Gene Kranz - Failure Is Not an Option

Returning to the MCC, I went to the backroom surgeon to receive my whiskey ration. To assist in getting a good sleep in the center’s bunk room, the military surgeons prescribed a double shot before bedtime. I poured the whiskey into my coffee and I sat silently next to Hodge for the next hour, watching as he led his team and periodically chuffed on his pipe. Pouring booze into a cup of black coffee was dumb, but winding down after a shift was a problem for virtually everybody, and this was the way we did it. There were some nondrinkers in our ranks. They either took pills handed out by the surgeon—or counted sheep.

Gemini 4 helped create a media misapprehension that I was a Marine. Jim Maloney, a reporter for the Houston Post, a morning newspaper, always covered my late night press conferences. Since the Gemini 4 mission was the first flown from Houston and the first with three flight directors, he wrote an article on Kraft, Hodge, and myself. Adding some color he described me as “an ex-fighter pilot who you would trust with your life. Stocky, crew-cut and blond, Kranz is a bloodthirsty model for a Marine Corps recruiting poster.” The next evening after the press conference I corrected him, “Jim, you got it wrong in your article. I’m Air Force, not a Marine.” He corrected me, saying, “I didn’t say you were a Marine. I said you looked like a poster boy for the Marines! What the hell do you want me to say?” Over the years this clipping was picked up by the national and international media. No matter how many times I corrected it, the image persisted, even to the present day.

The mission continued through the shift rotations and I slept at the MCC. With five kids, Marta felt my best chance for rest was at Mission Control. She was quietly pleased that I had worn her vest and told me that she would make me a new one for each succeeding mission. Later on, if my team did especially well, I would ask her to make me a splashy one for the landing shift. It became one of the ways I signaled to my team that they had done well.

My relationship with Kraft had subtly changed. As in judo, there is a relationship between master and student that develops as the student grows in skills. Then one day the master steps aside and a relationship based on a newfound respect begins to grow. Kraft was beginning the process of teaching his brood to be on their own. The flight of Gemini 4 ended in a nearly flawless fashion, a smash hit with Congress, the American public, and the media.

The mission debriefing indicated we had indeed done well. The team structure was successful and the shakedown cruise of the new control center was a roaring success. We would need every millimeter of technology as each successive mission increased in complexity, duration, and risk. The computers and television displays gave the controllers instant access to hundreds of Gemini measurements. The trajectory data was instantly available to users, and the pneumatic tube eliminated the need for runners—and the distraction caused as they raced around the control room. But most of all, we liked the new Mission Control Center because we no longer had to travel to the Cape and live in motel rooms for day after day.

The Gemini 5 mission was scheduled to last eight days, twice as long as the previous one. It would break the Russian record for endurance in space. Both inside and outside NASA, doctors had expressed doubt that man could adjust to life in zero gravity. Some went so far as to predict that exposure for a long period would probably be fatal, but the astronauts continued to confound the physiologists and the doomsayers. The concerns of the medical communities had been increased by a string of reports coming from the Russians at medical conferences, citing problems in adaptation, crew performance, and post-mission recovery.

The key to the long duration of Gemini and Apollo flights was replacing batteries with fuel cells for the orbital phase of the missions. Fuel cells represented the leading edge of the science of electrochemistry. They produced electricity from oxygen and hydrogen and, in the process, generated heat and pure water. The oxygen and hydrogen fuels were stored on the Gemini spacecraft in separate thermoslike insulated spheres at temperatures as cold as minus 400 degrees Fahrenheit.

The fuel cell technology was so new there were no textbooks and little engineering data. These devices were a good deal more complex than batteries, and when we took this technology into space for the first time I suspected that we would have problems. I began a crash course on fuel cells and cryogenic technology. I was fortunate to have John Aaron as my EECOM. Aaron tutored me relentlessly on “his” electrical systems. Frustrated at trying to absorb the arcane details of the cryogenic systems, I asked, “John, if I opened up one of these tanks, what would I see?” Thinking a few moments, he looked up, his eyes glinted, and he said, “Gene, it would be like trying to look through a super-dense ice fog.”

The principal unknown member on my team was a new astronaut, Edwin (Buzz) Aldrin. Most of the CapComs in the new groups approached their job with an attitude that said, “I’m here, how can I help you?” They learned the people, positions, and prerogatives through the process of training with the teams. Buzz was different, more assured and opinionated from the start. The good news on Aldrin was his pedigree as an Air Force veteran and an F-86 pilot. Four years later I would give him the Go to land on the Moon, but for now he was just a rookie CapCom.

Returning to my office from the final day of Gemini 5 simulations I was surprised to find several of the controllers standing and talking in my office. As I turned to speak to them I saw a spectacular American flag standing in the corner. The brilliant red, white, and blue contrasted with the gunmetal gray desk. Gold fringe and tassels hung from the eagle at the top of the dark oak staff. I was speechless. I had tried to requisition a flag from NASA many times, but all my requests were ignored. The flags were reserved for the top NASA brass. As I admired the flag, Don Bray, a young controller with the talent of an Army supply sergeant, stepped forward. “Flight, this flag was requisitioned for Mission Control. You’re gonna have to carry it over when we fly. Between missions I think it should stay in your office.” I carried the flag to the MCC for each of the Gemini missions, returning it to my office after splashdown. At the beginning of Apollo we finally acquired a permanent flag for the MCC. The original flag remained in my office and at retirement it became one of my most treasured gifts.

The crew for Gemini 5 was one of my favorites. The commander was Gordo Cooper, my welcome wagon driver from day one at the Cape, the friendliest of the original astronauts, and one who had shown great poise on Mercury 9 when his electrical system went to hell. Pete Conrad, his partner, had the most engaging personality in the second group of astronauts. Notwithstanding his flap with Hunter at Carnarvon, I liked Conrad’s toothy grin, intensity, and frank and total openness. You had no doubt that he would do what he said.

The Kraft, Kranz, and Hodge mission team cycle on Gemini 5 was virtually the same as on Gemini 4. At the first site after reaching orbit we became concerned about an unexplained drop in the fuel cell oxygen pressure. Since this was the first experience with fuel cells and cryogenics in orbit, there was no frame of reference for Kraft’s Red Team EECOM.

During the first pass over Carnarvon, Cooper reported that the oxygen pressure was dropping rapidly. Troubleshooting, the crew found that the circuit breaker for the heater that warmed up the spacecraft’s liquid oxygen supply for the fuel cells had tripped. EECOM, listening to the crew’s report, recommended resetting the circuit breaker and cycling the heater switch. The crew concurred and acted on his recommendations as they coasted across the Pacific.