Boyd (45 page)

Christie helped devise a plan that would bypass the three-stars. General George Brown, the Air Force chief of staff, was like
the SecDef in that he wanted to leave a legacy for his time in the Building. The greatest single desire of the Air Force was
to increase the force structure—that is, the number of wings in the Air Force. Christie
convinced Schlesinger to allow the Air Force to grow from twenty-two to twenty-six wings if the chief of staff would push
the lightweight fighter and the A-10 into production. Schlesinger insisted on one caveat: the lightweight fighter would remain
an air-to-air fighter and would not be wired for delivery of nuclear weapons.

Brown quickly accepted the plan. But he had a small problem. His three-stars were going to object. Swallowing the lightweight
fighter was bad enough, but when the ugly and ponderous A-10 was added, the medicine was too bitter for the Blue Suiters.
They might stage a bureaucratic revolt. How and when to tell them about the deal was a serious political matter.

Sprey and Christie passed the word about the deal to Boyd. Boyd was elated. His briefing with the three-stars was soon. “Can
I tell them?” he asked. Sprey and Christie saw no reason why not. The secretary had not told them to keep the agreement quiet.

On the day of his big briefing, Boyd waited in the spacious, well-appointed briefing room. He must have smiled to himself
as he watched the parade of three-stars enter the room. These were the men who made things happen in the Air Force. They,
too, must have been smiling.

One of the generals nodded and said, “Colonel, you may begin.”

Boyd picked up a wooden pointer and strode to the front of the dais. He stood on the edge, his toes curling downward, and
rapped the pointer against his palm. He nodded at the sober group of generals, paused a delicious moment, and said, “Gentlemen,
I am authorized by the secretary of defense to inform you this is not a decision brief. This briefing is for information purposes
only.”

Boyd paused a moment and let the generals absorb this. They looked at each other and then looked at Boyd. He continued. “The
secretary and the chief of staff have decided to go into production with the lightweight fighter.”

The generals sat rigidly through the briefing. There were no questions. When Boyd finished, the generals stood up and filed
out. As they left, one muttered, “That fucking Boyd.”

And the next Wednesday night at the Old Guard Room, the story was told and retold of how Boyd did a cape job on a roomful
of three-stars. He shoved his arms out as if he were holding a cape, wiggled his hands, and said, “They charged right off
the precipice.”
Two weeks later the Air Force struck back. A two-star was called to testify before a congressional committee. The Air Force
saw this as a great opportunity and convinced a congressman who was sympathetic to the military to question the two-star about
the uselessness of the lightweight fighter and then move to overrule the secretary of defense.

Answering obviously scripted questions, the two-star told Congress the lightweight fighter was not needed and that he was
not at all sure how it might be utilized. The F-15 was the airplane the Air Force wanted. The general said that the lightweight
fighter was being shoved down the throat of the Air Force by Tom Christie and the TacAir shop. The congressmen nodded and
made veiled threats against the Air Force.

Christie and Spinney and Leopold soon heard of the testimony. Leopold called Boyd and told him what happened and then grew
silent as Boyd began talking. Leopold’s eyes grew wider and wider. He put down the phone and turned to Spinney. “You won’t
believe what Boyd just said.”

“What’s that?”

“He said he was going to have to fire his first general.”

The two young captains stared at each other. The idea of a colonel firing a two-star simply could not be assimilated. Such
things do not happen in the military.

But then the SecDef called the chief of staff and asked him whether or not he was in charge of the Air Force. A few days later
the two-star was given twenty-four hours to clean out his desk and leave the Pentagon. Other Pentagon generals saw what happened
to the two-star. The Fighter Mafia had struck back and the generals could read the tea leaves. There could be no more obstacles
for the lightweight fighter. It was cleared to go into production.

That evening at happy hour, Chet Richards and a group of Marine aviators gathered around Boyd. Christie and Sprey were there,
too. Boyd looked at the faces of his friends and nodded in satisfaction. “Nobody thought I would ever get beyond major,” he
said. “But here I am a colonel.” He paused. “And I’m taking out generals.”

A few days later the Air Force made a last-ditch attempt to shoot down the lightweight fighter. A big part of Schlesinger’s
sales pitch
for the lightweight fighter, one particularly convincing to congressmen, was that NATO countries were lining up to buy it.
The Air Force moved to kill the international sales by saying the lightweight fighter was too limited in range to do anything
but defend the home drome.

At last Boyd announced the fuel fraction and range of the lightweight fighter. He added insult to injury by comparing it with
the F-15. The lightweight fighter not only had greater range than the F-15, it had greater range than any fighter in the Air
Force. Of course foreign purchasing officials were euphoric, while Air Force generals reeled in shock.

One bewildered general called Boyd in and said, “I thought this was a short-legged airplane. It flies farther than the F-15.”

“Well, sir, it is short-legged. It’s just that the F-15 is shorter legged.”

Now there was nothing else the Air Force could do to stop the lightweight fighter and the A-10. Both were going into production.
The Fighter Mafia had won.

For the moment.

In June, Lieutenant Colonel James Burton reported to Boyd as his new deputy. Burton was a Chosen One—a graduate of the first
class at the Air Force Academy and the first Academy graduate to attend the Air Force’s three professional schools: Squadron
Officers School, Air Command and Staff College, and Industrial College of the Armed Forces. He had a masters degree in business
and had done the course work for a masters in mechanical engineering. Every promotion had been below the zone and now he was
five years ahead of his contemporaries in the race to the top. He was a water-walker, the ultimate Zoomie, the quintessential
Blue Suiter who had the inside track at becoming general and a good shot at becoming chief of staff.

Spinney was dismayed. He thought Burton standoffish, too serious, too remote, and too much a careerist. Even though Burton
was perhaps ten years younger than Boyd, somehow he seemed older. Spinney went to Boyd and said, “Colonel, that guy is big
trouble. Don’t hire him.”

“No, he’s okay,” Boyd said. “I checked him out.”

Boyd saw something that both Spinney and Leopold had missed.

In later years people would say Boyd “converted” Spinney and Leopold and turned them from promising careers. But in truth
they were not converted; they simply never lost the principles and idealism common in most young officers. Once they raised
their hands and took an oath to serve their country, they never wavered. It was their contemporaries who were converted, who
bought into the beliefs and mores of careerists, who slowly and insidiously were corrupted by the Building. Burton was different
from Spinney and Leopold. He was not a young idealist. He was an honored member of the Brotherhood of the Building. But Boyd
sensed that Burton had an unbending spirit, an uncompromising heart, and a backbone forged of carbon steel. He looked into
Burton’s eyes and saw a man with the persistence of a rutting moose. He knew that rarely is a Blue Suiter turned around. But
if it happens, and if all the virtues that drove Jim Burton so fast on the road to
being
someone could be redirected into his
doing
something, the man could change the world.

Burton was the most improbable of the Acolytes.

Now they were all together, all save one: Christie the Finagler, Sprey the Intelligent, Leopold the First, Spinney the Brash,
and Burton the Unbending. For the next decade they revolved around Boyd, asserting themselves in various degrees before coalescing
into the most powerful ad hoc group the Building had ever seen.

Burton’s conversion was slow, but when it finally came he would astonish the Acolytes as much as he astonished his Academy
classmates. He would show that one man can make a difference. He was to have an enormous impact on the Building.

But first he had to go through his trial by fire.

Burton’s parents divorced when he was young and he was raised by a grandmother. He never had a father. From as far back as
he can remember, he had the desire to accomplish things. He was president of his senior class in Normal, Illinois, and a member
of the national honor society for four years. An outstanding athlete, he was an all-conference and all-city quarterback and
earned letters in baseball and basketball. He was offered a chance to play professional baseball but instead became one of
the 10,000 Illinois candidates for the eight openings in the very first class at the Air Force Academy. There, he was captain
of the baseball team and during his junior year was third
in the nation in the college batting championship. Curtis LeMay was chief of staff when Burton graduated, and the general
saw that members of that first Academy class were given special treatment at every step in their careers. They were the Chosen
Ones.

If Spinney and Leopold looked at Burton with disdain, he looked upon Boyd and his captains with even more. “This guy is crazy,”
Burton thought. Boyd was usually late to work, was slovenly, and disobeyed orders. He referred to generals as “perfumed princes”
or “weak dicks” who would put their lives on the line for their country but not their jobs. Burton cringed when Boyd told
how he had been at a party and invited a general to hear one of his briefings and the general said, “No thanks. I don’t want
to be told how dumb I am.”

Burton was further astonished when he heard Spinney say Boyd ordered him to the Pentagon at midnight to correct a single letter
in a transparency that was to be used in a briefing the next day. Technicians in the Pentagon graphics shop hated to see Boyd
come in the door. He made them stop whatever they were doing to take care of his needs. When they complained of their workload
he said, “If there is a higher priority than mine, I’ll be glad to wait. But this is for Secretary Schlesinger.” It amazed
Burton that Boyd had back-channel dealings with Schlesinger, that it was not at all uncommon for Boyd to receive a phone call,
seize books or studies or charts, and say, “I have to go see Schlesinger.”

It is the nature of a careerist to mold and fit himself to his commanding officer. So Burton resolved to adjust. He would
try to understand Boyd and he would begin by using Leopold and Spinney as interpreters. “What does he mean by that?” became
a frequent question. Or “Why is he doing that?”

The relationship between Boyd and the two young captains was not easily fathomed. There was very little military protocol.
Leopold and Spinney joked about Boyd’s loudness, his table manners, and his other idiosyncracies. But it was clear that both
men revered Boyd. They competed for his attention and approval.

Burton came to work one July morning and found Boyd and Leopold and Spinney finishing an all-night job: drafting a one-page
letter for a general. The general wanted Boyd to write a policy letter that would give guidance in generating new ideas throughout
the Air Force. Boyd wanted more time but the general said, “I want it bad,”
and ordered Boyd to have it ready the next day. Boyd worked until about 10:00
P
.
M
., then called Leopold and Spinney at home and told them to report to work immediately; they had a big job. Leopold said,
“Yes, Sir,” and jumped into his car. But Spinney complained and said, “Why should I come down there at midnight? That’s bullshit.”
Boyd fired back, “Because you’re a fucking captain and I’m a colonel and I say get your ass down here now.” Once Leopold and
Spinney arrived, Boyd said they needed to relax before they began drafting the letter. It was hot and the Pentagon air-conditioning
was turned off. Boyd opened the windows and the three men took off their shirts. Boyd began telling stories. He told of growing
up in Erie, of burning down the hangars in Japan, of being Forty-Second Boyd, of Georgia Tech, and of how he stole a million
dollars’ worth of computer time at Eglin and then deflected the inspector general’s investigation. He told how he hosed a
big-shot civilian at Eglin and cleaned out a colonel who wouldn’t pay overtime to a secretary. He told them of his work on
the F-15 and the surrealistic stories from NKP. He had them holding their sides with laughter. After several hours of war
stories, Boyd decided everyone needed to rest. So they slept atop desks until about 5:00
A
.
M
., when Boyd awakened his charges and the three men drafted the letter. Boyd examined their work, then added a final sentence:
“After this course of action is considered, we respectfully recommend that it be disapproved.”

Spinney stared at Boyd. “We spend all night working on that and then you say it should be thrown out?”

Boyd signed the letter. “He wants it bad, he gets it bad.”

On July 27, 1974, Boyd received the last ER of his Air Force career. It was fire walled on the front side and the narrative
opened with “Colonel Boyd is a very unique and superior officer.” The ER said Boyd was “singularly responsible” for developing
the F-15 and that his E-M work formed the basis for the lightweight fighter. It said Boyd was “unique in his ability to study,
dissect, analyze and assemble ideas in a useful form so they can be transmitted into future actions.” The ER told how Boyd
was working on a Development Plan that would be the basis for developing future airplanes and technology. The ER was indorsed
by a three-star who said Boyd made an “immeasurable contribution” to the Air Force with his E-M Theory.