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Astronaut Fred Hayes huddles inside the lunar module of the Apollo 13 spacecraft. He tucks his hands into his armpits to warm them. His teeth chatter in the cold, but when he touches his forehead, it feels hot. Somehow, he's both shivering and burning up.
It's April 16th, 1970, and it's been a miserable night for Hayes. Whatever illness has been brewing inside him since yesterday has now come on full force. He feels queasy and his joints ache. It also hurts when he pees. He figures he probably has a kidney infection from dehydration brought on by the strict water rationing on board their damaged spacecraft.
Freddo, you okay? You don't look so hot. I'm fine.
Lovell raises an eyebrow. Then Hayes hears Jack Swigert, the other astronaut packed into the cramped lunar module with them. Let me grab the first aid kit. There's aspirin in there. I said I'm fine. I just need rest. Hayes sits back and closes his eyes again. Unfortunately, he's gotten sick at the worst possible time.
Two days ago, an explosion on board crippled their spacecraft. The astronauts are on their way home, but still roughly 120,000 miles from Earth and 34 hours from Splashdown. And they still have to perform several long, involved procedures to prep their spacecraft for reentry. It's all hands on deck today, and Hayes can't afford to be sick.
A moment later, he hears a bang, and the lunar module shudders. His eyes pop open. Swigert and Lovell look as worried as he feels. Lovell offers a hypothesis. "I guess that was the helium tank Mission Control warned us about."
The explosion that crippled the ship also damaged the cooling system on the Lunar Module's helium tank. As the helium warmed, pressure inside the tank was increasing. The sound they just heard was a pressure relief device called a burst disc popping open and venting the helium into space. Lovell calls out to Haze. "Freddo, how's Earth looking? We still on target?" Haze peers out one of the module's tiny windows and groans.
A minute ago, Earth was dead ahead in the window. Now it's in an upper corner. The helium burst must have knocked them off their trajectory. That means they'll have to do another burn to correct their course. It will waste power and resources they can't afford to lose. Lovell reports the problem to Houston, who promised to get back to them with instructions in a few hours. Hayes closes his eyes again.
All the stress of the past three days will only get more intense over the next 34 hours. One way or another, they're speeding toward their fate, but there's no way of knowing whether that fate is survival or death.
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In April 1970, a mysterious explosion onboard NASA's Apollo 13 spacecraft knocked out several key systems. Instead of landing on the Moon, the three astronauts faced a daunting return trip to Earth with scant water and heat and precious little power.
Mission Control in Houston worked tirelessly with the astronauts, improvising technical fixes and employing a series of ingenious maneuvers to give them a fighting chance at survival. Now, as Apollo 13 approached Earth, NASA's astronauts and engineers faced their final challenge: reentry into Earth's atmosphere, where even a single mistake could mean tragedy. This is Episode 5: Splashdown.
Jim Lovell bites into his breakfast. A hot dog, and winces in pain. Like most of the remaining food, it's frozen solid. He bangs it on the Lunar Module's instrument panel. Next to him, Jack Swigert and Fred Hayes chuckle. They're gnawing on frozen spaghetti and frozen beef with gravy. It's a relief to share a moment of levity.
Lovell's especially glad to see Hayes laugh. He still looks ragged after a rough night of illness. A moment later, Lovell hears a voice from Mission Control. We hear you're doing 3,500 miles per hour in a 3,000 zone. Just trying to get home in time for dinner, officer. Breakfast, it isn't cutting it.
Say, in all seriousness, what's the status of that power-up checklist for reentry? Uh, it exists, Jim. Lovell frowns and darts a glance at Hayes and Swigert. It exists? With just 28 hours before splashdown, that's not what Lovell wants to hear. Especially because, if he knows NASA, the procedure will run hundreds of steps and dozens of pages.
But before Lovell can protest, Houston changes the subject. And what they tell him worries him even more than the delayed checklist.
After the initial explosion two and a half days ago, two of the command module's three fuel cells died. As a result, the ship began temporarily sucking power from the batteries needed for reentry until the crew shut down the command module and moved to the lunar module. Now those reentry batteries need topping up to get them back to full power. To do this, Houston tells the crew they'll need to reroute power from the lunar module.
Alarms start going off in Lovell's head. Whoa, whoa, Houston. Should we really be screwing around with the Lunar Module's power? It's the one part of the ship that still works. We need four batteries for reentry. I understand, but the power in this ship is designed to run from the Command Module to the Lunar Module, not vice versa. Is this even safe? Aren't we risking a short circuit? Houston assures Lovell that if they reconfigure a few circuits, the transfer of power will be safe.
Lovell grudgingly agrees to go along with the plan. Houston adds one more thing. If the crew had landed on the moon, they'd be bringing back 100 pounds of moon rocks. Houston explains that the calculations for reentry included those extra 100 pounds. Trying to reenter the atmosphere 100 pounds light will throw everything off. Lovell frowns.
Okay, but where are we supposed to get a hundred extra pounds? We can't just snag a passing asteroid. You'll need to move some equipment from the lunar module to the command module.
Houston reads off the list of items. Lovell laughs and shakes his head. This spacecraft is the most sophisticated piece of technology in the solar system, but getting it home safely will now require the astronauts to act like they're cleaning out the attic before a garage sale. There's no better option, though.
Lovell gives the list of assorted gear to Haze and Swigert. Then he asks for detailed instructions about transferring power from the lunar module to the command module's reentry batteries. It's shaping up to be an even longer day than he expected.
Jim Lovell closes a locker inside the command module, stowing away the last of the equipment. They spent the morning hauling hoses, film canisters, cardboard manuals, and other junk up here to make up for the lack of moonrock weight.
Then Lovell and his crew spent several long hours reconfiguring the ship's circuits and transferring power to the command module's reentry batteries. Houston also wanted to go over the details of the final course correction that's scheduled for roughly 12 hours from now. All in all, it's been a long, tedious day. At least Lovell feels warmer now from all the activity.
He takes a moment to look out the window. He wants to get a sense of their position relative to Earth. He balls his hand inside the sleeve of his white jumpsuit and wipes the window pane. So much condensation has built up on the windows that it looks like it rained inside. Even worse, he notices water all over the instrument panels. And Lovell suspects that there's water beneath the instrument panels as well, seeping into the delicate circuitry of the spacecraft.
It seems dangerous. What if something short-circuits when they power up the command module for reentry? Of course, they won't know that until they actually power up. And they still don't have that damn checklist from Houston. In fact, the more Lovell thinks about it, the angrier he gets. The checklist exists? He can't believe that's all Houston would tell him.
That checklist is their roadmap back to Earth. Without it, they're sunk. They'll die. There's no excuse for delay at this point. They have less than 18 hours until splashdown. Lovell heads back down to the lunar module to pull on his headset and get to the bottom of it all. "Houston, I hate to keep harping on this, but where's the reentry checklist?"
Lovell can't help but laugh when he recognizes the voice. Various astronauts take a turn as the Capcom communications man in Houston. And on this shift, it's apparently Ken Mattingly, the original Apollo 13 command module pilot who was scrubbed from the mission. Hey, Kenny.
It's good to hear your voice. Did you ever get the measles? Nope. Feel fine. Good. Well, I'd feel a lot better with that checklist. I hear you, Jim. But we're going to need two more hours here. They really want to make sure they've crossed all their T's. Stand by. Okay.
Lovell sighs and signs off. He checks his watch. Just past 6:00 PM Houston time. He kills some time, looking over the instrument panel again, making sure there's nothing more amiss. An hour passes. Then, two hours. Lovell feels a knot forming between his shoulder blades. What is taking so long? Finally, Houston signals they're ready to share the checklist.
Lovell and Jack Swigert grab pencils and paper. Lovell adjusts his headset and tells Mattingly in Houston to go ahead. "Geez guys, I'm sorry. I'm getting word we need to make more photocopies of the list."
But Lovell has had enough. He's endured three days of intense work on very little sleep, and he's run out of patience. He doesn't care who's listening on Earth.
Houston, I need to be blunt. It's now 15 hours to splashdown. We've got to review this checklist and get some rest. I don't care how many copies there are or whose feelings get hurt, our lives are on the line here. There's silence from Houston. For a moment, Lovell thinks the connection has been lost. Yeah, okay guys. We understand. We're going to start now. Hope you're ready. There's 39 pages of instructions.
Lovell sighs. It's going to be another long night with little sleep. But as soon as they have the checklist in hand, he'll feel a hell of a lot better about their odds. Marilyn Lovell peeks through her living room curtains and groans. She can see several more neighbors approaching her house. She knows they're here to support her, but the last thing she feels like doing right now is playing hostess.
Especially at this hour. It's only 7 a.m., but several friends and neighbors have already started gathering at her home outside of Houston. They all plan to watch news of the reentry and landing on television. Marilyn answers the door to find a grinning astronaut holding a case of champagne. He says it's to celebrate.
Marilyn tries to smile. The truth is, she fears that everyone is getting ahead of themselves. It's still five hours until Splashdown, and plenty could still go wrong. This supposed celebration could easily turn into preparations for a funeral.
Marilyn accepts the case of champagne and then beckons over her 11-year-old daughter, Susan. After their heart-to-heart talk near the lake three days ago, Susan has been an absolute rock. Marilyn hands her the case. Careful, it's heavy. I got it, Mom. Where do you want it? Try to find room in the fridge for a few bottles if you can.
Marilyn hustles off to answer the door again. Her chest tightens to see who's there. A nursing home attendant, dropping off Jim's mother, Blanche. Three days ago, Marilyn ordered the television removed from Blanche's room at the nursing home to spare her from the bad news. But then, Marilyn had second thoughts. Blanche had a stroke recently and gets easily confused, but she still knows that her son is on a moon mission.
Marilyn didn't think she should make Jim's mother watch alone today. She reaches out to hug her. "Come on in, Blanche. You look lovely." Blanche has curled her hair and put on makeup and pearls. Marilyn helps her in, then looks around, wondering what to do with her. She can't have Blanche in the living room with everyone else. All they'll be talking about is the crisis.
There's a second television in the back den, but Marilyn can't leave Blanche back there all by herself, and she's not sure who to entrust with keeping an eye on her. Marilyn tells Blanche to stay put while she gets the door again. The answer to her dilemma is standing right there. Neil! Buzz! I am so glad to see you.
It's Neil Armstrong and Buzz Aldrin, the first two astronauts to walk on the moon. Marilyn ushers them into a corner and explains why she needs their help with Blanche. To her surprise, both look uneasy. Marilyn crosses her arms and stares them down. "If you can handle landing on the moon, you can handle Jim's mother. Go introduce yourselves. Now,
She pushes them over to Blanche, who brightens upon taking the arms of two handsome astronauts. They sigh and lead her into the back den. Marilyn feels satisfied to have taken care of that problem, but her problems are hardly over. She's got a house full of people with more on the way, not to mention a husband who may never come home at all.
Jack Swigert sits at the instrument panel in the command module, peering at his handwritten notes and flipping a series of switches. He and Jim Lovell spent several hours last night scribbling down instructions for all the tasks to complete today. And now, five hours before splashdown, it's time for the first one.
they have to jettison the service module. It's one of the three main components of the ship, a giant cylinder that houses their life support systems. Parts of it are still functioning, but it suffered major damage during the explosion. Swigert will be glad to see it go, given all the trouble it's caused. As he flips on different circuits, he can feel some heat rising from the instrument panel. He holds his fingers over it, soaking in the warmth.
When he's finished, he floats up to the tunnel connecting the command module to the lunar module and calls to Lovell. Tell Houston we are go for jettisoning the service module. Houston says affirmative. Fire away! Swigert locates the button to separate the service module and he takes a deep breath. So much has gone wrong on this mission that he keeps bracing for some new disaster. But it's now or never. He punches the button.
There's another muffled bang, but this time, a good one. The bolts that hold the command module and service module together have just blown apart, and it sounded like it always did in practice sessions on Earth. But Swigert doesn't have time to relax. He has another immediate task to attend to.
Given the way the command module's windows face, the crew hasn't been able to see the damage to the service module. But NASA has requested pictures as it floats away, so they can study the damage and figure out what went wrong. Swigert grabs a camera, floats over to a window, and goes wide-eyed at what he sees. The service module drifts silently by like a giant metal whale.
As it rotates, the damaged portion appears, and it's a shocking sight. The hull is blackened and scarred, with hoses and pipes dangling out like guts. The location of Oxygen Tank 2 looks especially bad, like a raw wound. The tank itself is completely gone, blown right off. Swigert marvels that the ship could survive an explosion of such magnitude.
Swigert is so stunned that at first he forgets to take any pictures. Then he jerks the camera up and starts snapping like mad. He knew that the ship was badly damaged, but actually seeing the damage with his own eyes leaves him shaken. It also makes him fear what other unseen damage might be lurking, waiting to derail their plans to get back to Earth.
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On the one hand, it's a thrilling sight. They're just 23,000 miles from home, about two hours from Splashdown. But it's an ominous sight as well. With every mile they cruise through space, they're getting closer to the do-or-die moment of re-entry.
Lovell looks over at Fred Hayes, who's floating next to him. Hayes still looks a little haggard, but he's powering through whatever he's been sick with. He was able to check their alignment a little while ago when they did their final course correction to adjust for when the helium knocked them off track. That went off without a hitch. Now comes their next big test. Above them, in the command module, Jack Swigert calls out, "Jim!"
Are you ready down there? As ready as we'll ever be. Houston, be advised, we are commencing power-up of the command module. Go ahead, Jack. Here goes nothing. Lovell braces himself. Swigert is about to restore full power to the command module for the first time since the explosion. He has no idea how much damage the equipment has sustained, or whether something else might blow.
Lovell is also still nervous about that condensed water under the instrument panels. If that causes a short circuit, it could destroy the equipment. Lovell hears the equipment pop on. His whole body tenses, expecting a pop, a sizzle, a bang. But five quiet seconds pass, then ten, then twenty.
Lovell lets out a cheer and grabs Hayes' hand in triumph. They're back! But of course, they're not out of danger. Houston has been very clear that they only have 43 amps of electricity to work with, not a fraction more. Lovell just hopes they're at or below that crucial threshold.
Electrical whiz kid John Aaron huddles over Seymour Liebergott's shoulder in Mission Control. They're staring at the data coming in from the Apollo 13 command module. Jack Swigert just threw the last switches up in the spacecraft, and Jim Lovell reported that nothing catastrophic happened, which is great news, but Aaron has more to worry about. As expected, the data streaming down from the command module comes in ratty,
Damn it! 45. Where are those two amps coming from? Everyone, look at your readings!
This is terrible news. Every amp they waste will take away power they need after splashdown. Even 43.1 amps would cut into their margins. It will affect things like the balloons to keep the module afloat in the ocean and the homing beacon to draw the rescue ships. Two full amps is a disaster.
Liebergot and his junior engineers scan their consoles, but can't pinpoint anything wrong, so Eren orders them to start circulating to other consoles around the room. Check with everyone. Scour every dial for those two amps. Several tense minutes pass. Eren watches Liebergot and his team roam from desk to desk, pointing and gesturing, but every single engineer shakes his head.
Every so often, Eren's eyes dart back down to see if the two rogue amps have disappeared on their own. They haven't. Meanwhile, with every passing second, precious power is just bleeding away.
Suddenly, Aaron hears a voice in his ear. "This is the flight team. We're getting some readings from the backup gyroscopes." Gyroscopes help the ship maintain its orientation in space. The main gyros are vital to reentry, but the backups should definitely be off. Aaron's head whips around to the corner where the gyroscope engineer sits. "Lawrence, are the backup gyros on?"
The engineer looks confused, then glances down and turns bright crimson. He nods yes. Eren yells into his headset. "Tell Apollo 13 to kill the backup gyroscopes immediately. kill the backup gyros." Eren stares at the display as the order is relayed. The wait is agonizing, but ten seconds later, the 45 drops to 43.
Aaron slumps down onto his chair in relief. They're back on track now. He just hopes that the precious power they wasted won't cost them in the end. 16,000 miles and 90 minutes from Earth, Jim Lovell looks at his fellow astronaut Fred Hayes and grimaces. Hayes is practically green now, his knees clutched to his chest and his body quaking with cold.
Lovell pats his shoulder and offers some reassurance. "Hey Freddo, just hold on, okay? In 90 minutes we'll splash down, I'll crack open the hatch, it'll be tropical weather outside. 80 degrees. I can smell the coconuts already. Doesn't that all sound nice?" Haze nods and smiles weakly. Then they hear Jack swigert above them in the command module. "Come on up guys, I'm ready to jettison to lunar module."
Lovell gestures for Haze to go first. He crawls up the wall on his hands and knees. Before Lovell follows, he takes a moment to look around the lunar module. It's cluttered with three days' worth of empty food pouches, discarded checklists, even bags of urine. All of it floats eerily around the module, but Lovell still gets choked up.
He was supposed to pilot this craft to the surface of the moon to fulfill his lifelong dream of walking on another celestial body. Then, when the command module failed, this rinky-dink capsule saved their lives.
But the Lunar Module has no heat shield, so after they jettison it, it will burn up in Earth's atmosphere. The thought breaks Lovell's heart. This module deserves better than to burn into cinders. It should be in a museum, but there's nothing he can do.
He looks around one last time. Then he grabs a souvenir: the telescope he used to line up the spaceship with the Earth's terminator, the line between night and day. Then, reluctantly, he floats up to the command module. With Swigert's help, they close the hatch and lock it by throwing a lever. Then Lovell tells Swigert it's time. Swigert presses a button. There's another muffled bang.
Lovell looks out the window to watch the lunar module float away, hits somersaults as it flies, tumbling head over heels. He sees the gold-plated legs that would have touched the silvery moon, and the ladder he would have used to climb down onto the surface. It gets smaller every second. He watches it tumble until he can't see it anymore.
He whispers a silent prayer of thanks, then forces himself to turn away. He looks back toward the Earth. It looms large in the window of the command module, getting bigger with every passing minute. But however welcoming it looks, he knows that getting down to the surface won't be easy. After four of the most harrowing days anyone has ever spent in space, it's time to face reentry.
Jim Lovell grips the metal frame of the thin cloth-covered seat beneath him, bracing his body against the shaking spacecraft. It's just before noon, Houston time on Friday, April 17th. The command module is re-entering Earth's atmosphere at 25,000 miles per hour. And with gravity returning quickly, he can feel the metal bars of his seat digging into his back. Lovell calls down to Houston to check in. How's our re-entry angle?
6.5 degrees. The sweet spot. Lovell nods. At this point, gravity and momentum will take over. There's nothing more he can do, which is both a relief and terrifying. Actually, he can do one thing. As the veteran leader, he can reassure his crew, who have never experienced this before. Lovell turns to Swigert and Hayes next to him. Hold on, fellas. Re-entries can get rocky.
But we'll get through this. They're entering Earth's atmosphere over Africa and the Middle East. But because the command module's heat shield has to face forward and down, their windows are currently pointed up towards space. As a result, the astronauts can't see anything right now except stars. And pretty soon, they can't even see stars. As the command module descends into denser atmosphere, friction heats up the spacecraft.
Outside the window, a haze of pink appears as the air around them burns. We're right on target. Repeat that, Houston. Right.
Soon, Lovell sees the air outside the capsule turn orange. He knows that the temperatures outside will reach 5,000 degrees, and the trail of fire will eventually extend for hundreds of miles. Like a giant streaking meteor, it must be an amazing sight from the ground.
But as the air thickens and the spacecraft shudders harder, all Lovell can see from inside the capsule is the soft orange glow giving way to a bright red haze of intense flames. At the back of Mission Control, Chief Flight Director Gene Kranz tears open a new pack of cigarettes to get him through reentry. Then he presses his headset to his ear, straining to hear the words of the Apollo 13 astronauts through the static.
With the fireball enveloping the command module, all communications with the astronauts will soon be lost. This happens every mission. But just when Kranz thinks communications have ceased, he hears the voice of Jack Swigert and then Jim Lovell sounding surprisingly clear. I want to thank all you guys down there for the very fine job you did. That's a fur abuse thing.
Anything else Lovell says is swallowed up in static. Kranz takes a drag of his cigarette and resumes pacing. Then he orders one of the engineers in Mission Control to put 4 minutes and 30 seconds on the huge digital clock in the front of the room. It immediately starts counting down. Mission Control now faces at least 4 minutes of blackout silence until the atmosphere slows down the command module enough to allow communications to resume.
Kranz has been through this countdown on previous missions, and it's always agony. But with this unlucky mission, it's doubly agonizing. And there's nothing he or anyone else can do except wait and wonder whether those will be the last words they ever hear from Apollo 13.
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Gene Kranz lights another cigarette and checks the clock at the front of Mission Control yet again. It's getting hard to read it through the blue haze of cigarette smoke near the ceiling, but he's glad to see there's just 10 seconds remaining in the 4 minute, 30 second blackout period. The moment the clock hits zero, he snaps at the Capcom to get in touch with the astronauts. The Capcom nods and leans into his microphone.
Apollo, do you read us? Houston standing by. Over. The response is static. Kranz lets 15 seconds pass, then speaks up. Try again. Apollo, do you read us? This is Houston standing by. Over. More static. Kranz takes a deep breath as he paces. In all of the dozen-plus spaceflights he's been through, mission control has never felt so tense. And so lonely.
Every engineer seems trapped in his own thoughts, second-guessing every decision he's made over the past several days. Kranz keeps telling himself that the astronauts are out there, alive, and that mission control simply can't reach them yet. But he doesn't quite know if he believes it.
So many things have gone wrong on this mission. If there was unknown damage to the heat shield, they could have burned up, or their oxygen could have run out, or the command module could have suffered some kind of catastrophic structural failure and been shaken to pieces. But Kranz isn't ready to give up hope just yet. Try again. Apollo, do you read us? Houston, standing by. Over.
Kranz checks his watch. It's now been more than five minutes since they lost radio contact. Blackout periods are calculated based on the ship's reentry angle, and they're usually predictable down to the second. For a mission as cursed as Apollo 13, this prolonged silence seems like a terrible, terrible omen.
Kranz is suddenly seething, ready to smash something. They've brought these three brave men a quarter of a million miles over the past four days. They're this close to rescuing them. To have it all go wrong at the last second, it would be unbearable. The seconds keep ticking by. The blackout has now lasted six minutes. Kranz looks at the Capcom and motions for him to try one more time.
Apollo, do you read us? Houston standing by. Over. Houston, we read you. The room erupts. For a moment, every eye then darts to the giant television screen on the wall. NASA has deployed an aircraft carrier to the region where the command module should splash down. The aircraft carrier has a television crew on board, providing a live feed.
Kranz drops his cigarette and grips the edge of his desk, scanning the screen for any glimpse of the capsule. Look, there it is!
Kranz sees it. A black speck in the upper left corner. As it descends, getting closer, Kranz can make out the blunted cone of the capsule. It seems to be doing fine. It jerks suddenly as a set of parachutes deploy. Then slowly, almost gently, the capsule splashes down.
Mission Control is pandemonium. Everyone is leaping, hugging, cheering. Everyone except Gene Kranz. He shares his men's joy and wants to join them, but for the moment, he can't. The ex-Marine pilot just stands at his console, head down, weeping. At her home in Houston, Marilyn Lovell holds her breath and clutches her four-year-old son Jeffrey in her lap.
She's staring at the television screen for the last few seconds of Apollo 13's descent. The tension is excruciating. But when the capsule splashes down, she jumps up as her whole home erupts in cheers. She swings Jeffrey in a circle, hugging him so tightly he yelps. Within seconds, champagne corks are popping. Marilyn watches her living room carpet getting soaked, but she doesn't care. She hugs Jeffrey tight again.
A minute later, Marilyn sees Blanche Lovell walk into the room on the arms of Neil Armstrong and Buzz Aldrin. Marilyn puts Jeffrey down and rushes over to her. Blanche smiles, but looks perplexed. I don't see what all the fuss is about. He always hits his landings just right. Marilyn steps closer to embrace her mother-in-law. You're right, Blanche. You're so right.
Marilyn then spots her 11-year-old daughter, Susan. She leaves Blanche and dodges another spray of champagne as she makes her way over. I hate to say it, Susan, but I told you so. Your father's too stubborn not to make it back. Susan laughs through her tears, and Marilyn hugs her tight.
Jim Lovell peers down from the helicopter that picked up him and his crewmates. It's 30 minutes after splashdown. Beneath him, the ocean sparkles warm and blue. It's every bit as lovely as he promised Fred Hayes it would be.
In the near distance, he can see an aircraft carrier. Other helicopters are glinting on the deck in the sunshine. Lovell and his two fellow astronauts have stripped off their white flight suits, which they've been wearing for over six days, and have traded them for warm blue jumpsuits. But Lovell is still shivering. He guesses he's lost a dozen pounds since the mission started.
Jack Swigert looks just as bad, haggard and tired. Fred Hayes looks even worse, groaning with every lurch of the helicopter. He can barely sit up. A minute later, the helicopter lands on the deck of the aircraft carrier. When the doors open, an officer reaches out a hand to assist Lovell, but he waves him off.
Walking in Earth's gravity is always hard after weightlessness, but he's determined to stand on his own feet. He takes a few wobbly steps. He jumps at the sound of a brass band playing, but the music is quickly drowned out by cheering. Hundreds of sailors are lined up on the vast deck of the ship. Still more lean over the railings at the deck above.
After several days of intense isolation, the noise is overwhelming, but he and Haze and Swigert wave gamely at the crew. Then they walk, slowly and painfully, across the deck towards a door to take them below.
Getting back to Earth, to gravity, is always draining after the lightness of space. And it's doubly hard this time, being exhausted and dehydrated. But as he shuffles toward the door, to food and warmth and a big soft bed, Jim Lovell has never been more grateful to be home.
After the rescue of the Apollo 13 astronauts, a commission of engineers, astronauts, and administrators looked into the cause of the disaster. They eventually traced the explosion of Oxygen Tank 2 to a series of mistakes that started years before Apollo 13 ever launched.
In 1965, NASA ordered the tank from a contractor. At the time, NASA planned to house the tank in a part of the service module that ran on 28 volts of current. NASA later changed its specs, bumping the current up to 65 volts. The contractor mostly adapted the tank for the higher number, but failed to update a few key components.
As a result, the wiring in the tank ran far too hot in places. So hot that it cooked off all the Teflon insulation. That left the bare, sparking electrical wire inside a tank full of explosive oxygen gas. Why the tank blew at the moment it did is anyone's guess, but with the wire stripped of insulation, it was a ticking time bomb that ultimately doomed the Apollo 13 mission.
Jim Lovell never went to space again. He retired from active flight duty shortly after Apollo 13, then left NASA three years later in 1973. He worked in telecommunications and other industries before retiring to enjoy time with his many grandchildren. He's 95 years old today and lives with his wife Marilyn.
Many of the engineers who helped save the Apollo 13 spacecraft are alive today as well. John Aaron, Seymour Liebergot, Chuck Dietrich, and even Gene Kranz. After Apollo 13, they all kept working for years at NASA on other missions, usually under much less harrowing circumstances.
Astronaut Fred Hayes never returned to space either. In 1973, while still an astronaut, he was flying an antique plane for a Hollywood movie when a power failure on board led to a crash landing. He suffered burns over half his body, but recovered enough to help NASA test the now-retired space shuttle in the late 1970s. He's 89 years old today.
Jack Swigert also never returned to space. He retired from NASA in 1977. In 1982, he won a seat in the US House of Representatives. However, an aggressive form of bone cancer killed him before he could take office. Many people call Apollo 13 NASA's finest hour. But despite the heroics, the mission had a largely negative impact on US spaceflight.
Before Apollo 13, NASA could boast a string of triumphs and widespread public support. Afterward, the public quickly lost its appetite for risky, expensive space ventures. The next four moon landing missions continued as planned since they were already paid for. But after that, future Apollo missions were cancelled. It's been more than half a century since the last human walked on the moon.
Recently, however, NASA announced plans to return to the Moon. NASA's Artemis program aims to land astronauts on the Moon by 2025. Eventually, the agency hopes to establish a permanent base on the Moon, and from there, launch the first manned missions to Mars. But only time will tell whether NASA can rescale the heights it reached before and during Apollo 13.
This is the fifth episode of our five-part series, Apollo 13. 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
I'm your host, Mike Corey. Sam Keen wrote this episode. Our editor is Steve Fennessy. Fact-checking by Will Tavlin. Sound design by Rob Shieliga. Audio engineer is Sergio Enriquez. Coordinating producers are Christian Banas and Desi Blaylock. Produced by Emily Frost and Alita Rosansky. Managing producer is Matt Gant. Senior managing producer is Ryan Lohr. Senior producer is Andy Herman.
Executive producers are Jenny Lauer Beckman, Stephanie Jens, and Marshall Louis for Wondery. Welcome to the Offensive Line. You guys, on this podcast, we're going to make some picks, talk some s**t, and hopefully make you some money in the process. I'm your host, Annie Agarne.
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