level leadership roles. In 1970 Glynn Lunney had traveled with Robert Gilruth to Moscow to determine the degree of Russia’s interest in a joint space mission and the resources the Russians would make available for it. Now after Apollo 15, Lunney joined Hodge and Charlesworth in top management. While I lost extremely capable leaders, I had the opportunity to bring along another new generation of young leaders in the Mission Control “leadership lab.” Every young man or woman coming in at the bottom could take a shot at a flight director, division, or branch slot in the first ten years of their career.
In the final days of Apollo I was fortunate to be knee-deep in mission-ready leaders, most veterans of twenty or more space missions, including those of Gemini and Apollo. My only fear, with the constant juggling of priorities and people, was the loss of focus on the final three missions. I also knew that any major mission glitch would give those who were nervous about the risk an opportunity to argue that since the Moon had been reached there was no need for the remaining missions. I was glad the final flights would be led in Mission Control by three former aviators, who understood how to live with and manage risk. Maybe it was our fighter aircraft mentality, or maybe it was our confidence in the human factor, but flight directors Gerry Griffin, Pete Frank, and I believed the nation had sacrificed too much to surrender to the increasingly conservative national leadership. As we opened the era of extended lunar operations, we felt fully capable of meeting every challenge that we and our crews would face during the final missions.
To extend the range of the lunar expeditions, modifications had been made in the LM to provide stowage for the battery-powered, Jeep-like Rover. We shaved our mission rule margins and, with extra oxygen and batteries, we extended the surface duration to almost three days. Extravehicular activity was planned for each day the crew spent on the lunar surface.
The CSM also received a facelift. A full bay had been filled with instruments to map the lunar surface, study its physical environment, and investigate its gravitational and magnetic properties. The controllers and the new lunar orbital scientists learned from each other about the science and operations of space exploration, developing the rapport needed for successful missions.
Approaching the end of Apollo, my frustration often surfaced. No one in America seemed to care that we were giving up, surrendering the future of the next generation of young people with stars in their eyes. Often I sat silently, somewhat moodily in my office, rereading President Kennedy’s words, “The United States was not built by those who waited and rested and wished to look behind them. This country was conquered by those who moved forward, and so will space.” But what if we had not pushed ahead, exploring and opening the American frontier? What sort of nation would we have been? What were the implications for our decision not to push ahead now? How I wished John F. Kennedy were still alive, challenging us to dare and to dream. I feel the same way today; the boldness and scope of his vision is not to be found today in our space program and in our nation.
As the budgets tightened and public support waned, NASA was resigned to the cancellation of the Apollo 18 and 19 missions. The tough choices prompted “the grand old man” of lunar science, Harold Urey, to write in the
The final three missions were no easier than the earlier ones. The complexity of the spacecraft systems as well as the objectives for each mission made it unlikely that any mission would be trouble-free. In retrospect I am still amazed that we risked so much, so often, and came through unscathed again and again. At times, I believed Providence watched over us all.
Kraft was now preoccupied with the future and his inevitable promotion to MSC director. Seated in Kraft’s chair since Apollo 13 was Sig Sjoberg. In many ways, I felt vaguely uncomfortable without Kraft in charge, almost as if he were our bearer of good luck, our talisman in Mission Control.
Sig, invariably accompanied by Bill Tindall, was radically different from Kraft. He was accustomed to being the deputy, not the sheriff. I could get mad at Kraft, standing face-to-face, pounding out my position. Chris had a short fuse. His expression would change to the incredulous, then his face would turn red and he would invariably start with, “I don’t give a damn what you think!” Then he would lay out his position. But then Kraft would always listen. It was great having a boss who felt so emotional about the job, and was willing to engage in a brawl if needed to get to the best answer.
It was tough, almost impossible, to get mad at Sjoberg. He was just too nice. He reminded me of a grandfather with his grandchildren, always giving a kind word of encouragement. Only infrequently did he ever admonish his charges, and then quietly. When I first met Sig, at Langley, my family was growing. One day, he arrived at work and asked me out to his car. When he opened the trunk, I saw a large old tricycle, almost the size of a rickshaw. I had never seen one so large or sturdy. Sig said, “We don’t need it anymore. I would like your kids to have it.” This remarkable man had not only this sweetness of character but real depth and earnestness.
Sig Sjoberg took over the four divisions of Flight Operations in 1969 after Kraft became Dr. Gilruth’s deputy director. Sjoberg and Kraft were born to be together. We were sure that Sig’s position as our boss was only temporary and that he would become Kraft’s deputy for the MSC when Gilruth retired and Chris took over.
After a glitchless countdown, the Cape launch team handed Griffin a virtually perfect command module, named
The launch and orbital checkout of the CSM and booster clocked off in the normally intense timeline. After TLI booster engine cutoff a series of critical events takes place for a half hour, starting with the separation of the CSM from the booster, followed by the turnaround and docking with the lunar spacecraft nestled atop the booster. While taking a breather before extracting the LM, Al Worden looked around the cockpit, casually noting, “The main engine thrust light on the entry monitoring system panel is on. I’m not sure when it came on.”
Instantly, GNC Gary Coen snapped, “Flight, Panel 8, have the crew pull both pilot valve circuit breakers.”
Worden replied, “Okay, they’re pulled.”
Gary continued, “Flight, the engine is now safe. The thrust light indicated the CSM main rocket engine was armed and ready to fire.” An engine start signal triggering actual engine ignition during the critical turnaround, docking, and extraction sequence could have crashed the CSM into the LM or the booster. Pausing briefly, Coen continued, “I think we have an electrical short in the engine start circuit.” With MCC’s preliminary diagnosis and the rocket engine now safe, the astronauts continued the timeline, firing the pyros to release the LM and firing thrusters to maneuver away from the booster stage.
The initial hours on the outward journey of a mission are always busy. There are many housekeeping items, and when they are completed the crew and control teams settle into a groove for the three-day transit to the Moon. Every glitch must be closed out so the work is distributed among the teams. Much of the systems analysis work, like determining the cause and cure of this engine electronics glitch, is assigned to the shift that is on duty when the crew is sleeping.
Griffin handed the thrust problem to Windler. After a brief period of troubleshooting, Windler passed the problem to Lunney’s team to develop the workaround procedures. The workaround had to have three parts: protecting against an unplanned engine start, keeping the engine running during the maneuver, and cutting the engine off at the correct time.
