On January 6, 1970, Boyd again asked that his retirement date be extended, this time until July 1. He gave as his reason “to
complete the final formulation and write-up of the Expanded Energy-Maneuverability Concept,” which he said would have a “powerful
influence on developing new fighter tactics and in developing new combat aircraft.…”
It is true he was working on the Expanded E-M Concept, but primarily as the rubric to cover his work on the lightweight fighter.
He considered his official job monitoring the F-15 to be a non-job. Was his retirement date extended because of the excitement
he felt at working on the lightweight fighter, as the Acolytes contend? Or was it an attempt to leverage a promotion to full
colonel? If the latter, it seems at first glance the bluff was not working, because the Air Force would have let Boyd retire
had he not extended his deadline. But, in the light of what later happened, perhaps his bluff did work.
Perhaps no greater gulf exists in the officer corps of the Air Force than the one between a lieutenant colonel and a full
colonel. It is in many ways greater than the gulf between a colonel and a brigadier general. If a man retires as a lieutenant
colonel, he may be looked upon by his contemporaries as a man who never broke out of the herd. But a colonel is a commander,
part of the leadership—no longer a “light colonel” but a “full bull” who is only one step from being a general.
The Air Force has a rule that after a transfer to another base an officer must serve a certain length of time before he can
retire. The rule is to justify the expense incurred by the government in moving an officer. Boyd had transferred from the
Pentagon to Andrews AFB. Never mind that it was only across town, that Boyd’s residence remained the same, and that Boyd had
been spending several days a week at the Pentagon. Rules are rules and Boyd had not served long enough at Andrews. In early
May paperwork came down saying Boyd’s request to retire had been revoked. He must have known it was coming, because several
days before the request was denied, he filed an addendum to his retirement request asking that it be withdrawn. “I desire
to remain on active duty because of the shortage of R&D officers in the Air Force with broad analytical skills,” he wrote.
“Additionally I feel that I can contribute more to the Air Force and to the nation in this capacity than I could in private
industry.”
Boyd may have known that a promotion board had met and decided to promote him to colonel. This is conjecture because the workings
of a promotion board are secret, but when a controversial name for promotion to colonel comes before the board—and Boyd’s
name certainly was controversial—board members have been known to call various generals to ask if they have any problem with
this officer being promoted. The name of the contender often leaks.
Officers are promoted by date of rank; that is, a senior lieutenant colonel is promoted before one with less time in grade.
Officers promoted below the zone are the last, as they are most junior. It is not unusual for these officers to know twelve
or fifteen months ahead of time that they are being promoted.
A few days after Boyd’s request for retirement was disapproved, he received an extraordinarily strong ER that laid the groundwork
for a promotion. It is clear from the ER that the reviewing officer believed few lieutenant colonels in the history of the
Air Force have had such an impact as Boyd. During the previous year he received two awards that brought credit on the Air
Force “in a manner rare for an officer of his rank and experience.” From a nationwide pool of candidates, he won the 1970
Hoyt S. Vandenberg Award for “outstanding contributions to aerospace technology.” The ER said Boyd was “one of the best minds
in the Air Force.” He won a Legion of Merit with Oak Leaf cluster for his advanced E-M Theory, which the reviewing officer
said “constitutes the most powerful evaluative tool for fighter aircraft analysis known to date and has provided industry
with one of the most effective tools generated in the history of aeronautical engineering.” The review ended with:
“Definitely promote below-the-zone to Colonel—now.”
It was Tom Christie who set in motion the events leading to Boyd’s promotion. Christie and an Air Force colonel wrote an eight-page
memo for General James Ferguson. As a three-star, Ferguson had been deputy chief of staff for Research and Development and
knew Boyd’s contributions. When Ferguson received his fourth star and was given the Systems Command, it was he who had Boyd
transferred from the Pentagon to Andrews to monitor progress on the F-15.
Christie’s memo said Boyd was about to retire and that the Air Force could not afford to lose an officer who had made so many
contributions and who would make still more. Ferguson agreed and asked for a letter that he could sign and submit to the promotion
board, a letter recommending Boyd be promoted to full colonel. Christie obliged.
Here the issue of Boyd’s promotion becomes even more cloudy. First, a promotion board theoretically is free of command influence.
In fact, some say a hint of command influence is enough to prevent an officer from being promoted. Second, four-stars rarely
send letters of recommendation to a promotion board. When they do, the letter is received as Holy Writ.
It would seem the Finagler had pulled off his finest coup; he still was protecting Boyd, still operating outside the vision
of those in the middle of a fray. He believes that Boyd never knew of his involvement.
It would be a year before Boyd pinned the silver eagles of a colonel on his shoulders. But he knew he was on the promotion
list. The irony is that by promoting Boyd, the Systems Command made it possible for him to subvert its most cherished fighter
project.
By December 1970, Riccioni, as the self-anointed godfather of the Fighter Mafia, was receiving a lot of attention. While some
colonels in the Pentagon affect a swagger stick, Riccioni stalked the halls with a hunting arrow wedged under his arm. He
used it as a pointer and waved it about in meetings.
“Why does Colonel Riccioni carry that arrow around?” someone asked Boyd.
“Hell, I don’t know. Ask him.”
“Because I am a warrior,” Riccioni said. “It never lets me forget that I am a true warrior.”
Riccioni liked the attention. He referred to himself in the third person, as in “Riccioni told several generals yesterday
that they should be careful of the Fighter Mafia.” But Riccioni did not understand that the very phrase
Fighter Mafia
enraged the Blue Suiters. Careerists saw the Fighter Mafia as a band of insurrectionists, plotters, and elitists. Riccioni’s
need for recognition and his naïveté, were becoming a dangerous combination. He began writing inflammatory memos to superior
officers, the contents of which called too much
attention to the Fighter Mafia. Once he wrote a letter in which he blasted the F-14 as a grossly inferior aircraft and said
that the Navy should consider buying a lightweight fighter. He sent copies to top admirals. In Riccioni’s diatribes he positioned
himself as the creator of the Fighter Mafia and even hinted at the true purpose of the study for which he had received funding.
There were veiled references to an airplane that one day would embarrass the Air Force by defeating the F-15.
Boyd and Sprey were bewildered. On one hand it seemed Riccioni was a glory hound. On the other hand he was so innocent and
genuinely sweet that it was impossible to be angry with him. One day Boyd went to him and said, “If you insist on getting
credit for the work you do, you’ll never get far in life. Don’t confuse yourself with the idea of getting credit.”
Riccioni agreed. But he continued writing incendiary memos.
An exasperated Boyd marched into Riccioni’s office and said, “I have a special project and I need all the pencils you have.”
Riccioni handed him the pencils from atop his desk. “You need more?”
“I need all you have.” Riccioni dug more from his desk.
“You still have two in your shirt pocket. Give me those.”
Boyd took the pencils, broke them in half, and tossed the remains in a waste can. A startled Riccioni looked up at him.
“Rich, you owe me. I’ve saved your ass more than once. Now it’s time to collect.”
Riccioni by this time had learned that Boyd had saved his career. He agreed that he owed Boyd and said, “What do you want?”
“No more goddamn memos. I don’t want you to write anybody about anything.”
Riccioni could not change his nature. He could not work behind the scenes. He became increasingly outspoken about the virtues
of a lightweight fighter and he criticized the F-15 as needlessly complex and outrageously expensive. At a Christmas party,
General John Myer, the then vice chief of staff, questioned Riccioni. The godfather listed everything wrong with the F-15
and said America needed an alternative, a small, cheap, high-performance aircraft.
“Are you telling me we have the wrong airplane?” the general asked.
Almost any other colonel in the Pentagon would have realized that a colonel does not tell the vice chief that the most prestigious
acquisition project in the Air Force is a mistake. Riccioni said, “I can give you a better airplane for one-third the price.”
The general wheeled and walked away.
Several days later the godfather got word he was being transferred to Korea.
Sprey, too, was leaving. He was disillusioned with the Department of Defense and with how Bigger-Higher-Faster-Farther always
seemed to prevail. He had decided to join a startup company that studied air and water quality and analyzed environmental
trends. He remained a consultant on the A-10 and still worked closely with Boyd, pulling all-nighters in motel rooms with
contractors, still doing the Lord’s work. In the Building, only Boyd would be found, and then as a visitor.
Few secrets remain secrets in the incestuous world of defense contractors. Word was now out about the study contracts, and
other players wanted in. Lockheed and LTV and Boeing started taking seriously the study contracts awarded to Northrop and
General Dynamics. The lightweight fighter could turn into a contract worth hundreds of millions of dollars.
In May 1971, Congress issued a blistering report on both the F-14 and F-15 and recommended spending $50 million to begin development
of an alternative lightweight fighter. Pentagon generals fumed. There was information in the report that the Air Force and
Navy considered proprietary. It had to have come from inside the Pentagon.
Talk of the lightweight fighter frightened generals far more than would the sudden appearance of a enemy bomber over the Pentagon.
It was all the things that careerists fear. It signified change. It went against everything the Air Force held sacred. The
brand-new, expensive, gold-plated F-15 was the hearthrob aircraft, the best in the world, they thought. And now the Fighter
Mafia was saying it had a better and—
quelle horreur
—cheaper airplane.
Contractors took the congressional criticism of the F-15 and F-14 as a further sign that the lightweight fighter might be
worth pursuing. Boyd cautioned those in his office that contractors always wanted to buy lunches and dinners and could easily
corrupt the unwary. One contractor who wanted a piece of the lightweight fighter project
announced it was sending a delegation of top officials to see Boyd, but first the contractor sent Boyd a massive stack of
data to analyze. The data contained conclusions about aircraft performance that were so optimistic Boyd knew they were false.
Then the vice presidents and top engineers descended upon Boyd’s office and it was like a visit from royalty. The executives
were coifed and tailored and their shoes gleamed and they were trying hard not to be patronizing toward this rumpled, scruffy-shoed
colonel who happened to be the point man on the aircraft project. Boyd singled out one part of their proposal, a wing design
that he knew created enormous wing-tip vortices. The proposal said nothing about the vortices.
In a calm and mildly curious voice, Boyd asked, “How did you get this data on the wing design?”
The vice president charged off the cliff. “Wind-tunnel tests,” he said.
“Fuck a wind tunnel,” Boyd roared. He pointed up. “The biggest wind tunnel in the world is up there. It’s called reality.
This is not reality.”
Boyd paused. The vice presidents and engineers looked at each other. The senior man was about to speak again when Boyd said,
“I had NASA check you people out. They can’t duplicate your performance claims.”
Such a statement is akin to saying the performance claims are bogus. The senior man drew himself up and said, “Colonel, we’ve
had dozens of engineers on this for months.” He tapped the desk. “It is correct. You need to go back to NASA and—”
Boyd stood up and pointed to the door. “You people are lying to me. Get the fuck out of my office.”
“Colonel—”
“Out, goddammit!”
Officers and secretaries in the office were horrified. No one spoke to defense contractors like this. Boyd stood in the door,
eyes glaring, daring any of the corporate executives to defy him. They collected their leather briefcases and all their data
and stalked down the hall. Boyd raised a clenched fist and moved it up and down. “Stroking the bishop. You guys are just stroking
the bishop. Come back when you get it right.”
Boyd worked for Uncle. He was doing America’s business and he had no time for defense contractors who bellied up to the trough
with half-baked ideas. Billions of taxpayers’ dollars were at stake and he had a fiduciary responsibility to see that the
money was spent wisely.
Several weeks later the vice president in charge of the delegation called and told another officer that Boyd was right, that
engineers had made a mistake on the wing design. He said it was not intentional, simply a mistake. He was afraid to tell Boyd
for fear of his reaction. He asked the officer to pass the word to Boyd that the mistake had been corrected.
Another contractor sent in its top engineer, a world-famous designer who had sold an extraordinary series of aircraft to the
U.S. government, to make a bid for the proposed new fighter. The engineer presented a set of generalized plans with no supporting
data. The aerodynamic estimates were broad and vague. The lift versus drag curves were wildly optimistic. Boyd realized the
design was not for a new aircraft but simply an upgrade of an existing airplane. The designer was giving Boyd what he thought
the Air Force needed and not what Boyd wanted. The contractor apparently thought Boyd would be awed by the famous designer.