Skunk Works

By the summer of 1980, we were supposed to have flown the first of the five test airplanes but found ourselves way behind schedule. Too many unsolved problems kept my bean counters frazzled and worried. The first airplane’s serial number was 780—July 1980—the date of our scheduled test flight that now seemed far over the horizon.

But I took heart from the fact that our learning curve improved almost daily, that we were solving technical problems that would make future stealth projects far easier to manage. But between the Air Force brass pressuring me on one side and the concerns expressed by Lockheed management on the other, the pressures were almost at the critical mass before a blowout.

Missing that July 1980 deadline for the first flight test of the F-117 wasn’t the end of the world, but it made me apprehensive because I could not honestly report to anyone that the worst delays and problems were all behind us. Each day brought a fresh challenge or crisis, and I was doing a lot of tossing and turning instead of sleeping.

That summer of 1980 was for me the low point of my life, professionally and personally. I was working myself into a frazzle, juggling projects and problems like some lunatic circus acrobat. My meetings began not long after sunrise and my workday ended well after dark. Some days brought great news about solving a particularly tough problem. Other days, the airplane project seemed hopelessly mired in a swarm of complications. The problem-solving line forming outside my office door grew longer by the day. And I had good people who didn’t come to me for help unless they felt they had no other choice.

My wife, Faye, married to a workaholic for more than thirty years, was used to my late hours. But one night in early June she greeted me at the door looking pale and shaken, and all my problems and pressures at the Skunk Works became insignificant. She had just turned fifty and had gone in for a routine medical checkup. An ominous spot was discovered on her right lung. Faye had a long history of asthma, so bad at times that we kept a small oxygen tank at home, and I prayed that somehow that spot had something to do with her chronic asthma. No such luck. Faye was biopsied and immediately operated on for cancer. Her lung was removed. The doctor told me that he was sure he got all the cancer and that she should recover completely. She came home on August 1, and I took a week off to nurse her. Her recovery seemed slow but steady.

On Monday, August 18, I got home early. We had dinner. Afterward, we watched the news on television and Faye complained of weakness. I decided to call her doctor, but before I could get to the phone, she began struggling to breathe and started turning blue. I ran to get the oxygen. Then I gave her an injection of adrenalin, which we had kept on hand for her severe asthma attacks. She failed to respond and I ran to the phone and dialed 911.

The paramedics arrived in only minutes, but they were too late. Faye died in my arms from a massive heart attack.

I’ve blotted out the next days and weeks. I vaguely remember sobbing with my married son and daughter and receiving an emotional hug at the cemetery from Kelly Johnson, whose own wife, MaryEllen, was desperately ill from diabetes. MaryEllen and Faye were close friends, and MaryEllen was devastated by Faye’s passing.

I decided my only hope for keeping sane was to plunge immediately into my work. My younger brother, who had recently divorced, moved in with me. And on the morning I returned to work I found a piece of paper on my desk. It was from Alan Brown, who was managing the program, and written on it was the date of my next birthday—June 18, 1981. “What’s this?” I asked. “That’s the date we test-fly the airplane,” Alan replied. “The date is firm. In granite. Count on it.” I gave him a wan smile, because right then the tailpipe problem was still throwing us for a loop and flight testing seemed over the hills and far away.

But on Thursday morning, June 18, 1981, our first production-model stealth fighter took off from our base on its maiden test flight. She flew like a dream.

Postscript on a Big Hit