Gene Kranz - Failure Is Not an Option

Then Koos made the final cut with his knife: “You violated the most fundamental mission rule of Mission Control. You must have two cues before aborting. You called for an abort with only one!”

Bales, the proud, capable young computer whiz kid, was devastated by the simulation. The controller’s world, however, is black and white, Go or NoGo, right or wrong. A controller can never make an excuse. His only answers when he fails are either “I was wrong” or “I don’t know, but I will find out.” Bales was frustrated and mad, damn mad, and his response was short. “Flight, I’m gonna pull a team together after we finish the debriefing. I’ll tell you what the hell went on when we figure it out.”

Every controller has experienced the bitter taste of failure. A single busted training run is abysmal; a busted run on the final day of training is unacceptable. Slowly, we took off our headsets and packed up our gear. We had run the last race and SimSup had won the battle. We would just have to get on with our job.

Later that evening, I got a call from Steve. “Koos was right, and I’m damn glad he gave us the run. The computer whizzes at the MIT labs, and our own assessment, said we could have continued. I’m going to stay with the team tonight and get out some rules. I’ve talked to Koos, and he is going to set up some training runs in the morning, if that’s okay with you.”

Koos scheduled four hours of training on program alarms the next day. The runs were scheduled with the Apollo 12 backup crew as well. SimSup triggered various alarm types during several intense training sessions while Steve Bales and Jack Garman collected computer performance data and response times during alarm conditions.

On July 11, nine days prior to landing, Bales modified his already lengthy listing of reasons to abort the lunar landing, adding a new entry to the trajectory and guidance section of the rules book.

Rule 5-90

Item 11, “powered descent will be terminated for the following primary guidance system program alarms—105, 214, 402 (continuing), 430, 607, 1103, 1107, 1204, 1206, 1302, 1501, and 1502.

Steve did not put program alarms 1201 and 1202 in the mission rules listing requiring an abort.

The intense training period prior to flight had found our Achilles’ heel, something that could have distracted the MCC team and crew at the wrong time. Something that could have been a mission-buster.

SimSup had won the last round.

On the day before launch, I feel like I am going into the seventh game of the World Series or playing for the Stanley Cup. The energy starts flowing, and my mind is filled with thousands of bits of information that I will need soon. I am impatient, eager to get on with the mission. Even at home I pace in endless figure 8s like a large cat in a small cage, as I frequently do behind my console.

Marta has been through this before and knows there will be no relief until launch. She keeps the conversation light, but she knows I am starting to feel the pressure. This wasn’t unique to the lunar landing; it happened every mission.

I am up at 4:30 on the morning of the launch, wide-eyed alert, and thinking about the countdown. There have been no phone calls, so it must be going well. I can’t wait to get to Mission Control and find out for sure. I fire up my psyche and crash around the house like the proverbial bull in a china shop. Marta tries to keep me quiet, since the kids are sleeping. As usual, she makes me an enormous lunch, generally two of everything. We say goodbye in hushed tones. I’m sure she’s glad when I leave.

Prior to launch, the pressure I feel asserts itself through nervous kidneys, until commitment of the final Go. Then I become icy calm. Other than that, I never have any problems. I sleep well. My only other on console symptoms are sweaty palms, a tendency to engrave words in the log, and the endless clicking of the ballpoint pen. The other flight directors kid me when the sweat-soaked paper curls as I write.

As I drive to the MCC, I wonder what Neil Armstrong, Buzz Aldrin, and Mike Collins are feeling as they prepare for this day. How do they feel as they enter the transfer van, go up the elevator, and across the platform to the command module? I believe we share the same feelings when it is time to get the show on the road. There is anticipation of the countdown reaching zero, the point at which there is no turning back. It is the final commitment.

The Black Team led by Glynn Lunney began support of the Apollo 11 countdown twelve hours before the predicted launch to support the Cape checkout of the CSM and booster systems. (The LM is not checked out during the launch day countdown and will not be powered up until shortly before the lunar landing.) In this way the teams can start working into the mission shifting cycle.

I arrive shortly after Charlesworth and Lunney have completed their handover. When Lunney goes off to get some coffee, I search for a chair. We tried labeling the chairs, but on launch day they have a habit of moving around the room and losing their labels. The back row is filled with the brass—Kraft, Bob Gilruth, and George Hage, the mission director who represented the NASA headquarters mission policy interests. As the count progresses, Charlesworth lives up to his Mississippi Gambler image. He is his usual cool self, saying little and wearing a smile across his broad face. He is ready to play any hand that is dealt him today during the Saturn launch.

There is no external indication that today is any different from any of the other days in his life, although Cliff seems to be keeping closer tabs than usual on the Trench. He likes to play mental gymnastics with his people, asking questions to which he already knows the answer, showing his guys that he has not lost his touch. Today he is pressing them harder. I think this is how he relaxes. With the uncertainties and the fast decisions we face, I think all launch flight directors search for something to feel comfortable with and hold on to. I sit to his left and enjoy watching him do his thing.

Kraft, seated on the row above us, is also having his problems. He left his heart at the flight director’s console after Gemini 76. Since that time he was faced with the formidable task of leading his four divisions into Apollo. As the count progresses toward liftoff, he becomes nervous and fidgety. He asks Charlesworth questions about the countdown. Cliff turns, frustrated by the interruptions, and in a mock serious voice, says, “Chris, if you don’t settle down, I’m going to have to ask you to leave the room. You’re making me nervous.” I smile; this is one of the few times we can tell our boss to “cool it!” Kraft hesitates, gives a thumbs-up, reluctantly settles in his chair, and then mutters at the console.

The countdown progresses smoothly. It is hard to believe that this is the day we are going to launch the mission that will land on the Moon. Charlesworth gives the Cape the Go for the start of the terminal count and advises the controllers of his intention to lock the doors at launch minus nine minutes. The controllers scramble in the usual last-minute rush to the rest rooms. After the completion of the final communications checks, everyone hunkers down and I mumble a silent prayer for the crews and controllers as we start the voyage.

The launch is flawless, as if this is just another simulation on a very good day. The only indication that this is the real lunar mission is the muffled commentary of the public affairs officer, Jack Riley. Riley is a neat guy, trains as a member of the team, and covers his flight directors’ flanks just like a good wingman. Sitting next to Charlesworth, I hear Riley’s voice over the air path. He is speaking so loudly into his microphone that his words penetrate the background buzz of the room. I pick up his words… “lunar landing mission.” Then it sinks in. Today is different. We are launching the mission that will try to land Americans on the Moon. On this flight, America will go the final 50,000 feet.