Failure Is Not an Option

by Gene Kranz

  Extended lunar surface missions—J1, J2, J3, and so on.

  The general public, of course, knows the main flights in the lunar sequence by number—G was Apollo 11, H2 the all-too-well-named Apollo 13, and so forth.

  The summer and fall of 1967 were the busiest times I had ever known. Nothing seemed stable. Change was constant. The two certainties were that Wally Schirra would fly the first manned CSM mission, and the lunar landing goal for 1969 was unchanged. We had two and a half years to pull it off. Everyone went back to the drawing board. The command module would be redesigned at a cost of $75 million, and a safer spacecraft emerged.

  Among the changes was a unified hatch that combined the exterior launch protective cover with the pressure hatch. (The launch cover protected the CSM surface from the rocket blast when the escape tower was jettisoned during launch.) The entire hatch mechanism swung out and could be opened by the crew in ten seconds.

  11

  OUT OF THE ASHES

  When we completed a mission, it was like putting pictures into a scrapbook and then turning to a fresh, blank page. Someday we would have the luxury of looking back and remembering all the moments captured in those earlier pages, but the press of events gave us no time to indulge in reflections, to celebrate past accomplishments—or to grieve. For a time we simply could not dare to look back at the Apollo 1 inferno. We could only look forward to the next blank page, the next mission. But there was no way that any of us could escape those thoughts that come unbidden in the dark hours of the night: we would dream about those terrible last seconds. They would be with us forever. We would not leave the sadness behind until we accomplished what Gus Grissom, Ed White, and Roger Chaffee wanted America to do—land on the moon.

  Spaceflight forced you to live with risk by focusing on the task at hand. I would compare it to a pilot walking away from an accident, muttering, “Son of a bitch, that was close!” Then, still shaken, he lights up a cigarette, picks up his helmet and parachute, and starts reviewing his actions and identifying what, if anything, he would do differently the next time. After hoisting a few with his squadron mates, he gets ready again to climb into his cockpit home.

  At Mission Control, certain things were understood. Every mission must achieve its objectives, and it must be accomplished on schedule if we were to keep John F. Kennedy’s pledge to land a man on the moon in this decade.

  While we were recovering from the fire, the space scientists sponsored by NASA continued their work to develop a follow-on exploration program for the Moon. I was sent to the University of California, Santa Cruz campus, in August 1967 to brief a group of government, individual, and university scientists on the Mission Control Center’s mission responsibilities and on the techniques we used to develop mission rules.

  Preparing for the briefing in the campus library, I realized how narrow my world had become because of the intensity and isolation of my work over the last seven years. I had never been on a West Coast campus. What I saw was beyond my belief, the TV headlines coming alive. It was my first live encounter with the hippie generation. Their songs and chanted slogans dimly penetrated the library as we worked. When I left I was glad to get back to a world I understood. But would these young people comprehend the meaning of all we had been trying to accomplish for so many years—the greatest use of economic and technological power in history for peaceful purposes? The Vietnam War was only one challenge facing (and, unfortunately, dividing) our country. Countless American lives were going to be lost before that long war was brought to an end. I honored those who served; I could not sympathize with those who did not honor members of their own generation, young men who were far removed from college campuses and demonstrations, who had no choice but to fight and be killed or maimed. I returned from that campus in California wondering what the young people I saw there would make of the legacy we were trying to pass on to them—and to the rest of mankind.

  November 9, 1967, Apollo 4

  There was little fanfare the day NASA recovered from the shock of the Apollo 1 event and resumed the space race. Arthur Hill of the Houston Chronicle reported from the Cape on the launch of the unmanned Apollo 4, the first flight test of the Saturn V, the world’s mightiest rocket. It was the only machine powerful enough to launch the two Apollo spacecraft, the CSM and LM, into Earth orbit and then hurl them toward the Moon.

  “The powerful engines shook the press stands,” Hill’s story began, “rattling light fixtures and bouncing tables up and down. It was an awesome sight as brilliant yellow fire engulfed the launch pad at liftoff.” This time the fire was with us. We sent Saturn into space on the most immense pillar of flame ever seen at the Cape.

  In Mission Control, all of us felt elated as America resumed its voyage to the Moon. The Saturn performed perfectly, blending new and old propulsion technologies in each of its three rocket stages, then as the mission ended, the command module was hurtled earthward at seven miles per second to test the heat shield during reentry.

  The Apollo 4 test, more than any other, demonstrated George Mueller’s fearless “all-up” approach to testing. It showed that we had the right guy filling the job as NASA’s boss of manned space flight. “All-up” meant that every element of the space system was on board and operable. There were no “boilerplate” spacecraft. If you were successful, the concept was labeled brilliant, and you could focus your energies on the next step, the next set of unknowns. If you had problems, you found them early and somehow made time to fix them while keeping on schedule. If you failed, a lot of expensive hardware was reduced to junk and the schedule shattered.

  I didn’t know much about the NASA hierarchy. Our Administrator, Jim Webb, lived in another world, Washington, D.C., from whence came our funding and our mandate. Webb, boss of the whole organization during the years of Mercury, Gemini, and early Apollo, had had a long, distinguished career, including serving as Director of the Bureau of the Budget and undersecretary of state in the Truman administration. A profoundly serious man with a vigorous manner and an ability to deliver a great speech when one was required, he knew every bureaucratic pitfall there was to know and how to navigate around them, inventing new strategies as needed. He was adroit at securing funding from an often reluctant Congress—and at keeping NASA’s critics at a safe distance from his people who were doing the work. His style was low-key and effective. He knew how to delegate and give people like George Mueller and George Low the authority they needed to achieve the goals in each mission.

  The miracle of the NASA rebirth after the fire was due to four of the best leaders the program ever had. George Mueller, the boss of manned spaceflight, was a modest man, trained as a research engineer, with a great feel for the complex details of operations. He provided the foundation before, during, and after the calamity, and took the heat from Congress. Above all, he stood up for his people throughout NASA and provided an unwavering direction with his all-up test concept.

  In 1966, the year before the Apollo fire, Goddard Space Flight Center advised me that they were not installing consoles for controllers on the two Apollo tracking ships. GSFC, the operator of our communications network, believed that the rapid advancements in communications technology would allow transmitting data and communications by satellite by the time the Apollo missions began. Since I had worked many shifts with the ships in Gemini, I was critically aware of the support they provided in covering key mission events and providing orbital gap coverage. I wanted a controller team aboard the ships for Apollo. I was not willing to risk the crew or mission objectives by making the MCC dependent on “may happen” technology.

  I expressed my concerns to Kraft and after a brief discussion he stated, “You’re going to have to convince Mueller. He considers himself a communications expert and is the only one that can turn around GSFC’s decision.” The following day I flew up to Washington to sell my recommendation to Mueller.

  This was not the first time I met Mueller. I had a lot of respect for the way he blocked for his team and t
ook the heat when things went wrong. During a particularly rough press conference after the Gemini 9 Agena failure he sat with seven of us at the press table. Late in the conference a reporter asked, “This is the fourth straight mission where you have had some major problems. When are you going to start kicking some ass and—” That was as far as the reporter got before Mueller tore into him. He described the problems, the actions taken, then concluded with supportive remarks about his team. His vivid response brought a cheer from the other reporters.

  Mueller was busier than hell at NASA headquarters, trying to get the Apollo program up to speed. As I sat outside his office I watched grim-faced engineers and project managers carrying the bad news into his office. During the summer of 1966 the Apollo program seemed to be unraveling.

  I waited in the secretaries’ office as the time for our appointment passed and the afternoon turned into evening. About 8:00 P.M. he came out, apologized, and told me he had reservations for two for supper at the Georgetown Inn, so we would have our meeting there. During the meal, this man who knew more about communications technology than I ever would, listened politely as I briefed him between courses on why we needed controllers on the Apollo tracking ships.

  I was impressed by his patience and courtesy, the force of his technical arguments, and his willingness to consider my ideas. To this day I am awed that a man with so much weighing on his mind would spend an entire evening with somebody way down the chain of command. He listened thoughtfully and then told me to go back to Houston; he would make a decision on the following day. Early in the afternoon word came down: my argument had prevailed. GSFC was directed to place controller consoles on the tracking ships.

  George Low, the son of an Austrian immigrant, joined NASA’s predecessor, NACA, after his Army discharge and worked his way through the government ranks. After the fatal accident Low replaced Joe Shea as the Apollo program manager. He was a master at getting people to work together, creatively channeling their energies and thus building the momentum to achieve the objective.

  The flight directors knew Low well from his middle-of-the-night visits to Mission Control during a flight, where he sat silently in the viewing room. Low worked both at MSC and back at NASA headquarters. He had a rare blend of integrity, competence, and humility. You would do whatever he asked you to do, regardless of the odds and regardless of the risk.

  Rounding out the NASA management that directly affected us were Sam Phillips and Frank Borman. Phillips, an Air Force lieutenant general, came in from the Minuteman ICBM program. He possessed an uncanny ability to spot problems, define solutions, and keep the complex development processes moving ahead.

  Borman, the astronaut who toughed it out on the fourteen-day Gemini 7 mission, was one of the most respected of the second class of astronauts. Flight controllers saw him as a table-pounding “let’s cut out the bitching and get on with it” type of guy. He was the one who finally stood up during the agonizing over the redesign of Apollo 1 and said, “Enough. Let’s get on with the job. It’s time to fly!”

  We moved from disaster to flight in less than a year because we had leaders of this caliber—and because they trusted us.

  In June of 1967, as Apollo forged ahead, fate reached out and grabbed me when I was made deputy to Hodge for the Flight Control Division. The division, the home base for the flight directors, controllers, and instructors, had grown to 400 personnel. Virtually every malfunction procedure, schematic, or mission rule used in training, or carried aboard the spacecraft, was produced by this division. The division planned and was now flying an average of six missions each year, a punishing load, and I was glad to give John a hand. I also welcomed the opportunity to step into division management because of the challenge to reach beyond my experience as a flight director and start developing broader organizational skills. I believed I had the capability to do more.

  I immediately acquired new respect for Hodge because of his ability to perform as both division chief and flight director. To ease the burden on Kraft and Hodge, the original plan was for Lunney, Charlesworth, and myself to work two missions, skip one, then work two more, alternating as the lead flight director for every third mission.

  After the fire, Kraft had his hands full leading the four divisions—Flight Control, Landing and Recovery, Mission Planning and Analysis, and Mission Support—in the Flight Operations Directorate. As a result of his workload, Chris would never again sit in the chair as flight director.

  Now that I had moved to Hodge’s deputy position, the flight director staffing changed again. Looking at the workload, I decided that I could cover only about half of the missions and I changed the sequence so that I worked only the odd-numbered missions, starting with Apollo 5. Aware of the coming overload, Kraft selected two more flight directors, Pete Frank from Mission Planning and Milt Windler from Recovery. I believed all flight directors should be selected from the ranks of Mission Control and was surprised by the selection of two virtual unknowns. Since they would need time to come up to speed, I successfully lobbied Kraft to add Gerry Griffin, a top-notch Gemini controller, to the list so we could get some immediate help.

  Working as Hodge’s deputy was one of the most enjoyable times in my life. Initially, I didn’t think I would make a good deputy. I am too impatient, love to work with people directly, and like to lead the charge myself. I am used to giving orders, not offering suggestions, and get impatient when I know a team can move faster. In the case of the Flight Control Division in 1968, it turned out that Hodge and I were a perfect fit. Where I was direct, Hodge was philosophical. Hodge studied the alternatives; I was quick to pick a direction. Our balance of temperaments allowed us to lead the division well. Hodge provided the vision, the long-term strategy, while I concentrated on the tactical. Hodge dealt with finances, I rallied the people. We both worked on the organization and structure.

  I liked the way John put his thoughtful comments in the flight directors’ logs, the way he characterized his decisions. I also enjoyed him as a person. Hodge was typically English in his approach to work, that is to say, a real gentleman. He got more done without the continual bluster of many of his peers. Above all, he had consideration for others and their opinions, which stood him well with his peers—but not necessarily his bosses.

  It was time to let the missions begin. The division was a powerhouse, knee deep in talented leaders and team members. We were indeed Tough, Competent, and ready for Apollo.

  Unmanned missions in every program are forgotten except in NASA’s record books, something that annoys controllers, who know how difficult it is to control a virgin spacecraft and booster, and operate with software, all fresh off the production line. The controllers had to do the crew’s job without the benefit of their presence. Using ground commands in place of the crew’s switches, we performed all the maneuvers and tests called for in the flight plan. Every controller loved the unmanned missions. We were the first to fly each new spacecraft. No man would fly until these missions were successful.

  Among the more exacting (and exasperating) tests was that of the Lunar Module—that buglike frail craft that would put two astronauts on the Moon while the command module circled over them in Moon orbit. The LM was a two-stage spacecraft, standing twenty-three feet tall on four rather spindly legs. The lower or descent stage had the propulsion systems and propellant used to get the craft down to the surface of the Moon. Triangular bays supported the batteries, water tanks, and helium used to pressurize the propulsion system. The landing legs supported a “porch” and ladder for the crew’s descent to the Moon. When the EVA was completed, the descent stage provided the platform for the ascent (or upper) stage’s launch off the Moon.

  The ascent stage contained the living quarters, controls, displays, and the attitude control, guidance, navigation, and radar systems used for each maneuver. The brain of the LM was housed in a state-of-the-art computer with 36,864-word fixed and 2,048-word erasable memory. This stage also contained the ascent engine, propellants, batt
eries, life support, and the communications and data systems.

  Directly over the crew’s heads was the hatch that provided access, when docked, to the command module through a tunnel. The crewmen stood in the lunar module, looking forward through a small triangular window on each side, with the commander on the left and LM pilot on the right. The external skin of both stages was paper-thin aluminum, the lower stage covered by multiple layers of gold Mylar insulation. You could easily poke a pencil through the side of the spacecraft. Portions of the interior were covered with netting to save weight and catch anything that might fall into nooks and crannies inside the LM. Designed to operate only outside the Earth’s atmosphere, the LM looked ungainly, had no heat shield, and was incapable of safely entering the Earth’s atmosphere.

  I was flight director for Apollo 5, the unmanned shakedown cruise of the LM. The test plan consisted of a series of descent engine maneuvers to simulate a lunar landing, a “fire in the hole” abort, and a sequence of ascent engine maneuvers simulating a rendezvous of the LM with the CSM. The LM ascent engine is buried in a cavity in the top surface of the descent (landing) stage. The fire-in-the-hole test (“Fire in the hole” is a term used in mining when explosives are about to be detonated) involved shutting down the descent rocket, blowing the bolts that attached the ascent and descent stages, switching control and power to the ascent stage, and igniting the ascent rocket while still nestled to the landing stage. All these events occurred in fractions of a second, just as they would in a real aborted landing close to the lunar surface. The fire-in-the-hole abort was the most critical test of the mission and one we had to accomplish successfully prior to a manned mission.