Gene Kranz - Failure Is Not an Option

Paul Havenstein was an engineer and a naval officer detailed to work in establishing Mercury Control. Another engineer, a guy named Paul Johnson, was working on the remote sites. A third, Sigurd Sjoberg, was the assistant to the Mercury flight director, Chris Kraft.

Havenstein and Johnson, while pleasant, continued an intense conversation. Only Sjoberg seemed to acknowledge me. I was taken immediately by his friendliness and sincerity. Just talking to him brought a smile, but as I listened to him I saw a depth, a passion, that frequently broke to the surface like a trout taking a fly. Sjoberg handed me off to Johnson to learn about my new job.

This was the first clue I had about the work I would do. Johnson gave me a three-page job description of my position on the control team and an IBM book on Mercury Control. I had been onboard only minutes, and the job description was Greek to me. Johnson said he would get with me later, which, of course, turned out to be those all-too-short two weeks at Cape Canaveral. But even when he wasn’t around, he was still my guardian angel in my first, uncertain months in the program.

The people of the group were friendly, but unlike the Air Force they did not go out of their way to make a stranger welcome. Their reserve, combined with their preoccupations, made it tough to get started. Gradually, I got to know the rest of the office: John Hibbert from Bell Labs, the Englishman John Hodge, and Kraft, who answered to Chuck Mathews, the operations division chief.

Intense and high-energy types from Britain and Canada milled around like Boy Scouts at their first camp trying to figure out where to place the tents and campfire. They filled critical positions in every work area and much of the important midlevel leadership. Fred Matthews, Tecwyn Roberts, Rodney Rose, and John Hodge seemed to be everywhere, covering every base. Months later I found this was the elite Avro flight test and design team. When the Avro Arrow, the world’s top performing interceptor aircraft, was canceled by the Canadian government, the engineers came south to the United States and into the Space Task Group, providing much of the instant maturity and leadership needed for Mercury.

I found it difficult to believe that the people in my building were the core of the team that would put an American in space. For the first time in my life I felt lost, unqualified, but no one sensed my confusion. Then I thought, maybe they feel just like me. All I knew was that the clock was ticking down to the next launch and, after the Space Task Group’s first Mercury-Atlas launch disaster, this one had better work.

Behind the friendly faces there was an air of formality and an informal pecking order not represented on any organization chart. The local people talked about Tidewater, their little spot in Virginia, as though it was heaven on earth. After coming from the desert and mountains, I wondered if they had ever been out of their home state. The Tidewater group was like a country club, with a bunch of unwritten rules that only the longtime members knew. I soon found that I had some measuring up to do.

Kraft advised me to dress up. No more sport shirts and khakis. Then a few days later he said, “Let the secretaries do your work.” I had been doing my own typing and other office functions and had offended his secretary. I was out of step. Everyone seemed to be busy and moving to some cadence that I did not hear. I wondered whether I had come so far to be that saddest of all figures, an unnecessary man.

During the second week, I started to grasp the lines of authority. Kraft’s role was like the operations officer in a squadron. He called the shots, assigned the resources. Kraft’s leadership style was to state a position that he had thought through and see who would challenge him. Familiar with his technique, Sjoberg and Hodge would rise to the bait. Kraft liked to lead and at times deliberately injected an emotional content into the discussions by overstating a position, just to see how strongly others felt. Chris and Hodge could really get going, but with Sjoberg acting as moderator it stayed friendly.

I was just an observer and, while most of the dialogue went over my head, I slowly came to realize that since there were no books written on spaceflight, these few were writing them as they went along. This was their style. It was time to join them and pick up part of the workload. I knew about flying, systems, procedures, and checklists. I started to figure out how and where to use my background to fit in. It wasn’t easy, nor did I expect it to be.

By the time the Gemini program got rolling, I knew my job much better. I looked forward to stepping into the flight director’s shoes and taking charge.

The astrologers loved the Gemini project. Gemini was one of the twelve constellations of the zodiac, the sign of the Twins, and one controlled by Mercury—a perfect label for a spacecraft flying a two-man crew. This program would be the training ground for the lunar landing. To reach the Moon, we needed to develop new skills in mission planning, in the rendezvous and docking of two spaceships, in performing on-orbit maneuvers. Computers had to be abruptly yanked out of laboratories and made operational. Our mission duration had to virtually double with each flight until we reached fourteen days, the longest possible lunar mission duration.

Then there was the matter of pride. We were tired of being second best in space. We were reaching for the brass ring, an American manned space record. With two spacecraft, the manned Gemini and the unmanned Agena rendezvous target, we doubled our risk and the burden of responsibility. We now had two guys with fishbowls on their heads, sharing a cramped cabin and flying higher and farther than anyone before them. They were also flying untested state-of-the-art systems.

The Gemini spacecraft looked like the Mercury capsule, but if you peeled off the skin, you could see a profound difference. An onboard computer provided the capabilities for precision navigation and maneuvers. Fuel cells and cryogenics allowed longer mission duration, bipropellant rocket engines were more efficient, and the propellant fuels were storable.

The Gemini technologies were new and alien, the engineering so complex it bordered on pure science. My engineering knowledge had expanded only in a practical sense after my college years. With the exception of a brief experience with a computer on board the supersonic F-100 Super Sabre, my knowledge of digital systems was nonexistent. I was a dinosaur stumbling forward into a technical revolution.

Tec Roberts’s digitalized control center was taking shape at the new Manned Spacecraft Center in Houston. Many of us were quite nervous about, even suspicious of, computers, but they were inevitable. Automation allowed us to stay ahead of the escalating risks of spaceflight. With radically improved ground data systems and a deeper knowledge of the Gemini spacecraft systems, we gained greater control from the ground and enhanced our capability to support the astronauts. This was a whole new ballgame.

The tracking stations were now using digital systems and 2.4 kilobit/ second high-speed data transmissions. The Mercury requirement for multiple voice communications was relaxed to once per orbit for Gemini, allowing the thirteen manned Mercury sites to be reduced to six, including the two tracking ships. The Mercury veterans gave us a foundation to build on. Now, with only six sites to staff, the control team skills were the highest in our brief history. We reinforced our existing teams with the first generation of college graduates who had grown up in space. Young engineers schooled in the new technologies were matched with the Mercury veterans, and jointly they marched to the edge of knowledge, technology, and experience.