The Mammoth Book of Space Exploration and Disaster

by Richard Russell Lawrence

  At about 115 miles up – very near the apogee of my flight – Deke Slayton started to give me the countdown for the retro-firing manoeuvre. This had nothing to do directly with my flight from a technical standpoint. I was established on a ballistic path and there was nothing the retro-rockets could do to sway me from it. But we would be using these rockets as brakes on the big orbital flights to start the capsule back towards earth. We wanted to try them on my trip just to see how well they worked. We also wanted to test my reactions to them and check on the pilot’s ability to keep the capsule under control as they went off. I used the manual control stick to tilt the blunt end of the capsule up to an angle of 34° above the horizontal – the correct attitude for getting the most out of the retros on an orbital re-entry. At 5 minutes 14 seconds after launch, the first of the three rockets went off, right on schedule. The other two went off at the prescribed five-second intervals. There was a small upsetting motion as our speed was reduced, and I was pushed back into the couch a bit by the sudden change in Gs. But each time the capsule started to get pushed out of its proper angle by one of the retros going off I found that I could bring it back again with no trouble at all. I was able to stay on top of the flight by using the manual controls, and this was perhaps the most encouraging product of the entire mission.

  Another item on my schedule was to throw a switch to try out an ingenious system for controlling the attitude of the capsule in case the automatic pilot went out of action or we were running low on fuel in the manual control system. We have two different ways of controlling the attitude of the capsule – manually with the control stick, or electrically with the auto-pilot. In the manual system the movement of the stick activates valves which squirt the hydrogen peroxide fuel out to move the capsule around and correct its attitude. We can control the magnitude of this correction by the amount of pressure we put on the stick. The auto-pilot works differently. It uses an entirely different set of jets – to give us a backup capability in case one set goes out – and a separate source of fuel. But the automatic jets are not proportional in the force that they exert. This gave the engineers an idea: they created a third possibility, which they call “fly-by-wire”, in which the pilot switches off the automatic pilot, then links up his manual stick with the valves that are normally attached to the automatic system. This gives him a new source of fuel to tap if he is running low, and a little more flexibility in managing the controls. The fly-by-wire mode seemed fine as far as I was concerned, and another test was checked off the list of things we were out to prove.

  We were on our way down now and I waited for the package which holds the retro-rockets on the bottom of the capsule to jettison and get out of the way before we began our re-entry. It blew off on schedule and I could feel it go, but the green light which was supposed to report this event failed to light up on the instrument panel. This was our only signal failure of the mission. I pushed the override button and the light turned green as it was supposed to do. This meant that everything was all right.

  Now I began to get the capsule ready for re-entry. Using the control stick, I pointed the blunt end downward at about a 40° angle, and switched the controls back to the auto-pilot so I could be free to take another look through the periscope. The view was still spectacular. The sky was very dark blue; the clouds were a brilliant white. Between me and the clouds was something murky and hazy which I knew to be the refraction of various layers of the atmosphere through which I would soon be passing.

  I fell slightly behind in my schedule at this point. I was at about 230,000 feet when I suddenly noticed a relay come on which had been activated by a device that measures a change in gravity of 0.05G. This was the signal that the re-entry phase had begun. I had planned to be on manual control when this happened and run off a few more tests with my hand controls before we penetrated too deeply into the atmosphere. But the G forces had built up before I was ready for them, and I was a few seconds behind. I was fairly busy for a moment running around the cockpit with my hands, changing from the auto-pilot to manual controls, and I managed to get in only a few more corrections in attitude. Then the pressure of the air we were coming into began to overcome the force of the control jets, and it was no longer possible to make the capsule respond. Fortunately, we were in good shape, and I had nothing to worry about so far as the capsule’s attitude was concerned. I knew, however, that the ride down was not one most people would want to try in an amusement park.

  In that long plunge back to earth, I was pushed back into the couch with a force of about 11 Gs. This was not as high as the Gs we had all taken during the training programme, and I remember being clear all the way through the re-entry phase. I was able to report the G level with normal voice procedure, and I never reached the point – as I often had on the centrifuge – where I had to exert the maximum amount of effort to speak or even to breathe. All the way down, as the altimeter spun through mile after mile of descent, I kept grunting out “OK, OK, OK,” just to show them back at the Control Centre how I was doing. The periscope had come back in automatically before the re-entry started. And there was nothing for me to do now but just sit there, watching the gauges and waiting for the final act to begin.

  All through this period of falling the capsule rolled around very slowly in an anti-clockwise direction, spinning at a rate of about 100 per second around its long axis. This was programmed to even out the heat and it did not bother me. Neither did the sudden rise in temperature as the friction of the air began to build up outside the capsule. The temperature climbed to 1230°F on the outer walls. But it never went above 100° in the cabin or above 82° in my suit. The life support system which Wally had worked – oxygen, water coolers, ventilators and suit – were all working without a hitch. As the G forces began to drop off at about 80,000 feet, I switched back to the auto-pilot again. By the time I had fallen to 30,000 feet the capsule had slowed down to about 300 mph. I knew from talking to Deke that my trajectory looked good and that Freedom 7 was going to land right in the centre of the recovery area. But there were still several things that had to happen before I could stretch out and take it easy. I began to concentrate now on the parachutes. The periscope jutted out again at about 21,000 feet, and the first thing I saw against the sky as I looked through it was the little drogue chute which had popped out to stabilize my fall. So far, so good. Then, at 15,000 feet, a ventilation valve opened up on schedule to let cool fresh air come into the capsule. The main chute was due to break out at 10,000 feet. If it failed to show up on schedule I could switch to a reserve chute of the same size by pulling a ring near the instrument panel. I must admit that my finger was poised right on that ring as we passed through the 10,000-foot mark. But I did not have to pull it. Looking through the periscope, I could see the antenna canister blow free on top of the capsule. Then the drogue chute went floating away, pulling the canister behind it. The canister, in turn, pulled out the bag which held the main chute and pulled it free. And then, all of a sudden, after this beautiful sequence, there it was – the main chute stretching out long and thin. Four seconds later the reefing broke free and the huge orange and white canopy blossomed out above me. It looked wonderful right from the beginning, letting me down at just the right speed.

  The water landing was all that remained now, and I started getting set for it. I opened the visor in the helmet and disconnected the hose that keeps the visor sealed when the suit is pressurized. I took off my knee straps and released the strap that went across my chest. The capsule was swaying gently back and forth under the chute. I knew that the people back in the Control Centre were anxious about all this, so I sent two messages – one through a voice relay airplane which was hovering around nearby, and the other through a telemetry ship which was parked in the recovery area down below. Both messages read the same: “All OK.”

  At about a thousand feet I looked out through the porthole and saw the water coming up towards me. I braced myself in the couch for the impact, but it was not at all bad. It was a l
ittle abrupt, but no more severe than a jolt a pilot gets when he is launched off the catapult of an aircraft-carrier. The spacecraft hit and then it flopped over on its side so that I was leaning over on my right side in the couch. One porthole was completely under water. I hit the switch to kick the reserve parachute loose. This would take some of the weight off the top of the capsule and help it right itself. The same switch started a sequence which deployed a radio antenna to help me signal position. I could see the yellow dye marker colouring the water through the other porthole. This meant that the other recovery aids were working. Slowly but steadily the capsule began to right itself. As soon as I knew the radio antenna was out of the water I sent off a message saying that I was fine.

  I took off my lap belt and loosened my helmet so I could take it off quickly when I went out the door. And I had just started to make a final reading on all of the instruments when the carrier’s helicopter pilot called me. I had already told him that I was in good shape, but he seemed in a hurry to get me out. I heard the shepherd’s hook catch hold of the top of the capsule, and then the pilot called again.

  “OK,” he said, “you’ve got two minutes to come out.” I decided he knew what he was doing and that following his instruction was perhaps more important than taking those extra readings. I could still see water out of the window, and I wanted to avoid getting any of it in the capsule, so I called the pilot back and asked him if he would lift the capsule a little higher. He obligingly hoisted it up a foot or two. I told him then that I would be out in thirty seconds.

  I took off my helmet, disconnected the communications wiring which linked me to the radio set and took a last look around the capsule. Then I opened the door and crawled to a sitting position on the sill. The pilot lowered the horse-collar sling; I grapped it, slipped it on and then began the slow ride up into the helicopter. I felt relieved and happy. I knew I had done a pretty good job. The Mercury flight systems had worked out even better than we had thought they would. And we had put on a good demonstration of our capability right out in the open where the whole world could watch us taking our chances.

  Glenn described Shepard’s reaction:

  Al’s reaction was exuberance and satisfaction. He talked about his five minutes of weightlessness as painless and pleasant. He’d had no unusual sensations, was elated at being able to control the capsule’s attitude, and was only sorry the flight hadn’t lasted longer.

  Al’s flight was greeted as a triumph around the world because it had been visible. The world had learned of Gagarin’s flight from Nikita Khrushchev. It had learned of Al’s by watching it on live television and listening to it on the radio. That openness was as significant a triumph in the Cold War battle of ideologies as Gagarin’s flight had been scientifically.

  Kennedy used the momentum of Al’s flight boldly. Now that men on both sides of the Iron Curtain had entered space one way or another, the president leapfrogged to the next great step. He went to Congress on May 25 and in a memorable speech urged it to plunge into the space race with both feet. He said, “I believe this nation should commit itself to achieving the goal, before this decade is out, of landing a man on the moon and returning him safely to Earth. No single space project in this period will be more impressive to mankind or more important for the long-range exploration of space; and none will be so difficult or expensive to accomplish.”

  Gus Grissom’s mishap

  The second US manned space flight happened on 21 July 1961. Although Glenn had been the back-up for Shephard, Gus Grissom was chosen for the second manned space flight. Glenn:

  Gus’s flight was set for July 19, the day after my fortieth birthday He would have a view Al didn’t have. Al had ridden the Mercury capsule as originally designed, with a porthole and no window. We had discussed other changes with Max Faget and the engineers at McDonnell. Deke wanted foot pedals to make the capsule’s controls more like a plane’s. I had wanted to replace the gauges with tape-line instrumentation that would provide information at a glance. Both systems would have added too much weight. But Gus’s Liberty Bell 7, as he had named his capsule, had a window.

  One problem nobody had figured out the answer to, however, was the one that had plagued Al.

  The night before Gus’s flight, I was staying with him in crew quarters as his backup. There was a little medical lab next door. We went in and set to work trying to design a urine collection device. We got some condoms in the lab, and we clipped the receptacle ends off and cemented some rubber tubing that ran to a plastic bag to be taped to his leg.

  It seemed to work well enough, and Gus put it on in the morning before he suited up.

  Grissom’s flight was postponed because of bad weather. On 19 July the weather was still unsuitable so there was a 48-hour postponement. Grissom:

  I was disappointed, however, after spending four hours in the couch. And I did not look forward to spending another forty-eight hours on the Cape. It would take that long to purge the Redstone of all its corrosive fuels, dry it out and start all over again. But I felt sure we would get it off on the next time around. And we did. The build-up was normal. I got up at 1:10 a.m. and was in the spacecraft at 3:58. I was to lie there for 3 hours 22 minutes before we finally lifted off.

  We had a few problems with the countdown. One of the explosive bolts that held the hatch in place was misaligned, and at T-45 minutes they declared a hold to replace it. This took thirty minutes. Then the count was resumed and proceeded to T-30 minutes where it was stopped so the technicians could turn off the pad searchlights. It was daylight by this time, anyway, and the lights were causing some interference with the booster telemetry. There was another hold at T-15 minutes to let some clouds drift out of the way of the tracking cameras. This one lasted forty-one minutes. I spent some of this time relaxing with deep breathing exercises and tensing my arms and legs to keep from getting too stiff. We finally got to the final act and I heard Deke Slayton count down to 5-4-3-2-1.

  I felt the booster start to vibrate and I could hear the engines start. Seconds later, the elapsed time clock started on the instrument panel. I punched the Time Zero Override to make sure that everything was synchronized, started the stopwatch on the clock and reported over the radio that the clock had started. I could feel a low vibration at about T+50 seconds, but it lasted only about twenty seconds. There was nothing violent about it. It was nice and easy, just as Al had predicted. I looked for a little buffeting as I climbed to 36,000 feet and moved through Mach 1, the speed of sound. Al had experienced some difficulty here; his vehicle shook quite a lot and his vision was slightly blurred by the vibrations. But we had made some good fixes. We had improved the aerodynamic fairings between the capsule and the Redstone, and had put some extra padding around my head. I had no trouble at all, and I could see the instruments very clearly.

  I did experience a slight tumbling sensation when the Redstone engine shut off at T+142 seconds and when the escape tower went ten seconds later. There was a definite feeling of disorientation. But I knew what it was, and it did not bother me. I could hear the escape rocket fire and the bolts blow that held the tower to the capsule. And I could see the escape rocket zooming off to my right. I saw the tower climb away, and it still showed up as a long slender object against the black sky when I heard the posigrade rockets that separated the capsule from the Redstone fire off. I could hear them bang and could definitely feel them kick. I never did see the booster, though. Neither had Al.

  Now, I was on my own. Shortly after lift-off I went through a layer of cirrus clouds and broke out into the sun. The sky became blue, then a deeper blue, and then – quite suddenly and abruptly – it turned black. Al had described it as dark blue. It seemed jet black to me. There was a narrow transition band between the blue and the black – a sort of fuzzy grey area. But it was very thin, and the change from blue to black was extremely vivid. The earth itself was bright. I had a little trouble identifying land masses because of an extensive layer of clouds that hung over them. Even so,
the view back down through the window was fascinating. I could make out brilliant gradations of colour – the blue of the water, the white of the beaches, and the brown of the land. Later on, when I was weightless and about a hundred miles up – almost at the apogee of the flight – I could look down and see Cape Canaveral, sharp and clear. I could even see the buildings. This was the best reference I had for determining my position. I could pick out the Banana River and see the peninsula which runs farther south. Then I spotted the south coast of Florida. I saw what must have been West Palm Beach. I never did see Cuba. The high cirrus blotted out everything except the area from about Daytona Beach back inland to Orlando and Lakeland, to Lake Okeechobee and down to the tip of Florida. It was quite a panorama.

  At one point, through the centre of the window, I saw a faint star. At least I thought it was a star, and I reported that it was. It seemed about as bright as Polaris. John Glenn had bet me a steak dinner that I would see stars in the daytime, and I had bet him I would not. I knew that without atmospheric particles in space to defract the light, we should be able to see stars, at least theoretically. But I did not think I would be able to accommodate my eyes to the darkness fast enough to spot them. As it turned out, John lost his bet. It was Venus that I saw, and Venus is a planet. John had to pay me off, after all.

  The flight itself went almost exactly according to plan. I had a really weird sensation when the capsule turned around to assume retro-fire attitude. I thought at first that I might be tumbling out of control. But I did not feel in the least bit nauseous. When I checked the instruments, I could see that everything was normal and that the manoeuvre was taking place just as I had experienced it on the trainer.

  Just as this turnaround began, a brilliant shaft of light came flashing through the window. This was the sun. I knew it was coming, but when it started moving across my torso, from my lower left, I was afraid for a moment that it might shine directly into my eyes and blind me. Everything else in the cockpit was completely black except for this narrow shaft of light. But it moved on across my body and disappeared as the capsule finished its turnaround.