by Dan Parry
Next to fly were Tom Stafford and Gene Cernan aboard the ill-fated Gemini 9 flight. They had hoped to dock with a second Agena, but when it dived into the Atlantic shortly after launch it had to be hurriedly replaced with another target device which itself malfunctioned once in orbit. After its protective shroud failed to detach properly, Robert Gilruth called a meeting in Houston to discuss the problem. Buzz Aldrin, serving as Cernan's backup, suggested that Gene try to remove the shroud during an EVA – an idea that appalled Gilruth. 'What in hell did you say?' Deke asked Buzz a few days later. 'He's all pissed off at you. Said he had had great confidence in you and now he wants you taken off Gemini 12.' After Buzz explained what had happened, Deke ordered him to wait in his office. While Aldrin paced up and down, Slayton chased after Gilruth, returning three hours later. 'Everything's cool, you're on,' grunted Deke, adding, '... but listen Buzz, why don't you use me as your translator from now on?'28 Although Slayton had rescued his career, Buzz had inadvertently made things more difficult for himself. He now needed his mission to be a success more than ever – and relying on the success of a Gemini mission was a risky strategy.
While the science of rendezvous was now well understood, docking had been achieved only once, and even then it had been aborted early – and never had a range of tasks been successfully completed during an EVA. With just three flights left, NASA was struggling to achieve the objectives necessary to convince Washington and the country that it was able to fly to the Moon. As well as national prestige, billions of taxpayers' dollars were at stake.
Gemini 10 launched on 18 July 1966, and much was expected of its crew, which included Michael Collins. To the joy of those on the ground, Collins and his commander, John Young, successfully docked with an Agena in low orbit. Together the two spacecraft then climbed to a record 475 miles – higher than any previous flight. 'I don't know whether to laugh or to cry,' Collins later wrote, 'when I think of all the pioneer aviators who have aspired to this record and who have put their reputations, money and lives into seeking it, and now John and I are handed it on a platter.'29
As Collins prepared for the first of two EVAs, Mission Control urged the astronauts to talk more about what they were doing. In return they were given news of home, including an update on a game between the Houston Astros and the New York Mets. 'Jesus Christ!' an exasperated Collins later said. 'Here I am asshole deep in a 131-step EVA checklist and they want to talk about baseball! One little boo-boo at this stage of the game and all the oxygen will depart my suit and I will die, and they will be talking about the colour of the infield grass.'30 His first EVA involved taking pictures while standing up in the open hatch, and although the spacecraft was in darkness Collins found that there was 'just enough of an eerie bluish-grey glow to allow my eye to differentiate between clouds and water and land ... We are gliding across the world in total silence, with absolute smoothness.'31
Once the EVA was completed, Collins and Young rendezvoused with the Agena previously abandoned by Armstrong. Still tethered to the Gemini, Michael climbed out of the hatch and pushed himself away. 'Flying' through empty space towards the booster, Collins became the first person to meet another vehicle in orbit, and while hanging on to the Agena's docking adapter (last used by Armstrong's spacecraft four months earlier) he controlled his movements with a gas-gun similar to that used by Ed White. Although restricted by a lack of handholds, he retrieved an experimental panel which had been collecting micrometeoroids, thereby accomplishing a primary objective of the mission. Collins encountered occasional difficulties in mobility, and concerns about the spacecraft's limited fuel eventually forced him to cut short his EVA before he could complete a thorough testing of the gas-gun.
By the time Gemini 10 returned to Earth, NASA could show that the difficulties of rendezvous and docking had been mastered, yet still EVA remained a worrying challenge. During the next mission, Dick Gordon's space walk had to be brought to an early halt after he began to grow increasingly tired. This left it to the final flight in the programme to accomplish the last of Gemini's objectives. It would be down to Buzz.
As he and his commander, Jim Lovell, approached Guenter Wendt, moments before boarding their spacecraft in November 1966, a home-made sign on Lovell's back read simply 'The', and another on Aldrin's said 'End'. In the hope of avoiding any further EVA problems, Buzz was required to complete a series of basic mobility tasks which he considered as 'nothing more than the average suburban handyman might perform in his garage on a Saturday afternoon'.32 A monkey could carry out such tasks, Buzz felt, on one occasion going so far as to ask those around him for a banana. (Later in Houston, Buzz recalled, 'parties unknown to me kept a supply of bananas in my office'.33) His principal task was to demonstrate that he could operate easily while weightless. During preparations for Gemini 10, a facility in Baltimore had shown that by training under water an astronaut could replicate some of the conditions of weightlessness. Collins didn't make use of this, being far advanced into his training programme, and Gordon felt the same way. When Aldrin discovered what was possible in the pool he spent much time practising under water, becoming the first astronaut to train substantially for his mission in this way.
Although Buzz was frustrated by the lack of a more challenging objective, he looked forward to the chance to participate personally in a rendezvous. Shortly after arriving in space the vehicle's radar failed, and Aldrin – the master of rendezvous techniques - suddenly found himself blessed with an opportunity to show the world that all his hard work on the subject was not just an obsessive pursuit but was of practical application. Aldrin had brought with him the charts he had spent years working on, both at MIT and later in support of the pioneering rendezvous mission achieved by Geminis 6 and 7. Using these, and a sextant, he was able to guide Lovell towards a manual rendezvous with their Agena target vehicle. Later, during his EVA, Buzz successfully manoeuvred himself over to the Agena, as Collins and Gordon had done before him. But his underwater training paid off, and after comfortably returning to the spacecraft he felt fresh and alert. Later, during his next task, he unpacked equipment stowed at the rear of the vehicle – finding along the way a bright yellow picture of a banana – before methodically tackling the rest of his objectives. Working '160 miles above the surface of the Earth there was no awareness of height at all', Buzz later remembered. 'I was secure and comfortable – though encumbered – in the spacesuit. I felt enclosed and safe.'34 Aldrin went on to complete a flawless EVA lasting more than two hours. Two further EVAs, performed while standing in the open hatch, were also successful, and by leaning out of the spacecraft Buzz could all but hear the huge sigh of relief on the ground. He spent a total of five hours and 26 minutes exposed to the vacuum of space, all the while calmly controlling his mobility.
Aldrin had flown into space fearful of being doubted by Gilruth and Slayton; he came back a man NASA needed to get the job done. Dr Rendezvous, who on occasion had been a subject of amusement among his colleagues, had demonstrated prowess in space, and in the Astronaut Office nothing counted for more. Gilruth was delighted. At the post-flight party he told Joan how pleased he was, both with the rendezvous charts Buzz had prepared and with the overall success of the EVAs. For Buzz, 'those were the very words I needed to hear'.35 Project Gemini had ended on the triumphant note all involved had hoped for, not least Aldrin. All the years of hard work, all the misunderstandings, all the frustration and tension had culminated in a clamour of achievement that was a defining moment in his life.
But amid the sense of relief was something else. 'I felt an almost overwhelming sense of fatigue mixed with a vague sadness,' Buzz later said. 'I yearned for sleep so strongly.' He was unable to leave his bed for five days, at the time blaming exhaustion. In truth, he missed the signs of something more sinister that was to haunt him in the years to come.36
Chapter 5
NOWHERE TO HIDE
After retrieving the lunar module the crew began a series of housekeeping tasks, starting with a three-s
econd test of the powerful engine attached to the service module. Although the TLI burn had accelerated them to more than 24,000mph, for thousands of miles to come they would be flying against the Earth's gravitational pull which began to slow them down the moment the burn finished. If the Earth had its way, sooner or later they would fall back into the atmosphere. When Collins took control of the spacecraft, 20 minutes after TLI, they were 3,000 miles out and already down to 18,000mph. But although the vehicle was slowing down, the burn had pushed it to such a speed that eventually it would be able to break free of the Earth's hold, allowing the crew to coast towards outer space. They were banking on the Moon intersecting their journey but there was a long way to go before they would know whether the calculations they were relying on were correct.
The empty third stage, still travelling behind them, threatened to follow them all the way. To avoid a risk of collision, at four hours and 41 minutes into the flight signals were transmitted from the ground sending the last remaining section of the Saturn booster towards a path around the Sun.1 While this was happening, the crew had a chance to update Mission Control on what they could see. In Houston (an hour behind the Cape), it was 1.24pm.
Armstrong: 'Well, we didn't have much time, Houston, to talk to you about our views out the window when we were preparing for LM[lunar module] ejection. But up to that time, we had the entire northern part of the lighted hemisphere visible, including North America, North Atlantic, and Europe and Northern Africa. We could see that the weather was good all – just about everywhere. There was one cyclonic depression in northern Canada, in the Athabasca – probably east of Athabasca area. Greenland was clear, and it appeared to be we were seeing just the icecap in Greenland. All North Atlantic was pretty good; and Europe and Northern Africa seemed to be clear. Most of the United States was clear. There was a low – looked like a front stretching from the centre of the country up across north of the Great Lakes and into Newfoundland.'
Houston: 'Roger. We copy.'
Collins: 'I didn't know what I was looking at, but I sure did like it.'
Houston: 'OK. I guess the view must be pretty good from up there. We show you roughly somewhere around 19,000 miles out now.'
Bruce McCandless gave the astronauts a list of routine tasks that were necessary to maintain healthy living conditions in the cabin. He also wanted the crew to verify their navigation details, but it was more than nine hours since they had eaten and Michael had other priorities.
Collins: 'If we're late in answering you, it's because we're munching sandwiches.'
Houston: 'Roger. I wish I could do the same here.'
Collins: 'No. Don't leave the console!'
Houston: 'Don't worry. I won't.'
Collins: 'Flight doesn't like it.'
The flight director, or 'Flight', at this point was Cliff Charlesworth for whom Collins had previously worked during a stint in Mission Control. He had served in a position that was originally known as 'capsule communicator' but which was now usually abbreviated to 'CapCom'. Of the hundreds of people working in the Mission Control Center only the CapCom, who was always an astronaut, was cleared to talk to the crew in space. Charlesworth, the lead flight director for the entire mission, was coming to the end of his first shift after watching over the launch and TLI. Cool-headed and relaxed, he was known as the 'Mississippi Gambler'2 by the flight controllers sitting at the banks of computer consoles in front of him. Working in the windowless Mission Operations Control Room (abbreviated to MOCR and pronounced 'moe-ker'), Charlesworth and his team were bathed in a dull blue-grey light as they studied their monitors and quietly chatted to one another. During a mission the room was operational for 24 hours a day, the 20 or so controllers sitting in a disciplined atmosphere of intense concentration amid a stale odour of cold coffee, sweat, food and cigarette smoke. Between them, the flight control teams played a vital role in monitoring more than 350 telemetry measurements automatically transmitted by the command and service modules. Additional data would later be sent by the LM. To help them manage the vast mass of mathematical equations relating to the changing position of the spacecraft, the controllers were supported by teams of backroom staff, including representatives of the companies that built the hardware. By wearing headsets plugged into their consoles, the controllers could talk to their specialists working elsewhere in the building, and to the flight director sitting behind them.3
Facing three ten-foot-high screens set in the wall in front of them, the controllers sat in four rows raking up towards the back of the room. Their job titles, working practices, even the way they talked, were originally shaped by NASA's first flight director, Chris Kraft, a stocky engineer with a stern manner and forthright views on almost everything. Many of the decisions made by Kraft during the Mercury flights remain in practice today, and he has since come to be recognised as the father of Mission Control. The Mercury control room had been based at the Cape, but prior to Gemini 4, and Ed White's headline-grabbing space walk, Kraft and his team moved to Houston where they were given purpose-built facilities equipped with computers and an internal radio network.
Since Kraft had found that the quickest way to swap messages with the spacecraft was through acronyms and jargon, each controller was known by an abbreviated version of his title. In the front row – referred to as 'the trench' – on the left-hand side sat the technician who monitored the rocket stages, operating under the call-sign Booster. Next to him was the retrofire officer (callsign Retro), who was responsible for abort procedures and the spacecraft's re-entry into the atmosphere. He assisted the flight dynamics officer sitting beside him, call-sign FIDO (pronounced like the dog's name), who studied the spacecraft's flight-path. On his right sat the guidance officer who would monitor the LM's computer and radar during the landing (call-sign GUIDO, to rhyme with FIDO). Behind them, in the second row, the 'systems people' sat on the right, including the electrical, environmental and communications controller (EECOM) and the guidance, navigation and control officer (GNC). Across the aisle on the left sat the CapCom, who was often accompanied by at least one other astronaut, and sitting at the end of the row was the flight surgeon. The flight director sat in the middle of the third row, and during a mission he had absolute authority. 'His decisions during a space flight are the law,' wrote Kraft, adding that managers could only overrule a flight director by firing him. Kraft said that during his Mercury and Gemini missions he had the feeling that 'I'm Flight. And Flight is God.'4
By 1969, Kraft had become the director of flight operations and in this capacity he appointed four flight directors to support Apollo 11, each with his own team of controllers. During the critical moments of a mission Bob Gilruth, Kraft and other senior figures sat at the back of the room, in 'management row'. Minutes before the launch of Apollo 11, Kraft had asked so many niggly questions that Charlesworth had been forced to tell his boss, 'Chris, if you don't settle down, I'm going to have to ask you to leave the room. You're making me nervous.'5 Risking the wrath of God, Kraft gave a thumbs-up and sat back in his chair. Nobody argued with the flight director.
Six hours into the mission, Charlesworth's green team handed over to the white team of Gene Kranz, a former fighter pilot who regarded his job almost as a personal crusade. From the start, NASA had been a civilian organisation but many of its staff had a military background, as was reflected in the command and control structure adopted in Mission Control. This was also apparent in the sense of self-discipline fostered by Gilruth, which extended to unwritten rules on beards and long hair. No-one's hair was more military than Gene's. Kranz was regarded by Kraft as 'sometimes too militaristic, but so quick and smart that it was sometimes scary to remember that he was human'.6 Kranz's military bearing largely stemmed from his perception that NASA was defending the frontline in the Cold War, and that as a 'Cold War warrior' he was flying the flag as much as anyone in uniform. A loving family man who was prone to tears of emotion during the highs and lows of his work, Kranz was warm and easy-going. Wearing a whi
te waistcoat embroidered with silver thread, made by his wife in honour of the mission, at 2.30pm Gene slipped into Charlesworth's seat. 'A position in Mission Control was the next best thing to being in the spaceship,' Kranz later wrote.7 In a surprise addition to the flight-plan, he was soon to get an unexpected glimpse of space-flight for himself.
Armstrong: 'If you'd like to delay PTC [passive thermal control] for ten minutes or so, we can shoot you some TV of a seven-eights Earth.'
Houston: 'Apollo 11, Houston. We're ready at Goldstone for the TV. It'll be recorded at Goldstone and then replayed back over here, Neil, any time you want to turn her on, we're ready. Over.'
Having completed TLI, retrieved the LM and abandoned the third stage, the crew had entered a period of relative calm. The risk of the spacecraft suddenly losing pressure had decreased and the astronauts were finally able to remove their bulky pressure suits along with the uncomfortable urine-collection and fecal-containment devices. The struggle to fold the suits, stuff them into bags and stow them under a couch 'brought about a good deal of confusion', Buzz said, 'with parts and pieces floating about the cabin as we tried to keep logistics under control'.8 They pulled on two-piece, Teflon-fabric flight-suits over their underwear before replacing the spacecraft's carbon dioxide filter and tending to other routine tasks, including navigation checks, urine dumps and computer updates. Ten and a half hours into the mission, they were ready to try out the television equipment.