Failure Is Not an Option Read online

  Kraft relayed the messages to Gordo Cooper in Australia, who first verified the landing bag switch position. Cooper asked, “John, you haven’t heard any banging noises or anything of that kind, have you? Maybe when you maneuver at a high rate?” Glenn replied, “Negative,” and let the question drop. If he found it strange, he gave no indication.

  Walt Williams, Max Faget, the capsule designer, and John Yardley from McDonnell now joined Kraft at the console. In short order, the words came tumbling out, like objects falling from a filled closet. Faget proposed to hold the heat shield in place for the early part of reentry with the retropack.

  The retropack is a cluster of three solid rockets used to reduce the orbital velocity sufficiently to allow gravity to pull the spacecraft into a safe reentry trajectory. The timing of the retrorocket firing and the spacecraft attitudes are key to hitting the planned landing zone. The retropack is located behind and in the center of the heat shield and is attached to the capsule by three metal straps. After the retrorockets are fired, an electrical signal pyrotechnically cuts the three straps and a small spring pushes the empty retropack away from the heat shield. With the capsule oriented blunt end forward during reentry, the heat shield protects the capsule by dissipating the heat as the capsule enters the atmosphere. The heat shield literally melts away (ablates) on reentry. If the heat shield was not firmly attached to the capsule the aerodynamic forces would tear it off during reentry, leaving the capsule unprotected. If after retrofire, however, the retropack was not jettisoned, it was in a position to hold the heat shield during the reentry until the retropack melted away. When the retropack melted it was believed the aerodynamic forces would hold the heatshield in position during the remainder of the reentry.

  I looked around the room and saw faces drained of blood. John Glenn’s life was in peril. We were desperate to find a solution, without being sure we knew the problem.

  Kraft said, “This is the wrong way to go. It’s too damn risky for something that is probably an instrument error.” Fighting to avoid a premature decision, Kraft fired off a barrage of questions: “Does anyone know the aerodynamic effects of reentering with the retropackage attached? Do we have sufficient control with the attitude jets to keep us oriented in reentry attitude? Will we damage the heat shield to the point where it cannot protect the capsule as the retropack melts away during reentry?” Faget and Yardley scratched their heads. They were well beyond the bounds of their design knowledge.

  Faget, quietly muttering in his Cajun accent, tried to reassure Kraft. “Chris, it should be okay. We designed the heat shield with plenty of margin.” His words did not sound convincing. Kraft’s gut feeling indicated just the opposite. He believed Segment 51 was a false telemetry indication and the risks of an unproven, untested entry technique with the retropack were too high. Kraft exclaimed, “Dammit, we’ve got to find other pieces of data to confirm this before we jump to the conclusion to enter with the retropack.”

  Slayton and Shepard had plugged into Kraft’s console for the telephone conversation with the blockhouse. Returning to his console, Williams leaned over and asked, “What should we tell John?” Kraft ignored the question for the moment.

  Faget, the consummate engineer, could not ignore the telemetry. Engineers like Max live by their data. Asking one of them to consider that the telemetry information may be wrong borders on the heretical. Kraft was at the opposite end of the spectrum. “Max, dammit,” he barked, “we only got one piece of instrumentation. My guys tell me it would take a dual electrical failure for the heat shield to come loose. The way it is stacked, a mechanical failure is out of the question.”

  Yardley, who had been conferring with Williams, posed the fatal question: “Chris, what happens if it is valid?”

  With only a single data point, the discussion was at an impasse.Williams joined in: “If we come in with the retropack attached, what is the worst thing that can happen to us?” (I could imagine Glenn’s reaction, if he only knew: “What’s this us crap?”) No new information was forthcoming, but at least there was now a grudging acceptance for Kraft’s position that the telemetry indicator could be wrong.

  The debate at the console broke off again as Cooper came on the conference loop to offer his impression of the problems reported by Glenn over Australia. Kraft knew the discussions were bothering his controllers on the floor and motioned the entourage to return to their seats. I noted the clock. The mission was half over and the team needed to make a decision in less than two hours. I made one more trip to my McDonnell engineers, who had been on the phone back to the plant in St. Louis. I doubted they would have any answers prior to entry.

  Kraft was again seated at his console when I returned. For a few moments, it seemed that everything had settled down. My console was flooded with Teletype messages and I scanned the most recent arrivals first. The message from the Canton site brought me to my feet and I handed it to Kraft. The message said:

  ALL

  DE CTN

  FM CAPCOM

  CTN ADVISED S/C NO INDICATIONS LDG BAG DEPLOY.

  S/C RESP DID SOMEONE ASK IF THE LDG BAG WAS DOWN?

  CTN RESP WE HAVE BEEN ASKED TO MONITOR LDG BAG AND ASK

  IF YOU HEARD NOISES WHEN MANEUVERING.

  S/C RESPONSE NEG.

  Teletype messages between the tracking stations and MCC are always abbreviated and terse to save transmission time. This message was painfully clear. The Canton Island CapCom (CTN) had inadvertently informed Glenn (S/C or spacecraft) of our concerns.

  Kraft had staked out his position long ago: “I don’t worry about things I can’t do something about.” But in this case, he was worrying a great deal. The impasse on entry techniques bothered him. Left to his own he would press on with a normal entry, ignoring the alarm, but Yardley and Faget were two damned good engineers arrayed against him. Williams also had flight test savvy. They were all telling him he should take a different path.

  Still, Kraft had picked up the scent. He believed he was on the right track and wanted to buy more time. “I want to give John a complete story,” he explained, “and I need more answers.”

  Over Hawaii, Glenn was given the Go for the final orbit. After the discussion with Canton, I was surprised John did not mention his conversation with the CapCom. During his last stateside pass, he continued discussing his attitude control problems, and we provided him with a recommendation for backing up the automatic attitude control.

  My roommate, Carl Huss, updated the capsule retrosequence clock to the correct retrofire time for the planned end of the mission landing area. The clocks would automatically initiate the retrofire sequence if the spacecraft attitude was correct when the clock timed out. The mission now coasted into the third and final orbit. Under other circumstances, Huss and Tec Roberts would have been delighted. Their tracking data was solid and the planned retrofire times had not changed by even a second during the last orbit. With the decision time now down to less than an hour, I believed we had all the data we were going to get. Kraft and Williams were facing the lonesome task of deciding what to do. John Glenn’s life, the Mercury program, and America’s future in space were in the balance.

  Looking back on this episode, and the other Mercury missions, I find it hard to believe that we did so well. The systems operators did not have the benefit of the massive analytical tools available today. The only computing resources available during the mission were used to process radar tracking data. Compared to the present technology, our computers were the equivalent of a rusty adding machine.

  A controller lives or dies based on the information he has at his console. If you lack what you need at liftoff, there is little hope that you will get new information that you would trust during a mission. This realization was the most profound impression branded on me from the Glenn mission. During the final orbit I witnessed the agony and the frustration faced by the controllers and engineers wrestling to help Kraft make the best decision.

  There was no right decision that day,
nothing in black and white. We could only try to obtain the best answer. At that moment, I also realized that learning by doing was the only way a controller could ever become smart enough to succeed in the tough and unforgiving environment of spaceflight operations.

  The last orbit was a stalemate. No more data was coming. The best judgment of the engineers was that there was sufficient attitude control for reentry with the retropack attached. The straps would burn off during entry and should not induce any landing position errors. Kraft restated his position: “It is an instrumentation problem. The heat shield is still attached. If we burn a hole in the damned heat shield we are going to kill Glenn!” Williams, rising to the emotion of the decision, chimed in: “Chris, if you’re wrong we are going to kill him, too.”

  The engineers cautioned that if we kept the retropack attached, we needed to confirm that all three retros had fired. If one did not, there was a good chance it would detonate during reentry. Kraft did not comment on this last prediction.

  Kraft was still holding out until the last moment, so that he had a complete understanding of the final instructions before he radioed up to John Glenn. The mission was turning into a horse race. Kraft wanted answers from one final test to be performed over Hawaii before he turned the discussion to the entry procedures modifications.

  At capsule acquisition, the Hawaii CapCom advised Glenn, “Friendship 7, we have been reading an indication on the ground of Segment 51, which is heat shield deploy. We suspect this is an erroneous signal and would like to check it out. Place the landing bag switch in auto and see if you get a light.”

  Glenn responded, “Negative. In automatic position did not get a light and I’m back in the off position now, over.”

  Kraft turned again to Williams. “Walt, this is the best damned data we can get. The test was negative. We should go ahead with the normal reentry sequence.”

  Without waiting for a response, Kraft advised Hawaii, “Tell Glenn we will go ahead with the normal reentry sequence.”

  Kraft’s instruction to the Hawaii CapCom surprised Williams. Still not satisfied that the test was valid, Walt continued to question the engineers over the telephone. He was getting a mixed input—the design engineers had conflicting feelings. Stormily closing off the final conference call, he said, “If reentry with the retropack is safe, what do we lose by coming in with the pack on?”

  While the debate continued, Glenn had now made contact with the California site, and Huss started the countdown to retro sequence. The count was relayed to the capsule at California by Wally Schirra: “Five . . . four . . . three . . . two . . . one . . . MARK.”

  Glenn responded, “Retro sequence green.”

  Thirty seconds later the retros fired and John Glenn was heading back to Earth. All that was needed was the final decision on whether to retain the retropackage to keep the heat shield in place during the reentry. Schirra said, “Attitude looked good, John. Keep your retros on until you pass Texas.”

  Glenn asked several times during the pass about the retropack jettison time. Schirra advised him, “You’ll get the final word over Texas.”

  Kraft called Schirra: “California, can you confirm that all three retros fired?” Wally: “Affirmative, Chris.”

  In his role as the operations director, Williams leaned toward Kraft, and quietly but firmly said, “That settles it, we’re coming in with the pack on.” Kraft nodded. Williams was the boss and the final decision was made.

  Chris got on the voice loop to the Texas CapCom: “Tell John to keep the retros on through entry.”

  I had anticipated the decision and had a Teletype message with the procedures already at the site. Glenn would have to override the .05G signal, which changed capsule attitude control modes when capsule reentry accelerations were sensed, and he would need to retract the periscope manually. I handed Kraft the message. Alan Shepard, the MCC CapCom, standing in front of Kraft’s console, nodded affirmatively at its content. Kraft then asked the Texas CapCom, “Texas, do you have the message on entry procedures?”

  At acquisition, Texas called the capsule. “This is Texas CapCom, Friendship 7. We are recommending that you leave the retropackage on through the entire reentry. This means that you will have to override the .05G switch expected at 04:43:53. This also means you will have to manually retract the scope. Do you read?”

  Glenn’s response was tart. He wanted answers. “Texas, Friendship 7. What is the reason for this? Do you have a reason? Over.”

  Caught in the middle, and without the benefit of the discussions in Mercury Control, Texas passed the buck to the Cape. “Friendship 7, Texas. Cape Flight will give you the reasons for this action when you are in view.”

  When Glenn passed over the Cape during reentry, Shepard calmly recommended the periscope retraction. He then added: “John, while you’re doing that, we are not sure whether or not your landing bag has deployed. We feel it is possible to reenter with the retropackage on. We see no difficulty at this time with this type of reentry. Over.” Glenn’s response on hearing it from Shepard was simply, “Roger, understand.”

  As the capsule plunges toward the Earth, a sheath of superheated ionized particles surrounds it, causing a communications blackout with the ground stations. This blackout is accompanied by a rapid increase in external temperatures and G (gravity) buildup. The astronaut is literally in the center of a fireball.

  Glenn watched as his world turned to a very bright orange as the external temperatures reached toward 3,000 degrees Fahrenheit. Flaming pieces of metal broke off and passed behind him, and for a moment Glenn had visions that they were chunks of the heat shield, but he could only wait to know for sure. The reentry Gs had him virtually immobilized, his body now weighing seven times his Earth weight.

  Exiting communications blackout, the spacecraft started to oscillate, and Glenn tried every control mode. As the oscillations started to diverge, and he could finally lift his arm against the G forces, he reached up to deploy the drogue parachute just as the automatic system sent the command.

  We listened in Mercury Control as the final events unfolded. I continued the Teletype and voice briefings for the control teams around the world. It was hard to contain my glee. Today we had put an American in orbit and returned him safely, in spite of a grave and, at the time, a life-threatening uncertainty.

  The destroyer Noa sighted the spacecraft as it descended through a broken cloud layer at 5,000 feet for a landing five miles off the bow. The cheering sailors who plucked him out of the sea painted Glenn’s footprints on the deck.

  There were a hellacious number of rough spots and much to rethink before the next mission, but this was our day. There was no doubt about the team. Kraft’s Brotherhood had pulled it off. The joyous chatter among the consoles as the controllers stowed their headsets and documents belied the rip-roaring party we would throw that night. I sent the final message to the remote sites. I was damned proud of my guys. They had kept on top of a spacecraft traveling at five miles a second with a low-speed Teletype network. It isn’t equipment that wins the battles; it is the quality and the determination of the people fighting for a cause in which they believe.

  And, of course, it was John Glenn’s day.

  None of us could have predicted the emotional reaction to John Glenn’s flight: parades in Cape Canaveral, New York, and Washington. Miles of ticker tape. An invitation to speak to Congress. Dinner and touch football with the Kennedys. Half a million letters and telegrams in the first month after his flight. And Glenn tried to answer them all.

  He had left college to join the Marines during World War II. He was a decorated hero in Korea, a jet fighter pilot nicknamed “Ol’ Magnet Tail” by his buddies because his plane took so many hits. In 1957 he set a transcontinental speed record for jet aircraft.

  Glenn was simply an old-fashioned, star-spangled hero. He spoke of God and country and the flag and the bravery of his fellow astronauts, and he actually meant what he said. Even a cynic like Shorty Powers was moved t
o say, “This guy is for real. I’d say he’s the most decent human being I’ve ever met.”

  The post-mission analysis confirmed that the telemetry reading had been invalid.

  John Glenn’s mission was the turning point in Flight Control and in Kraft’s evolution as a flight director. Walt’s direction rankled Kraft, and Kraft vowed never to be placed in a similar position again. Kraft believed his neophyte team was superior to the designers at real-time integrated spacecraft systems analysis. Learning by doing equipped the controllers with a gut-level knowledge of spacecraft design and operations. When this knowledge was combined with the multidisciplinary skills of the mission team and the integrated risk assessments developed through the mission rules, the Flight Control team had the foundation needed to succeed in the new environment of space. Flight Control rapidly became the dominant systems engineering cadre in the U.S. space program.