At 1 minute, the B-52 crew armed the launch release system. At 40 seconds I began priming the rocket engine and shortly thereafter I got an igniter ready light. I turned precool on and then finally, at 20 seconds, got a call from NASA-1 that they were receiving telemetry data. We were “go” for launch. I switched tape on at 15 seconds and at 10 seconds I pushed the pump-idle button. The fuel and LOX manifold pressures rapidly increased to almost 600 psi and a quick check of the other propellant system gauges indicated that we were ready for launch. I called out that “everything looks good here.” NASA-1 responded saying, “everything good down here also.” I turned the launch light on and called out on the radio, “Three-two-one-launch.”
At launch I rolled off to the right about 60 degrees, but that did not slow me down in getting the engine lit. Getting that engine lit was always top priority even if the airplane rolled over on its back. Once the pilot got the engine burning, he could worry about the small stuff, like getting the aircraft under control. I had to correct my heading during my pullup to my planned climb angle. I reached my planned climb angle of 20 degrees at 18 seconds after launch and then checked my velocity. I was right on 1,600 feet per second or roughly Mach 1.6.
At 28 seconds I opened the speed brakes as I passed through 50,000 feet and Mach 2. NASA-1 called, “Real nice profile” and “standby for your pushover.” At 49 seconds after launch, I was exactly on profile passing through 64,000 feet at Mach 2.85. I pushed over to 0 g at that point and held it until I reached 80,000 feet altitude and Mach 4.5. I then shut the engine down as planned. NASA-1 called to remind me to retract the speed brakes and asked me, “How do you read NASA-1?” I had not been doing any talking and they wanted to know if I was still alive and well. I responded, “Five square, Jack.”
From this point on, I set up a rate of descent to maintain a constant dynamic pressure for data purposes and then initiated a gentle left turn. I maintained that turn for about 15 seconds and then rolled out to get data in a wings level attitude. As I was about to roll into the planned right-hand turn decelerating through Mach 3.2, I noticed a second-stage ignition malfunction light flash on my left-hand instrument panel. That seemed odd because the engine had been shutdown some 50 seconds or so earlier. Then I saw the big one—the fire-warning light. That light was the biggest, brightest light on the panel and it was strategically located directly in front of the pilot’s eyes to ensure that he could not overlook it. That light was blinking ominously. “FIRE,” “FIRE,” “FIRE.”
We had had fire-warning lights before such as when Scott Crossfield had a rocket chamber blow up on the LR-11 engine early in the program, but we had not had one with the big engine. The system had not previously given any false alarms. It had been highly reliable and now it was telling me that I had a fire in the engine compartment. The first thing to pass through my mind was the image of that huge fireball when the X-15 blew up on the test stand with Crossfield in it. I could vividly see the boiling fire engulfing the airplane and see pieces flying out of the fire. I waited for the explosion, but nothing happened.
I called NASA-1 and informed them that I had a fire-warning light and that I was going to jettison peroxide. NASA-1 responded, “Roger—understand you are going to jettison. Go engine master off.” I wanted to get rid of that engine peroxide because that was the type of hazardous material that could blow the whole rear end of the airplane off. I had quite a bit of peroxide remaining since I had shut the engine down early as planned. As I jettisoned the peroxide, I noted that the automatic fire system had actuated and dumped my number two source gas into the engine compartment. Maybe that put the fire out.
But the fire-warning light kept blinking. In fact it seemed to be blinking faster. That must have been my imagination though, because an electronic system does not have any emotion. It cannot tell me to hurry like a human might if the fire were getting worse. Yet, it was blinking faster. I was still flying at over 2,500 MPH at 70,000 feet and I did not know what was happening in the back end of the airplane. What the hell can burn? The airplane was made of heat resistant steel. It should not burn, but then I realized that almost anything will burn in the presence of liquid oxygen, even steel. Was the fire burning through the hydraulic and electrical lines? Was it burning through the structure? Was it burning through the fuel tank? NASA-1 could not help me. They did not have any more data than I had. The chase could not help. They were 30,000 feet below me and 50 miles away. I quickly ticked off my options. There were not many. I could eject and hope the complicated ejection seat worked as designed or I could sit still and wait it out hoping that the airplane did not explode. If it exploded, I probably would not get a chance to eject since the explosion could either damage the ejection system or it could incapacitate me.
I could start down to let the chase join up and check for a fire, but if I did that, I might not have made it home. I could not get the airplane on the ground much quicker by slowing down sooner since the total flight only involved 8 minutes of flight time and about half of that time was utilized in the landing pattern. There were only two real options: eject, or ride it out.
Somehow though, as the seconds ticked by I seemed to gain confidence. It had not blown up yet. I could still control the aircraft, so it had not burned through the hydraulic lines or the control cables. As I gained confidence, I began to reassess the bigger picture. Was I still on profile? Was my speed and altitude still high enough to allow me to make it home? I noticed that I had let the rate of descent build up much more than planned. At those speeds, only 2 or 3 degrees change in attitude could result in a 10,000 foot per minute rate of descent. A pilot could not be distracted for long in this airplane. Five or 10 seconds of inattention could result in the loss of the airplane and possibly the pilot’s life.
I finally realized that Jack was urgently calling to tell me to “bring it up—bring the nose up, Milt.” I started the nose up and responded, “OK.” Jack then informed me that I was about 10 miles out of Cuddeback and asked if the fire-warning light was still on. I responded, “Affirm.” Jack informed me that the light would stay on once it was activated. It would not go out, even though the fire might go out. By this time, my confidence had improved significantly and I decided that the airplane was not going to blow up so I may as well try to get some more research data. In fact, I called out that I missed that second data point and Jack said, “That’s all right, forget it.” I had failed to make the second planned turn for data gathering purposes while I was responding to the fire-warning indication. First things first. Don’t sweat the small stuff.
As I passed Cuddeback, I began setting up for the next data point and started the planned handling quality investigation while approaching high key. As I passed over high key, the fire-warning light went out. That should have made me feel better, but Jack had told me it should stay on. If that were true, then maybe the fire was real and it had finally burned through the fire-warning system and deactivated it. By now though, I could not worry about that anymore. I had to begin the approach to landing.
This airplane did not afford the luxury of a delayed approach while one attended to other concerns. It came down relentlessly. From the instant the engine quit, the airplane began losing energy and started downhill. By this time, the landing chase aircraft had joined up and after a quick inspection he informed me that there was no external evidence of a fire. The landing approach was uneventful and the landing was a “beauty” according to Joe Engle, the landing chase pilot. The emergency vehicles really swarmed around me on this landing. They thought they had a real emergency this time. Postflight inspection of the aircraft revealed no fire damage. The fire detection loop did show evidence of having been hot. It was changed prior to the next flight. All of that terror because of a faulty fire-warning system. A review of the cockpit film did indeed confirm that the fire-warning light blinked faster as the flight progressed. I was not imagining it.
Bikle informed me later that he and many others had become somewhat complacent. The fli
ghts had been progressing so smoothly and successfully that they were becoming routine. My fire call really shocked him back to reality. He suddenly realized that flying the X-15 could still be dangerous, even after flying over a hundred test flights.
Someone once said that test flying involved hours and hours of boredom punctuated by moments of stark terror. This flight included a few moments of the latter. The X-15 did not, however, offer the pleasure of hours and hours of boredom to compensate for those moments of terror since the flights were normally ten minute flights. In the case of the X-15, it appeared to be the other way around. Hours and hours of terror punctuated by moments of pure boredom.
WATER SKIING
In the winter of 1964-65, after a series of particularly heavy rain storms, the lakebed had accumulated about 6 inches of standing water. The lakebed really looked like an honest-to-goodness lake. First-time visitors to Edwards were always impressed when they saw the lakebed in that condition—a huge lake out in the middle of a barren desert. We would string them along and talk about fishing, sailing, and water skiing on the lake. On one particular occasion in the pilot’s office I made the statement that I thought we really could ski on the lake if we could find a suitable tow vehicle. Several of the pilots disagreed and we ended up in a vigorous argument. One pilot finally suggested that we settle the argument by giving it a try.
The next morning the mediator pilot brought in a pair of water skis. He also volunteered to fly our small Bell helicopter as a tow vehicle. The gauntlet had been thrown down. I had to pick it up. I had to put up or shut up. I went down to the pilot’s locker room, carrying the water skis on my shoulder. Joe Vensel, our director of flight operations, happened to pass me in the hallway. He looked askance at me and the water skis, but he did not say anything and neither did I. I went into the locker room and changed into my oldest flight suit and my most beat-up flight boots. That water was shallow and if I should happen to fall, I would bottom out in the mud of the lakebed. That mud was really sticky.
After I finished dressing, I picked up the skis and walked out to the flight line. The helicopter had been towed out of the hangar and the crew was finishing up the preflight inspection. Vic Horton, the lightweight lifting body project engineer, had volunteered to fly as the tow rope tender and monitor. He had even supplied some of our lifting body tow rope for the operation. We were all set to go. By this time a large crowd had gathered on the aircraft ramp and on the roof of the main office building to watch the big event. Word had gotten around. We laid out the tow rope from the helicopter to the ramp at the edge of the lakebed and then the helicopter crew started the engine.
I walked down to the ramp at the edge of the lake and began putting on the skis. I began to have second thoughts about the whole idea, but it was too late to back down now. I was committed. I got the skis on, picked up the end of the rope, and waited for the helicopter to get airborne. The more I thought about it, the more stupid this whole idea seemed. I was going to break my damn neck, and yet, my ego would not let me back down. The helicopter crew added power to begin the liftoff. Just before they broke ground, a message came over the public address system that said, “Shut that thing down.” That message came from Joe Vensel.
After passing me in the hallway, he had gone to a short meeting in the front of the building. While in the meeting, he thought about me and the water skis and then remembered the argument that he had overheard in the pilot’s office the day before. He decided he had better check to see what was going on. When he got back to his office overlooking the ramp and lakebed, he could hardly get in. It was filled with spectators. Our director, Paul Bikle, was also there. Joe Vensel almost had a heart attack when he saw what was happening. He immediately got on the public address system and commanded the shutdown. Paul Bikle did not say a thing. I think he would have let us try it.
All of the participants were thoroughly chewed out by Vensel. I was somewhat flabbergasted to learn that his main concern was that I might break an arm or leg and not be available to fly the X-15. I decided not to ask him if he would have been sorry if I had broken my neck. The timing somehow was not exactly right for that particular question.
The helicopter crew later admitted that they had planned to tow me out in the middle of the lake and then drop the towline. It would have been almost impossible to walk the 2 miles back to shore in that water and mud. That lakebed mud was so sticky, it would build up 2 or 3 inches thick on the bottom of your boots after walking just a few steps. I am glad I got a reprieve at the last minute.
THE BULL REARS ITS HEAD
I somehow always managed to be a little late getting to work on the days when I had an X-15 flight. I usually had just enough time to rush into the cafeteria and grab a cup of coffee and a couple pieces of toast and then rush back out to the flight line to the waiting carryall. Usually Roger Barnicki or one of his people would be waiting in the carryall to drive me the mile or so down the taxi way to the X-15 servicing area.
This particular morning I was scheduled to make a low-altitude, high-speed heating flight. It was to be my tenth flight and my eighth heating flight. On arrival at the servicing area, I immediately entered the suit van and began the suiting up process. This normally required 30 to 45 minutes to complete. Everything progressed smoothly this morning and I was ready for pilot entry 15 minutes before the airplane was ready. I had time for a last cigarette.
Once the X-15 and B-52 were fully serviced the crew called for pilot entry. It was a short walk from the suit van to the ladder leading up to the X-15 cockpit, but with the tight and constraining pressure suit on, it took some effort. The pressure suit people walked along with me carrying the portable liquid oxygen breathing and cooling unit which was hooked up to the suit. Entry into the cockpit was relatively easy from the access platform since the cockpit was quite large. The only feature of the cockpit that made it seem small was the canopy itself, which fit rather tightly around the head. It was only large enough for the helmet and I always seemed to be bumping the canopy, when the lid was down, whenever I moved my head.
Below the canopy, there was ample space. In fact, for some of the pilots, there was too much space. They had trouble reaching some of the controls and switches on the front panel. I normally flew with some slack in the left shoulder strap to ensure that I could always get to such critical controls as the throttle and landing gear handle. I remember on one flight Joe Walker could not reach the throttle to shut the engine down on schedule. He subsequently overshot his speed and altitude.
When I was settled in the cockpit, the suit people began strapping me in. Theoretically, the pilot could do this himself since he was supposed to be able to reach and release all of the restraint harness fittings for emergency egress. In reality, it was almost impossible to get in and out of the cockpit without assistance. After landing he really had to wait for someone to release all the fittings and help him out. In the ten emergency landings that were made during the course of the program, the pilot seldom managed to get out without some assistance. Pete Knight managed to do it after his Mud Lake landing, but he injured himself in the process.
During the strapping-in process, the suit people were also connecting the suit to the emergency bailout kit and the aircraft’s breathing oxygen supply and the suit pressurization and cooling supply. The lower part of the suit was cooled and pressurized with nitrogen gas from a liquid nitrogen supply tank. With that type of system, the pilot never lacked for cooling. In fact, if he turned the cooling up too high, he would occasionally get a few drops of liquid nitrogen into the suit and end up with a few inches of frozen skin on his left side where the cooling hose connected to the suit. I often thought they should have connected the hose to the right side to cool the liver, considering that part of the flight day activity involved a lot of drinking the night after the flight. Some precooling of the liver might have been beneficial.
Once the suit was hooked up and checked, I began checking out the cockpit with the assistance of the crew ch
ief, Charlie Baker, and John Reeves, an inspector who read off the items on the cockpit entry checklist. This cockpit checkout procedure required about 30 minutes to complete. During this time, the ground crew was disconnecting the many servicing carts and buttoning up the various access panels on the X-15 aircraft. When the cockpit check was complete, the cockpit entry crew closed the canopy and I was in my own little world, inaccessible to anyone except through radio contact.
In one sense, to the B-52 crew, the X-15 (including pilot!) was just a bomb hung on two bomb shackles under the wing that they dutifully hauled out to the launch area and dropped on command. In another sense, the X-15 pilot was a part of the B-52 crew. He was physically attached to the B-52. He saw the same scenery and felt the same bumps that they did during the flight. He was connected to the same intercom system so that he could converse with them without broadcasting on the air, but in many other ways he was completely isolated from them and from everyone and everything else. It was a rather lonely feeling.
The pressure suit that I was wearing did not help to relieve this sense of isolation. The pressure suit protected the pilot, but it also isolated him. He could not feel or touch anything directly. He could not remove his gloves. He could not smell anything other than the pure oxygen being piped into his suit. He could not open his faceplate and he could not hear much of anything outside of the suit due to the sound proofing effect of the crash helmet. He could see out the windows and he could hear the radio communications, but that was about it. I could relate to the boy in the plastic bubble. He was surrounded by things and people that he could see and hear, but he was still isolated. I could also relate to the Mercury astronauts sitting alone in their capsules on top of their launch vehicles.
At the Edge of Space Page 24