Experimentation Is
the Way to Transformation
By Chuck Myers, U.S. Navy Proceedings, September 2004
In defense acquisition, there were times when a concept for a new flying
machine progressed from idea to experimental hardware in less than a
year, and sometimes even into production within three or four years,
all without the Joint Requirements Oversight Council or turbulence or
breaking the bank.
The Quadrennial Defense Review says we need a DoD-wide reform of the
planning, programming, budgeting, and acquisition processes. It also
calls for new operational concepts, new capabilities, and an emphasis
on experimentation and training. Is anyone listening?
I remember experimentation as something we used to do a lot of, and
without great fanfare or a proclaimed national commitment to procurement.
In the mid-1950s, there always were at least a half-dozen military aviation
experiments in process. As a young test pilot, I flew the Navy XFY-1
vertical take-off/landing (VTOL) Pogo Stick. At Cornell Labs, my colleagues
were flying a machine with rotating engine nacelles; at Convair, Sam
Shannon was shooting “splash and gos” in San Diego harbor in a delta-winged
sea-based jet fighter on skis, while Don Germerad was struggling with
the big contrarotating turboprop R4Y amphibious Navy
patrol airplane. At Pax River, Victor Utgoff was testing the Martin
amphibious “supersonic” mine-laying patrol aircraft as Pete Gerard of
Ryan was showing off the jet-powered delta-winged VTOL Vertijet in front
of the Pentagon River entrance.
None of these aircraft was procured, but neither were they considered
“failed” experiments, because from them we learned a lot. During this
era, Kelly Johnson’s Skonk Works at Lockheed was designing and flying
the Mach 2 F-104 and the high-flying U-2, and beginning on the SR-71
Mach 3 reconnaissance Blackbird, all without an SPO, a MENS, a ROC,
or approval by a DSARC or a DAB.
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COURTESY J. BURTON
If the Department of Defense really wants
transformation, especially in its acquisition process, it should
revisit Kelly Johnson’s SR-71 Blackbird and Colonel John Boyd’s
Lightweight Fighter programs and examine the environment that
permitted such accomplishments.
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The diversity and level of activity kept a number of young design teams
spun up, sharp at their trade, and competitive. Termination of an experimental
program (many never progressed beyond that stage) was not a traumatic
experience for the sponsoring service or the industry—both learned and
pressed on.
The cost of these projects was less than what we spend today on program
definition or issuing and responding to a request for proposal. The
reporting obligations were minuscule compared to today. And our engineers
generally were limited to slide rules for calculations. So, logically,
one might assume that with today’s technology, we should outperform
those ancient design cadres, that is, we should get it done quicker,
better, and for less cost.
At this point, it is fair to ask: What the hell happened?
In 1962, I hung up my test pilot “g-suit” and came to Washington as
an aerospace contractor. Little did I know I was entering the scene
at the beginning of a period of “unintended transformation” of the defense
acquisition process.
In those “good old days,” I could ride a cab to the entrance of the
Pentagon and walk in without an ID, usually getting to visit whoever
it was I wanted to see, and without an appointment. The popular contractor
martini and crab salad lunch was five minutes away at the Windjammer
Club atop the Marriott. Military and Defense guests abounded; everybody
seemed to have time for fun as well as serious discussion, even the
big guys.
With little warning, acquisition management became less fun. Secretary
of Defense Robert McNamara was tasked by President John Kennedy to alter
the process and product of defense acquisition. His spending guidance
was to ensure the taxpayer got the most bang per buck—an invitation
for “cost effectiveness (C/E) analysis,” a nightmare to military and
industrial leaders who had grown up in a “requirements/procurement by
the seat of your pants” process. Along with C/E came life-cycle costing
and the Programming, Planning, and Budgeting System criteria for program
definition and funding justification. The services’ and industry’s response
was to create their own systems analysis organizations to reconfigure
“requirements” into acceptable C/E format and vernacular. The comfortable
“gut feel” expressions of operational requirements began to reappear
as irrevocable formulas that could not comfortably be altered once supported
by a ton of computer printout.
In the research-and-development “playpen” of the 1950s, do you think
we knew how our favorite project was going to turn out? Did we have
a clue about the probable life-cycle cost of an envisioned system or
could we explain where it was going to fit within the total force capability
for the next 30 years? Are you kidding?
One reason we were able to perform those fun experiments for not much
money was that there were relatively few government acquisition management
regulations or progress reports to be presented through multiple channels
and then reviewed by congressional factions, the Government Accounting
Office, the Congressional Budget Office, etc.—activity that creates
overhead, bogs down project managers, and tires/discourages creative
talent.
Behind the gates of the Lockheed Skonk Works, Kelly generally lacked
even a contract or a systems program office, and he had his own version
of security (the most effective/lowest cost I have ever witnessed; the
SR-71 was flying over the desert for three years before it was discovered).
Visitors were not welcomed. Even board members could not “drop by.”
He had no customer relations staff; he ensured minimum distraction to
his staff and insisted on low overhead. Progress reports were viewed
as a security risk. He gave no assurances about equal opportunity employment,
asked for no special consideration for management format. Is it any
wonder his aeronautical achievements are unlikely to be equaled?
Imagine what it might be like to work in an environment that invites
innovation, encourages freedom of design, promotes competition, and
rewards initiative. Now, abruptly impose an approval process that demands
precise predictions of performance, effectiveness, and future procurement
and support costs as the criteria for contract award. Might such a change
invite prevarication? We can’t know how our project is going to progress
or what it is going to cost, so the only way to keep it alive is to
concoct optimistic technical and fiscal projections. And when challenged
by the oversight analysts, we will spend valuable time creating an analysis
that mitigates or shrouds our system’s potential weaknesses. In addition,
we may feel compelled to modify the design to be responsive to the whim
of a powerful operational/technical dilettante, either civilian or military.
Such responses will increase the cost and/or reduce the utility of the
product, all in the name of program survival.
Assuming a military service can convince Congress (often a willing
partner) to buy the product that has evolved from this government-directed
research and development, and if it operates reasonably well in the
hands of the user, it might possibly be procured in large enough quantities
to yield a profit. In a worse case scenario, the producer privately
hopes it will never be exposed to a war environment, which could reveal
flaws introduced by the compromises made to keep the program alive.
After a number of years, industry and the sponsoring services learned
how to ensure continuation of a program in spite of gross cost growth
or marginal performance. The DoD program manager, with cooperation from
the prime contractor, distributes contracts to companies located in
selected congressional districts so as to garner support from Congress.
It soon becomes unthinkable to cancel an incumbent program merely because
a better idea has emerged or the threat that supported the original
need evaporated. And there is no threat of cancellation for minor blemishes
such as poor performance or cost overruns. There is a myth that defense
is a zero sum game, but there are numerous examples where additional
funds have magically materialized in the nick of time to launch an overlapping
program via insightful congressional intervention.
During 40 years in defense research and development, I have been party
to spurts of success in outmaneuvering our ponderous acquisition process:
the A-10, which evolved from the
Air Force AX program; the F-16/F/A-18 from the Air Force Lightweight
Fighter (LWF) program; and the F-117
from Project Harvey—none of which were initially in the “plan” or supported
by the acquisition cadres of the services.
The original system program office for the LWF (an experiment) was
an obscure colonel, two majors, and four other employees. The LWF request
for proposal, guided by Colonel John Boyd and the Fighter Mafia, was
25 pages, and the industry response was limited to 50. Two prime contractors
were selected from a field of five. For less than $104 million (FY75$)
total project cost, General Dynamics and Northrop each created and flight
tested (in head-to-head competition) two prototype fighters that exhibited
leading edge design, material, and control technology. The demonstrated
aircraft performance and cost were so attractive that the NATO countries
became heavily involved and the Navy eventually was badgered into participating—major
unintended accomplishments. It was a classic example of the development
and acquisition of a prime Free World weapon system for which there
was no military “requirement.” The required operational capability document
for the F-16 was not written until after production had begun.
In response to the call for transformation, I suggest a return to better
days. Those who would transform the DoD acquisition process should revisit
the SR-71, LWF, AX, and Harvey programs. Perhaps those experiences contain
the key to restoring the environment that permitted such accomplishment.
Chuck Myers served as Director for Air Warfare
from 1973 to 1978, during which time he launched Project Harvey. He
played an integral role in the creation and development of nine front-line
military aircraft: the F-14, F-15, A-10, F-16, F/A-18, EF-111, EA-6B,
F-117, and B-2. He is president of Aerocounsel, Inc., a mini think tank
in Gordonsville, Virginia.
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