by Gene Kranz
22
THE LAST LIFTOFF
Fall 1972
Apollo 17 was going to be a tough, dramatic, and melancholy mission, the last lunar strike. It would mark the end of an all-too-quick decade in our American history, where we grabbed for the brass ring and got it on our first try. The lunar missions thoroughly absorbed us, and, in our haste, we never took the opportunity to savor the moment. Lunney often said that we were drinking wine before its time.
When Apollo ended, so would my life as a flight director. A new generation of flight directors was trained—the “top guns” of Mission Control, smarter, quicker, more responsive than we were. I was the last of the initial group of flight directors, an anachronism. I had the experience and the mission judgment, but I could see that I was compromised by events and near misses. There is a saying in aviation: “There are old pilots, and there are bold pilots, but there are no old, bold pilots.” It is doubly tough when you have to make decisions about another person’s life. As flight directors, we had made calls that only by the grace of God turned out right. But that was our life. The new flight directors were in a better position to manage this risk more objectively, balancing the odds and pressing to the objective. Watching Phil Shaffer, Skinny Lewis, Don Puddy, and Neil Hutchinson during their training, I felt old at age thirty-nine.
The preparation for Apollo 17 kicked in during the first week of September. We began our bittersweet planning for the final mission to the mountains of Taurus, near the giant crater Littrow. (These sites were named for the constellation Taurus, the bull, and nineteenth-century astronomer Johann von Littrow.) The landing site was a flat-floored valley four miles wide, bordered on three sides by high mountains. The valley contained numerous craters that might be volcanic in origin and of great interest to the scientists. It was going to be one hell of a mission, the grand finale to Apollo. I was proud that we would plant a sixth American flag on the Moon. But I could only wonder when and where we would plant the next flag.
Gene Cernan, the Apollo 17 commander, and Dave Scott, on Apollo 15, were probably the most outspoken in their feelings about our country, patriotism, and commitment. Maybe it was just the times we lived in that we needed reminders of what we stood for. The world around us seemed to be going haywire. With the gradual withdrawal of U.S. ground troops from Vietnam, it was left to the Navy and Air Force pilots to pound North Vietnam, while the South tried to stabilize its defenses. Any military man knew it was a lost cause, and I was ashamed of the way our nation hung South Vietnam out to dry. The Munich massacre of Israeli athletes during the Summer Olympics, protests at the national political conventions, and the attempted assassination of former Alabama governor George Wallace were the background for the final Apollo mission.
December 6, 1972, Apollo 17
There were the usual notes in the flight director’s log when I saddled up on the console at 5:53 P.M. Central Standard Time to launch Apollo 17. This was an Apollo first, a Saturn V launch that would be seen rising on a pillar of fire in the night sky, before pitching over and starting its thrusting to the east, toward Africa, and carrying Cernan, Jack Schmitt, and Ron Evans on their way, our last ambassadors to the Moon.
Griffin had left several notes on the countdown funnies. He had reviewed a master alarm with Evans on the phone and closed out a battery problem as acceptable for launch. Trust is key in our business. If someone says a problem is closed, it is closed. In flight control, if you didn’t have trust in your fellow controllers you could not get the job done.
In the last hour the launch countdown became a nightmare. Data faults began occurring around the world, then the Mission Control Center experienced a series of power glitches and the display system failed while I was conducting my launch status check. The maintenance team swung into action while the controllers dug for the procedures in case they had to move to adjacent working consoles. It was almost as if our ground system were reluctant to send the final Apollo on its last journey to the Moon. The problem was fixed by launch minus seven minutes and the count continued.
Sixteen seconds to launch, a Saturn auto sequence cutoff was issued. The liquid oxygen tank pressurization did not start automatically. Again the team swung into action to provide the launch updates to the Cape team.
During a launch hold, the trajectory ground track changes on a minute-by-minute basis throughout the launch window, due to the Earth’s rotation and the changing geometry of the lunar trajectory. As soon as the launch hold is confirmed, the recovery forces and communications relay aircraft start moving southward, perpendicular to the ground track at maximum speed.
The countdown went through two recycles before the problems were corrected, finally lifting off almost at the end of the four-hour launch window. We were hard pressed to keep every aspect of the system in sync, but finally Mission Control was “Go for launch” of Apollo 17.
At 11:33 P.M. CST, the Saturn literally glowed as it left the launch pad. Night became day in a brilliant flash, a beacon for all America, all the world to see, as a symbol of the power of a free and open society.
The terse, calm controllers’ reports wiped away my last vestige of sentiment and emotion on the world’s final launch of a Saturn V rocket. Only during my final shift as a flight director, during the lunar phase, did emotion creep back in.
Launch and translunar injection were flawless. From then on it was a series of farewells for the “elite team” in Mission Control. The Saturn booster team, assigned by the Marshall Space Flight Center to my division, signed off for the final time after maneuvering the booster for the lunar impact. This crackerjack team, led by Scott Hamner, Chuck Casey, and Frank Van Renssalaer, had broken through the political and inter-center rivalries that stretched from Alabama to Texas to Florida, welding a partnership with my division and especially the Trench. “They was us” was Llewellyn’s simple tribute to the booster team as it left the console for the final time.
Cernan’s crew was probably the most relaxed of the Apollo crews. The day before the launch, the three of them had left the rules in shambles, violating their isolation to go duck hunting on a nearby farm. A pack of reporters was on their heels, but agreed not to write anything until after the flight, a reflection of the team spirit that sometimes infected even the press. Besides, this was the last roundup. Everyone understood that the usual protocol did not apply. The mellow attitudes of the Apollo 17 crew were also due in part to the fact they had no crises in the early going that threatened the mission. Another factor may have been the temperament of Cernan, a Chicago native, Navy captain, and space walker (Gemini 9). Gene had a sense of adventure reminiscent of that of the Mercury astronauts.
The teamwork between space and ground had peaked at a perfect time. The long interval between missions had given the crew of Apollo 17 full access to the controllers and training resources. Now the crew treated the control teams to the most vivid descriptions we had ever received of any flight. Even the ultra-quiet Ron Evans joined in broadcasting the account of the night launch. “During each staging the fireball overtook us, then when the engine kicked in we once again flew out of the orange-red cloud into darkness.”
The translunar injection started in darkness, the booster propelling them through sunrise. The description was lyrical. There was no doubt the crew was enjoying the ride. During the coast phase, Jack Schmitt waxed philosophical on the origin of life in the universe and man’s efforts to extend his realm. Listening to the crew’s narrative, I again felt the magic of the Genesis readings of Apollo 8, and of Armstrong’s call the day the Eagle landed.
If there had been a way to stretch the next few days into a lifetime I believe that Pete, Gerry, and I would have done so. We were in the final hours of our careers as flight directors, and for a few final moments we savored the wine. Pete Frank conducted the three extravehicular activities, the most productive of the lunar program, benefiting from the lessons learned in every previous hour of spaceflight. The crew, controller, and science teams breezed thro
ugh the EVAs. The crew set records for the longest lunar mission, mass of lunar materials returned, longest lunar EVA time, and greatest lunar surface distance traveled.
In this final mission, the crews and controllers all had time to sense the history in our work. As the final hours approached, I found myself mentally reviewing the early years of space, trying to fathom why we succeeded when by all rights we should have failed. Chris Kraft had pioneered Mission Control and fought the battles in Mercury and Gemini, serving as the role model of the flight director. He proved the need for real-time leadership. In the seconds-critical world of Mission Control, a single individual must assume responsibility to take any actions needed for crew safety and mission success. Kraft’s legacy had defined the leadership role.
As the mission went forward, I felt increasingly frustrated and melancholy. I would often sit in the corner of the viewing room, silently watching the teams at work and realizing that I had started my transition to an entirely new role. But I also thought about the legacy of my generation: trust, values, teamwork. I wanted to be a living connection between the new generation of mission controllers, reminding them of how and where it all started with my generation and where theirs might take us in the future.
Bob McCall, in my belief, the premier artist of space, had been sitting on the step to the right of the flight director console, sketching during the final Apollo EVAs. He had designed the Apollo 17 crew patch. When Bob took a break for a cup of coffee, I joined him in the cafeteria. Like Sjoberg, McCall’s talent shone because of his sincerity and humility. As we talked, I don’t think Bob was surprised when I asked him if he would design an emblem for the Mission Control team. I spoke emotionally, from my heart and gut, about the control teams and crews, and our life in Mission Control. “We fought and won the race in space and listened to the cries of the Apollo 1 crew. With great resolve and personal anger, we picked up the pieces, pounded them together, and went on the attack again. We were the ones in the trenches of space and with only the tools of leadership, trust, and teamwork, we contained the risks and made the conquest of space possible.”
Over the next six months, McCall developed the emblem worn proudly by every subsequent generation of mission controller. He inscribed his final rendering of the emblem: “To Mission Control, with great respect and admiration, Bob McCall 1973.”
During the final EVA Cernan and Schmitt unveiled the plaque on the LM landing gear that commemorated the conclusion of the first period of exploration of the Moon, voicing the hopes of the astronauts, controllers, designers, factory workers, secretaries, and clerks. Speaking for the Apollo generation, Cernan concluded, “This is our commemoration that will remain here until someone like us, until some of you who are out there, who are the promise of the future, will come back to read it again and to further the exploration and the meaning of Apollo.”
There was not a dry eye in Mission Control.
• • •
As I accepted the helm of Mission Control from Griffin for my final time, I put on my traditional white vest. I felt somewhat as I had the last time I strapped myself into an F-86 Sabre, relishing the final moments, touching the canopy and instrument panel, hesitating briefly before putting the helmet on. I knew that one life was about to end and another one about to begin.
I finally shrugged and plugged into the console. The time for recalling old memories was over. It was time to get the crew off the lunar surface. After the meeting with McCall, I had the satisfaction that no matter what direction I would take in the future, I, too, had helped to define the legacy of Mission Control.
The White Team picked up console duties at 183:00 MET for lunar liftoff. My thoughts now were on the business at hand, getting Cernan and Schmitt off the Moon and docked to the CSM. There are two times in the mission where the options of the flight directors and crews converge to zero. They are the lunar liftoff, and the subsequent trans-Earth injection. Engine failure in either case is catastrophic. We have options for everything else. A lunar liftoff is unlike any rocket launch from Earth. There are no abort alternatives.
The LM checkout prior to liftoff is exquisite in its detail. The liftoff is a single shot and must work perfectly. Liftoff time is critical, since most of the power, oxygen, and water have been used during the surface period. Decisions and actions must be perfect and instantaneous.
The Trench for the lunar ascent was a curious mixture. My flight dynamics officer was Bill Stoval, a youngster from Casper, Wyoming. Blond, blue-eyed, and cockier than hell, he was perfect for the job. Bill was typical of the new generation scribbling their names on the Captain Refsmmat poster in the hallways. He was matched with Jim I’Anson, an older, lanky Texan, who flew the B-17 Flying Fortresses in the Pacific during World War II.
The ascent countdown was a series of escalating events. Stoval called up the large-screen displays as I laid out various contingency procedures, mentally reviewing the mission rules. The countdown hit ascent minus ten minutes, and the team tightened up as the crew blew the pyrotechnic valves to pressurize the propulsion system. If the tank used to pressurize the ascent propulsion system started to leak, my lunar module team would cry out, “Emergency liftoff!” For a few seconds the suspense held, then I heard the call: “Flight, ascent helium is Go. The system is pressurized, there are no leaks.”
The countdown continued. I started my final status of the room at liftoff minus 8:30. We passed the “White Team is Go” to the crew and I opened my launch timeline, mentally running my personal mission rules, going through the final set of options for the final lunar mission. There are no reasons to delay liftoff, I thought. I will switch over for critical program alarms and navigation errors. My ascent status roll calls are at plus one, plus three, and plus five minutes. Communications checks were Go.
I conducted the final poll at minus two minutes. There were no open items, all mission rules were complied with. The trajectory and data sources were Go.
The White Team was now “negative reporting,” that is, in a listening mode as the crew called out, “400 plus . . . master arm . . . abort stage, engine arm ascent.”
By the clock at five seconds, I heard Schmitt call out, “Proceed,” then from several sources in unison in Mission Control I heard, “Liftoff.” Cernan sang out, “We’re on our way, Houston . . . ”
I noted in the log, “At 188:01:35, the last men left the Moon.”
The ascent in the LM Challenger was a hell of a ride. Stoval’s boyish glee rivaled I’Anson’s drawl as they reported events, times, data quality. The loops were crisp, fresh, professional, few wasted words. For ten seconds, the Challenger rose vertically on the plume of the 3,500-pound-thrust engine. In the lesser gravity of the Moon, this was the equivalent of 21,000 pounds of thrust on Earth. The small ascent stage moved out smartly from the valley of Taurus-Littrow with Cernan and Schmitt and their precious payload of rocks, as well as our dreams.
The lunar module now pitched forward, gaining velocity as well as altitude in its dash to capture the rendezvous orbit. Ed Fendell had done well again, capturing the liftoff in a blaze of sparks, debris, and motion with the Rover TV camera.
The images of the lunar liftoff, the faces of my control team and their voices, are forever captured in my memory. The finality of our mission was expressed in a simple plaque left on the surface by Cernan: “Here man completed his first explorations of the Moon, December 1972 A.D. May the spirit of peace in which we came be reflected in the lives of all mankind.”
The rendezvous ended in a good, tight Navy formation during the CSM visual inspection. And then at docking there was a brief and joyous exchange with Evans. We were not home free yet, but a lot of critical milestones on Apollo 17 were now behind us.
It was traditional since John Glenn’s first U.S. manned orbital mission for a message from the President. I had been angry when Kennedy’s planned message caught us right at the end of Glenn’s first orbit. Kraft’s reminder that day, “The President is the boss,” still rang in my ea
rs as I reviewed the message from President Nixon to be read to the crew. The presidential messages always seemed to come after a critical event, and when the odds radically improved that the crew would come home safely.
The crew was busier than ever as they prepared to open the hatch and enter the command module. Immediately after the docking, I passed the President’s message to the CapCom. The message began with the customary “attaboys,” followed by glowing words about the Apollo program’s impact on humanity. The message was designed for a spot on the evening news.
The concluding words were the bitter wine: “This may be the last time in this century that men will walk on the Moon!” We had started out with John Kennedy’s vision and command: get a man on the Moon by the end of the decade. Nixon’s message was, effectively, Apollo’s obituary.
Two hours later, I took off my white vest and stowed my headset. My career as a flight director was at an end. Flight directors do not retire to the blast of trumpets or to a roll of drums. There had been no formal change-of-command ceremony for Kraft, Hodge, Lunney, or Charlesworth. One day they just packed up their headsets and left the console. They were not there on the next mission.