Boyd laughed. “We don’t care what the Russians are doing. We only care about what the Navy is doing.”
Boyd had expected the general’s reaction. Riccioni wanted to apply for a study proposal, the ostensible purpose of which would
be to determine if E-M data and trade-off studies could be a tool for advanced-fighter design. The study proposal would leave
the clear impression that this was nothing more than a research project. Actually, the real purpose was to design a superhot
and supersmall fighter. Boyd showed Riccioni how this could be done with the E-M trade-off approach. Boyd and Riccioni and
Sprey drafted plans for a study with the cumbersome and soporific title “Study to Validate the Integration of Advanced Energy-Maneuverability
Theory with Trade-Off Analysis.” Something so arcane and academic and ponderous had to be innocuous. The Air Force gave Riccioni
$149,000 to fund his research.
When Boyd and Sprey thanked Riccioni for resurrecting the lightweight fighter, Riccioni suggested the three men consider themselves
partners. “We should call ourselves the Fighter Mafia,” he said. Since all this was his idea and since he was Italian, he
would be the godfather. Boyd was fine with that; all he cared about was that the $149,000 would allow him and Sprey to resume
their work on the lightweight fighter. Besides, even if Riccioni was a full colonel and called himself the godfather, it was
Boyd who led the group. While Riccioni liked to talk about his role in the Fighter Mafia, Boyd was wise in the ways of the
Building and knew theirs must be an underground guerrilla movement. Once the true purpose of the Fighter Mafia was discovered,
the Air Force would consider it an enemy of the F-15 and therefore an enemy of America.
It was about this time that the Office of the Secretary of Defense, on Sprey’s recommendation, recognized that Tom Christie
was too valuable to remain squirreled away in the piney woods at Eglin. His work on the effects of bombs had been adopted
by every branch of the military. In addition, he was a wizard in managing people: every time the Air Force shoved a problem
child over to Christie, he turned that person into a creative and productive worker. In 1969 Christie was offered the job
of running TacAir, the old Whiz Kid shop that reported to the secretary of defense. But he was a cautious man and not sure
he wanted to move to Washington. In a compromise move, for four months he spent three weeks of every month at TacAir. Then
the man whom Christie would have replaced was fired. Christie returned to Eglin. It would be four more years before he came
to the Building to run TacAir.
Not long after Christie returned to Eglin, Boyd came down on temporary duty. He visited Christie, who, along with his wife,
Kathy, was hanging curtains in his house. Boyd was so intense about the chance to build a new airplane that he would not stop
talking. Christie knew Boyd liked Wagner so he played “Ride of the Valkyries.” Boyd’s eyes widened, he stopped talking, and
suddenly was transported. He waved his arms as if conducting an orchestra and began dancing about the room. For several hours
Boyd stayed in the room alone, listening to the music. Thereafter when Boyd visited, Christie kept a Wagner record nearby.
Riccioni was close to Boyd for a while, but he never was one of the Acolytes. Soon the relationship would be seriously strained.
Riccioni would be sitting at his desk when Boyd’s big hand would slap him on the shoulder and a loud voice would say, “Tiger,
let’s go strafe the concourse.” The two men went to the shops on the concourse, loaded up with bags of chocolate candy, then
returned to the office, where they passed out candy to the secretaries. The secretaries stashed the chocolate in their desks.
And in the evening after the secretaries had gone home, Boyd went from desk to desk, retrieving the candy.
One day as Boyd paced up and down the hall worrying about getting more drag polars from Wright-Pat, Riccioni passed by. He
spoke to Boyd and continued on his way. But Boyd’s internal radar had suddenly locked on a target. He wheeled and followed
Riccioni, talking intently about polars. He tugged at Riccioni’s elbow, stopping him, then tapping Riccioni in the chest and
shouting that he had to have the drag polars and the sons of bitches at Wright-Pat were blocking him. “John, I have to go
to the bathroom,” Riccioni said. “Can we talk about this later?” Boyd kept talking. He followed Riccioni into the bathroom.
Riccioni stood at the urinal, Boyd at his shoulder still going on about drag polars and the sons of bitches at Wright-Pat.
Riccioni turned and walked into a stall. Before he could lock the door, Boyd was squeezing in with him, still talking. “Dammit,
John, I want to do this by myself,” Riccioni said. He pushed Boyd from the stall. As he slammed the door, Riccioni had a quick
glance at Boyd’s face and knew that Boyd had not realized what was happening. He was unaware of anything but Wright-Pat and
drag polars and numbers and data and charts.
Several days later the two men were driving to Andrews AFB outside Washington when Boyd went into one of his trances. He stopped
talking and stared out the window. A few minutes later he snapped out of it, turned to Riccioni, and said, “Tiger, I’m plotting
some E-M data and I need to know how to take a derivative of—”
“You’re plotting E-M data?” Riccioni interrupted. “In your head?”
In the mathematics doctoral program at MIT, Riccioni had studied disciplines and schools and theorems that Boyd had never
heard of. But Riccioni could not plot E-M data in his head. He could not visualize the charts. He could not hear the music.
Riccioni told Boyd how to find the derivative of whatever it was he was after and Boyd returned to his reverie. With the Fighter
Mafia’s secret project, he had been given another chance to develop the purest jet fighter the world had ever known.
There was so much to do.
B
OYD
’
S
retirement date was drawing closer when, in May 1969, he received an extraordinary ER. His boss, Colonel Robert Titus, fire
walled the review on the front side. On the second page he said Boyd’s E-M work “has been the single most important link making
the acquisition of the F-15 Advanced Tactical Fighter possible.” He talked of Boyd’s “unbounded enthusiasm,” said Boyd was
a “tactical and technical innovator who has no peer,” and said Boyd’s “active and searching mind seemingly never rests as
it seeks out ever broader and farsighted fields of inquiry.” He ended by saying Boyd was a “gifted, resourceful and adroit”
officer who should be promoted to full colonel below the zone.
The indorsing officer said Boyd had “contributed immeasurably to the Air Force F-15 program.” A major general provided still
another indorsement saying Boyd was “recognized by the military and industry as an outstanding authority in the field” and
that he recently had received the Citation of Honor for his pioneering development of fighter tactics. The general concluded
by urging that Boyd be promoted to colonel below the zone and said he was “… one of the two best candidates of all the Lt
Colonels that I know.”
Boyd’s retirement date was pushed back from October until December. Then, in July, Boyd asked that his retirement again be
pushed back, this time until February 1, 1970. Usually when an officer submits his retirement papers, it means he wants out
quickly. Not so with Boyd. He submitted papers for retirement a year early, then added more time. There had to have been a
reason. A cynic would be justified in thinking Boyd was using the threat of retirement as leverage for his promotion to full
colonel, an idea the Acolytes strenuously oppose. They say Boyd simply did not care about rank. But their view is from the
benefit of hindsight and of Boyd’s later expressions about rank. None of them knew at the time he was submitting and extending
his retirement dates.
In August, Boyd was transferred from the Pentagon to an office in Systems Command headquarters at Andrews AFB, where his job
was to monitor the work of the F-15 program manager at WrightPat. He was humiliated by the assignment. At the Pentagon he
had back-channel communications with the chief of staff and often dealt with members of Congress. At Andrews he was in a nonjob.
In addition, the Air Force had changed the fundamental nature of the F-15. Boyd was beginning to look at the aircraft—even
though the first one had not rolled off the assembly line—as a transition aircraft, a cumbersome misapplication of technology.
On the other hand, the lightweight fighter he secretly was working on was a rapier that embodied all the concepts of his updated
E-M Theory. It was simple and small, with less drag, less weight, less visibility, and with much greater performance than
the F-15, a day fighter that would not even carry a radar. It was a pure fighter with no bomb racks. It would be a 20,000-pound
airplane, half the weight of the F-15; in fact, it was the aircraft the F-15 could have been. The design requirements Boyd
set up meant he knew what would come from the contractors even before they set pen to paper. He knew the turning capability,
the specific energy rate at every altitude, the rate of climb, and the range. And best of all, the aircraft would be so inexpensive
that the Air Force could build several thousand, enough to flood a future battlefield. This was what he called his “Grand
Strategy.” Reduced to its basics, the Grand Strategy was to take on the U.S. Air Force, develop the new lightweight fighter
in secret, build a prototype, then force the Air Force to adopt the aircraft.
It was one of the most audacious plots ever hatched against a military service and it was done under the noses of men who,
if they had the slightest idea what it was about, not only would have stopped it instantly, but would have orders cut reassigning
Boyd to the other side of the globe. Boyd knew this. He told Sprey and Riccioni they should never make a reference, on the
phone or even in private conversation, to the fighter they were designing. Anything and everything to do with the lightweight
fighter should be referred to as the “Lord’s work.”
Developing a new fighter aircraft is a long and tedious proposition. The F-15 project existed six years before a hardware
contract was issued. In retrospect, the idea that three men could secretly design a new lightweight fighter is laughable.
To think they could push it toward production against the wishes of the Air Force is sheer lunacy. At no other time in history
could such a plot have the remotest chance of success. But Boyd was about to prove that fortune indeed favors the bold.
The $149,000 study grant obtained by Riccioni was split between Northrop and General Dynamics. This probably was illegal,
since no other contractors were offered a chance to participate and since Northrop and General Dynamics soon were spending
their own money in anticipation of a future contract. These two contractors knew if the Air Force discovered the true nature
of the contract, it would be killed. So they kept quiet, knowing one of them eventually would receive a multimillion-dollar
contract.
Northrop said it needed $100,000 to justify putting its engineers to work designing a new fighter to be called the YF-17.
General Dynamics received $49,000 to design what it called the YF-16. General Dynamics was more than happy to be included—this
was the chance to redeem itself for the F-111 debacle and for being too late with too little on the F-15. Harry Hillaker’s
friendship with Boyd, which went back to 1962 at Eglin, was paying off.
As an aside, the “Y” designation was another ploy to keep the Air Force in the dark about the true nature of the research
project. Were this aircraft going into production it would have only the “F” designation. The “Y” meant that it would be one-of-a-kind—a
prototype.
Boyd would call Hillaker at General Dynamics and a couple of engineers from Northrop at least once a week, sometimes more
often,
and ask them to come to Washington. If he summoned Hillaker, he then called Sprey and Riccioni to say, “Our friend from out
West is coming to town. Tonight we’ll be doing the Lord’s work.” Hearing Boyd on the phone solemnly talking of doing the Lord’s
work confused more than one secretary.
When called, Hillaker would work at General Dynamics in Fort Worth until the early afternoon, catch a flight to Washington,
then meet Boyd and Sprey and Riccioni in his hotel room. They worked all night on plans for the YF-16, going over E-M charts
and early designs. Sprey wanted the air intake under the nose and pushed far back. Usually the air intake on a single-engine
jet is at the tip or side of the nose. Sprey’s innovation saved weight and improved engine airflow during maneuvers. It also
gave the aircraft a threatening, rapacious appearance.
After working all night, Hillaker would catch the first flight out of Washington National Airport back to Dallas. His counterpart
at Northrop in California was doing the same thing. Since these two companies were competitive, each kept a lid of secrecy
over the research.
People in Boyd’s office wondered what was going on with him. Several days a week for month after month he did not come to
work until almost noon. He yawned and gulped smart juice, trying to awaken. And every time his boss asked why he was late,
Boyd said, “I was doing the Lord’s work last night.” Then he took a big drink of coffee, lit a Dutch Master, looked around,
and said, “And goddamned good work it was.”
In February 1970, a jaunty young first lieutenant named Robert Drabant reported for duty in Tom Christie’s office at Eglin.“What’s
my job?” he asked.
Christie smiled. “You are Mr. E-M. Your sole job is to take phone calls from John Boyd in the Pentagon, listen to him, and
handle his computer needs.” Boyd called a few minutes later, was directed to Drabant, and said, “Tiger, we’re gonna do some
good work.” For the next two years Boyd called every day. It was not unusual for a conversation to last two or three hours.
Drabant generated more than 1,500 E-M diagrams for the Fighter Mafia. Boyd was never satisfied. He wanted every possible iteration.
He had gone from the basic E-M charts to
developing what he called the “Expanded Energy-Maneuverability Concept.”