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Electrical engineer Seymour Liebergot unfurls a massive circuit diagram across his console inside NASA's Mission Control Room. It shows everything he's in charge of: the inner workings of Apollo 13's life support systems. And right now, most of those systems are failing.
It's close to 9:30 p.m. on April 13, 1970, about 15 minutes since the astronauts reported hearing a loud bang. Now, two of Apollo 13's three fuel cells are dead. Even worse, the oxygen supply for the astronauts is dropping fast. Liebergot runs his fingers along the unfurled paper, searching desperately for a solution.
In his headset, he hears the gruff voice of his boss, Chief Flight Director Gene Kranz. Seymour, the crew keeps asking what to do. What do we tell them? I'm working on it. Just one more minute. But Liebergot isn't sure another minute will help. The whole situation seems surreal. This is NASA. Things don't fail at NASA. But they are failing.
After more agonizing minutes, he responds to Kranz. "Jean, let's have them start powering down non-essential systems. They can use their checklists." Kranz relays the orders. Liebergot knows that this is a half measure that will save just a little of their dwindling power reserves. But every bit helps. Besides, he wants to buy some more time before doing anything drastic or irreversible.
Meanwhile, he glances up from the diagram to his instrument console. It's a sickening sight. Half the warning lights are flashing yellow, several readouts are at zero, and many others are headed that way. His beloved command module is wounded and dying 200,000 miles from Earth. And if he doesn't come up with some ideas, the astronauts on board could die too.
It's all the more aggravating to glance over at the console right next to his. That console monitors the lunar module, the part of the spacecraft the astronauts were supposed to use to land on the moon. And right now, the console for the lunar module is serene and peaceful. Not a single flashing light. It makes him jealous, even angry. Why the hell did his systems have to fail?
But then, something occurs to him. He taps the lunar module engineer on the shoulder. Bob, could we move the astronauts from the command module to the lunar module? Could the three of them survive in there for the four or five days it would take to get them home? I mean, if it came to that. Bob frowns. I mean, maybe. It's pretty cramped in there. It's supposed to only hold two people, and we'd have to worry about the carbon dioxide as well.
Liebergot nods. Unlike the command module, the lunar module has only enough air filters to remove carbon dioxide for two or three days. So the engineers would have to figure out another way to cleanse the air of excess CO2. Still, Liebergot thinks it may end up being the best option they've got. The lunar module could serve as their emergency backup, a place where the astronauts could take refuge if things get desperate, a kind of lifeboat.
The thought calms Liebergot. It's good to know they have one option, however imperfect. After a moment, Liebergot returns to the diagram on the desk in front of him. Emergency backup aside, he's not going to let his command module die without a fight.
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From Wondery, I'm Mike Corey, and this is Against the Odds. On the evening of April 13th, 1970, 56 hours into Apollo 13's mission to the moon, an explosion on the spacecraft wiped out a major oxygen source and imperiled the astronauts' water and power supplies. This was an unprecedented disaster for NASA.
Three astronauts could suffocate or freeze to death in outer space while their families and the entire country watched helplessly from the ground. Saving them would take every bit of technical genius NASA possessed, starting with step one.
Stabilizing Apollo 13 to preserve as much precious air, water, and power as possible. And then, step two, figuring out a way to get the astronauts and their crippled spacecraft back home. This is episode two, Slingshot.
Marilyn Lovell parks her car in the driveway of her family's home in suburban Houston. Her daughters, 16-year-old Barbara and 11-year-old Susan, get out of the car and race up the front porch stairs. Soon, she'll hear the sound of them slamming their bedroom doors and blasting records. Marilyn and the two girls have just returned home from watching Apollo 13's live broadcast from space.
Marilyn had to drive all the way to Mission Control just to see it, since it wasn't picked up by any of the networks. She glances at her watch as she follows the girls into the house. It's 9.20 p.m. She had hoped she would get home in time to tuck in her youngest child, four-year-old Jeffrey, but he's probably asleep by now. Marilyn shuts the front door behind her and enters the thickly carpeted living room.
she flashes a quick smile to a man from NASA named Bob McMurray, who's reading a magazine on her couch. Per NASA protocol, someone stays with the astronaut's family at all times during missions to relay information for mission control and fend off any reporters who might show up. Before she can go upstairs to check on her four-year-old, Marilyn hears the doorbell. She frowns. She's not expecting company.
She answers the door to find Jim's fellow astronaut, Pete Conrad, and his wife, Jane. Jane steps forward to hug Marilyn. I hope you don't mind us coming over. We wanted to hear about the broadcast. Not at all. Come in. I'll fix some coffee. In the kitchen, she pours several cups, then returns to settle onto the couch and vent about the media's lack of interest in the broadcast. When the telephone in the kitchen rings, Marilyn excuses herself to answer it.
It's Jerry Hammack, a neighbor who works at NASA. Before Marilyn can even say hello, he starts talking in a rush. Marilyn, there's no need to worry. The Russians, the Japanese, they've all volunteered to help with the recovery. And it's all hands on deck here. All our best people are coming in. Jerry, slow down. Is something wrong? I just saw Jim on the broadcast. No one's gotten in touch with you? Marilyn hears another phone ringing from the second line in the Lovell's den.
She calls into the living room for someone to answer it, then returns to Jerry. "No, Jerry. No one's gotten in touch with me. What's going on?" Jerry says there's been a hiccup with the mission, something malfunctioned with the fuel cells. It sounds serious to Marilyn, but hardly like an emergency. Her main concern is that it might interfere with Jim's landing on the moon. She asks a few questions and makes Jerry promise to call back soon with more news.
Marilyn returns to the living room, where she expects to find her guests sitting around chatting. Instead, everyone is standing up, their arms crossed, looking shocked. They all turn to stare at her. Pete Conrad finally steps forward. Did you hear? Well, Jerry Hammack says there's a problem with the fuel cells, but they have things under control. Pete shakes his head. I just talked to Mission Control on the other line. I think you need to sit down.
Marilyn sits on her brown paisley couch and grabs her coffee, but it soon grows cold in her hands as Pete explains the many things that have gone wrong with Jim's mission. A painful knot forms in her chest, and not just for Jim. How will she break the news to her children? Thank God Jeffrey's already asleep, but she needs to tell Susan and Barbara, and it sounds like there's no way to sugarcoat it.
Based on what Pete Conrad is telling her, Jim and his two crewmates are in serious danger. Seymour Liebergot scoops up the diagram of Apollo 13's life support systems from his workstation and hustles to the back of Mission Control.
There he finds Gene Kranz pacing back and forth, smoking. Liebergot unfurls the diagram across Kranz's console and begins pointing to the various components. "I have a plan to salvage the command module. There are two steps. First, we address the power. Two fuel cells are dead, so I want the command module to tap into the batteries and get back to full power."
Pocranz shakes his head no. "Absolutely not. We need those batteries for reentry. You can't drain them." "I won't drain them. I just need some temporary power, and not tapping into them is worse." Liebergot explains why. Apollo 13's fuel cells are dying because the command module is losing oxygen. On the ship, oxygen is necessary not only to breathe but also for certain chemical reactions that create electrical power.
No oxygen means no power. Once oxygen falls below a certain level, the spacecraft's computer will automatically tap into a smaller secondary tank called a surge tank to generate more power. The surge tank holds the oxygen needed for reentry, and if the ship cannibalizes too much of that oxygen, the crew will have no air to breathe during reentry into the Earth's atmosphere. They'll suffocate.
Instead, Liebergot wants to tap into the ship's only other backup power source. Its batteries. Unlike the fuel cells, the batteries don't need any oxygen to function. But powering them up now is risky because, like the surge tank, they're designed to be used during re-entry. But Liebergot thinks it's worth the risk. The surge tank is more important, and he thinks they can tap into the batteries briefly without draining them.
But Kranz looks confused. If you want to cut power, why not just cut power? Why tap into the batteries at all? Because we have to shut things down in a specific order. Certain systems depend on other systems to run properly, and if you don't shut things down correctly, they'll lose calibration. So? So when we fire them up again for reentry, they'll be useless.
Kranz still looks confused, but he says that Liebergot is the expert and gives his consent. Liebergot nearly melts with relief. Getting Kranz to change his mind is nearly impossible, but Kranz is still staring at him.
You said your plan has two steps. What's step two? Plugging the leak in oxygen tank one. If we can reduce power and figure out how to plug the leak, we can save the command module. Kranz gives his okay. With that, Liebergot scoops up everything and hustles back to his console, where his team of three engineers are waiting. He just hopes they can actually do everything he just proposed to Kranz. Because if they can't...
the command module is done for. On board Apollo 13, astronaut Jim Lovell presses his headset against his ears, trying to hear Houston through the static. He wants to make sure he's hearing correctly because what he thinks Houston is saying doesn't make sense. Houston, please repeat.
We want you to hook up the reentry batteries for a short spell, then start powering things down according to the pink checklist, pages 1 through 5. Okay, but explain the rationale here. It seems like we're bleeding the batteries we'll need for a reentry, aren't we? As Houston explains, Lovell turns and smiles grimly at Fred Hayes and Jack Swigert sitting next to him.
This is a turning point in the mission. In the first few minutes after the explosion, Lovell suspected the moon landing would be scrubbed. And what Houston is telling him now confirms it. He'll never walk on the moon. It's a painful blow to feel his lifelong dream slipping through his fingers.
Oddly though, Lovell also feels relieved to hear what Houston is saying now. It shows that Mission Control is finally accepting how dire things are. There's no more talk of telemetry issues or bad data. They're in crisis mode. Plus, Lovell is glad to be doing something instead of sitting around watching their oxygen evaporate.
fuel slip away. When Houston finishes their explanation, Lovell answers. "Roger, Houston. We'll begin shutdown immediately. Jack, grab that pink checklist!" Swigert pulls the checklist down from where it's velcroed to the wall. It's thick, made of laminated, fireproof pages. Lovell tells Swigert to start reading the instructions out loud immediately. They don't have a second to waste.
They need to save every amp they can to get home safely. Inside Mission Control, Seymour Liebergot and his engineers watch their consoles, keeping a close eye on the power down of the spacecraft. It's not going well. Liebergot feels his chest growing tighter.
As far as he's concerned, the astronauts are moving way too slowly. Under his breath, Liebergot urges them to hurry. Every second counts. But he knows they're not electronics experts, and they're under tremendous strain after what's already been a long and tiring day. But with every passing minute, oxygen tank one is losing more than one pound per square inch of pressure. The lower the pressure, the less oxygen is left in the tank.
By Liebergot's estimate, at the rate the tank is leaking, they're down to less than two hours of breathable air. Then, one of his engineers announces even worse news. "Whoa, whoa, the search tank is dropping. What the hell?" Liebergot stares down at the gauge for the search tank, the tank that supplies air for reentry. Sure enough, it's dropping.
Even though there's still oxygen in tank one, the ship is already cannibalizing the reentry oxygen to generate power.
Liebergot grabs the diagram of the life support system and jumps on his headset to Gene Kranz. He relays instructions to have the astronauts shut down a series of valves to try and preserve the surge tank. They'll have to reopen them later, but they absolutely cannot risk bleeding that tank now. Once he's fed the instructions to Kranz, Liebergot turns back to his team. Do we have any ideas for stopping the leak in Tank 1? Anything? Anything at all?
Two of his engineers duck their eyes, but the third, the one who noticed the surge tank, clears his throat. I've been wondering, maybe the leak isn't in the tank itself. Maybe there's a leak in the fuel cells it's connected to.
Liebergot sees what he means. Tank 1 is connected to the two dead fuel cells, which are clearly damaged. So it's possible that the tank itself is fine, but the gas is leaking out of some pipe further down the line. Liebergot's eyes dart to the diagram. He sees a few valves they could shut off. He calls Kranz again. "Jean, this is urgent. I need the crew to shut down the following valves."
He reads them out, and Kranz relays the message. Then Liebergot sits back to wait, his foot jangling nervously. Several tense minutes pass while the crew carries out the instructions. To calm his nerves, Liebergot lights his pipe, but he ends up not even smoking it. It just sits on his console, where it eventually snuffs out.
Finally, Kranz comes on the headset again. "They've shut the valves. Did that stop the leak?" Liebergot stares at the gauge for Tank 1, willing the needle to stop dropping. But then he curses quietly. "It didn't work. The needle is still sinking." "If there's no way to stop the leak, that means there's no way to salvage the command module."
He glances over at the pristine console for the lunar module and he begins to choke up. He doesn't even trust himself to speak, but he has to get the orders out. As much as he hates to admit it, it's time to move the astronauts. The lunar module will have to be their lifeboat.
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While systems engineers like Seymour Liebergot are trying to make sure the astronauts have enough air, water and power, Dietrich's crew is in charge of Apollo 13's trajectory. And they're hammering out the best way to get the ship back to Earth. Their crew is nicknamed "The Trench" because they occupy the front row at Mission Control. The Trench. But now they're in a windowless conference room down the hall, peering at a chalkboard.
They need to determine exactly when and how hard to fire Apollo 13's thrusters in order to get the spacecraft home. Given the immense distances and velocities, these calculations need to be incredibly precise. One small mistake and the astronauts will miss Earth entirely.
Most favor what's called a direct abort. They want the Apollo spacecraft to somersault around in space so its nose is pointing back to Earth.
Then the astronauts would fire the 22,000-pound thrusters for all they're worth. Basically, it's like doing a sharp U-turn, then slamming the gas pedal to the floor. Dietrich can see the appeal. Right now, the crew is speeding away from Earth in a crippled spacecraft at nearly 3,000 miles per hour. And the sooner they start the journey back home, the better.
But he also sees a major problem. He lights another cigarette and interrupts the discussion. "Hey, I gotta say it. I hate this direct abort plan." One of his trench mates throws up his hands. "You got any better ideas, Chuck?" "I might. Give me that shock." Dietrich writes out his objections.
First, NASA has worked through various direct abort plans in the past as contingency measures, but those plans required using the command module's thrusters to get home. And those thrusters are currently being powered down. They might not even work, given the ship's damage. Second, direct aborts use a lot of power, which Apollo 13 has precious little of.
A direct abort could suck up so much power that there wouldn't be enough to run the life-saving systems on the way home, or to make any last-minute course corrections if their trajectory is off target. Finally, all the direct abort plans call for ditching the lunar module to cut down on weight as they accelerate. But the lunar module is the one part of the ship that's working. Should they really abandon it?
The trencher who objected before stands, arms crossed. "Chuck, no one is saying the direct abort plan is perfect, but what other choice is there?" In response, Dietrich starts drawing. First, a circle to represent the Earth, then a smaller one for the Moon, and then a little square between them as the Apollo spacecraft.
Finally, he draws a dotted line from Apollo 13 toward the moon, around it, then back toward Earth. I say we keep going. Circle around the moon and let its gravity slingshot us back. It'll take longer, but we don't waste any power that way. The room is suddenly divided. Half the engineers love Dietrich's plan.
but half hate it. Dietrich promises to run some numbers on the direct abort plan, but deep down, he feels certain that his alternative is the best and safest way to go. Gene Kranz paces around the back of mission control, trying to resolve a debate between the flight surgeon and the lunar module team. The astronauts are currently shutting down the command module and moving to the lunar module.
Meanwhile, here in Mission Control, Kranz's team is arguing about what the astronauts can endure.
In other words, how cold is too cold aboard the spacecraft? And how little water can they consume? Generating heat and water aboard Apollo 13 takes power, and saving a few amps could make all the difference in getting the men home. What Kranz wants to know is, for every degree they drop the temperature, or for every ounce of water they deny the astronauts, how much will their performance suffer?
What's the minimum they need not just to stay alive, but to do their jobs? Kranz knows these are crucial decisions, but he simply doesn't have time to debate all the details. He orders the flight surgeon and lunar team to go off and drop some options, then report back.
As soon as they leave, another flight director, Glenn Lunny, calls to him. "Gene, we need to discuss whether to use the direct-abort option for getting home. Our window for that is closing."
Lunny explains that he just spoke with Chuck Dietrich, who shared his reservations about a direct abort and suggested the Slingshot alternative. Krantz agrees. Slingshot is the way to go. To do it, they'll have to find a way to stretch the lunar module's oxygen, water, and power over several days.
Kranz realizes he'll need to assemble yet another team to figure that out. They'll also need to figure out exactly when and for how long to fire their thrusters to make sure they're on the right trajectory home. Lunny starts to sketch out some possible scenarios. But Kranz cuts him off. "I don't have time to brainstorm. Have Dietrich's team come back with some fully baked options." "Okay, Gene. One last thing then. Are we doing the shift change?"
It's your call. Kranz frowns. Lunny is actually Kranz's overnight counterpart. Mission control at NASA is divided into teams that take different shifts. Kranz's white team started at 2 p.m. and at 10 p.m. Right now, Lunny's black team would normally take over.
Kranz glances around the room. The whole black team came early to help, but no one on white team has budged from their consoles. For a moment, Kranz feels that this is how it should be. The white team was on duty when the crisis started and knows the situation best. You don't change horses midstream.
Then Kranz hesitates. Unlike the white team, the black team is well rested. New men might bring fresh ideas too. Even more importantly, Kranz could use some time to focus on big picture questions, like finding a workable trajectory home and balancing the craft's power needs versus water, oxygen, and heat for the crew.
The more Kranz thinks about it, the more he realizes that there should be a special team dedicated to those big picture issues. An all-star team of the best men on each crew. Lunny pipes up. "Uh, Gene? What do you think?" "Yes. Get your men ready. Black team is taking over." Kranz considers who he might want on his special team. Retro fire officer Chuck Dietrich for sure. And John Aaron, their electrical whiz kid.
Kranz will have to spend the next few hours getting Lunny up to speed. But by night's end, he plans to have his all-star team in place. Jim Lovell hurriedly pages through a checklist, flipping switches and turning dials to power up the lunar module. Next to him, Fred Hayes works through his own checklist. Oops. Sorry, Freddo. Go ahead.
Twice now, the two men have smacked into each other reaching for dials. It's a wonder it hasn't happened more. The Lunar Module is designed to hold just two people and wasn't built for a long journey. It doesn't even have seats. Lovell is moving quickly because he's racing to start up the Lunar Module's guidance system. Without a working guidance system, they'll have no ability to orient themselves in space and fire their rockets in the right direction.
Lovell floats up a few feet to yell to Swigert through the short tunnel leading to the command module. Jack, you got those numbers for me? Yeah. One, seven, four... Hold on. Let me grab a pencil and paper. The command module has its own guidance system, and Lovell needs Swigert to relay some crucial numbers for that system. The craft's degree of roll, pitch, and yaw.
Then Lovell needs to plug those figures into the lunar module to give that system its initial orientation. Otherwise, the lunar module will be flying blind, and Lovell needs to transfer the data quickly, because once the command module loses power, those numbers will be lost forever.
Lovell scribbles down Swigert's numbers. There's just one more task. The guidance systems for the command module and lunar module are themselves at different orientations, so he has to do some calculations by hand to translate from one to the other. It's straightforward math, but as Lovell stares at the numbers, they suddenly look like they're written in a foreign language. Is 15 times 7 really 105?
What's half of 63? He realizes that the stress of the situation is getting to him. He worries that he's added wrong or forgot to carry a 1 somewhere. He speaks into his headset. Houston, I'm going to need you to check some numbers for me. Make sure my arithmetic's right.
Lovell reads the numbers off, and Houston answers. Copy that. Someone's checking. In the meantime, the flight surgeon noticed your heart rate climbing. Everything okay? It will be, once you check my figures. Unlike the command module, which has five portholes, the lunar module has just two tiny triangular windows.
Lovell gazes out one of them now while he waits for Houston's response. The moon looms large in the window, and the sight of it fills him with a crushing sense of disappointment. Okay, we got them here, Jim. And they look good. You're all set. Lovell punches in the figures and watches as the lunar module's guidance system whirs to life.
He mutters a quick prayer of thanks. They now have eyes and a compass to help them get home. There's still much more to do, but he takes a moment to savor this little victory. Jack Swigert blows on his hands to keep them warm, then turns another page in the shutdown manual. With each system he shuts down, the command module's electronics produce less heat, and the craft gets colder.
The temperature has already dropped into the 50s, and his thin flight suit is no match for the chill. He scans the next line of his checklist and shakes his head as he calls down to Houston.
Where did these engineers learn to write? Houston, the instructions are unclear on this part. I shut down the inverters first and then the reactant valve on the fuel cells? Negative. Reactant valve first, then the inverters. Copy. Moving on. After relaying the guidance numbers to Lovell, Swigert has been shutting down the rest of the command module.
fuel cells, antennas, power inverters, relay buses. He's moving as fast as he can because every minute of delay costs them power. Swigert knows that every single amp could mean the difference between surviving and dying a very cold death in outer space. Finally, he reaches the last item on the last list. "Houston, I'm finished."
Do I head down to the lunar module? Confirm, Jack. That's where you want to be. The words hit Swigert hard. The truth is, the lunar module is not where he wants to be. Most guys, like Jim Lovell, become astronauts to walk on the moon. But that's never been Swigert's motivation. He's a pilot through and through, and loved training to fly the command module.
He was thrilled at the thought of orbiting the moon solo while the other two astronauts were on the surface. With his focus on flying and his short training window as a last-minute addition to the crew, he knows next to nothing about the lunar module, which means that now he figures he'll just be sitting around until their reentry. The thought eats at him.
They're in grave danger. He should be able to help. He's a NASA-trained astronaut, highly skilled and capable. He's not used to being sidelined. Reluctantly, he takes one last look around the command module. He switches off the final system, the communications circuit with Houston. Then he pushes off the floor and floats into the tunnel leading to the lunar module, his team's lifeboat.
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Two hours ago, around 9:30 p.m., Smiley was brushing his teeth and getting ready for bed when he flipped on the TV and saw the news about Apollo 13.
He stared dumbfounded for several seconds, toothpaste foam dripping off his chin. Then he ran to the bathroom, spit, and grabbed his glasses. He spent the next 90 minutes in his study, sketching out some ideas around his area of expertise, the air filtration systems on board the spacecraft. Then he shoved the papers in his pocket and raced off to NASA.
On the Space Center's third floor, he turns left and jogs down the hallway to his lab. Inside, he's grateful to see his assistant Jim, who doesn't even pause to greet him. Ed, I'm worried about the carbon dioxide buildup on board. I've been running some numbers, and I don't think the lunar module can support all three men.
With every breath the astronauts take inside the spacecraft, they are slowly filling it with carbon dioxide. Left unchecked, the CO2 would build up to toxic levels and kill them within about two days. So NASA has a system that scrubs carbon dioxide from the air. It starts with a cartridge the size of a toaster inserted into a slot in the module's wall.
The ship's air filtration system sucks air through the cartridge, which scrubs out the carbon dioxide, then pumps purified air back into the spacecraft.
But the problem now is capacity. The Lunar Module's filtration system is designed to support just two men for a brief time on the Moon. With the astronauts now stationed in the Lunar Module, plus the addition of a third man, they'll use up the system's filter cartridges long before they get back to Earth.
But Smiley thinks he's come up with a solution. He pulls out the paper he drafted at home and shows it to Jim. Look at this. We can take the filters from the command module and use them in the lunar module.
Jim looks at Smiley like his boss is crazy. Are you testing me? Because you know that can't work, Ed. The cartridges in the two modules are different shapes. You can't just jam them in there. You're right. I still want to know who designed them that way. It's very inconvenient. But look what I drew up.
Smiley holds out the paper for Jim to see. The problem is that the lunar module's cartridges are round, but the command module's filters are square. Smiley's idea is to work around that issue by using two hoses on the lunar module that connect directly into the air circulation system.
Normally, the hoses are designed to plug into the astronauts' spacesuits as an emergency backup source of air. Instead, Smiley wants to tape the Command Module's square filter cartridges to one end of the hoses and scrub the air aboard the Lunar Module that way.
There's a little more to it, but that's the basic idea. After explaining all the details, Smiley starts writing down a list of equipment for Jim to grab from the other labs. He needs to test out this notion on a replica spacecraft here at Mission Control, using only materials that the astronauts have with them aboard Apollo 13. As Jim rushes out, Smiley studies his blueprint for the contraption he drew up. He takes a deep breath,
and hopes to God that it works because there is no plan B.
Marilyn Lovell groans at the sound of the doorbell. She glances at the clock. It's almost midnight, and still, people keep dropping by. It's been non-stop chaos at the house ever since word got out about Jim's mission. There must be five dozen people milling around. She knows they mean well, but she's starting to feel claustrophobic.
The press is camped out now on the street too, shouting questions at visitors as they arrive. Marilyn calls out to her 11-year-old daughter Susan. "Can you answer the door for me, honey? Sure thing, mom." Marilyn watches her run off. Upstairs, her other daughter Barbara is watching 4-year-old Jeffrey and mostly staying out of the way. But Susan has insisted on being by her mother's side,
Marilyn can tell she's scared beneath her brave facade. Susan is asking questions that show she understands just how critical things are. A minute later, Susan returns to the kitchen, leading a young couple from across the street. The wife steps forward. I brought you something. You can just pop it in the oven whenever. Oh, casserole. You shouldn't have.
Marilyn tries her best to sound appreciative, even though she already has several unbaked casseroles in the fridge from other well-wishers. She doesn't know where she'll fit this one. As Marilyn makes room in the fridge, sound bites from the evening news echo through her mind. The coverage of Apollo 13 has gone from zero to 60. All three networks are running constant updates.
One reporter on ABC was especially pessimistic. He said there's a 90% chance the crew wouldn't survive. Marilyn knew it was a made-up estimate, something NASA would never put out there. But still, the words stopped her heart. A 90% chance her husband might die. A 90% chance their children won't have a father anymore.
Marilyn subtly finds it hard to catch her breath. She veers toward the back bathroom, walking quickly, eyes straight ahead. Inside, she clicks the lock and turns the faucet on high to muffle any sound. She braces herself against the sink and stares at the floor, trying to slow down her breathing.
When she can't think of anything else to do, she kneels down on the cold tiles and bows her head. Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name. Thy kingdom come, thy will be done, on earth as it is in heaven. Marilyn never claimed to be the most devout person, but she's always believed that God helps people in their hour of greatest need. And for the Lovell family, that hour is upon them.
Retrofire officer Chuck Dietrich is reviewing his notes when a hush falls over the conference room. He looks up to see Gene Kranz raising his arms for silence. Kranz has gathered the white team here to talk through a few issues.
Dietrich nervously loosens his tie. Now that the top brass like Kranz have agreed with him about not attempting a direct abort, everything is on him and his team to come up with a better option. The astronauts' lives are in Dietrich's hands now. With the room quiet, Kranz gestures toward Dietrich. The floor is his. Hello, everyone. There are three options for the flight path around the moon.
Each plan has benefits and drawbacks. We have to pick one soon. Ideally, within an hour.
With the command module out of commission, the burden of getting home now rests entirely on the lunar module and its far weaker thrusters. Dietrich lays out some ideas for getting around this limitation. For a visual aid, Dietrich has wheeled in the chalkboard he used in the previous meeting. All three of my team's options involve slingshotting around the moon, but they differ in the details. The first option I call the slow burn.
He reminds everyone that on the spacecraft's current trajectory, the ship would swing around the moon and start heading in the direction of Earth, except it would end up missing the planet entirely, like an errant throw from a pitcher. That is, if left to just the force of gravity. The slow burn would correct that. The crew would fire the lunar module's rockets a few hours from now, which would put them on a trajectory to intercept Earth.
Then they'd sit back and coast home. The big advantage of this plan is that it uses almost no power. As Dietrich finishes his explanation, one of the engineers speaks up.
That's a terrible option. It corrects their course, but barely speeds up their return. We need to get them home fast before they run out of air or power. Well, like I said, each plan has pluses and minuses. There are other options. He flips the chalkboard to the other side, where he sketched out a second possibility. In this case, the astronauts would wait until the spacecraft rounds the moon, then blast the engines for all they're worth.
Rocketing home in just two and a half days. The engineers who objected before like this plan. One gives Dietrich a thumbs up.
Unfortunately, this sets off a round of protest among other engineers. Someone again yells out, "Wait, you said these burns would all involve firing the lunar module's thrusters, right?" "Correct." "That might work for a small burn, but they're not designed to handle a blast this big. Besides, you can't blow all of our power on one burn. What if we're off course? You're leaving no margin for error."
Well, that's why I developed this third plan. It's a hybrid. Dietrich erases a section of the board and draws out his last idea. The crew would make a small burn soon to get on the right course, then a second burn after rounding the moon to speed them up.
All the while, they'll hold a little fuel in reserve for possible course corrections before re-entry. Dietrich is hopeful about this plan. It combines the best of the slow and fast burns. But to his disappointment, everyone hates this plan. They say it's too complicated and would waste too much power firing up and cooling down the engines twice.
Dietrich tries to stress the advantage of the third plan. It's flexibility, but no one listens. The different camps fall into squabbling. Dietrich realizes he's lost the room. Thankfully, Gene Kranz regains control. I appreciate the spirited debate, but this discussion is over. I want you all to start working on Chuck's plan for a two-stage burn.
As everyone gathers their things, Dietrich hears more than a few grumbles. But he's gratified that Kranz agrees with him that flexibility is key. They're in uncharted territory, and the more options they give themselves, the better. As he leaves the room, Dietrich glances up at the clock. It's just past midnight on April 14th. The crisis is now entering a new day.
At best, with his plan, the men could be home in three and a half days from now. And at worst, well, Dietrich is trying hard not to think about the worst. This is the second episode of our five-part series, Apollo 13. And a quick note about our scenes. In most cases, we can't exactly know what was said, but everything is based on historical research.
If you'd like to learn more about this event, we highly recommend the books Apollo 13 by Jim Lovell and Jeffrey Kluger, 13 by Henry S.F. Cooper, and Failure is Not an Option by Gene Kranz. I'm your host, Mike Corey. Sam Keen wrote this episode, edited by Steve Fennessy, fact-checking by Will Tavlin.
Sound design by Joe Richardson. Audio engineer is Sergio Enriquez. Production coordinator is Desi Blaylock. Produced by Matt Almos, Emily Frost, and Alita Rozanski. Managing producer is Matt Gant. Senior managing producer is Ryan Lohr. Senior producer is Annie Herman. Executive producers are Jenny Lauer-Beckman, Stephanie Jens, and Marsha Louis for Wondery. Wondery.
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