Boyd (27 page)

That was fine with Boyd. He looked on the questions as if they were bullets fired during an air-to-air engagement. Before
more than a few words were out of a man’s mouth, Boyd knew where a question was going, and he knew how to respond. Like any
fighter pilot he turned into the fight, confronting every question head-on. And because he knew his material better than any
other person in the room, no one touched him.

Sweeney sat impassively through it all. In such a situation, generals imagine underlings as gladiators in a pit. The gladiators
are encouraged to do battle. The last man standing, the man to crawl over the edge of the pit and emerge victorious, is the
general’s favorite. Sweeney must have hoped someone on his staff could leave Boyd in the pit. He did not want to know his
warplanes were inferior to those of the Soviet Union. The animosity toward Boyd reached its climax late in the afternoon when
the most hostile interrogator, a colonel who wore no silver wings over his left breast pocket, a colonel aching to exchange
the eagle on his shoulder for a star, suddenly interrupted Boyd and said, “All of this work, this so-called theory of yours,
has been done before.” He paused. Everyone in the room turned to look at him. “And it has all been proven wrong.”

Sweeney nodded. His best gladiator was in the pit.

Boyd expected something like this from a nonrated staff puke and he was ready. He smiled. “Colonel, show me the source document
that says this has been done before.”

Boyd saw the colonel not as a gladiator but as an angry bull. His demand that the colonel reveal the source document was what
Boyd called a “cape job,” beckoning the colonel to charge ahead with his proof. Boyd had dealt with this criticism for months
and knew there was only one possible name the colonel might raise.

“It was done at Edwards and disproved.” The colonel spoke with great authority.

Again Boyd waved the cape. “Colonel, do you have the source document?”

For a moment the room was quiet. Sweeney looked at a two-star sitting near him, a general who had recently transferred to
his staff after a lengthy assignment at Edwards. The general smoothed the crease in his pants and said, “Sir, if it had been
done at Edwards I
would have known about it.” He looked at Sweeney. “This work is new to me.”

The colonel was wounded and the others sensed it. One extended what was apparently a helping hand. “Do you have the name of
the person at Edwards who did the work?”

Boyd flicked the cape. “Perhaps there is someone, Sir. If you’ll give me his name and show me that he did this work, I’ll
walk away from this project today.”

Boyd was doing more than saying he would walk away from E-M; he was laying his career on the line. If the colonel came up
with a name, Sweeney could, with one phone call, drive Boyd out of the Air Force.

“Rutowski,” the colonel said.

“Hmmmm,” Boyd said, bending his head as if in deep thought. “In the index of my briefing I refer to a 1954 article by E. S.
Rutowski entitled ‘Energy Approach to the General Aircraft Performance Problem.’ Is that the same Rutowski?”

The colonel charged ahead. “It is.”

“He developed what we know as the ‘Rutowski Curve,’ which, if I understand it, is an optimization theory about the quickest
way to reach an assigned altitude. The airlines find that information useful but I don’t believe it has anything to do with
fighter aircraft, with pulling Gs, with maneuvering against an opponent.” Boyd paused. “If I’ve overlooked something, Colonel,
I’d be glad to hear about it.”

The colonel had charged over the cliff and was in free fall. Many superior officers were to experience the same thing in coming
years.

After that the questions were less adversarial. Boyd had proved he was not intimidated by rank and he knew his subject. No
one else wanted to meet the same fate as the colonel. The questions shifted and were now asked in the spirit of understanding
or for clarification. Late in the afternoon, Sweeney stood, signaling the briefing had ended. He looked at Boyd. “Major, I
want you back here at o-eight-hundred tomorrow.”

“Yes, Sir.”

The colonel who said Boyd’s work had been done earlier was not in the briefing room the next morning. The other officers were
almost cordial. Boyd knew from the look on the face of the general that he had prevailed. He had won over the head of TAC.

The briefing was winding down, but Sweeney had one more question. “Major, yesterday you said you had run the numbers on all
U.S. aircraft. But nowhere did you mention the F-111. Did your research cover that aircraft? If so, what conclusions did you
draw?”

Boyd clicked the slide projector. His final slide was an E-M diagram of the F-111. Boyd did not speak. The general and his
staff had seen enough E-M diagrams in the past two days to grasp the implications of the F-111 display. Even so, they studied
the solid-red slide and then looked at Boyd in disbelief.

Boyd gave them the numbers that showed how at any altitude, any speed, any G-load, any part of the flight-performance envelope,
the F-111 was inferior to the Soviet threat. If the F-111 faced a MiG, it would be shot down. Period. End of story. The F-111
was, in the traditional phrase of fighter pilots, a dog.

The general thought for a moment. Maybe there was something the charts did not reveal, something he could salvage. “Major,
based on your extensive research, do you have any recommendations regarding this aircraft?”

Boyd did not miss a beat. “General, I’d pull the wings off, install benches in the bomb bay, paint the goddamn thing yellow,
and turn it into a high-speed line taxi.”

Sweeney’s acceptance of Boyd’s briefing meant E-M had the imprimatur of the Air Force high command. In the coming months Boyd
briefed a series of four-stars, the USAF Scientific Advisory Board, and the secretary of the Air Force. When he briefed the
Air Force Science and Engineering Symposium, a convocation that lasted almost a week and included dozens of the best briefers
in the Air Force, he was given the award for having the best presentation. Boyd even briefed the president’s Scientific Advisory
Board, the most respected and one of the most influential groups of scientists in America. It was an extraordinary streak
of high-level briefings for anyone; for a major it was unprecedented.

Boyd was a model of decorum during these briefings. The Air Force chief of staff sent down an order that he not include the
F-111 slide in any of the briefings and that he particularly leave out the comment about turning it into a line taxi. Boyd
complied, and with Christie’s calming influence, his briefings became slightly more decorous.

The briefing to the president’s Scientific Advisory Board is noteworthy in several respects, the most obvious being that there
is no higher body to which a technical brief can be presented. Nevertheless, Boyd embroidered the event in a way that perhaps
reveals his deep insecurities. He wanted people to think he hosed one of America’s preeminent scientists.

It began when one of the scientists took a long look at the basic E-M diagram and saw what appeared to be an anomaly. On a
standard day the temperature at sea level is fifty-nine degrees Fahrenheit and the speed of sound is 1,117 feet per second.
For each 1,000-foot increase in altitude, temperature decreases at three point five degrees and speed of sound decreases at
about four feet per second, until the tropopause at about 36,000 feet. At this altitude the temperature is minus sixty-eight
degrees and the speed of sound is 971 feet per second. Upward from the tropopause, these values remain constant until about
one hundred twenty-three thousand feet. At the point where the values stop changing and become constant, there is a bump in
the E-M diagrams. The bump is called the “tropospheric discontinuity” and is well known among scientists.

But when Boyd displayed the diagram, one member of the board affected a “gotcha” air and queried Boyd about the bump. The
scientist’s attitude was condescending and gave the impression that if such a fundamental flaw was obvious up front, how could
anything from this upstart fighter pilot be believed?

Christie was present and says Boyd was taken aback that one of America’s top scientists was ignorant enough of atmospheric
physics to ask such a question. Nevertheless, he was respectful and courteous. He knew this was a tremendous opportunity to
advance the cause of E-M. But when Boyd later told the story, he said he answered, “Sir,
everyone
knows the troposphere is here and that it accounts for this discontinuity.” And he said that when he and Christie emerged
from the briefing, he turned to Christie and said, “Guess I hosed that dumb son of a bitch.”

On April 4, 1965, forty-eight F-105s attacked the Thanh Hoa Bridge in North Vietnam. They attacked in flights of four. One
flight was holding over the initial point ten miles south of the bridge when it was bounced by four MiGs. The F-105s fled.
One pilot could not
shake a pursuing MiG and in desperation flat-plated his bird and caused his pursuer to overshoot. Later the pilot told debriefers
he had never done the maneuver before.

Two other F-105s were shot down by cannon fire.

When four MiGs attack four F-105s and the score is 2–0 in favor of the MiGs, people at the highest levels in the Pentagon
want to know what the hell is going on. How can the U.S. Air Force so decisively lose an air-to-air engagement with MiGs?
Was the problem with the pilots, the aircraft, or the tactics?

Several months later four F-105s were lost in a single strike against a surface-to-air missile (SAM) site.

Boyd and Christie were summoned to the Pentagon.

One Saturday morning they marched down the long halls to the E-Ring office of Dr. John Foster, the third-ranking official
in the Department of Defense and the man responsible for all research and technology as well as for developing and testing
new weapons.

Boyd showed Foster how and why the primary Air Force aircraft in Vietnam—the F-105 and the F-4 Phantom—were the wrong aircraft
for the jobs they were doing. The F-105 was being used as an air-to-ground aircraft. The F-4C was a big, heavy, twin-engine
aircraft whose smoke trail could be seen for miles. It had no guns but was being used for air-to-air combat. Its missiles
were virtually useless in a tight turning fight. It was simply no match for a MiG. And at certain altitudes and airspeeds,
neither was the F-4.

Boyd and Christie expanded the regular E-M brief to show how woefully inadequate were America’s air-to-air missiles, the Sparrow
and the Sidewinder. The Sidewinder missed its target and plowed into the ground so often that pilots called it the “Sandwinder.”
And the Sparrow could be defeated by the simplest of avoidance maneuvers.

Foster was shaken by the briefing. It was clear America needed a new fighter aircraft.

These were heady days for Boyd. His name was becoming known throughout the Air Force, and not just as a fighter pilot, but
as a thinker, as a theoretician, as the man who developed a radical new theory. Even the Navy was using his E-M Theory. They
took his name off it, and they did not call it E-M, but it was Boyd’s work.

Given the success of E-M, Boyd had been invited to be part of the group whose job it was to develop a design for the new fighter
the Air
Force wanted to build. That group, however, was dominated by people at Wright-Pat who were so embarrassed by Boyd’s E-M work
that they made sure he had no influence. That did not matter to Boyd. If the Air Force was indeed serious about building the
new fighter, he knew what would happen. He would wait.

In addition to being recognized for his accomplishments, Boyd was becoming widely known in the Air Force as a man who could
be difficult to get along with. Sometimes it seemed he went out of his way to be obstreperous. The man just would not bend,
even on things that did not matter to most people. One example was when the Air Force launched a Zero Defects Campaign, and
the base commander at Eglin wanted every person on base to sign a pledge saying he would make no mistakes during the coming
year. Most organizations at Eglin already flew a flag saying the office was 100%
FOR ZERO DEFECTS
. But Boyd knew, as did almost everyone who signed the pledge, that he and everyone else would make mistakes. He thought Zero
Defects was a stupid idea and refused to sign. A group of lieutenants working for Christie not only followed his lead but
raised a flag that proudly proclaimed they were 100%
AGAINST ZERO DEFECTS
. Hints that people would be fired and threats of courts-martial drifted down from above. But then Boyd sent word that if
there were any retaliations he would, in his words, “create an epic shit storm.” The base commander decided it was okay to
have a few mavericks at Eglin.

Then there was the day Boyd and Christie were in the coffee shop at Eglin, talking and laughing with the easy confidence of
two men sure of their future, when in walked the civilian in charge of the computer shop. Boyd’s laughter ended and his face
became hard and angry. He stuck his cigar in his mouth, stood up, and stalked toward the civilian. Christie sensed the danger,
but it was too late to stop Boyd.

Boyd took the cigar out of his mouth and said, “Guess you heard I briefed Sweeney.”

“Yes, I did,” said the civilian.

“And Schriever, and the secretary of the Air Force, and the president’s Scientific Advisory Board, and Dr. Johnny Foster?”
Boyd’s voice rose with each addition to the list. The civilian nodded. Now people in the coffee shop were looking up and listening.

Boyd tapped the civilian in the chest. Hard. “You didn’t think my work was important enough for your goddamn computer and
now I
got four-stars calling me for briefings.” Tap. “Everybody in the Air Force has heard of energy-maneuverability.” Tap. Tap.
“You.” Tap. “Don’t.” Tap. “Know.” Tap. “Shit.” Tap.

The civilian smiled tightly and tried to step around Boyd.

Boyd pushed his cigar against the civilian’s tie. A round hole appeared and smoke blossomed. The crowd in the cafeteria stared
in shocked silence. The civilian slapped at his smouldering tie, gave Boyd a venomous look, and flounced out of the coffee
shop. Boyd was on his six and firing steadily. “You’re a loser. A fucking loser. Go on, get out of here. Run.” His raucous
laughter followed the man. As the civilian strode through the front door, Boyd stopped and shouted in a voice heard throughout
the building, “You’re a fucking loser!”