Moon Lander: How We Developed the Apollo Lunar Module (Smithsonian History of Aviation and Spaceflight)

by Kelly, Thomas J.

  While in the holding pattern Orion also developed trouble. Houston flight controllers noticed that the pressure in the reaction control system fuel tank was creeping upward out of limits. Grumman’s Will Bischoff, Manning Dandridge, and Ozzie Williams decided this was caused by leakage in an RCS pressure regulator and recommended opening the ascent propulsion-RCS interconnect fuel valve. This allowed the excess pressure to relieve into the much larger ascent fuel tank and solved the problem.4

  Young flew Orion to a smooth landing in rough, heavily cratered terrain, near the base of towering Stone Mountain. He and Duke conducted three highly productive moonwalks, the first two exceeding seven hours duration each, the third exceeding five hours. They drove the rover up Stone Mountain to a point five hundred feet above the plain and gazed with wonder on an otherworldly panorama. Their home base LM was not even in sight, hidden by an undulating fold of Stone Mountain’s slope. The mountain’s underlying rounded shapes recalled Mount Hadley, but Stone Mountain was more rock-strewn and rugged. They found many whitish crystalline rocks, anorthosite from the Moon’s primordial crust, like the Genesis Rock. But contrary to the geologists’ predictions, they found no evidence of volcanism in the highlands. The area appeared to have been formed by intensive meteorite bombardment in eons past. The two explorers were excited and expressive, punctuating their comments with “Wow!” and “Lookit that!” Young and Duke freely shared their sights and feelings with the world, in plain-spoken American country English, to the delight of much of their U.S. audience.5

  The explorers returned more than two hundred pounds of lunar samples, a new record, plus data and photographs from the surface and from the orbiting scientific instrument module. Mattingly performed a spacewalk to retrieve film from the SIM at the base of the service module, in the daunting, spectacular emptiness of space almost halfway between Earth and Moon, an experience forever seared into his memory.

  Grand Finale: Apollo 17

  Joan and I and our three youngest children, Christopher, age twelve, Jennifer, nine, and Peter, seven, waited for hours in the bleachers of the VIP viewing area through prelaunch holds in the countdown of Apollo 17, the first nighttime launch to the Moon. As the December chill and dampness deepened, we watched the Apollo stack in the distance on Launch Pad 39A, bathed in the glare of floodlights and exhaling streams of white vapor, as though nearly bursting with stored energy. The children grew restless and ran around the parking lot, emptying the small cooler of snacks and finding beetles and other insects in the weeds. Well after midnight, when the countdown passed the planned twenty-second hold, silence fell over the watching throng, and I squeezed Joan’s hand for reassurance.

  The dazzlingly bright yellow-white plume spilled out from beneath the Saturn booster and, as the black-trimmed white cylinder cleared the tower, expanded until it looked like the rocket was riding astride the Sun. The nighttime darkness vanished in the harsh light of a klieg-light white dawn, showing the flat expanse of dunes, wetlands, and tropical scrub growth to the far horizons. I gaped open mouthed at this manmade wonder, and forgot about the oncoming shock of sound until it hit my ears with staccato fury and sent earth tremors up my legs. Then as we stared in wonder, the Sun slowly transformed into a brilliant star and the shrinking rocket came less distinct in its glare. For several minutes our eyes were riveted skyward, until the sound bombardment faded to a distant rumble and the departing moonship was a dimming star. Darkness reclaimed its rightful reign over southern Florida, but the curving trail of fluffy white exhaust cloud, luminous in the light of the target Moon, attested to the reality of the miracle we had all witnessed.

  As we waited on the bus after the launch, stuck in the traffic of a million departing viewers, our kids were so excited by what they had seen that they chattered endlessly, not settling down for sleep until long after we returned to our motel. Before finally dropping off, little Peter asked if the astronauts were sleeping too in their spaceship. For all of us it was a night to remember.

  I had come down to Kennedy Space Center a day before Joan and the children to watch the final launch preparations from Grumman’s Mission Support Room in the Operations and Checkout building. In the afternoon before launch, Grumman’s KSC director, George Skurla, told me this story: NASA’s Apollo launch director, the hard-driving Col. Rocco Petrone, had called Skurla into his office a few months earlier and asked what he was doing to maintain morale and discipline among the Grumman team at KSC. With no follow-on space work, the Grumman people were literally working themselves out of their jobs on Apollo 17, which worried NASA management. Would their quality and dedication be sustained at the same high standards of prior launches? Skurla told him, “Don’t worry about my Grummies, they’ll do just fine.”

  On launch day Petrone summoned Skurla into his office and showed him a poster left on the platform on the launch tower outside the white room and the command module, where it was hoped the astronauts would see it as they boarded their spaceship. “Don’t your people ever learn? This is a violation of the rules,” he said. On a previous mission he had demanded that the perpetrators of a similar infraction be fired.6 On this final Apollo launch, his displeasure was more measured. He looked at the poster with Skurla, which was signed by each member of the Grumman launch team: “This may be our last LM, but it will be our best!” Petrone’s face broke into a half-smile and he admitted that he admired their spirit.

  Earlier that day I had rendezvoused with Joan and our children at a large prelaunch luncheon sponsored by Grumman. Several astronauts’ wives attended, including Jan Evans, wife of Apollo 17’s CM pilot, Ron Evans, with whom Joan was acquainted from prior mission visits in Houston. Some NASA officials also attended, including Bob Gilruth and his wife, and Gen. and Mrs. Carrol “Rip” Bolender. Gilruth offered brief remarks praising Grumman for its outstanding contributions to the Apollo program. Jo Evans, wife of Lew Evans, who had died suddenly in June, also said a few heartfelt words thanking Grumman’s LM people for keeping Lew’s spirit alive. The group faced the upcoming launch confidently, with pride and relief, and regret that this was the finale.

  The valley of Taurus Littrow, the place chosen by the scientists as likely to fill in many still-missing pieces in their story of lunar creation, was a complex and challenging site. It was a small box canyon on the northeast edge of the Sea of Serenity, about four miles wide, bordered by two seventy-five-hundred-foot sheer walls of high plateaus, known as the North and South Massifs. Researchers were attracted by its great geological variety: it was heavily cratered and rock-strewn, and the bases of the massifs were piled high with boulders and landslide debris from the walls. Orbital photos suggested that its light-colored surface was dusted with a thin layer of darker material, which experts thought could be volcanic ash or impact ejecta. The landslide debris from the base of the massifs could contain older upthrust material from the Moon’s interior. The area was a geological treasure trove that held far more than could be explored in three excursions, even with the rover and with a geologist-astronaut on the scene.

  The crew of the final Apollo expedition included LM pilot Harrison H. “Jack” Schmitt, the only trained scientist to fly in space on the Apollo program. With Comdr. Eugene Cernan, a space veteran of the Gemini 9 and Apollo 10 missions, and CM pilot Ronald Evans, they were very capable lunar field geologists as well as astronauts.

  Apollo 17 was a record-breaking, extremely productive mission. Cernan skillfully guided the LM Challenger to a pinpoint landing on the pockmarked floor of the narrow valley, enabling the crew to make maximum use of their planned traverse routes. They gazed awestruck at the cornucopia of geological specimens laid out for their inspection. Schmitt’s expertise let them wisely prioritize their time in sampling this vast selection. They were immersed in spectacularly beautiful scenes, dominated by the dazzling white walls of the massifs and the darker, rubble-strewn valley floor. An iridescent blue-and-white crescent Earth hung suspended above the towering flank of the South Massif, eliciting an exc
lamation of astonishment from Cernan.

  As befitted the finale, they broke all prior Apollo mission records—for time on the surface (three days, three hours), longest moonwalks (three, each over seven hours), greatest distance from the LM (5.5 miles), and lunar samples returned (243 pounds). While exploring conical Shorty crater they discovered orange soil and took many samples. This was later determined to be composed of glass beads of many colors—orange, green, blue, even brown and black—and of unique chemical compositions, rich in titanium and iron but containing little silica. Scientists attributed them to “fire fountain” eruptions of pressurized, gas-saturated lava from deep within the Moon during the period of active volcanism.7

  On their third excursion the explorers reached a huge dark boulder on the side of the North Massif—a preselected destination, as it was visible in the Apollo 15 photographs, along with the long trail it had left when it rolled down the massif’s wall. It turned out to have broken into five large pieces, and Cernan chipped the micrometeorite patina off its surfaces while Schmitt examined it and discussed what he saw with the scientists in Houston. It was an extremely complex boulder, containing intermingled masses of tan-gray, blue-gray, and other rocks and chips of white crystalline minerals. Cernan and Schmitt examined and photographed it at length, chipping off many samples, because they knew that this boulder had a dramatic story to tell about the Moon’s evolution.8

  Both spacecraft performed perfectly throughout the mission. As the Grumman launch crew had promised, their last was their best. In a brief ceremony before entering Challenger from the surface for the last time, Cernan showed the worldwide TV audience the commemorative plaque on the front landing leg and challenged future generations to follow soon in their footsteps.9 It was official; the enormously successful program of manned exploration of the Moon was over, not because all the questions were answered, but because time, resources, and will had run out.10

  Watching parts of the moonwalks from the VIP viewing room in Mission Control at Houston, I savored the marvels of exploring another world by proxy. It felt strange to be a visitor to an Apollo mission, and I frequently slipped down the hall into SPAN, where Coursen, Bischoff, and Carbee presided for Grumman. It was a relaxed atmosphere, with no spacecraft anomalies to be worked, and a feeling of pride and satisfaction spread over the usually anxious engineers.

  I attended bittersweet celebrations in Houston with Grumman and NASA colleagues. After so long, it was ending, but what a triumphant way to ring down the curtain! I returned home to see another safe, precise carrier recovery on TV. Then it was undeniable—Apollo was over. Whatever would I do for an encore? I knew there would never be anything like it in my lifetime. And what a ride. Twelve glorious years of purpose, dedication, and achievement. How ironic that it ended as the growing tragedy of the Vietnam War was tearing our country apart and alienating a generation from the ideals of patriotism and national purpose that had made Apollo possible.

  Not one to dwell in the past, I took up the daunting challenge of trying to keep Grumman’s space business afloat in a shrinking market environment. From Apollo I carried lessons of motivation, teamwork, and quality throughout my remaining career. Although there would never be another Apollo, I resolved to apply what I had learned there to the next generation of aircraft and spacecraft.

  20

  Our Future Slips Away

  For a brief interlude in 1969–70 I left the relentless pressure of the LM program and sampled the treasure house of university knowledge. The year I spent at MIT studying industrial management as a Sloan Fellow was stimulating and informative. I learned many aspects of the theory and practice of management and formed a broad network of friends and acquaintances. My whole family came with me, into a big rambling frame house in Winchester, Massachusetts, that bordered on the town forest—a sylvan enclave only eight miles from the Boston Commons. The change of pace was welcome, for although student life was demanding, it was more flexible than work on the LM program had been, allowing us to spend more time together as a family and explore Boston and New England. I kept closely in touch with Grumman and made frequent visits to support the flight missions. In the spring Joe Gavin and Grant Hedrick told me that when I returned in June, they wanted me to join the rapidly growing space shuttle program.

  The space shuttle was NASA’s major post-Apollo manned spaceflight program. It had supplanted Wernher von Braun’s dream of a space station as NASA’s primary objective because planners reasoned that unless the cost of traveling to and from orbit could be reduced, long-duration, manned activities such as a space station would be prohibitively expensive. In management strategy meetings led by the forward-looking George Mueller, NASA opted instead to lower the cost of spaceflight by developing a reusable, round-trip booster system.

  The space shuttle program’s goal was to provide low-cost access to space. It was envisioned as a fully reusable system, with winged, rocket-powered booster and orbiter stages mounted piggyback at liftoff. The shuttle would be launched vertically like a rocket, but each stage would land horizontally like an airplane. The booster stage would exhaust its rocket propellants and detach from the orbiter, then the orbiter’s rocket would propel it into Earth orbit in a manner similar to a multistage expendable booster, except that the orbiter’s engines would be fired continuously from liftoff. Both stages would have human pilots and would land using retractable turbojet engines and landing gear. Their wings and reaction control rockets also provided orbital maneuvering capability on reentry, allowing each vehicle to change its return trajectory by hundreds of miles to reach the landing site.1 The orbiter had a large cargo bay and was required to carry a maximum sixty-five-thousand-pound payload into low Earth orbit. This heavy lift capability further reduced the dollars-per-pound cost of the program. The fully reusable shuttle was a huge, complex, and technically demanding system that would be very expensive to design and develop, even if its recurring operational costs met NASA’s ambitious goal of one thousand dollars per pound to orbit.

  NASA held a competition in late 1969 for studies to define the space shuttle and its missions. Study contracts for $8 million were awarded to North American and McDonnell Douglas, and the companies augmented this amount liberally from their own discretionary funds. Several hundred engineers worked on each study team, producing many detailed design concepts on their most favored approaches.

  Grumman formed a space shuttle team under the direction of veteran project engineer Larry Mead, with me as deputy and Fred Raymes as proposal director. Working with Max Faget and his group, we obtained a $4 million alternate space shuttle concepts contract to explore and develop less complex and costly alternatives to the fully reusable systems. This put us into direct competition with NASA’s mainline phase B studies, which were designing fully reusable boosters and orbiters in increasingly fine detail.2

  The paradigm-shattering concept that made the space shuttle feasible occurred late in 1971. My recollection is that Faget and his team thought of it first then showed it to us, but some of my own engineers may dispute that, since our work was so closely intertwined with NASA’s. The concept eliminated the booster completely, removing all main propellants from the orbiter and placing them in a very large, lightweight expendable tank to which were attached two large, reusable solid-propellant rocket motors. This simplified the system and reduced its cost, reduced the liftoff weight, and reused most of the high-value items. The solid rockets were lowered into the ocean by parachute, where their empty steel cases would float until they were towed ashore, cleaned, and refilled with solid propellants for another flight. The concept was a logical evolution of our investigations of external drop tanks on the orbiter, first hydrogen, then also oxygen, and strap-on solid rockets, which kept growing bigger in our designs.

  I was elated. If this alternate concept proved viable, it would negate two years of heavily funded studies by our competitors. We were within reach of repeating our successful pre-LM tactic: redefining the mission and the spacecr
aft configuration into something we knew more about than anyone else. Would the lightning of innovation strike twice?

  We redesigned the orbiter for the new concept. We removed all cryogenic propellants (i.e., hydrogen and oxygen) from the orbiter and used high density storable liquid propellants (as on the LM ascent and descent propulsion systems) for the orbiter’s orbital maneuvering system (OMS, the equivalent of LM’s propulsion and reaction control systems). The external tank was jettisoned shortly before reaching orbital velocity, descending to destruction in fiery reentry and splashdown in the Pacific Ocean, while the two six-thousand-pound-thrust OMS engines carried the orbiter upward into orbit. Our aerodynamic design studies converged on a sharply swept “double delta” wing configuration smoothly blended into the fuselage, with relatively blunt leading edges to hold down peak heating. This design produced a sufficiently high lift/drag ratio to meet the air force cross-range maneuver requirements. Further analysis showed that this design had sufficient post reentry L/D and glide maneuverability to reach the airfields at Edwards Air Force Base or Kennedy Space Center from orbit without turbojet power, making “dead stick” landings with acceptable touchdown velocity and landing approach maneuvers. Turbojet engines were not needed, simplifying the design and eliminating jet fuel from the orbiter.