The Mammoth Book of Space Exploration and Disasters

control.

The Canary Capcom picked up on my report, and asked me to “confirm orientation.” Were my autopilot (ASCS) and fly-by-wire operating normally?

Carpenter reported: “Roger, Canary. The manual and automatic control systems are satisfactory, all axes…”

The procedure for voice reports on the attitude control system did not call for determining agreement in pitch attitude as shown by (a) the instrument and (b) the pilot’s visual reference out the window. The reporting procedure also assumed a properly functioning pitch horizon scanner, in the case of MA-7 a false assumption. Because of the scanner’s wild variations careening from readings of plus 50 degrees at one place over the horizon and then lurching back to minus-20 over another, without any discernible pattern – I might have gotten a close- to-nominal, or normal, reading at any given moment in the flight.

A thorough ASCS check, early in the flight, could have identified the malfunction. Ground control could have insisted on it, when the first anomalous readings were reported. Such a check would have required anywhere from two to six minutes of intense and continuous attention on the part of the pilot. A simple enough matter but a prodigious block of time in a science flight – and in fact the very reason ASCS checks weren’t included in the flight plan. On the contrary, large spacecraft maneuvers, accomplished off ASCS, were specified, in addition to how many minutes the MA-7 pilot would spend in each of the three control modes-fly-by-wire, manual proportional, and ASCS. Because of this, I would not report another problem with the ASCS until the second orbit. I had photographs to take and the balky camera to load.

When I spoke with Kano Capcom, over Nigeria, on that first pass, I was able to relay a lot of valuable orbital information as well as data on the control and capsule systems. I also checked out the radios and, as ordered by the flight surgeon, telemetered my blood pressure reading. While preparing to take the M.I.T. pictures of the “flattened sun” halfway through that pass, I saw I was getting behind in the flight plan and reported that I wouldn’t be able to complete the pictures on that pass. Just as I was making that report, I figured out the problem, managed to install the film, and was able to take the pictures after all.

Before I lost voice contact with Kano Capcom, I was able to get horizon pictures with the M.I.T. film. The first picture was at f8 and 1/125 taken to the south directly into the sun. The second picture was taken directly down my flight path, and the third was 15 degrees north of west at “capsule elapsed time” (elapsed time since launch) of 00 30 17.1 was very busy.

Tom Wolfe wrote in The Right Stuff that I was having “a picnic” during my flight and “had a grand time” with the capsule maneuvers and experiments. He kindly noted that my pulse rate before liftoff, during the launch and in orbit, was even lower than Glenn’s admirably calm readings. The second part, about my pulse rate, may be true, perhaps because nature wired me that way (and Wally, too, for that matter, if you look at his telemetered readouts). But Wally and I were also following in John’s historic steps, had been fully briefed, and knew pretty much what to expect. Knowledge and training create confidence.

MA-7 was no picnic. I had trained a long time, first as John’s backup, and then for my own surprise assignment to the follow-on flight. To the extent that training creates certain comfort levels with high-performance duties like spaceflight, then, yes, I was prepared for, and at times may even have enjoyed, some of my duties aboard Aurora 7. But I was deadly earnest about the success of the mission, intent on observing as much as humanly possible, and committed to conducting all the experiments entrusted to me. I made strenuous efforts to adhere to a very crowded flight plan.

The cabin became noticeably hot during the first orbit, when I was over the Mozambique channel, forty-five minutes into the flight. I wasn’t the first astronaut to be bothered by a hot cabin, and all of us were prepared for varying degrees of discomfort, and even pain, while we trained for and went through actual space flight. During the selection process, we ran the treadmill at 100 percent humidity and 115 degrees Fahrenheit – and gladly – just to be chosen.

So the term “tolerable temperature,” something the NASA medics determined was endurable with little loss in performance, is relative. You need to know how long the discomfort will likely last, how hard you have to work during that time, and how badly you need to withstand it. It also helps to have an idea of when you believe relief will come. So after giving the Indian Ocean capcom all the normal voice reports, I explained for the record what I was doing inside to bring the high cabin temperatures down.

During all this time, I was also getting some readings with O’Keefe’s airglow filter. All of a sudden my periscope went dark. It really surprised me.

Carpenter reported: “What in the world happened to the periscope? Oh. It’s dark. That’s what happened. It’s facing a dark earth.”

A simple and elegant explanation: day had become night. I was still getting accustomed to moving 17,500 miles per hour.

My flight plan at this point consisted mostly of photography. I had crossed the terminator, which is the dividing line between the dark and sunlit sides of the earth, which caused the light levels to change very rapidly. It was exceedingly important that I photograph the changing light levels. To myself, I read off a lot of camera F-stop and exposure values and was thinking aloud about my next capcom.

Carpenter reported: “It’s getting darker. Let me see. Muchea contact sometime – Oh, look at that sun! F11.”

No one was listening, so I reported to the tape: “It’s quite dark. I didn’t begin to get time to dark adapt… cabin lights are going to red at this time. Oh, man, a beautiful, beautiful red, like in John’s pictures. Going to fly by wire.”

A mysterious red light had cascaded through the window just as I went into a new control mode, as specified in the flight plan. It reminded me of the pictures John had taken through his red filter. But mine was only the reflection of the red cabin lights. “That’s too bad.” I was disappointed.

But then I was visited by Venus.

Carpenter reported: “I have Venus now approaching the horizon. It’s about 30 degrees up. It’s just coming into view. Bright and unblinking. I can see some other stars down below Venus. Going back to ASCS at this time. Bright, bright blue horizon band as the sun gets lower and lower – the horizon band still glows. It looks like five times the diameter of the sun.”

The sun completely disappeared at this point in my flight, and I reported the exact time – 00 4734 elapsed – and my total incredulity.

Carpenter reported: “It’s now nearly dark and I can’t believe where I am.”

My wonder gave way to surprise just a minute later, when I saw how much fuel I had already used.

Carpenter reported: “Oh, dear, I’ve used too much fuel.”

“Oh, dear” – a Noxon expression. Over Australia, I would have voice contact with two different capcoms – the first with Deke Slayton at Muchea, the second at Woomera. Over Muchea, Deke and I talked about our Australian friends, John Whettler in particular, who had been a Spitfire pilot during World War II. Then I said “Break, Break,” which is voice communication procedure meaning “change of subject.” We talked about cloud cover, too heavy for me to see the lights in Perth turned on for my encouragement. Deke consulted the flight plan and saw it was time to send some telemetered blood pressure readings. Then some arcane navigational matters – how to determine attitudes, yaw, pitch, and roll – on the dark side.

Carpenter reported: “You’ll be interested to know that I have no moon, now. The horizon is clearly visible from my present position; that’s at 00 54 44 [capsule] elapsed. I believe the horizon on the dark side with no moon is very good for pitch and roll. The stars are adequate for yaw in, maybe, two minutes of tracking. Over.”

In 1962 we didn’t know what was visible on the horizon, on the dark side without moonlight. So Deke and I were discussing how one might establish attitude control under such unfavorable conditions. I relayed what reliable visual references I had out the window or periscope. In the absence of valid attitude instrument readings during retrofire, the pilot can use such external visual references, manually establishing proper retroattitude control with the control stick. Pitch attitude can be established and controlled easily, with reference to the scribe mark etched in the capsule window. Accomplishing the proper yaw attitude, however, is neither easy nor quick.

Attitude changes are also hard to see in the absence of a good daytime horizon. At night, when geographic features are less visible, you can establish a zero yaw attitude by using the star navigation charts, a simplified