Richard Lawrence - The Mammoth Book of Space Exploration and Disaster

“Fred, why don’t you get upstairs and help Jack out,” Lovell said. “I’ll finish up here.”

Haise nodded and prepared to jump up the tunnel. But before he did, he stopped and took a long look around Aquarius’s cockpit. Impulsively, he pushed back toward his station. Attached to the wall was a large screen of fabric netting used to prevent small items from floating behind the instrument panel. Haise grabbed hold of the netting and gave a sharp pull; it tore free with a ripping sound.

“Souvenir,” he said with a shrug, wadding the netting into a ball, stuffing it into his pocket, and vanishing up the tunnel.

Alone in the lunar module, Lovell too glanced slowly around it. The debris of four days of close-quarters living was collected in the cluttered cockpit, and Aquarius now looked less the intrepid moonship it had been on Monday than a sort of galactic garbage scow. Lovell waded through the scraps of paper and rubbish and moved back toward his window. Before jumping ship himself, he had one more job: steering the twin vehicles to the attitude Jerry Bostick had specified, so the LEM would drop into the deep water off New Zealand.

Lovell took the attitude control for the last time and pushed it to the side. The ship yawed slightly, jostling some of the floating paper. Without the inert mass of the service module skewing the center of gravity so badly, Aquarius was far more maneuverable, much closer to the nimble ship the simulators in Houston and Florida had conditioned Lovell to expect before this mission began. With a few practiced adjustments, he moved the lander to the proper position, then called the ground.

“OK Houston, Aquarius. I’m at the LEM separation attitude.”

“I can’t think of a better idea, Jim,” Kerwin replied.

Lovell finished configuring the LEM’s switches and systems and then, like Haise, decided that a souvenir might be in order. Reaching to the top of his window, he grabbed the optical sight and gave it a twist. It unscrewed easily and Lovell pocketed it. Looking toward the stowage area at the back of the cockpit, he found the helmet he would have worn on the surface of the moon, picked it up, and tucked it under his arm. Finally, he turned to another cabinet and retrieved the plaque he and Haise would have clamped to LEM’s front leg once they had emerged from the lander and begun to explore. None of the workers in NASA’s metal shop who had manufactured the plaque had ever expected to see it again. Now, Lovell reflected, they could stop by his office or den and take a look whenever they chose.

Holding his collected booty, Lovell sprang up the tunnel into Odyssey’s lower equipment bay, stashed his souvenirs in astorage cabinet, and movedinthe directionofthe couches. Instinctively, he moved toward the left-hand station but when he shimmied out of the equipment bay, he discovered that while Haise was buckled into his familiar right-hand seat, Swigert had claimed Lovell’s left-hand spot. It was customary during the descent and reentry phase of a lunar mission for a commander to relinquish his seat to his command module pilot. During a flight in which so many of the critical moments belonged to the commander and the LEM pilot, the man in the center couch was oftentimes overlooked. Reentry, however, when the LEM that had taken his shipmates to the surface of the moon was nothing but a jettisoned memory, was essentially a command module pilot’s operation, and as a gesture of respect for both his competence as a flier and the thankless job he had performed so far, he was usually allowed to bring the ship in for its landing. Now, as reentry approached, and the commander of this mission approached his familiar station, he had to switch course and move back to a less familiar one.

“Reporting aboard, skipper,” Lovell said to Swigert.

“Aye-aye,” Swigert answered, a bit self-consciously. Lovell donned his headset and nodded, then Swigert signed on the air.

“OK, Houston, we’re ready to proceed with hatch close-up.”

“OK, Jack. Did Jim get all of the film out of Aquarius?”

Lovell looked at Swigert and nodded yes.

“Yes,” Swigert said. “That’s affirmative. And we remembered to get Jim out too.”

“Good deal, Jack,” Kerwin said. “Then what we want you to do is seal the hatch and vent the tunnel until you get down to about 3 pounds per square inch. If the hatch holds pressure for a minute or so, you’re OK and you can feel free to release Aquarius.”

“OK,” Swigert said. “Copy that.”

Lovell, indicating to Swigert that he should stay where he was, wriggled back out of his couch and glided toward the lower equipment bay. Swimming into the tunnel, he slammed the LEM’s hatch and sealed it with a turn of its lever. Then he backed into Odyssey, retrieved its hatch from the spot where he had tied it down on that Monday night so long ago, and fitted it into place.

If this hatch evidenced the same balkiness it had four days ago, the LEM could not be jettisoned and the reentry could not proceed as planned. Even if the hatch did seal, it would be a few minutes before the onboard pressure sensors would confirm that the seal was tight and the spacecraft wasn’t leaking air. Naturally, without this confirmation, a safe reentry would be impossible. Lovell regarded the hatch suspiciously and then threw its locking mechanism. The latches closed with a satisfying snap. Reaching for the tunnel vent switch, he bled the air out of the passageway and into space until the pressure read 2.8 pounds per square inch. Flipping the vent switch shut, he swam back to his seat.

“Sealed?” Swigert asked.

“I hope so,” Lovell said.

With this tepid reassurance, the command module pilot flipped several switches on his instrument panel and brought the oxygen system to life, feeding fresh O 2into the cockpit. For several taut seconds he stared at his indicator.

“Oh, no,” Swigert groaned.

“What’s wrong?” Lovell and Haise asked, practically in unison.

“Flow is high. It looks like we’ve got a leak.”

On the ground, John Aaron hunched over his EECOM screen and spotted the oxygen rate at the same time Swigert did.

“Oh, no,” he groaned.

“What’s wrong?” Liebergot, Burton, and Dumis asked, practically in unison.

“Flow is high. It looks like we’ve got a leak.”

On the air-to-ground loop, Swigert’s voice called out, “OK Houston, we’ve got an O 2flow high.”

“Roger, Jack,” Kerwin answered. “Let us check it.”

As Swigert kept his eyes on his instruments, Aaron hailed his backroom. He and his engineers muttered on the line about the source of the potential leak while the three other EECOMs in the second row fretted aloud among themselves.

Within minutes, Aaron believed he had the problem sorted out. The LEM operated at a slightly lower pressure than the command module. Over the past four days, with hatches opened up and Odyssey shut off, it was Aquarius which determined the pressure in both ships. When the command module was powered up and its door was closed, the pressure sensors spotted that difference and immediately tried to pump the internal atmosphere up to what they thought it should be. In a few moments, Aaron figured, the necessary air should have been added to the cockpit and the high flow rate would stop.

“Sit tight for another minute,” he said to the people around him. “I think we’ll be all right.”

Forty seconds later, the numbers in the spacecraft and on the EECOM’s screen indeed began to stabilize.

“OK,” Swigert said with audible relief, “it’s dropping now, Joe.”

“Roger,” Kerwin called. “In that case, when you are comfortably ready to release the LEM, you can go ahead and do it.”

Lovell and Swigert looked at the mission timer on their instrument panel. It was 141 hours and 26 minutes into the flight.