There is no external indication that today is any different from any of the other days in his life, although Cliff seems to be keeping closer tabs than usual on the Trench. He likes to play mental gymnastics with his people, asking questions to which he already knows the answer, showing his guys that he has not lost his touch. Today he is pressing them harder. I think this is how he relaxes. With the uncertainties and the fast decisions we face, I think all launch flight directors search for something to feel comfortable with and hold on to. I sit to his left and enjoy watching him do his thing.
Kraft, seated on the row above us, is also having his problems. He left his heart at the flight director’s console after Gemini 76. Since that time he was faced with the formidable task of leading his four divisions into Apollo. As the count progresses toward liftoff, he becomes nervous and fidgety. He asks Charlesworth questions about the countdown. Cliff turns, frustrated by the interruptions, and in a mock serious voice, says, “Chris, if you don’t settle down, I’m going to have to ask you to leave the room. You’re making me nervous.” I smile; this is one of the few times we can tell our boss to “cool it!” Kraft hesitates, gives a thumbs-up, reluctantly settles in his chair, and then mutters at the console.
The countdown progresses smoothly. It is hard to believe that this is the day we are going to launch the mission that will land on the Moon. Charlesworth gives the Cape the Go for the start of the terminal count and advises the controllers of his intention to lock the doors at launch minus nine minutes. The controllers scramble in the usual last-minute rush to the rest rooms. After the completion of the final communications checks, everyone hunkers down and I mumble a silent prayer for the crews and controllers as we start the voyage.
The launch is flawless, as if this is just another simulation on a very good day. The only indication that this is the real lunar mission is the muffled commentary of the public affairs officer, Jack Riley. Riley is a neat guy, trains as a member of the team, and covers his flight directors’ flanks just like a good wingman. Sitting next to Charlesworth, I hear Riley’s voice over the air path. He is speaking so loudly into his microphone that his words penetrate the background buzz of the room. I pick up his words… “lunar landing mission.” Then it sinks in. Today is different. We are launching the mission that will try to land Americans on the Moon. On this flight, America will go the final 50,000 feet.
Charlesworth continues his chatter with the controllers, giving the crew their Go’s periodically throughout powered flight. All eyes in the control room are on the plot board, as the markers plotting the radar trajectory streak along the flight path and into the cutoff box. Collins, the command module pilot, calls out “Cutoff!” at 00:11:42 MET (mission elapsed time), and the controllers scramble to call up their displays for the orbital Go NoGo decision. After a rapid conversation with his controllers in the trench, FIDO Dave Reed shouts, “Go, Flight. We are Go!” We are committed. We are in Earth orbit and there is no turning back.
I pick up the second shift after Charlesworth has guided the mission from launch through translunar injection and has extracted the lunar module from the Saturn IVB. There is little for me to do after shift handover except track the spacecraft and get the crew to sleep. This is my first experience with translunar coast, and for the first time I enjoy continuous communications while the spacecraft is en route to the Moon. Since there are no problems, my team spends the entire shift studying and noting any funnies. Each spacecraft is unique and has its own personality. Learning these characteristics is essential if the controller is to make the right calls and not get fooled under pressure.
Buck Willoughby, the CSM GNC, John Aaron, Ed Fendell, and I go over each measurement, discussing everything that is in any way different from expected. As we talk, I make notes on my spacecraft schematics and in the mission rules. SimSup has taught the controllers many lessons about data integrity. At one time or another, every controller has been faked out by his data and has made the wrong call.
The mission progresses without a glitch, and shift rotations go smoothly. By the time of my third shift rotation, my White Team is well into the groove and, for the first time, my lunar module people have something to do other than sit and fret. Except for a brief communications check on the fourth day, there is no power margin to allow us to look at lunar module data until the final check-out for landing.
This makes it tough on my LM team and support staff rooms. The first time they will see data is when they are giving their Go NoGo’s at LM power-up, six hours before the lunar landing attempt. Their learning curve has to be near vertical, and I expect surprises as we go along. The third shift is a welcome break for my controllers as the crew pressurizes the LM and, during the middle of the shift, climbs into it to make the first in-flight visit for a visual inspection.
For the next hour and a half, the crew takes the world on a TV tour of the spacecraft, describing displays and providing a stark view of the cockpit. It’s an obvious tight fit for two crewmen. Although the LM controllers do not see data, at least they know that their spacecraft has arrived in space okay. They are finally getting a piece of the action. This is our last shift prior to landing.
After finishing with the post-shift press conference, I go over to the Singing Wheel to have a beer with the team before going home. Mission events never fall into neat, equally spaced increments of eight hours. My team must take thirty-two hours off to synchronize with the lunar trajectory for landing. During this thirty-two-hour period Charlesworth will get the spacecraft into lunar orbit, then Milt Windler, the Maroon Team flight director, will have the crew trim the orbit and then perform another interior inspection of the LM. Four flight control teams are being used for the lunar phase of the mission to provide flexibility and, once the LM is on the lunar surface, to support the CSM solo orbital operations. Lunney will come in for the shift preceding mine, presiding over the crew sleep and, with the assistance of the Trench, nailing down the final trajectory for landing. This “whifferdill,” as we call it, sets up the shift sequence for my shift for landing. (A “whifferdill” is the controllers’ term for an adjustment to a shift schedule in order to accommodate events that are going to take place in the lunar phase.)
The pre-mission flight plan has the crew in the LM going to sleep after landing, but no one believes it will happen. During the whifferdill Charlesworth moves into a shifting position so we can give a Go and be ready for an EVA shortly after the Stay NoStay decisions. Whifferdills happen every mission and are pretty messy. Sometimes you come on shift with only an eight-hour gap with the previous one, other times the adjustment is as much as thirty-two hours. You just have to tell your body to ignore how it feels and get on with the job.
The few patrons in the Singing Wheel are watching the TV news as my team orders a couple of pitchers of beer. I glance up as I hear my voice coming from the TV in the bar. The commentator quotes me saying, “The lunar mission is on schedule; there are no problems impacting the planned landing.” When the pitchers of beer are drained, I bid a muted farewell to my teammates and then drive home. I read the newspapers, watch television, and try to force myself onto my new shift schedule. It does not work, and I fall asleep on the sofa. When I wake up, and face the extra sixteen-hour gap, I finally come to terms with the realization that the next shift is the “real one.”
I go to Saturday evening mass. Blessed by my mother with strong faith, during almost every mission, I find a way to get to church and pray for wise judgment and courage, and pray also for my team and the crew. Our pastor, Father Eugene Cargill, knows the risks and the difficulties of our work and the need for extra guidance. He knows that tomorrow is a special day, and he says a few words about it in his sermon. After mass, he talks with me briefly, finishing with a thumbs-up. Then I go home, have a great supper and a couple of beers, and Marta keeps the kids quiet when I go to bed early. I sleep well.
I wake up feeling refreshed and have a quick breakfast. The eastern horizon is just starting to show a bit of light as I hit the road. I arrive at the control center without any memory of passing through League City and Webster, small towns along the way. In an instant, it seems, I am pulling my ’67 Cougar into my parking space on the north side of the building, just as I have done hundreds of times before.
Today a guard approaches me and instantly recognizes me. He says, “We gonna land today, Mr. Kranz?” His teeth flash and I see the gold cap on his tooth. It is Moody. I don’t know his first name. He is ageless, always standing proud in a crisply pressed uniform at the MCC entrance. The name on his badge just reads “Moody.” His cheerfulness makes him as effervescent as usual, a favorite of the controllers. Moody’s greeting snaps me back to reality. I smile, give a thumbs-up, and respond, “Today’s the day. We are Go.” Additional guards are present on mission days to patrol the building and limit access to the control room. They learn to mirror our feelings, and we
