Rocket Girl

by George D. Morgan

  “How's the wife and kids?”

  “Just great. We're all doing fine.”

  Kindelberger turned and stepped directly in front of Tom's desk.

  “That's wonderful. Having a family is a wonderful thing, isn't it?”

  “Yes, sir; it is.”

  “And being able to support them; that's a wonderful thing, too.”

  “Absolutely. So, I take it the president called.”

  “I got two phone calls yesterday. One from Dr. Wernher von Braun, and one from President Dwight D. Eisenhower.”

  Tom shook his head in amazement. “Wow. Wernher von Braun.”

  “Ya know, in World War II, our company built thousands of planes and bombers designed to kill the sonovabitch. Now we work for him. Half the contracts this division receives have his signature at the bottom.”

  “Strange how life works out.”

  Tom's golf bag was leaning against the wall. Kindelberger lifted a club halfway out, briefly examined it, then put it back down.

  “There's a lot at stake here, Tom. I've given my heart and soul, my life, and every penny I have to build this company. We have a great reputation with our customers. Now that reputation is on the line.”

  “I know that, sir. And you know we've always put out a quality product.”

  “Yes, of course. Still, there's this…girl.” He drawled out the word girl in a manner barely masking his disdain. During the war, Kindelberger had depended on thousands of women to build his fighters and bombers, but it wasn't something he approved of. In Dutch's world, a woman's toolkit included fry pans and spatulas, not rivet guns or arc welders.

  “What's her name—the one you got on the propellant contract.”

  “Mary Morgan.”

  “Mary Morgan. Right. How's she comin' along?”

  “Real good. Making steady progress.”

  Kindelberger had removed a nine iron and was examining it closely, like an art critic would eyeball a Paul Cézanne. “Don't bullshit me, Tom.”

  “Okay, okay. Look, she's struggling; but remember—not even von Braun's best engineers could solve this problem.”

  Kindelberger let the nine iron slide back into the bag, then he began touring the office again.

  “Ya know what that goddamn satellite is doing, Tom?”

  “Well I know its orbiting.”

  “It's beeping. Beep-beep-beep. And it's doing it on a short-wave frequency anybody in the world can tune in to and listen. Here we are trying to keep the world safe from communism, and every kid in America is listening to their beep-beep.”

  A shelf unit had a number of memorabilia and tchotchkes, and he began picking them up and examining each one.

  “We're in an undeclared space race here, Tom. Russia puts a satellite into orbit one day, and the next day America is some snot-nosed pooper grabbing his mommy's dress and crying to have his diaper changed. I always said: first country to put a satellite into orbit will be on top of the world. Ya can't buy that kind of prestige with money, Tom. You buy it with grit. You buy it with risk. You buy it with balls. The whole world, I said, the whole world is going to look to that country as a leader. And the company that puts them there—they're gonna get a helluva lot of contracts. We don't want the world doing business with the Russians, do we, Tom? Hell, they're all bunch ’o communists—whatta they care about business anyway?”

  “With all due respect, sir, America could have been in orbit a year ago if we had an engineer in the White House instead of a politician.”

  “Maybe you should run next time.” Kindelberger set down the last tchotchke and turned to Tom. “Two hundred years from now, some star-struck fifth grader will be sitting in physical-science class, and his teacher will tell him how Russia was the first country to place a satellite into orbit. It's an accomplishment that will live forever. No one will ever be able to take it from them.”

  “That's true, sir.”

  “Anyway, I had a long talk with von Braun. According to him, this propellant problem is the one bottleneck in the program. That girl of yours—Morgan—is the only thing keeping America from putting a satellite into orbit.”

  “What do you suggest, sir?”

  “Any chance things would go a little faster if we put somebody else on it?”

  “I honestly don't think so. And even if I found someone better, I wouldn't do it.”

  Kindelberger seemed taken aback by this response. He returned to the golf bag and removed a seven iron. “Why the hell not?”

  “Because, sir; courtesy goes a long way.”

  This incorporation of his earlier advice put Kindelberger off-balance, and for once he had nothing to say. But Tom did.

  “It's much more than that, sir. Fact is, I don't have anyone better. When it comes to theoretical performance calculations, Mary Sherman Morgan is not just the best in the company, she's probably the best in the world.”

  Kindelberger nodded. “I trust you, Tom. I know you would never do anything to jeopardize my company, or your job.”

  Kindelberger held the seven iron high above his head in what appeared to be a threatening gesture. Then he pulled it down, spread his feet in a drive position, then took a practice swing. He looked up, and on his face Tom could read the image of a golf ball sailing into the stratosphere.

  As Kindelberger returned the club to Tom's golf bag, he asked, “You going to be at the Downey Golf Tournament this year?”

  “Wouldn't miss it, sir.”

  Kindelberger nodded his approval, then pointed to Tom's desk.

  “Ya know, you otta try to keep your desk a little cleaner.”

  The Dutchman was already out the door when Tom heard his boss say, “Tell Gloria I said hi.”

  Tom went to the window and watched the famous aircraft builder weave through the desk maze. This time there was no body-wake, as most of the employees had chosen the Kindelberger visit as an excuse to take an early lunch. Tom kept his eyes on the black suit and white hair until they disappeared through the front door into the lobby.

  Then he called Mary's desk phone.

  The conference room normally held a maximum of twenty people. Today there was at least twice that many. Mary, Bill, and Toru were there, along with department heads and supervisors and two dozen engineers and technicians. Dieter Huzel, von Braun's right-hand man, was there as an NAA employee; he had been hired out of the Huntsville group two weeks before. The meeting had dragged on for more than two hours as they discussed and argued over the combustion instability problem with the A-7 engine burning hydyne. Several good ideas had been presented, and Tom Meyers decided it was time to close.

  “We feel Mary's cocktail has what it takes to satisfy the army's propellant contract. But we can't tell von Braun to load it into the Redstone unless we can prove that it works. You've all got your assignments. Go and get me some good news.”

  “Engineers like to solve problems. If there are no problems readily available, they will create their own problems.”

  —SCOTT ADAMS,

  WRITER AND ILLUSTRATOR OF THE DILBERT COMICS

  A group of engineers and technicians had just completed a test of a small liquid-propellant rocket motor using LOX and pentaborane on VTS-2. There had been many delays, and the test-firing, originally scheduled for 11:00 a.m., did not come off until 8:40 p.m. Everyone was dog tired, and as soon as the all-clear signal was given, they all decided to go home. There would be enough time the following morning to examine the engine and look over the test results.

  Two technicians, Mitch Hussleman and Bob Porvitz, stayed behind to unload a small, unused residue of pentaborane from the propellant tank.1 Due to its high toxicity as a nerve agent, it was imperative that any unused pentaborane be disposed of without delay. Somehow during the process of transferring the fuel, a small amount leaked out and was inhaled by both men. Almost immediately, they lost all control of their arms and legs, and their bodies collapsed to the ground. They were fully conscious and alert, but could move very few of their
muscles. They could not talk with each other, but both men understood right away what had happened.

  It was after 10:00 p.m., and the test stand area was pitch dark. The men were alone, and no one was going to come save them. After a few minutes, Mitch discovered he could move enough muscles in his body that he could inchworm his way along the ground. He began to slowly make his way toward the blockhouse, sluggish and snaillike. If he could get to the blockhouse, a security guard might happen to drive by, and they would be spotted.

  After a few minutes, Bob was able to mimic Mitch's inchworm technique, and he followed his colleague down the road.

  When Mary arrived at the bowl for the seventh attempt at a full-up hot-fire test of the new propellant, she saw two ambulances parked at the blockhouse. One drove off just as she walked up. The second was preparing to leave. Mary approached Art Fischer, who was standing next to the blockhouse.

  “What happened?”

  “Bob and Mitch. We're not sure, but we think they may have toxic poisoning of some sort. They were working with pentaborane last night. We found them this morning lying next to the blockhouse.”

  “Are they alive?”

  “So far. I gotta go.”

  Art jumped into the Jeep with three other technicians, and they followed after the second ambulance. Roger was standing nearby, and he turned to look at Mary.

  “We're still going to fire your engine. Everybody here knows how important this project is.”

  Mary nodded. “Thank you.”

  Over the past three weeks, Mary and a team of engineers had been working on the A-7's instability problem nonstop. No one could really look inside of a large liquid-fuel rocket engine while it was running to see what was going on, and there were few measurement options available. Bill Vietinghoff had arranged to place pressure transducers inside one of the combustion chambers to take measurements, and a team of engineers including Bob Levine, Joe Friedman, Paul Castenholz, Bob Lawhead, Paul Kisicki and many others, analyzed those measurements.2 Also working the problem were two of von Braun's colleagues, Walther Riedel and Dieter Huzel, both of whom were now employed by North American.3

  There was no sound scientific theory that covered the instability problem, so the engineers had no choice but to make “monkey-cage guesses”—taking wild ideas, applying them, and seeing what worked. It was a very expensive example of trial and error. On the morning Hussleman and Porvitz were carried away in ambulances, the engineers had brought to Santa Susana a Redstone engine with a redesigned propellant injector. They had decided to make a subtle change in the way the fuel and oxidizer were fed into the chamber and mixed. Would it make any difference? No one knew—without a greater understanding of what was going on inside the 4,000-degree chamber, they had no choice but to experiment.

  Two hours later, the countdown reached zero, and the Redstone A-7 engine, serial number NAA-110-39, ignited perfectly. Mary was not superstitious, but she found herself crossing her fingers as the burn approached the 40-second mark.

  It kept going past 40. It kept going past 50 seconds…60 seconds…70 seconds…and it did not stop until it hit 155 seconds. Even before the all-clear siren blew, everyone in the blockhouse was shouting and screaming and celebrating.

  A total of three successive tests had to be completed to comply with the contract, so after everyone calmed down, Roger stood on a chair to get their attention.

  “Okay, people. Let's load it up. We need to do that two more times!”

  By 10:00 that evening, the A-7 had undergone two more successful firings. Mary grabbed the phone and called Tom Meyers at home.

  “You need to get that engine and a tank-car load of hydyne to Cape Canaveral, Tom. We're going into space.”

  After three days in the hospital, both Mitch Hussleman and Bob Porvitz fully recovered from their ordeal and were back to work at the Santa Susana Field Laboratory. However, from that day forward, both men refused to work on any project that involved pentaborane ever again.

  “Nobody, who has not been in the interior of a family, can say what the difficulties of any individual of that family may be.”

  —JANE AUSTEN

  One day I got this crazy idea that I should write a book about my mother. The experience with the stage play had given me some detective skills, but I knew a book would have to be much more comprehensive than a ninety-minute play. I needed help; I needed more information. So in August 2010, I put up a blog, www.maryshermanmorgan.blogspot.com, to be a gathering place for my mother's friends, family, and former coworkers to weigh in with information, anecdotes, documents, and the like. The intentions of this were good, but it failed to work the way I intended. So many aspects of my mother's life are so deeply personal that few people want to post. In more than two years, it garners only twenty-two posts, and almost half of them are mine.

  Yet the blog does yield one major unexpected discovery: My lifelong belief that I am my mother's first-born child turns out to be (wait for it, wait for it): wrong. For decades, a secret has been bubbling just beneath the surface of our middle-class suburban household: In 1944, Mary Sherman had a daughter out of wedlock and gave her up for adoption. I was fifty-seven years old when I discovered this for the very first time. Prior to that, not even a hint. It's like a family version of the Manhattan Project: People in the know know, and no one else does. And those few in the know have kept it a well-guarded family secret.

  I will let you uncover this revelation the same way I did: through an exchange of e-mails.

  From my sister Monica Weber (no relation to Bill Webber) on August 30, 2010:

  Hi George:

  The following is a message I got on Facebook from Dorothy Hegstad.1 Make of it what you will. Coming from Aunt Elaine, I am dubious. And why would you tell someone this through an e-mail or Facebook?

  Monica

  Re: Mary Morgan

  When my husband was doing the family tree thing with calendars, Aunt Elaine told him that your mom had been going to the college in Minot, ND, and the reason she left there was that she was about to become an unwed mother. She went to live with her Aunt Ida LaJoie Miller. Ida's daughter adopted the baby girl and Mary went on to college. I don't know if this is something that is common knowledge in your family or not. But that is one of the things that George put on Wikipedia that he didn't seem to know about.

  Dorothy Hegstad

  After I send an e-mail to Dorothy Hegstad for more information, I receive this reply:

  Sept. 5, 2010

  Hi, George, I don't know a lot about your Mom. They left ND shortly after I was born. My husband came out to LA in the mid-nineties and Aunt Elaine told him that Mary had been attending school (college) in Minot and became pregnant. She then went out to Ohio and stayed with her aunt Ida LaJoie Miller. When her daughter was born she was adopted by Ida's daughter, Ruth. Ruth had been married over 8 years at that time and apparently couldn't have children. My husband does a lot of family work but we've never looked into this. This is one of the reasons that Elaine picketed for anti-abortion. I remember my dad talking about this but it didn't register with me as I was only 9 or 10. It would be interesting to find out if you have an older sister. My dad sounded like he was proud of her for giving her baby to someone that could give her a good home.

  Dorothy Sherman Hegstad

  I send her this reply:

  Sept. 5, 2010

  Hi Dorothy:

  Thanks for the reply. The college she attended—I assume that would be Minot State University. Right? Do you know what her major was, or how long she attended? After she moved to Ohio did she attend another college?

  I know she worked in Ohio for a while. Do you know what company she worked for?

  Of course, the big question is how do we get in touch with anyone who would know about the adoptive daughter. Did Ruth ever have or adopt any other children?

  You can get some information on the play I wrote about Mary at: www.nevadabelle.com.

  Thanks for your help!

 
George Morgan

  A day later, I get this from Dorothy:

  Sept. 6, 2010

  In the family information we have Ruth Miller was married to Dudley Hibbard. We show 2 daughters. The first one was Angela Marie Hibbard, born Oct. 20, 1942. I believe this is your half sister. Another daughter was adopted in 1944 a year and a half later. Ruth was married 10 years before Angela appeared. In those days if a person was married they had children if they could have them. The timing is right for Mary having a baby in 1942. I believe she attended Minot college for two years and also went to college in Ohio. I have no idea where a person would go to get that information. Minot State University is what it's called now. I don't know what it went by then. I took some classes there in 1975 and it was called Minot State then. I wonder if there would be a way to contact with some of the LaJoie family to find out more. Leona LaJoie lives in Colorado Springs and I talk to her 2 or 3 times a year. I will see what she has to say. Since Ruth was born in 1910 I'm sure she is no longer with us.

  Sincerely,

  Dorothy

  Based on that e-mail, it would seem I have an older sister and her name is Angela Hibbard. What I don't know yet is that this e-mail is riddled with errors. There is no hard evidence my mother ever attended Minot State, and she gave birth to a daughter in 1944, not 1942. Without checking the information, I put a post on my blog that the Morgan kids have an older sister and her name is Angela Hibbard.

  Two weeks later, I receive this e-mail from someone I've never heard of:

  Sept. 24, 2010

  Dear Mr. Morgan,

  Could you please contact me sometime about your mother. I may have some information about her that you may or may not already know.

  Blessings!

  Ruth E. Fichter

  Included are two phone numbers she could be contacted at. Since I have no idea who “Ruth E. Fichter” is, I make the invitation to contact her a low priority. There is no Fichter anywhere in the family genealogy, what importance could it really have?