by Jay Barbree
They didn’t have to tell Vladimir Komarov why.
The flight director said aloud what Komarov and everyone knew. “He is out of control. The spacecraft is going into tumbles that the pilot will have difficulty stopping. We must face the truth. He might not survive reentry.”
As a select few in NASA listened to a translation from America’s intelligence-gathering assets Neil Armstrong immediately recognized the cosmonaut’s problems. He and Dave Scott had faced much the same on Gemini 8.
In early 1958, a few months after the Soviet Union launched Sputnik, President Dwight Eisenhower authorized the development of a top-priority reconnaissance satellite project operated by the CIA Directorate of Science and Technology with assistance from the U.S. Air Force. It was used to “eavesdrop,” and for photographic surveillance of the Soviet Union, China, and other areas from 1960 until May 1972. The project’s code name was Corona, but to hide its true purpose, it was given the cover name Discoverer and said to be a scientific research and technology development program.
In Russia’s mission control the flight director picked up his telephone and issued orders. A powerful car pulled up before a Russian apartment complex. Two men rushed into the building, emerging moments later with a woman. The car roared off toward the control center.
The woman was Valentina Komarov, the cosmonaut’s wife and the mother of their two children.
By the time she reached mission control, Soyuz 1 was tumbling through space. Komarov had become ill from the violent motions several times. He forced calm into his voice when flight control told him he could talk privately with his wife.
They brought Valentina to a separate console and moved aside to assure her privacy. In those precious moments Vladimir Komarov bid his wife good-bye.
Soyuz 1’s retro-rockets slowed his speed, but reentry began with Komarov having little control. He fought the spacecraft with his experience, skill, and courage. He judged his position by gyroscopes in the cabin. Incredibly, he aligned the ship correctly and held it firm until building atmospheric forces helped stabilize it.
First reports of the ship’s landing indicated it had touched down about forty miles east of Orsk. It seemed Komarov had accomplished the impossible, fighting his failed spacecraft all the way through reentry.
But the flight controllers had not witnessed what the farmers in the Orsk area saw as Soyuz fell to Earth. Though Komarov survived reentry, he was fighting his failed spacecraft spinning wildly all the way down.
The main parachute had not fully opened. His reserve chute fell away from his spacecraft, immediately twisting into a large, orange-and-white rag, trailing uselessly behind Soyuz.
At a speed of 400 miles per hour, cosmonaut Komarov’s spacecraft smashed into the earth. Its landing system included braking rockets fired normally just above the ground to cushion touchdown. But Soyuz slammed down hard and the rockets exploded, engulfing the spacecraft in flames. Farmers ran to the ship to throw dirt on the burning wreckage. An hour later they were able to dig through the smoldering ruins to find the remains of spaceflight’s latest hero, Vladimir Komarov.
The Russian space program, like its American counterpart, had experienced a stunning reversal and entered a period of reexamination. Russia as would the United States did not fly another spacecraft for 18 months.
Neil Armstrong flying the LLTV. (NASA)
THIRTEEN
HOW TO LAND ON THE MOON
Following its launchpad fire Apollo would be grounded for 21 months, time needed to redesign and build new, safe flight hardware, time Neil knew the astronauts should be training to fly what was being rebuilt.
Planners came up with a free-flying mechanical contrivance that duplicated lunar gravity and flew much like experts anticipated the lunar module would. It was named the Lunar Landing Training Vehicle (LLTV), and Neil simply reasoned landing a spacecraft in the vacuum surrounding the moon required something altogether different from the skills used to fly winged vehicles in an atmosphere. Flying helicopters could not mimic the trajectories and sink rates of a lunar module and he felt the helicopter would be a waste of time.
The LLTV was a beastly looking contraption, an overgrown spiderlike vertical takeoff vehicle with four legs. It was immediately nicknamed the “Flying Bedstead.”
In its stomach was a 4,200-pound turbofan engine mounted on a gimbal, a device that allowed the engine’s thrust to swivel freely in all directions, keeping the LLTV balanced, which permitted its jet engine to be throttled down to support five-sixths of its weight to simulate the reduced gravity on the moon.
Why five-sixths? Because Apollo pilots would be landing on the moon in one-sixth the gravity of Earth, they had to know how the lunar module would fly in this low gravity, and to simulate these conditions, the LLTV had two hydrogen peroxide lift rockets with thrust that could be varied from 100 to 500 pounds. Sixteen smaller thrusters, mounted in pairs, gave the astronaut control in pitch, yaw, and roll, and for safety, there were six 500-pound-thrust backup rockets that could take over if the big turbofan engine failed, including one of the first zero-zero ejection seats.
So what is a zero-zero ejection seat? The two zeros refer to zero altitude at zero speed. The ejection unit can boost a pilot to safety from a vehicle sitting on the ground or from thousands of feet in the air. All of it was needed to train an astronaut to fly Apollo’s lunar module, and Neil was convinced that if you could build a trainer that would accurately duplicate all the landing conditions on the moon, you could train someone to touchdown safely on Earth’s nearest neighbor.
“Those smart Bell aero systems engineers did just that,” Neil said, adding, “The only thing they couldn’t do was rid the Earth from training in the wind because there is no wind on the moon.”
There were other questions but Neil thought the LLTV was just one dandy idea so after the Apollo 1 fire, NASA’s prime Apollo contractors North American and Grumman got busy rebuilding and fireproofing the Apollo and lunar module while the ships’ likely moon-landing commanders Neil Armstrong, Pete Conrad, Jim Lovell, Alan Shepard, David Scott, John Young, and Gene Cernan busied themselves trying to master flying the Bedstead.
The skill necessary was the same eye-and-muscle coordination one needed to balance a dinner plate on a broomstick with one finger.
Then, on March 27, 1967, two months to the day after the Apollo 1 crew died, Neil made his first and second test flights in the LLTV. But technical problems in the maiden Lunar Landing Training Vehicles grounded the first machines for the remainder of the year.
Early in 1968 improved versions were brought to nearby Ellington Air Force Base from Edwards High Speed Flight Station. Neil was first in line, and within a month his logbook recorded a total of ten training flights. Naturally he was asked if flying the Bedstead was becoming routine. “I wouldn’t call it routine,” Neil answered. “Nothing about flying the LLTV is routine. It’s not a forgiving machine.”
* * *
He continued his training flights and then shortly after lunch on May 6, 1968, Neil climbed aboard the lunar trainer and took his seat in the pilot’s box. This would be his twenty-first LLTV practice landing and he got comfortable. Technicians began the training procedure by connecting Neil’s necessary attachments.
It was one of those springtime Texas afternoons with lots of sun and puffy clouds, but this day there were also winds. Gusts were up to 30 knots, and Neil made a mental note. The winds could be tricky. Some of the Apollo astronauts disliked flying the demanding LLTV, but Neil felt differently. He knew if a pilot was going to land on the airless moon, he had to know how to do it before he arrived. He had little appetite for “learning on the job.”
Was he afraid? Not really. He simply believed in courage over timidity. He had an appetite for adventure over the love of doing nothing, but he certainly had respect for what could go wrong and he drove himself to the limits of being prepared. When he flew the unforgiving Bedstead or any other challenging machine, Neil consciously or unconsci
ously came back to the dream—the reoccurring dream from his adolescence where he was suspended in air. No aircraft. No wings. Only himself floating thousands of feet—even miles above in the sky—and as long as he held his breath, relaxed and kept his wits about him, he would not fall.
Strangely, he believed the dream to be real. It gave him confidence. Not a boastful confidence. Not arrogance. Again, a belief in his preparedness—in his acute awareness of how sharp and quick his flying skills had to be to pilot any nerve-racking unforgiving quirks of unproven craft. He simply prepared himself the best he could and lived the life of the test pilot.
* * *
Aboard the LLTV, Neil’s preflight checkout was normal and thorough. With one last pull on his seat harness he and the control van’s four engineers and ground crew were ready. The operations engineer gave the go, and the sound of the deep whining of the trainer’s turbofan jet engine spinning faster and faster in its start-up told nearby personnel it was time to move away to safety.
Neil increased power and he felt the LLTV lift. Not unlike a helicopter leaving the ground, but with one great difference: Instant loss of power could quickly allow the lunar trainer to drop like a rock before its six 500-pound backup rockets would take over; on a helicopter spinning blades would make for a softer landing.
The hand positions on the LLTV controls in fact were mostly opposite of those on a helicopter—all strange and different but controls in which Neil had become comfortable.
He settled into his climb, gaining altitude much slower than usual because of the vehicle’s fight with wind gusts. Suddenly coming into view was the Manned Spacecraft Center’s landmark Building One, dominating the center’s campuslike skyline. Quickly he returned his focus to his ascent to 450 feet where he would begin his run.
Reaching his assigned altitude was anything but normal. Normal was a little more than a two-minute climb, but the wind gusts and strong headwinds retarded Neil’s ascent greatly. He needed twice the time to get upstairs. Four minutes and 26 seconds in fact to reach 450 feet, where he transferred the LLTV’s rockets for their lunar-simulation landing.
He used the automatic control system to set the turbofan engine thrust at five-sixths the vehicle’s weight and all appeared ready to the control van’s four test engineers.
“You have a good weighing at 450 feet,” the operations engineer told Neil.
“Roger.”
“Come on down.”
“Roger.”
Neil moved into his simulated lunar-landing run as he had on twenty previous test flights. He was using both attitude-control systems to offset gust reactions. All pictorial and telemetered data told the ground Neil was making a normal yet rapid and somewhat steeper descent through the so-called “Dead Man’s Curve”—the terminal phase—and all involved were convinced it was just another day at the office for Neil Armstrong.
But suddenly it wasn’t.
The left “low rocket fuel” light flickered then came on steadily, but because of its location in the extreme upper right of the panel, it went unnoticed by Neil.
For only a short instant, the LLTV settled in a hovering position about 30 feet above ground when Neil immediately sensed something was wrong.
“Come out of the lunar sim,” the operations engineer ordered and Neil’s instincts were cat quick. Before the operations engineer could repeat, “Come out of lunar sim,” Neil depressed the lunar simulation release switch advancing the jet throttle to 100 percent. He was instantly climbing about 45 feet per second—reaching for altitude and safety—when the operations engineer saw the helium low light come on.
“Come on back down. We’ve got helium low,” he ordered.
Neil halted his climb at 4.22 seconds with his vehicle nearing 200 feet. For the next 7.34 seconds the LLTV moved forward and level as Neil reoriented vehicle and self.
He knew the loss of helium pressure would shut down his control rockets and just as quickly as he’d reminded himself of this, it happened. He had no control. The LLTV started a pitch-up attitude and began sagging, rolling to the right. Neil tried to regain control but he knew he was sinking. He knew he needed to save the expensive high-tech machine. Deke had the lunar trainer on a low budget, but he also knew he couldn’t roll through 30 degrees. If he did and he fired his ejection seat, the seat’s rocket would drive him headfirst into the ground.
“Instantly I was out of choices,” he later told me. “I lost the pressure and gas to the attitude-control rockets, and when you lose attitude control it diverges, and there was very little time to analyze alternatives at that point. It was just because I was so close to the ground,” he explained, “below 100 feet in altitude—time for instant decision, time to depart—and I told the van, ‘I have to leave it.’”
“Leave the vehicle?” the operations engineer questioned.
Neil’s hand was already on the tiger-striped ring beneath his seat. He jerked it forward and felt his world explode.
He and his zero-to-zero ejection seat were blown instantly from the LLTV and in a blink of the eye a small explosive blasted his parachute canopy open.
There was no waiting for a drogue. No waiting for the main chute to blossom. Parachute deployment was instant. Rocket power and pressurization fully opened his chute in a second flat.
Following Neil’s ejection, the failing LLTV had taken only 2.84 seconds to hit the ground, crumbling and exploding into a violent fireball.
Neil was watching from a safe distance, grateful to be riding his parachute away from the burning fuel and melting metals. Some had feared an ejecting pilot would simply fall into the middle of the burning crash.
* * *
Neil was thankful he did not. He judged his chute was taking him about the length of a football field from the burning wreck into a patch of waste-high weeds. He refocused his attention on making a good parachute landing by pulling his knees together, his legs upward, and holding firmly to his parachute straps as his feet parted weeds.
He rolled to a stop on the ground 10.34 seconds after ejecting, pulling in his parachute and harness before taking stock of his body and limbs. He reminded himself that it was his first ejection in seventeen years—since he ejected from his crippled Panther over Korea. With the exception of biting his tongue, he would realize later that night the only other damage he suffered was a bad case of chiggers he got in the weeds.
Other than that Neil brushed himself off and was grateful he hadn’t a scratch when help arrived. He was taken back to the staging area for a quick debriefing with the ground crew.
Neil Armstrong ejects from his failed Lunar Landing Training Vehicle and rides his parachute to safety above the burning crash below. (NASA)
The time was 1:45 P.M. and the unflappable test pilot continued dusting himself off all the way to his car. He nursed his lacerated tongue and drove his ’Vette back to his office. He was satisfied he had done what he’d been trained to do and there was no reason to make more out of it.
Neil went back to work, and in the coming days investigators found the cause of the LLTV accident. It was a poorly designed thruster system that allowed propellant to leak out, and the loss of helium pressure in the tanks caused attitude thrusters to shut down. Neil had no control, and did nothing that contributed to the accident, and while applauding Armstrong for his flight skills and decision-making, Manned Spacecraft Center Director Bob Gilruth and Director of Flight Operations Chris Kraft felt it was only a matter of time before an astronaut would be killed in the lunar trainer.
The executives were ready to eliminate LLTV training completely, but Neil, Pete Conrad, Alan Shepard, Dave Scott, and Gene Cernan—five of the six Apollo commanders who would land on the moon—were adamant they needed the LLTV.
“Forget about punching buttons in a safe ground trainer,” Neil told the bosses. “Would you have us train for real only once—when we were 200 feet above the moon’s surface, or would you rather for us to learn above Earth where we have help?”
The man
who would be last on the moon, Gene Cernan, backed the astronaut who would be first, and Cernan didn’t sugarcoat his words: “Training with the LLTV means you ain’t allowed any mistakes. It puts your ass in the real world. We have to have it.”
Neil wasn’t easily excited but he believed strongly in the fact that you had to expect some things to go wrong, and you needed to prepare yourself to handle the unexpected. “You just hope those unexpected things are something you have prepared yourself to cope with,” he told me.
Some writers wrongly accused NASA of exaggerating Armstrong’s ejection altitude of about 200 feet. The writers stated it was more like 50 feet with Neil having only two-fifths of a second before impact. Neil told me he judged he was slightly less than 100 feet, the point where the rules called for the pilot to eject if he was having problems. The video confirms Neil’s judgment. Apparently those writers were confusing the facts of the LLTV’s first ejection by its test pilot Joe Algranti.
From Neil’s mouth to this writer’s ears, from the videos, the investigations, and the interviews with others who were there, it was revealed Neil was higher than 50 feet when he ejected and his lunar trainer took 2.84 seconds to hit the ground. Not a scant two-fifths of a second, and most important, there was never an accident in LLTV training caused by an astronaut.
The training continued with Neil making almost sixty landings in the LLTV, and after he had made history landing first on the lunar surface, he said, “The LLTV gave me a good deal of confidence—a comfortable familiarity when we landed on the moon.”
* * *
Next for Neil was Apollo 8.
Deke Slayton had selected him as backup commander to Frank Borman, and Edwin “Buzz” Aldrin as the backup command module pilot to Jim Lovell. But Mike Collins, who would fly to the moon with Neil and Buzz on Apollo 11, had to stand down for a neck operation. Deke moved astronaut Fred Haise in as the third member of the Apollo 8 backup crew.
