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At sunrise in the Pacific, a fighter jet rolled to the end of the flight line as crew chiefs swarmed in final checks. Everything pointed to “ready.” Then a small crack was spotted — a hole that needed to be smoothed out. The maintainer sent a waiver request. Hours later: denied. The request was out of spec by a hair — imperceptible to the naked eye.

The jet never launched — not for lack of training, skill, or threat. It stayed grounded because an engineer — far removed from the fight — saw red ink. Where the maintainer’s judgment saw an acceptable risk, the engineer saw only a violation. This rigidity is the U.S. Air Force’s hidden chokepoint: A culture where combat readiness bends not to enemy pressure, but to engineering risk aversion.

In the U.S. Air Force, the engineering authority approves all technical decisions across a weapon system’s life cycle. Typically, each platform or program has a single chief engineer — the individual serving as the engineering authority — who has completed an extensive qualification pipeline and is hand-selected by a cadre of professionals. Because they are accountable — and legally liable — for the consequences of technical decisions, the vetting process is rigorous, and that burden of responsibility often drives a reluctance to accept risk. Engineers see no room for assumption. Their decisions are mathematical and they bear full accountability for miscalculation. This rigid approach once sufficed, but is no longer adequate for today’s strategic landscape.

This is not a niche technical squabble. It is a readiness crisis. Readiness, as defined in Air Force doctrine, is the ability of forces to deliver required capabilities to meet mission demands. It encompasses trained personnel, materiel condition, and the availability of aircraft to fly designed missions. In practice, it is the measure of whether combat power can be generated when called upon.

At the Air Force Association’s Air, Space & Cyber Conference on Sept. 22, Secretary of the Air Force Troy Meink admitted: “I knew there was a readiness challenge. I didn’t appreciate how significant that readiness challenge was.” The service is entering great-power competition with the smallest fleet in its history and readiness rates at historic lows. This year, the inventory is projected to fall below 5,000 aircraft. Only 62 percent are mission capable. That means nearly 1,900 planes are unable to fly their designed missions on any given day.

Meanwhile, modernization crawls. The Government Accountability Office recently found that major defense programs average nearly 12 years to deliver the first version of a new system, with software proving especially troublesome. Add in budgetary gridlock, shifting congressional priorities, and evolving requirements, and timelines slip further. The result: The average Air Force aircraft is now 32 years old, nearly double the age at the end of the Cold War. China, by contrast, is modernizing at speed and edging closer to parity in a contest where time favors Beijing.

Two decades of counter-terrorism wars only deepened the strain, burning through flying hours and stressing airframes never built for such sustained demand. To keep pace, the service has leaned on modifications and upgrades to keep legacy platforms relevant. These efforts extend utility but also expose brittle supply chains. Too often, a single missing part or unapproved substitute halts an entire line — and with it, combat power. The F-16 illustrates this point. Originally designed for 8,000 flight hours, many jets reached that ceiling by the mid-2000s. With F-35 deliveries delayed, the Air Force turned to a Service Life Extension Program, raising the certified structural life to 12,000 hours by reinforcing bulkheads and other critical structures. But those fixes are only as strong as the pipeline that feeds them. Each kit, bulkhead, or repair sequence depends on parts that too often arrive late — or not at all.

An aging fleet, declining readiness, and sluggish modernization are a dangerous mix. If the Air Force cannot fly what it has and cannot field what it needs, it risks entering the next fight already a generation behind. While the original manufacturer’s standard becomes increasingly unattainable, engineers remain bound to it. Each day, the gap between operational reality and engineering rigidity grows wider — and the risk to combat capability grows sharper.

Here lies the dilemma: Weapon system readiness begins and ends with the engineering authority. Technical data is followed precisely by those who have this role. Deviating from technical data, substituting a part, or using an alternative process without obtaining engineering approval is considered unauthorized and carries risks to safety, airworthiness, and potential legal consequences. Sustainment risk, therefore, starts with engineering, which holds the single voice of authority for interpreting or granting exceptions to technical data.

The challenge is cultural as much as procedural. Engineers operate within strict accountability frameworks that leave little room for judgment. That rigidity has unintended consequences when combat power is at stake. Maintainers and crews are pressed for solutions, while the technical gatekeeper remains the sole authority to approve change.

The fix is uncomfortable but essential: Engineers should advise, not decide. Commanders ought to reclaim readiness decisions because only they bear responsibility for the fight. Operational readiness demands decision space. The U.S. Air Force should shift from risk aversion to calculated risk. That does not mean compromising safety. It means balancing airworthiness with readiness.

The engineering authority should evolve into an engineering advisor. Advisors quantify how far out of limits a system is, outline risks, and provide failure probability estimates. Commanders, accountable for mission success, then weigh those risks against operational needs. Critics will argue that shifting authority risks safety and consistency. They are right to worry. But the greater danger is a force that cannot fly when it is needed most. The fix should be carefully designed: Engineers should remain the technical conscience of the force, but commanders need to own the readiness decision.

This proposition does not preclude accelerating acquisition or reforming the requirements process. Those efforts are essential to reduce the long-term burden of operating geriatric fleets. But acquisition reform is a years-long fix, with benefits that arrive only after new systems are fielded. The proposed shift in engineering authority operates in parallel, addressing the here-and-now readiness gap. One targets the future force. The other sustains today’s.

The U.S. Air Force cannot allow engineering rigidity to become the single point of failure in a future fight. Preserving airworthiness will always be non-negotiable, but so is readiness. The two are not mutually exclusive — but that balance ought to rest with leaders in the fight. Unless the system evolves from a culture of “no” to a culture of “calculated risk” — one that accepts alternative materials, fast-tracks approvals, and aligns replacement cycles with reality rather than original specifications — America’s air force may struggle to command the skies.

Austin A. Gruber is a U.S. Air Force logistics readiness officer with over 20 years of experience, including command and joint assignments across the Indo-Pacific, Middle East, and Air Force sustainment enterprise. He is currently a national defense fellow at Stanford University’s Freeman Spogli Institute.

The views expressed in this article are the author’s own and do not necessarily reflect the official policy or position of the U.S. Air Force, the Department of Defense, or the U.S. government.

**Please note, as a matter of house style War on the Rocks will not use a different name for the U.S. Department of Defense until and unless the name is changed by statute by the U.S. Congress.

Image: Senior Airman Duncan Bevan via DVIDS