But that was more than enough, compared to the old days, when you would assign an A and — if you were lucky — get a C, with a D as the average.
This is more than satisfactory.
It was genuinely cathartic. Isabella, seeing that the organization had slimmed down, had already begun a complete reconstruction. From what I had heard, she planned to leave the minister and vice minister posts vacant, foster internal competition, and then appoint whoever demonstrated outstanding results.
And what about Cabinet meetings?
She just abolished them. Anyway, even when they gathered, they just wrote down whatever I said. Almost nobody offered an opinion, and they didn't know much of anything, so there was no need for them.
It was just for show, anyway.
So, since things had come to this, we decided to abolish Cabinet meetings for the time being and adopt a top-down approach of issuing directives from above. Instead, we filled out the Presidential Secretariat, which until now had been a hollow shell with only a Chief of Staff. The newly appointed Senior Secretaries would be tasked with conveying the Presidential Office's instructions to each ministry.
Well… the Presidential Office's authority would swell beyond imagination.
"For swift decisions and action, this appears to be the most appropriate course."
Isabella said it was the right call, so I just went with it.
Anyway, there was another positive effect of this personnel reform.
"Your Excellency, the land-clearing work for Tortilla Farm's second plantation has been completed. That's two weeks ahead of the original schedule."
With the arrival of twelve hundred former bureaucrats, Tortilla Farm — which would become the heart of San Marcos's food production — had doubled in size. At first, they had apparently been groaning in agony. Which was only natural. Most of the twelve hundred were section chiefs or higher — Grade 5 and above. The average age was mid-to-late forties, and the oldest, the First Vice Minister of Foreign Affairs, was fifty-six. Starting farm work at that age, of course they were dropping like flies.
But I, who practiced the politics of faith, believed they could do it.
In rural Korea, a sixty-year-old holds the post of youth association president.
There is a country where seventy-year-olds tend kitchen gardens and eighty-year-olds bring in the harvest. There was no way our mid-to-late-forties bureaucrats couldn't manage. Sure enough — when they were told they would be restored to their original posts after a year based on performance, they started digging like men possessed and completed the second farm in just three weeks. A spectacular feat.
It is in the nature of things: live alongside nature, and body and mind find healing. Getting paid while also looking after your health? This, I would submit, is the very model of sustainable labor.
"Looking at the report, I'm quite pleased. At this rate, Tortilla Farm's harvest next year will exceed the target."
"Yes. According to reports from the SIA agents, they are all shoveling in a most exemplary fashion."
"We should have found them their true calling much sooner."
I took a sip of coffee and sank deep into my chair. The country was stable, money was coming in, and the system was falling into place. Perfect peace. The thought that I might be able to retire in just fifteen years brought a smile to my face all by itself.
That is, until I heard news I never saw coming.
"…What? Is that true?"
"Yes. It's been confirmed. She's Javier's younger sister — Ana Mitchell."