Gene Kranz - Failure Is Not an Option

I expressed my concerns to Kraft and after a brief discussion he stated, “You’re going to have to convince Mueller. He considers himself a communications expert and is the only one that can turn around GSFC’s decision.” The following day I flew up to Washington to sell my recommendation to Mueller.

This was not the first time I met Mueller. I had a lot of respect for the way he blocked for his team and took the heat when things went wrong. During a particularly rough press conference after the Gemini 9 Agena failure he sat with seven of us at the press table. Late in the conference a reporter asked, “This is the fourth straight mission where you have had some major problems. When are you going to start kicking some ass and—” That was as far as the reporter got before Mueller tore into him. He described the problems, the actions taken, then concluded with supportive remarks about his team. His vivid response brought a cheer from the other reporters.

Mueller was busier than hell at NASA headquarters, trying to get the Apollo program up to speed. As I sat outside his office I watched grim-faced engineers and project managers carrying the bad news into his office. During the summer of 1966 the Apollo program seemed to be unraveling.

I waited in the secretaries’ office as the time for our appointment passed and the afternoon turned into evening. About 8:00 P.M. he came out, apologized, and told me he had reservations for two for supper at the Georgetown Inn, so we would have our meeting there. During the meal, this man who knew more about communications technology than I ever would, listened politely as I briefed him between courses on why we needed controllers on the Apollo tracking ships.

I was impressed by his patience and courtesy, the force of his technical arguments, and his willingness to consider my ideas. To this day I am awed that a man with so much weighing on his mind would spend an entire evening with somebody way down the chain of command. He listened thoughtfully and then told me to go back to Houston; he would make a decision on the following day. Early in the afternoon word came down: my argument had prevailed. GSFC was directed to place controller consoles on the tracking ships.

George Low, the son of an Austrian immigrant, joined NASA’s predecessor, NACA, after his Army discharge and worked his way through the government ranks. After the fatal accident Low replaced Joe Shea as the Apollo program manager. He was a master at getting people to work together, creatively channeling their energies and thus building the momentum to achieve the objective.

The flight directors knew Low well from his middle-of-the-night visits to Mission Control during a flight, where he sat silently in the viewing room. Low worked both at MSC and back at NASA headquarters. He had a rare blend of integrity, competence, and humility. You would do whatever he asked you to do, regardless of the odds and regardless of the risk.

Rounding out the NASA management that directly affected us were Sam Phillips and Frank Borman. Phillips, an Air Force lieutenant general, came in from the Minuteman ICBM program. He possessed an uncanny ability to spot problems, define solutions, and keep the complex development processes moving ahead.

Borman, the astronaut who toughed it out on the fourteen-day Gemini 7 mission, was one of the most respected of the second class of astronauts. Flight controllers saw him as a table-pounding “let’s cut out the bitching and get on with it” type of guy. He was the one who finally stood up during the agonizing over the redesign of Apollo 1 and said, “Enough. Let’s get on with the job. It’s time to fly!”

We moved from disaster to flight in less than a year because we had leaders of this caliber—and because they trusted us.

In June of 1967, as Apollo forged ahead, fate reached out and grabbed me when I was made deputy to Hodge for the Flight Control Division. The division, the home base for the flight directors, controllers, and instructors, had grown to 400 personnel. Virtually every malfunction procedure, schematic, or mission rule used in training, or carried aboard the spacecraft, was produced by this division. The division planned and was now flying an average of six missions each year, a punishing load, and I was glad to give John a hand. I also welcomed the opportunity to step into division management because of the challenge to reach beyond my experience as a flight director and start developing broader organizational skills. I believed I had the capability to do more.

I immediately acquired new respect for Hodge because of his ability to perform as both division chief and flight director. To ease the burden on Kraft and Hodge, the original plan was for Lunney, Charlesworth, and myself to work two missions, skip one, then work two more, alternating as the lead flight director for every third mission.

After the fire, Kraft had his hands full leading the four divisions—Flight Control, Landing and Recovery, Mission Planning and Analysis, and Mission Support—in the Flight Operations Directorate. As a result of his workload, Chris would never again sit in the chair as flight director.

Now that I had moved to Hodge’s deputy position, the flight director staffing changed again. Looking at the workload, I decided that I could cover only about half of the missions and I changed the sequence so that I worked only the odd-numbered missions, starting with Apollo 5. Aware of the coming overload, Kraft selected two more flight directors, Pete Frank from Mission Planning and Milt Windler from Recovery. I believed all flight directors should be selected from the ranks of Mission Control and was surprised by the selection of two virtual unknowns. Since they would need time to come up to speed, I successfully lobbied Kraft to add Gerry Griffin, a top-notch Gemini controller, to the list so we could get some immediate help.

Working as Hodge’s deputy was one of the most enjoyable times in my life. Initially, I didn’t think I would make a good deputy. I am too impatient, love to work with people directly, and like to lead the charge myself. I am used to giving orders, not offering suggestions, and get impatient when I know a team can move faster. In the case of the Flight Control Division in 1968, it turned out that Hodge and I were a perfect fit. Where I was direct, Hodge was philosophical. Hodge studied the alternatives; I was quick to pick a direction. Our balance of temperaments allowed us to lead the division well. Hodge provided the vision, the long-term strategy, while I concentrated on the tactical. Hodge dealt with finances, I rallied the people. We both worked on the organization and structure.

I liked the way John put his thoughtful comments in the flight directors’ logs, the way he characterized his decisions. I also enjoyed him as a person. Hodge was typically English in his approach to work, that is to say, a real gentleman. He got more done without the continual bluster of many of his peers. Above all, he had consideration for others and their opinions, which stood him well with his peers—but not necessarily his bosses.

It was time to let the missions begin. The division was a powerhouse, knee deep in talented leaders and team members. We were indeed Tough, Competent, and ready for Apollo.

Unmanned missions in every program are forgotten except in NASA’s record books, something that annoys controllers, who know how difficult it is to control a virgin spacecraft and booster, and operate with software, all fresh off the production line. The controllers had to do the crew’s job without the benefit of their presence. Using ground commands in place of the crew’s switches, we performed all the maneuvers and tests called for in the flight plan. Every controller loved the unmanned missions. We were the first to fly each new spacecraft. No man would fly until these missions were successful.