damn thing wrong but the computer keeps going through software restarts and sending alarms. I think it’s time to abort!”
Seconds later, oblivious to the problem, I was startled by Bales’s call, “Flight, Guidance… something is wrong in the computer. I’ve got a bunch of computer alarms. Abort the landing… ABORT!”
Charlie Duke picked up the call. “We gonna call an abort, Flight?” My response was curt: “Abort, CapCom, abort!”
If there was one word guaranteed to get your attention in Mission Control it is the word “abort.” This word is never used casually and literally rings across the voice loops as the word is passed to the crew, computer controllers, and support personnel. An abort is an intensely time-critical effort where every action must be perfect and perfectly synchronized. In an abort, your chances of getting out alive are good
The crew confirmed the abort call as they throttled up the descent engine, then staged. The ascent engine ignited and moments later they set up a rendezvous with the command module. I felt that we had made the right, necessary call, but I was really unhappy with Koos. Dammit, we should have finished our training with a landing on the surface.
The flight controller debriefing was extensive. After listening to the confession of the team members, Koos gave his evaluation of our performance. Slowly, methodically, Dick took us through the problem, then plunged in the dagger: “THIS WAS NOT AN ABORT. YOU SHOULD HAVE CONTINUED THE LANDING.”
Koos had grabbed me by the throat; I wondered where the hell he was going. Half dazed, I was anchored to my chair as he continued: “The 1201 computer alarm said the computer was operating to an internal priority scheme. If the guidance was working, the control jets firing, and the crew displays updating, all the mission-critical tasks were getting done.” Koos’s voice then became almost fatherly as he continued, “Hell, Steve, I was listening to you talk to your back room and I thought you had it nailed. I thought you were going to keep going, but then for some reason you went off on a tangent and decided to abort. You sure shocked the hell out of me!”
Then Koos made the final cut with his knife:
Bales, the proud, capable young computer whiz kid, was devastated by the simulation. The controller’s world, however, is black and white, Go or NoGo, right or wrong. A controller can never make an excuse. His only answers when he fails are either “I was wrong” or “I don’t know, but I will find out.” Bales was frustrated and mad, damn mad, and his response was short. “Flight, I’m gonna pull a team together after we finish the debriefing. I’ll tell you what the hell went on when we figure it out.”
Every controller has experienced the bitter taste of failure. A single busted training run is abysmal; a busted run on the final day of training is unacceptable. Slowly, we took off our headsets and packed up our gear. We had run the last race and SimSup had won the battle. We would just have to get on with our job.
Later that evening, I got a call from Steve. “Koos was right, and I’m damn glad he gave us the run. The computer whizzes at the MIT labs, and our own assessment, said we could have continued. I’m going to stay with the team tonight and get out some rules. I’ve talked to Koos, and he is going to set up some training runs in the morning, if that’s okay with you.”
Koos scheduled four hours of training on program alarms the next day. The runs were scheduled with the Apollo 12 backup crew as well. SimSup triggered various alarm types during several intense training sessions while Steve Bales and Jack Garman collected computer performance data and response times during alarm conditions.
On July 11, nine days prior to landing, Bales modified his already lengthy listing of reasons to abort the lunar landing, adding a new entry to the trajectory and guidance section of the rules book.
Rule 5-90
Item 11, “powered descent will be terminated for the following primary guidance system program alarms— 105, 214, 402 (continuing), 430, 607, 1103, 1107, 1204, 1206, 1302, 1501, and 1502.
Steve did not put program alarms 1201 and 1202 in the mission rules listing requiring an abort.
The intense training period prior to flight had found our Achilles’ heel, something that could have distracted the MCC team and crew at the wrong time. Something that could have been a mission-buster.
SimSup had won the last round.
16. “WE COPY YOU DOWN,
On the day before launch, I feel like I am going into the seventh game of the World Series or playing for the Stanley Cup. The energy starts flowing, and my mind is filled with thousands of bits of information that I will need soon. I am impatient, eager to get on with the mission. Even at home I pace in endless figure 8s like a large cat in a small cage, as I frequently do behind my console.
Marta has been through this before and knows there will be no relief until launch. She keeps the conversation light, but she knows I am starting to feel the pressure. This wasn’t unique to the lunar landing; it happened every mission.
I am up at 4:30 on the morning of the launch, wide-eyed alert, and thinking about the countdown. There have been no phone calls, so it must be going well. I can’t wait to get to Mission Control and find out for sure. I fire up my psyche and crash around the house like the proverbial bull in a china shop. Marta tries to keep me quiet, since the kids are sleeping. As usual, she makes me an enormous lunch, generally two of everything. We say goodbye in hushed tones. I’m sure she’s glad when I leave.
Prior to launch, the pressure I feel asserts itself through nervous kidneys, until commitment of the final Go. Then I become icy calm. Other than that, I never have any problems. I sleep well. My only other on console symptoms are sweaty palms, a tendency to engrave words in the log, and the endless clicking of the ballpoint pen. The other flight directors kid me when the sweat-soaked paper curls as I write.
As I drive to the MCC, I wonder what Neil Armstrong, Buzz Aldrin, and Mike Collins are feeling as they prepare for this day. How do they feel as they enter the transfer van, go up the elevator, and across the platform to the command module? I believe we share the same feelings when it is time to get the show on the road. There is anticipation of the countdown reaching zero, the point at which there is no turning back. It is the final commitment.
The Black Team led by Glynn Lunney began support of the Apollo 11 countdown twelve hours before the predicted launch to support the Cape checkout of the CSM and booster systems. (The LM is not checked out during the launch day countdown and will not be powered up until shortly before the lunar landing.) In this way the teams can start working into the mission shifting cycle.
I arrive shortly after Charlesworth and Lunney have completed their handover. When Lunney goes off to get some coffee, I search for a chair. We tried labeling the chairs, but on launch day they have a habit of moving around the room and losing their labels. The back row is filled with the brass—Kraft, Bob Gilruth, and George Hage, the mission director who represented the NASA headquarters mission policy interests. As the count progresses, Charlesworth lives up to his Mississippi Gambler image. He is his usual cool self, saying little and wearing a smile across his broad face. He is ready to play any hand that is dealt him today during the Saturn launch.
