Vannevar Bush's role in founding Raytheon Co. rated only a passing mention in his obituary, compared with his achievements in mobilizing US scientists for World War II and guiding the development of the atomic bomb. Yet when the Massachusetts Institute of Technology celebrated the centennial of Bush, the university's late chairman, the ceremonies included a luncheon with Raytheon executives. The reason for highlighting this footnote in Bush's career was simple: money.
MIT and Raytheon, the nation's fifth-largest defense contractor, have enjoyed a close and mutually profitable relationship ever since Bush, then an associate professor of electrical engineering, helped form the company in 1922. In the past half-century, the Lexington-based company has donated $ 4.7 million to MIT, more than to any other university. Over the same period, partly by commercializing MIT innovations, Raytheon has grown into Massachusetts' largest employer.
MIT administrators used Vannevar Bush's birthday as a pretext to tap Raytheon again. Professor Harvey Sapolsky organized the May 1991 lunch at the MIT faculty club. A political scientist, Sapolsky runs the university's defense and arms-control studies program. Although the program specializes in objective analysis of national security issues, it received nearly 10 percent of its $ 1 million budget from the defense industry. By wining and dining his Raytheon guests, Sapolsky hoped to entice them to contribute $ 20,000 to the program.
Joel Moses, dean of the MIT School of Engineering, also attended the lunch. He had a far more ambitious goal than Sapolsky and offered a more tangible return to Raytheon. Moses was asking for $ 675,000 over three years to establish a Raytheon research fund. Under his proposal, Raytheon would give $ 225,000 to each of three faculty projects. If everything worked out, Raytheon could someday develop the faculty research into lucrative products.
A third MIT representative walked into the faculty club with mixed emotions. Theodore Postol had joined the MIT faculty in 1989.
The Raytheon delegates were still basking in the afterglow of the Gulf War. Raytheon's Patriot missile had become the symbol of the US-led coalition's high-tech triumph.
The Patriot had been an unlikely hero. Designed almost a quarter-century earlier, its intended target had shifted over the years from enemy missiles to aircraft and back again. Only the influence of former House Speaker Thomas P. O'Neill Jr. had saved the Patriot from being shelved in the late 1970s.
When Iraq invaded Kuwait in August 1990, the United States had only three PAC-2s, the newest Patriots adapted to counter Soviet missiles. (PAC stands for Patriot Antitactical Missile Capability.) Raytheon employees worked overtime to produce 500 PAC-2s by the start of the war, in January 1991.
During the war, Patriot batteries were deployed in both Saudi Arabia and Israel. Television footage of Patriots streaking into Middle Eastern skies riveted an entire nation. Encouraged by TV commentators and Pentagon briefers, American viewers accepted the fuzzy yellow fireworks as proof that the Patriots were blasting incoming Iraqi Scud missiles.
On January 30, 1991, Gen. Norman Schwarzkopf, commander of the coalition forces, said that Patriots had aimed at 33 Scud missiles and shot down all of them. Touring Raytheon's Andover plant on February 15, President George Bush, who is not related to Vannevar, proclaimed, "Forty-two Scuds engaged, 41 intercepted" and "Thank God for the Patriot missile."
On March 13, the Army raised the tally to 45 out of 47. On April 25, Raytheon issued its score card: Patriot had destroyed just under 90 percent of Scuds in Saudi Arabia and 50 percent in Israel.
By then, at the request of the House Armed Services Committee, Postol had conducted his own analysis. His testimony before the committee on April 16 caused a furor. According to Postol, Patriot had been little more than a placebo that calmed our allies' nerves. By helping to keep Israel out of the war, Patriot had served a valuable political function, but it had not saved lives or prevented buildings from being smashed into rubble. It was possible, Postol said, that "if we had not attempted to defend against Scuds, the level of resulting damage would be no worse than what actually occurred."
With those words, Postol had committed himself to a crusade that would puncture the Patriot myth, tarnish the credibility of Raytheon and the Army, and leave MIT vulnerable to charges of valuing corporate donations more than academic freedom. Nor would Postol emerge unscathed. In a furious counterattack, Raytheon would impugn his credentials, challenge his data, and push to have his security clearance removed.
No hint of future strife marred the luncheon at the faculty club. The guest speaker was Raytheon's archivist, who described how Vannevar Bush and two friends founded the American Appliance Co., Raytheon's precursor, to make refrigerators.
Postol chatted with Raytheon officials, who did not mention his testimony. Then, on his way out, Postol introduced himself to Moses, whom he had never met. According to Postol, the dean said he had heard Postol's name from Raytheon. The company was upset with Postol's testimony, Moses said, and the flap was hampering negotiations for the research fund.
Moses has a different memory. He denies saying that Raytheon had complained about Postol. But he does recall commenting that Postol's criticism of Patriot showed "bad timing."
"I took it as an attempt to pressure me," Postol says.
If Moses meant to muzzle Postol, he picked the wrong professor. The 47-year-old Postol is a classic whistle-blower - or, to be more precise, a missile-blower. "He is persistent," concedes Raytheon chairman and chief executive officer Dennis J. Picard. "I give him credit."
Postol rarely dons a jacket or tie, preferring to leave his shirt half-open and cuffs unbuttoned. But when it comes to his research, he prides himself on being thorough and meticulous. Wherever he goes, his left shirt pocket bulges with an arsenal of tools: two 6-inch clear plastic rulers, a list of math formulas and physics constants, a penlight, a drafting pen, a knife, a pointer, a mechanical pencil, and an eraser.
A self-described obsessive, Postol expects the same perfectionism from everyone else in his workplace. If his co-workers let him down, he lets them know it. On arriving at MIT, Postol was assigned an administrative assistant who lacked enthusiasm for her work and took frequent coffee breaks. When she declined to arrange hotel and airplane reservations for a guest speaker in a seminar series, on the grounds that it was outside her job description, Postol tried to have her fired. She responded by filing a sexual-harassment charge against him with the university. Postol, who acknowledges telling a couple of off-color jokes in her presence, was reprimanded by MIT. The assistant soon quit her job and moved to New York.
Earlier in Postol's career, disagreements with management hastened his departures from Argonne National Laboratory, in Illinois, where he worked as a postdoctoral appointee and an assistant physicist from 1975 to 1980, and from the Office of Technology Assessment, in Washington, D.C., where from 1980 to 1982 he researched and co-wrote an influential study of MX missile basing. He was happier working as an adviser to the chief of naval operations, from 1982 to 1984, but even there he questioned authority. Rushing through the Pentagon to a meeting, he was stopped by a guard clearing the corridor for a visiting dignitary. Rather than take another route to his meeting, Postol argued so strenuously that he was arrested and fined $ 25.
"Ted is the type of person who takes his work incredibly seriously, almost with missionary zeal," says Carnegie Mellon University professor Nancy Lubin, who worked with him at the Office of Technology Assessment. "He's incredibly frustrated with incompetence and inefficiency. He can be brilliant to work with or really difficult. That's led to so many dramatic exits from jobs."
In a field where most experts are either doves or hawks, Postol delights in confounding both factions. A registered Independent, he has opposed government secrecy and the Strategic Defense Initiative. Yet he was an early advocate of military force against Iraq, rather than economic sanctions. And in a profession where outside income and access to classified data depend on buttering up industry and government, the "secretary of offense," as a colleague once nicknamed Postol, refuses to compromise. He's that rarest of creatures, an MIT tenured professor with no consulting income.
"I wouldn't call myself idealistic, but I recognize that the world functions on a different set of values than I do," Postol says. "I'm always disappointed, but I'm not surprised."
In 1988, when Postol was a senior research associate at Stanford University, a congressional committee asked him to investigate Lockheed Corp.'s contention that its ERIS (Exo-Atmospheric Reentry Vehicle Intercept System) missile, if located in North Dakota, could defend the entire continental United States from nuclear attack. Postol's calculations showed that ERIS could indeed protect the United States - except for the East and West coasts.
Although John Harvey, a Stanford colleague, urged him to discuss his conclusions privately with Lockheed, Postol went public. When other studies confirmed his findings, Lockheed withdrew its claims - and, presumably, any intention of hiring Postol as a consultant. "Ted is like a dog that gets your pants leg and won't let go," Harvey says.
Postol would not let go of the Patriot, either. In January he renewed his attack in International Security, a peer-review journal sponsored by Harvard. Relying on television footage and Israeli informants, Postol criticized Patriot's "almost total failure to intercept quite primitive attacking missiles."
Intrigued by the article, the House Government Operations Committee sent staffers and congressional researchers to the Army's Patriot program office, in Huntsville, Alabama, in February for a two-day briefing. The visitors soon realized that the claims of Patriot prowess were based on scanty and conflicting data, and that Raytheon officials had assisted the Army in judging the missile. Back in Washington, the committee decided to investigate the Patriot's performance, and the Army agreed to dig up more evidence.
"I had thought almost all our questions would be answered," says Steven Hildreth, of the Congressional Research Service, who was part of the delegation to Huntsville. "Instead, there were more questions."
Such questions alarmed the Army and Raytheon, both of which depended on the Patriot as a weapon against budget cuts and layoffs. Despite post-Cold War pressure to slice defense spending, the Patriot's success prompted Congress to hike funding for tactical missile defense from $ 398 million in fiscal 1991 to $ 858 million in fiscal 1992. Congress also authorized deploying 100 missiles in North Dakota by 1996.
Patriot's glory lifted Raytheon's stock and sales. After spending $ 14.5 billion on Patriot development and production, the United States had bought its last PAC-2, but orders were pouring in from abroad: 22 for Saudi Arabia, 10 for Turkey, six for Kuwait. Israel wanted its third Patriot gh Altitude Area Defense) and ERINT (Extended Range Interceptor). It was unlikely that all of these systems would be produced, and adverse publicity might hurt Patriot's chances.
With so much at stake, Raytheon sought to defuse Postol's article before it was even published. After being shown advance selections by reporters seeking comment, Raytheon officials asked International Security's editorial board for an opportunity to respond in the same issue. Told that the company could not reply until the following issue, Raytheon bought the periodical's mailing list and sent a rebuttal to 4,200 subscribers.
"Sea Goddess Feeding Young," a framed pen-and-ink drawing by Postol, hangs in his bathroom. His work also adorns other rooms in the third-floor Cambridge condo he shares with Kathy Beckman, a Fidelity Investments analyst. Postol, who once had a show of his drawings at Wellesley College, says he's given up art because he can't stand artists. Instead, he uses his fine eye for detail to diagram Patriots and Scuds for lecture audiences.
Postol has added three upstairs dormers to his condo, despite objections from neighbors on the first and second floors of the three-decker, who went to City Hall to delay his variance. Postol, who owns the back yard, retaliated against what he regards as Cambridge snobbery by building an 8-foot-high fence, blocking the view from their decks. "We call it the Berlin Wall," one neighbor says.
Postol believes his combative personality may be linked to a deep-rooted anger at his father. The second of three children of Mitchell and Mona Postol, he grew up in Coney Island, a Jewish immigrant section of Brooklyn. Postol evinces no nostalgia for his childhood. Even in the crib, he says, he was beaten by his father, a welder at the now-defunct Brooklyn Navy Yard. His mother, who worked in an Army data communications center, protected him as best she could.
Her brother, Seymour Hayden, became Postol's mentor. A math professor at Clark University, in Worcester, Hayden also did classified work as an Air Force cryptographer. Now a professor emeritus at the City University of New York, he's not surprised by his nephew's outspokenness. "It's just not in his nature to let anything go that he thinks is important," Hayden says.
A star lineman in high school football, Postol discovered the joys of physics when he attended Worcester Polytechnic Institute for a year. He then transferred to MIT, which he expected to be a haven for sensitive souls. Instead, his fraternity brothers valued coolness and social charm, and Postol seethed when they blackballed an intelligent but nerdy applicant.
Exempted from military service because of an eye ailment, Postol neither fought nor protested the Vietnam War. But campus debates over MIT's weapons development sparked his interest in arms control. So did seminars conducted by faculty members who had helped build the atomic bomb. Shocked that they had not anticipated the horror of Hiroshima, Postol would later write pioneering articles that graphically detailed the probable effects of a nuclear attack on American cities.
At his next stop, Argonne National Laboratory, Postol joined a group of physicists who lectured and lobbied against the arms race. He made contacts in the media, including Samuel H. Day Jr., editor of Bulletin of the Atomic Scientists.
In 1978, Day became managing editor of The Progressive, a monthly magazine published in Wisconsin. He asked Postol and three other physicists - they became known as the Argonne Four - to review a draft of an article by Howard Morland about government secrecy and the hydrogen bomb. They felt that the article was harmless, but the federal government thought differently. Arguing that Morland's article would teach other countries how to build an H-bomb, the government moved in March 1979 to suppress its publication.
After a protracted legal battle, the US government would drop the case, conceding that the contents of Morland's article were already in the public domain. The Progressive's victory would be heralded as a triumph for democracy. But early on, few scientists, even liberals, would risk their clearances by backing the magazine.
Postol never hesitated. He defended the Morland article in an affidavit, and he crisscrossed the country, drumming up support from fellow physicists. He riled government officials by contending in a letter to Congress that an unclassified document they had filed in the case revealed more about building an H-bomb than Morland had. The government classified Postol's letter and sent security officers to seize his copy of it. He refused to hand it over, nearly precipitating a constitutional crisis. Finally, by court order, the guards escorted Postol to a neutral file cabinet, where he deposited the letter for safekeeping.
In 1981, the Argonne Four wrote Born Secret, a history of the case. "Ted made the essential difference," says Day, now a free-lance writer. "Without him, we would not have been able to withstand the government's assault."
In 1982, Postol shocked his buddies from The Progressive by joining the Reagan administration as a naval adviser. "We made jokes about Ted selling out to the Pentagon," Day says.
For one of the few times in his life, Postol compromised his ideals, stamping "secret" on bland memos. "It's what most people did," Postol says. "It seemed a small concession to make. I was very interested in being accepted by the people I was working with. I needed acceptance to be effective."
Back in academia, Postol would tangle again with the secrecy police. After Postol's article attacking Patriot was published in International Security, Raytheon targeted the clearance that enabled him to stay abreast of classified weapons research. The company complained to the Army that Postol, who had attended two secret briefings about the Patriot, had used classified data in his critique. Raytheon officials say they had a responsibility to report their suspicions.
The Army agreed with Raytheon that Postol had betrayed classified data and forwarded the charge to a Pentagon branch called Defense Investigative Services. DIS ordered Postol not to discuss his article, or he would lose his security clearance.
The DIS action fit the Bush administration's pattern of punishing Gulf War whistle-blow. This past February, the Pentagon fired scientist Aldric Saucier, who had complained about waste and mismanagement in the Star Wars program. Two months later, the Army removed Saucier's security clearance.
In March, the Census Bureau gave notice to a demographer, Beth Osborne Daponte, who had provided the media with her estimate of Iraqi deaths in the Gulf War. The bureau later backed down in the face of support for Daponte from her fellow demographers and threats of legal action.
Public outrage rescued Postol as well. When DIS tried to silence him, he appealed to the House Government Operations Committee, which invited him to testify. After Postol accused Raytheon and the Army of using secrecy rules to harass him, an embarrassed DIS dropped the charges, acknowledging that he could have developed his article from public information.
But the threats to Postol's clearance did not end there. He maintained his access to classified data through clearances held by his ex-employer, the Office of Technology Assessment, and Mitre Corp., in Bedford, a nonprofit laboratory specializing in defense research. This past March, OTA officials received what they describe as a routine Pentagon notice that Postol needed a background check to renew his clearance. Even though US Rep. John Conyers Jr., chairman of the Government Operations Committee, warned OTA officials not to "become an unwitting party to any efforts to punish a scientist for holding views contrary to the Department of Defense," they dropped Postol's clearance, on the grounds that they had not used him as a consultant for years.
Postol's views on Patriot have strained his relations with Mitre, especially with trustee and ex-president Charles Zraket. Zraket, whose brother works in Raytheon's Andover plant, portrays Postol as a "highly competent scientist" on a calculated campaign against the company. "I found it irresponsible for him to attack Patriot on the basis of trashy evidence," Zraket says. "Even if Patriot operated at 40 percent success, it was better than any air defense system in history."
According to Zraket, the Army asked Mitre to investigate whether Postol had used classified data obtained there. Mitre determined that he had not broken any rules and allowed him to retain his clearance.
Yet the laboratory has lowered its support for MIT's defense and arms-control studies program, in which Postol teaches, from $ 20,000 to $ 15,000. Zraket describes the cutback as part of an overall belt-tightening at Mitre, not a reprisal. "Postol has been very well treated by Mitre," Zraket says.
Mitre's actions were restrained compared with those of Martin Marietta, the subcontractor on the Patriot, which reduced its gift to Postol's program from $ 20,000 in fiscal 1991 to zero in fiscal 1992. A company spokesman says that the 1991 donation had always been intended as a one-time gift.
One of Sherlock Holmes' maxims helps explain the acclaim for Patriot during the Gulf War. "We see," the fictional detective said, "but we do not observe."
George Lewis is an exception to Holmes' rule. In the spring of 1991, soon after the faculty club lunch, Postol's assistant set his video cassette recorder at home to tape any programs about the war. One day, he noticed cable footage of what the television announcer described as two Patriots destroying a Scud. Lewis observed differently: The Patriots had missed.
Lewis played the segment for Postol, who called ABC in New York. It assembled for him a reel of Patriot-Scud videotapes. "I was stunned," Postol says. "I saw very large miss distances, Patriots diving into the ground, Patriots going less than a kilometer in the air before self-destructing."
From then on, the television footage that had launched Patriot's fame would form the crux of Postol's case for the missile's failure. And Patriot defenders who once exulted in video glory would argue that the tapes were meaningless.
During the war, analysts say, 158 Patriot missiles were fired at 47 Iraqi Scuds, including 17 in Israel and 30 in Saudi Arabia. (An additional 35 to 40 Scuds were not attacked, because they were so far off course that they appeared likely to land harmlessly in desert or sea. On February 25, due to a software error, a Patriot battery failed to fire at a Scud that blew up a US barracks in Saudi Arabia, killing 28 military personnel.)
Postol, who has reviewed tapes of more than a dozen engagements between Patriots and Scuds, says they show only three instances in which pellets fired from Patriot warheads may have hit Iraqi missiles. Even in those cases, he doubts that the pellets detonated the Scud warheads.
According to Postol, Patriot's computer system sometimes selected the wrong point to intercept the Scud, causing Patriot to self-destruct or hit the ground. In other cases, Scuds fragmented on their own as they plummeted, and their warheads corkscrewed unpredictably. The Patriots chased the Scud debris or aimed at the warheads but missed.
Also, the Iraqis had modified their Soviet-made Scuds to increase range and speed. Designed to defeat the slower models, Patriots often fired too late, missing the Scud or hitting the rear rather than the warhead.
Peter Zimmerman, of the Center for Strategic and International Studies, in Washington, which is partially funded by Raytheon, says that Patriot was not too slow; the television cameras were. A Patriot could intercept a Scud between frames. By the next frame, the Patriot would apppear to have passed its target.
Zimmerman's argument has persuaded Hildreth, the congressional researcher who calls the videotapes "worthless." But other analysts note that, while Zimmerman does raise questions about several apparent near misses on the videotapes, he has trouble explaining why, if the Scuds were destroyed, the following frames appear to show them plunging to earth and exploding. Also, casting doubt on a miss is a long way from proving a hit.
Videotape guesswork might have been unnecessary if Patriots had carried data recorders. But when a recorder was plugged into a Patriot in Israel, the missile's computer system locked up and was unable to fire. Although a few Patriots in Israel used the recorders without further problems, the US commander in Saudi Arabia would not take the risk.
When David Boeri, a reporter for WCVB-TV in Boston, became interested in Patriot this past January, he called Raytheon. According to Boeri, Patrick Coulter, the company's director of media relations and advertising, told him that Postol had no doctorate and was not a physicist. (Coulter denies making the statements.) Boeri checked and found that Postol had received a doctorate from MIT in 1975 and had published widely in physics journals.
Coulter's charges were part of an aggressive Raytheon campaign to discredit Postol in the media. When Boeri's report on the Patriot debate featured an interview with Postol, company executives contacted anchor man Chet Curtis. They complained that Postol's videotapes, as shown in the segment, had been doctored to depict Patriot misses - a charge that Postol denies and Boeri labels "outrageous."
When Boeri followed with a piece on Raytheon's allegations and Postol's rebuttal, company officials went to see news director Emily Rooney. Rooney says they convinced her that the station's coverage relied too much on Postol and should not have given him the last word. Nevertheless, Boeri plans to stay on the story.
Raytheon executives have also depicted Postol as a mouthpiece for Israelis who allegedly want to undermine Patriot in order to create a foreign market for their own Arrow missile. "The Israelis have trouble with Patriot," says Picard, the Raytheon chairman. "If you improve it too much, you don't need Arrow."
Yet the Arrow missile depends on US funding and good will, which an Israeli whispering campaign against Patriot would jeopardize. Also, Reuven Pedatzur, an Israeli journalist with whom Postol has collaborated, says he opposes Arrow as too expensive.
Shortly after the House Government Operations Committee opened its hearing on the results of its Patriot investigation on April 7, Republican Rep. Frank Horton took aim at Postol. "Who first raised these questions about Patriot?" thundered Horton, of Rochester, New York. "Was it senior US Army officials intimately involved with the development, design, and operation of the program? No, it was not. Was it soldiers who risked their lives, operating the system in the field? Or their commanders, who did likewise? No, it was not. . . . Who is it, then, that caused the Army, Raytheon" - Horton pronounced it Ray-e-thon - "and, ultimately, the American taxpayer to spend a few million dollars trying to prove exactly for this committee Patriot's Gulf War performance rates?"
Horton's punch line dripped with disdain: "It was an MIT scientist."
Yet such attacks could not deflect the mounting criticism of the Bush administration's Gulf War claims. Since the war, government-fed myths have burst like balloons at a birthday party. A bipartisan congressional report found that coalition forces were facing only 183,000 Iraqi troops at the start of the ground war, not the 500,000 estimated by the Pentagon. The Washington Post reported that the Stealth fighter plane and the Tomahawk cruise missile hit fewer targets than military officials had claimed. Last month, the Pentagon acknowledged that US planes had destroyed only 12 of Iraq's 48 Scud launchers - not the 30 or more previously claimed by military commanders.
At the Government Operations Committee hearing, which was closely watched by several countries that were considering buying Patriots, the MIT scientist held his ground. And the Army retreated.
Raytheon and the Army had wanted their spokesmen to testify first. Although Raytheon has given almost $ 550,000 to members of Congress since 1986, the committee withstood the lobbying.
Hildreth, the congressional researcher, opened the hearing by contending that the Army had solid evidence for only one Patriot hit. Next, Postol and Reuven Pedatzur clashed for three hours with Zraket and Zimmerman.
Coming last, Army officials made significant concessions. Acknowledging for the first time that nine haywire Patriots had exploded in or near populated areas, they also lowered their estimate of Patriot's success to more than 70 percent of Scud engagements in Saudi Arabia and more than 40 percent in Israel.
Even those percentages looked shaky. The Army conceded that it had "high-confidence" data for only 40 percent of the Patriot hits it was claiming. In raw numbers, out of 47 engagements with Scuds, the government could document only 11 Patriot successes.
Furthermore, the Army had broadened its definition of success. It now included not only interceptions in which the Scud warhead was destroyed - the only kind that Israel counts as a hit - but also those in which the Scud was damaged or diverted to a less populated area, or landed intact but did not explode. Postol contends that Iraqi missile-design flaws, rather than the Patriot, accounted for this last category of Scud duds.
The Army also cannot explain why Patriot would fare better in Saudi Arabia than in Israel. Robert Stein, manager of advanced air defense systems programs for Raytheon, says that Israel used untrained operators and erred in switching from automatic to manual mode. But US Army Gen. David Heebner, who commanded Patriot batteries in Israel, says Stein unfairly generalizes from one instance, in which a command to fire may have been given too late.
A more likely explanation is that Patriot performed the same in both countries, but that success in Saudi Arabia is inflated because of the country's vast deserts. If Scuds landed in the desert, and a perfunctory search tlue. Next time, Patriot may face a missile more advanced than the Scud, a version of the Nazi V-2 rocket.
By the same token, Raytheon plans to increase the system's range and accuracy - an upgrade that its foremost critic agrees would be worthwhile. While Postol says that an offensive system that uses decoys has an edge on any defense, he favors improving Patriot "to deal with adversaries who haven't thought about countermeasures."
Postol and seven other faculty members in the defense and arms-control studies program have offices in E-38, a squat MIT building with a peeling facade. By an uncomfortable coincidence, it is the same building where Vannevar Bush and friends founded Raytheon, 70 years ago.
MIT research has spurred Raytheon's growth ever since. While Bush was in Washington, marshaling American science for World War II, MIT's radiation laboratory developed microwave radar, a key advance in defense technology. The federal government chose Raytheon to produce it. And when MIT's Lincoln Laboratory - the radiation lab's successor - recently developed a radar that prevents airplane crashes by detecting wind shear, Raytheon won a $ 216 million contract from the Federal Aviation Administration to build the units in 44 civilian airports, including Logan.
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