Apollo 13 | 43 Amps | 4
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Astronaut Jim Lovell takes one last look at the moon out of the window of Apollo 13. Its rugged silvery white surface still fills the entire window, but it's starting to recede as they fly further away. It's April 14th, 1970, the day he should have spent walking on the lunar surface. Instead, he's saying a last goodbye to that lifelong dream. He was so close.

But he can't dwell on it. Right now, his focus is on getting their damaged spacecraft back to Earth. Lovell turns back to his two crewmates and back to the latest challenge they face. How much time until the burn, Jack? Jack Swigert has to contort his body in the crowded lunar module to raise his arm and check his watch. Fifty-three seconds, Jim. Copy. Start the countdown when we hit ten.

Lovell, Swigert and Fred Hayes are traveling more than 2,000 miles per hour, but they're still almost a quarter million miles from Earth. It's been nearly 24 hours since an explosion crippled Apollo 13, forcing them to abandon their plans to land on the moon. Now they're trying to figure out a way home, and they're exhausted. They've barely slept in 36 hours.

In less than a minute, they'll fire the ship's thrusters to put them back on a trajectory toward Earth. Or at least that's the plan. If they screw up this burn, they might not have enough power to correct their course.

The burn will take place in three stages, and given the immense speed and vast distances involved, if any of those stages are off just by a fraction, they'll sail right past Earth. At that point, they'd be as good as dead. They'd eventually freeze or suffocate in the cold depths of space. It's a scary thought, and Lovell pushes it from his mind. He needs to focus.

He turns to Swigert again. "What's the time, Jack?" "17 seconds." Lovell hits the intercom button to talk to Mission Control. "Houston, are we a go for this burn?" "Affirmative." Lovell turns and nods at Swigert, who begins the countdown. "Okay, in 10..."

9. Lovell wraps his right hand around the T-shaped throttle in front of him. As he listens to Swigert's countdown, his thoughts turn to his wife Marilyn and their children back home in Houston. 3, 2, 1, go!

Lovell pushes the throttle forward. He feels a rumble beneath his feet and a bit of pressure on his back as the craft accelerates. He prays like hell they get on the right course. If so, they'll splash down in the Pacific Ocean in roughly two and a half days. If not, they'll be the first humans to die in outer space. In our fast-paced, screen-filled world, it can be all too easy to lose that sense of imagination and wonder.

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Progressive Casualty Insurance Company & Affiliates. Price and coverage match limited by state law. From Wondery, I'm Mike Corey, and this is Against the Odds. In April 1970, an explosion crippled the Apollo 13 spacecraft, forcing the three astronauts aboard to take refuge in the tiny, crowded lunar landing module.

Stranded there, they had to strictly ration their water and power, which left them thirsty and so cold they could barely sleep. To bring the astronauts home, an elite group of engineers at NASA, nicknamed the Tiger Team, had a series of excruciating decisions to make.

But they were also working on no sleep and under immense pressure. Tempers soon grew short as they were again and again forced to choose the least worst option. And pray they chose right. This is episode 4, 43 amps. Jim Lovell presses the T-shaped throttle forward. He's starting the first of three final burns to get Apollo 13 back on track.

This gentle first burn is meant to shake loose any air bubbles in the fuel line. It lasts just five seconds before Lovell checks with Mission Control. That felt good, Houston. Are we go for the next burn? Affirmative. Lovell pushes the throttle forward farther and holds it for 21 seconds. He's testing to make sure the thrusters work at almost full power. That felt good too. Time for the big one? Affirmative.

Lovell turns to Jack Swigert and Fred Hayes. "Okay, hold on to your hats." He jams the throttle all the way forward.

Lovell can feel the craft shaking, a rumbling that courses through his whole body. He can tell the Lunar Module's thrusters are struggling to accelerate, with the extra 63,000 pounds of the Command Module and Service Module still attached. He hopes the thrusters can handle this blast without choking and dying. After that, if they're on target and nothing else goes wrong, momentum and gravity should get them home.

As the seconds tick past, Lovell and his crewmates exchange only a few terse words. Lovell keeps a close eye on the clock on the gray instrument panel in front of him. Then, at exactly four and a half minutes, he snaps the throttle back. Like usual, after a burn, he feels a bit nauseous. But this time, he also feels a creeping sense of dread that the ship has gone off course.

He radios to Houston. "Houston, what's our status? Are we on target?" "Still working. Stand by." Lovell glances over at Swigert and Hayes. They look pale, tired, and scared. He's sure he does too. As the seconds tick by, he stares out the tiny window, trying to avoid looking at his own reflection. Finally, the radio crackles.

Lovell allows himself a fist pump and Swigert and Hayes hug. It's a huge relief.

Lovell leans back against the wall and closes his eyes. All the adrenaline that's been keeping him going for the past few hours drains out of his body. Suddenly, he feels exhausted. Whatever orders come next from Houston, he hopes they include some much-needed sleep. Chief Flight Director Gene Kranz lights a celebratory cigarette as the men in Mission Control applaud the successful burn.

Even Kranz permits himself a small smile. He's proud of what they've accomplished so far. But there's still a lot of work to be done. Kranz knows he's going to have a big fight on his hands about next steps. Right on cue, Chief Astronaut Deke Slayton pops up from his console and waves at Kranz. Slayton is an astronaut from NASA's earlier days, and it's his job to advocate for crew safety. Hey, Gene, I need a word.

Slayton begins making his way towards Kranz, and he's not alone. Kranz sees two other specialists converging on him as well. Slayton wins the race. Gene, we've got to schedule some sleep time. Sure. Eventually. What do you mean, eventually? My men up there are completely exhausted. They're gonna start making mistakes. They need sleep.

Before Kranz can answer, another person arrives at his console. It's Chris Kraft. He was the chief flight director for most of NASA's missions in the 1960s and is now a senior advisor. Kraft overhears Slayton and protests. We've got to power down the ship first and we'll do it faster if they're all awake and at their stations. Otherwise, we'll burn through several hours of electricity we can't afford to lose. Sleep will have to wait.

Kraft and Slayton fall to arguing. Before Kranz can intervene, a third person arrives, Engineer Max Vajay. He interrupts with his own opinion. Hey, powering down can wait too. We've got to execute a thermal roll first, otherwise the spaceship's gonna be cooked.

Faget explains that one side of the spacecraft has been baking in the sun for hours, reaching temperatures of several hundred degrees. Faget says that if they don't rotate the craft soon, all the electronics on the sun-facing side will fry.

You don't understand. They need sleep. Did you hear how tired they sounded? They've been up for so many hours now. The thermal roll has to take priority. There's no other option here. You have to listen to me. An argument erupts at Kranz's desk. Kranz listens to them squabble for a minute, then cuts in. Listen, gentlemen. Here's our plan. First, we execute the thermal roll. Next, we power down. Third and last, the crew sleeps.

Slayton throws his hands in the air. "Jean, goddammit, you're putting them through the wringer. They can't just grab a cup of coffee up there." "Deke, enough. A crew can fight through fatigue, but they can't fight through damaged equipment with zero power. I repeat, we execute the thermal roll, then power down, then sleep." Fajay thanks Kranz, but Slayton stomps away.

Kraft looks annoyed too, but Kranz knows there's no way to please everyone. No matter what Slayton says, Kranz is certain he's giving the crew the best shot at making it home alive. Engineer Ed Smiley crosses his fingers and nods to his assistant Jim. They're standing inside a vacuum chamber that replicates the conditions aboard Apollo 13. As Smiley nods, Jim flips the switch for the vacuum pump, and it rumbles to life.

They're trying to figure out a way for the astronauts to scrub the carbon dioxide out of the air they're breathing. It's a critical task because the Lunar Module's air scrubbers weren't designed to support all three astronauts for several days. If they can't purify the air, the astronauts could asphyxiate. Smiley and Jim watch carefully, eager to see if the contraption they've built actually works this time.

They've attempted a half-dozen variations of Smiley's design, which jury-rigs together the square filter cartridges of the command module with the round receptacles of the lunar module's air filtration system.

At one end of the design is the command module cartridge, which is about the size of a toaster. The vacuum pump sucks air through the square CO2 filter inside that cartridge, and then through a vacuum hose that's connected to the lunar module's round ventilation pipes. To capture all the air from the toaster-sized cartridge and direct it into the narrow hose, Smiley and Jim have duct taped a plastic bag to one side of the cartridge, forming a tight seal.

The nozzle of the hose has been slipped into a hole sliced into the bag to draw through the purified air. In theory, it should work, but it doesn't. Smiley watches once again as the vacuum hose sucks all the air out of the plastic bag and the bag collapses flat. He swears and kicks the table. Every time the bag collapses, it stops the flow of air through the cartridge, which defeats the whole purpose.

Smiley makes a kill sign to Jim, who shuts off the vacuum pump. "We need some way to prop the bag up to keep it ballooned and open. Maybe an arch inside of it? Yeah, I was thinking that too, but what can we make an arch out of?" "A metal hoop would be perfect, but they can't just magically transport a metal hoop up to the spacecraft. They can only use what's available to the crew." Jim starts thinking aloud.

Maybe they could use some paper? I read a Popular Mechanics article once that said if you fold paper a certain way, it's really strong. Smiley considers this, then shakes his head no. Maybe for a pillar, but they need an arch. Hold on, though. They have manuals up there, right? Aren't some of those made out of cardboard? Yeah, and I think it's pretty stiff cardboard. That might hold. Yeah, go round up a manual. Run!

As Jim races off, Smiley grabs the cartridge and starts ripping off the tape to dismantle it. He's got a good feeling about the cardboard, and it better work, because if it doesn't, those astronauts are going to run out of breathable air. Jim Lovell floats inside his mesh sleeping bag, trying to fall asleep.

It took several hours to execute the thermal roll and power down the lunar module. Then he let Fred Hayes take the first sleep shift here in the command module, which at least is big enough for the men to stretch out. Jack Swigert and Lovell are taking the next shift. Given their exhaustion, Lovell assumed they'd both fall asleep immediately. And Swigert did eventually conk out, but it's just too cold for Lovell.

He keeps shivering, jolting himself back awake. It doesn't help that Fred Hayes is chatting loudly with Houston from the Lunar Module, just a few feet away. Lovell plugs his ears, but it's futile. Frustrated, he unzips the sleeping bag and floats up to see what the fuss is. "Freddo, what do we got?" "It's the carbon dioxide gauge. It's at 13." "13?"

Lovell floats over and peers at the gauge. It looks like a mercury thermometer, with a column of liquid metal and a tube with gradations on it. Ideally, the CO2 reading would be 1 or 2. 15 is deadly, and sure enough, Lovell confirms what Hayes said. Lucky 13 again.

He pulls on his headset and hits the microphone button. "What's the plan, Houston?" "Ed Smiley jury-rigged an air filter. Prepare to take some notes." Lovell jots down a list of items. It's the strangest mix of things he's ever heard. Duct tape, a cardboard page from a reference manual, an extra sock,

As he finishes, Swigert floats down, having woken too. Lovell divides the list of supplies among the three men, then floats up to grab an item from inside the command module. He opens the locker there and pulls out a plastic bag containing the most advanced piece of clothing in human history. The thermal underwear he and Haze would have worn on the moon. It's water-cooled and fully electronic. A brilliant piece of engineering.

Lovell's been dreaming for months about opening the bag and pulling on this garment. One of the last things he would have done before walking on the moon. He carefully tears the bag now and runs his finger along the silky fabric. He can almost see himself planting a boot on the powdery lunar soil. Then he sighs and tosses the fancy underwear back in the locker.

It's not the underwear he needs now, but the plastic bag it came in. For the filter that might just save their lives.

Back in the lunar module, Lovell and his crewmates tear off strips of duct tape while assembling two air scrubbers. But it's hard to tell if they're building them right. The instructions from Houston are hard to decipher. So put the tape on the side of the cartridge. Well, which side? Houston, there's six. Do you see a serial number? That side. Okay, what next?

It takes an hour to finish both scrubbers. Frankly, they look rickety. But the carbon dioxide levels are still rising. The gauge is near 14 now. The astronauts have no choice but to try one out. "Freddo, turn on the vacuum hose." Hayes flips a switch.

As the host begins to suck air through the scrubbing filter, the plastic bag goes taut, straining against the stiff cardboard arches inside. Lovell is sure the bag's going to tear, but it holds up. He and the other men sit back to wait as the host pulls air through the lunar module's ventilation system, which pumps it throughout the spacecraft.

Nothing happens to the CO2 gauge at first. Then it looks like it's dropping a bit, but it's hard to tell. Eventually, though, the mercury starts slipping noticeably. First it dips below 13, then it sinks to 12 and keeps dropping. Lovell grins and punches the mic button. Houston, we have dodged a problem. Tell Ed Smiley I owe him a beer for this piece of crap.

Lovell leans back in disbelief. They've done two perfect burns and now this unlikely scrubber. It works. He hopes like hell their luck holds, because in a few hours, they're going to have to start preparing for the most dangerous aspect of the whole mission. Reentry into Earth's atmosphere.

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Ah, it dropped again. Christ. One of his engineers looks up. The entry angle? Yeah, it's 6.3 now.

That angle is the most critical variable in the whole reentry process. It has to stay within a narrow window between 5.3 degrees and 7.7 degrees. If the spacecraft tries to enter Earth's atmosphere at a steeper angle, it will slow down too quickly, and the harsh g-forces will injure or even kill everyone on board.

But, if anything, a shallow entry angle is worse. If the craft enters at less than 5.3 degrees, it will skip off the Earth's atmosphere like a stone on a pond and fly back into space, never to return. The ideal entry angle is 6.5 degrees, and after the burn 18 hours ago, the spacecraft was right on target. Dietrich was thrilled.

But an hour ago, the angle started dipping, and Dietrich's crew has been racking their brains to figure out why. One of his engineers throws out an idea. "I mean, it could be an instrument problem. Maybe the angle is actually okay." "That's a pretty flimsy hope. I'd bet we're still venting something, and it's nudging us off course." "Okay, but venting where? We've already checked everything."

Dietrich doesn't know, and he's pretty sure that if anyone else in Mission Control knew, they would have heard about it by now. He glances at his console again. The angle's now 6.2 degrees. A gnawing feeling in his stomach tells him that things are only going to get worse before reentry. Which means they might need to do something he's been hoping to avoid: fire the Lunar Module's thrusters for yet another burn.

It's going to waste energy they don't have and put more strain on the ship and the crew, but the entry angle is just too critical to gamble the astronauts' lives on. Fred Hayes pushes play on the crew's portable cassette player and lets it float in the air near his ear.

With Lovell and Swigert sleeping upstairs in the command module, he has the lunar module to himself for once. And he's enjoying every second. He finally has some elbow room and can relax to some music.

He also enjoys pretending he's in charge, running his own mission, which in a few years, he might just do. NASA has big plans to expand human spaceflight soon, and someday, even build a colony on the moon. He knows this won't be his last space mission, assuming they survive it.

But as satisfying as it feels to be in charge right now, he's also starting to feel sick, with a slight fever. He's hoping some more sleep later will make him feel better. "Jim? Do you read?" It's Houston looking for Lovell. Hayes turns off the cassette player and switches on his mic. "He's sleeping upstairs. This is Hayes. I'm head honcho at the moment. How can I help?" Houston relays two messages. Neither of them are good.

First, their entry angle is still sinking, and with 41 hours to go before reentry, it's looking likely that they'll have to do another burn, probably about eight hours from now. Hayes grimaces. He's not looking forward to that. It'll mean more work and more stress.

The second issue concerns the service module, the part of Apollo 13 that contains the life support equipment, among other things. That module contains a tank of chilled helium gas. The helium is used to push engine fuel into the combustion chamber that powers the thrusters.

Unfortunately, the equipment to cool the helium got damaged in the explosion. No one paid much attention to this, given all the other problems on board, but the pressure inside the helium tank is now starting to rise fast. The tank has a built-in pressure relief device called a burst disc that will vent the helium and prevent an explosion. But once the disc blows, in about nine hours, their helium supply will be gone for good.

Hayes thinks through everything Houston is telling him, and frowns. Say, Houston, you said the burst disc will probably blow in nine hours? That's affirmative. And we're doing another burn in eight hours? But if we need that helium to fire up the thrusters, well, that's cutting it pretty close, don't you think? What happens if we lose our helium before then? I wouldn't worry about that too much, Fred. You should have enough blowdown fuel in your lines.

After each burn of their thrusters, some fuel is always left over in the lines that run between the fuel tanks and the combustion chamber. That's the so-called blow-down fuel. But Hayes knows there's no way to measure how much of that fuel, if any, is still in the lines. To him, as backup plans go, it sounds sketchy at best. But then again, everything about this mission has been sketchy.

Hayes thanks Houston for the updates and signs off. He considers waking Lovell and Swigert, but thinks better of it. They need rest, and there's nothing they can do about the helium tank or the additional burn anyway. Still, Hayes will be glad when they do wake up. He's done playing captain and ready for Lovell to be back in charge.

Jim Lovell stretches and yawns as he wakes up inside the command module. Despite the cold, he managed to sleep four and a half hours, by far his longest stretch since the explosion 40 hours ago. He feels somewhat refreshed. Swigert is still snoring, so Lovell floats up to the relative warmth of the lunar module.

But Fred Hayes greets him with two pieces of bad news. First, they'll have to do another burn to correct their reentry angle, as if they needed more stress. Hayes also mentions the soon-to-burst helium tank. Lovell frowns and gets on his headset to Houston. I gotta say I'm concerned about this helium. Are you sure we can't do the additional burn sooner, before there's any risk of losing it?

Despite this reassurance, Lovell feels his chest tighten, and his heart starts to race. They've had good luck so far, but this just feels like too many rolls of the dice.

Lovell tries to calm himself, but it's hard. All the tension from before his nap has returned with a vengeance.

Even worse, with those stupid biosensors attached to his chest, Houston will know his heart rate is soaring. Ten Buck says they call any minute to ask him whether something is wrong. Well, yes, something is wrong. Everything's wrong. This whole situation leaves him furious. So furious that he unzips his white flight suit and yanks off the biosensors. They're stuck to his chest with glue and tear his skin.

He doesn't care. He looks over to see Haze staring open-mouthed at him. Right on cue, Houston calls. Hey Jim, we're detecting a sudden loss of your biometric data. Is anything wrong? Never been better. But, hey, I removed my biosensors. They itch and they're distracting me. Lovell braces for a fight. Insubordination is rare among astronauts.

Copy that, Jim. We understand. Houston backs off. Lovell is shocked and delighted. Just knowing that a dozen people back on Earth aren't monitoring every breath and sneeze makes him feel so much calmer. Electrical engineer Seymour Liebergot sits at his console in NASA's Mission Control, studying a thick manual of startup procedures for the command module.

After the command module was shut down to conserve power, Liebergot was sidelined. But now, with reentry approaching, he's about to be back in the game. Out of the corner of his eye, he notices someone walk past his row of engineers. When he sees who it is, he jumps out of his seat and runs after him. Hey, John! John!

Liebergot scoots past his fellow engineers and hurries toward the aisle. He's been trying to buttonhole electrical engineer John Aron for hours. Aron is in control of the power budget for reentry, and he always has a gaggle of people around him, pleading for more electricity for their parts of the spacecraft. For once, Aron is alone. As Liebergot rushes up, he sees how exhausted Aron looks. Bloodshot eyes and messy hair.

Liebergot pitches his idea anyway. He figures he'll never get a better chance. John, John, I need a favor. We need to boot up the command module early before re-entry. Early? Why? Aaron looks skeptical, but Liebergot presses on. The command module is the only part of the spacecraft with a heat shield, so the astronauts need it for re-entry. And before they use it, they need to reboot it.

But as Liebergot points out, the spacecraft has been coasting in outer space without climate control for two days now, alternating between freezing cold and getting cooked by the sun. Who knows what that's done to the electronics? So Liebergot wants to boot up a few of the command module's systems early just to ensure things are working. But Aaron consults his clipboard, and he shakes his head. "I'm sorry, Cy, but our margins are just too slim."

We've only got 43 amps. Liebergot nods his head. He was expecting this. Let me ask you this, John. You're from Oklahoma, right? Gets cold in January there, I bet. Yeah, why? You ever try to start your car on a bitter January morning when the engine won't turn over?

And even if it does start, the car doesn't steer right, does it? Or it might stall out again. Well, that's what the spacecraft is like right now. It might not start, or other things might fail. And it's best to know that soon, so we have some time to fix them. I know you're on a tight budget, but it's not a full power-up, and it really could save their lives.

Aaron sighs and rubs his forehead. He looks exhausted enough to collapse in the nearest chair and sleep for a week. But after consulting the clipboard again, he nods. Okay, yeah, I think we can swing it. Do you want to run the test now? Yes, let's do it.

As Aaron gives the okay to Kranz to run the tests, Liebergot hurries back to his console and jams his headset on. He listens as the Capcom, the person in charge of communicating with the astronauts, relays the instructions up to Apollo 13. He can hear the surprise in Jim Lovell's voice.

We're turning on circuits in the command module. The CAPCOM confirms. Liebergot listens anxiously as Jack Swigert, the command module pilot, spends the next half hour working on the startup tests. Liebergot's stomach is doing somersaults. He smokes his pipe to calm himself. Finally, everything's ready. He leans forward on his console.

Almost 48 hours ago, they shut down his beloved command module, and it's been dead weight since. He's praying it's still got life in it. The data comes in ratty at first, blinking nonsense numbers. But as things calm down, the readouts for the systems he's monitoring all settle on nice, clean figures. He slaps his desk in excitement and calls into his headset. "Things are looking good. Power it back down."

Honestly, a few instruments did look alarmingly cold. One was 21 degrees. And like a car in January, once you shut it off, you never know for sure it will start again. But he suddenly got real hope that his command module can get those astronauts home.

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Marilyn Lovell sits slumped on her living room couch. Her eyes are bleary as she clicks between different TV channels. The 6:30 p.m. national news is on, and every station is leading with the Apollo 13 mission. She starts with ABC. It's the same reporter who said the crew has a 90% chance of dying, and he's not backing off his prediction.

Hearing him makes Marilyn anxious. "Marilyn, fall!" She switches to Walter Cronkite, who's been more optimistic, but even Cronkite disappoints her. He announces that the spacecraft will have to correct its course again tonight to fix its reentry angle. Marilyn groans. "What's gone wrong now?" She leans forward, trying to absorb the details in her foggy brain.

"Marilyn!" Marilyn jumps at the noise. It's her neighbor Betty, who's been helping out with the Lovell children. "Marilyn, I've been yelling your name. You have a phone call." "Oh, I guess I spaced out, but I'm not in the mood to talk." "I think you'll want to take this call. It's the President." "Of the United States?" Betty nods. Marilyn's jaw drops open in surprise. "Why is the President calling?"

Marilyn runs upstairs to her bedroom and picks up the phone. She offers a tentative hello. A secretary tells her to hold. Sure enough, a few seconds later, she hears the gravelly voice of Richard Nixon. Marilyn, hello. Dick Nixon here. How are you holding up? And the children, Barbara, Jay, Susan, and Jeffrey?

They chat for another minute. Nixon ends the call by assuring her that the nation is praying for them. Marilyn hangs up and lays back on her bed in a daze. Did Richard Nixon really just call her home?

But any warm feelings quickly evaporate, replaced by a familiar feeling, dread. She gets up to return downstairs, hoping she didn't miss too much of the news. Well wishes from the president are nice, but what she really wants is assurance that this upcoming course correction will put her husband on a safe path home.

Jim Lovell grabs the joystick in the lunar module and nudges it to the right. He hears a hiss as propellant streams through valves on the side of the ship. For 24 hours now since 10:30 last night, the ship has been slowly rotating like a rotisserie chicken to keep the sun's rays from frying one side.

Lovell is now stopping that roll in preparation for what he hopes will be the last course adjustment burn of the mission.

Stopping the roll takes several minutes of nudges and corrections. As he works, Jack Swigert and Fred Hayes check the instruments. They confirm they've stopped rolling. Lovell checks in with Mission Control. Are we go for this burn, Houston? Affirmative. Take your sighting. Lovell leans forward and peers through the Lunar Module's telescope at a dime-sized Earth ahead of him.

Because of the floating ice crystals, they still can't get a fix on any stars. So instead, he's pointing the telescope's crosshairs at the Earth's terminator, the line that divides day from night. At that moment, the terminator is over the Pacific Ocean.

Then Lovell grabs the T-shaped throttle. They've planned a small burn this time, 14 seconds at 10% maximum thrust. If they do it right, they'll slide right into the perfect angle for reentry, 6.5 degrees. And fortunately, that faulty helium tank has yet to blow, so they should have plenty of fuel for the burn. Houston, I'm ready. Jack, give me a countdown.

Swigert counts down from 10. When he reaches zero, Lovell eases the throttle forward. He feels the familiar rumble beneath his feet. The 14 seconds pass in a blink. He snaps the throttle back and peers into the telescope. Houston, the crosshairs are still lined up on the Pacific Terminator. How's our angle looking? Give us a second.

While Houston calculates, Lovell gazes again at Earth. Even with half of it in shadow, it looks beautiful, warm and blue and inviting. Jim, you're at 6.5 exactly. Lovell claps his hands in celebration, but NASA quickly puts a damper on his mood. They remind him that when the helium tank blows, it could affect their trajectory or reentry angle.

If that happens, they'll have to do yet another burn and hope there's enough residual fuel in the lines to do it. Lovell takes one last peek at Earth through the telescope before turning to Swigert and Hayes. He tells them it's time to get some rest. They have a big day tomorrow to prepare for reentry.

Electronics whiz John Aaron rubs his dry eyes and tries to make out the clock on the back wall of the Tiger Room. He's never felt so exhausted. Earlier today, he fell asleep on the toilet. Gazing at the clock, he finally makes out that it's midnight on April 16th. Time to start. He quiets everyone down for what he knows will be a contentious meeting about the power budget for re-entry.

But if things get too heated, he has a trick up his sleeve. A trick that, he hopes, will defuse the tension and get everyone on the same page. Okay, let's get started. Now that we've got the reentry angle back on track, we have two last things to consider. Let's start with ditching the lunar module and surface module. Here's the timeline for that.

The Apollo astronauts will re-enter Earth's atmosphere in the command module, which has a heat shield. But before that, they'll need to jettison both the service and lunar modules. On the chalkboard, Aaron writes down the times he selected for each jettison, about two hours apart.

He figures that this will be uncontroversial, but Jong Young, a member of the Apollo 13 backup crew, shoots his hand in the air. "No, that's not enough time between the two modules. This will be the busiest few hours of the whole mission. You can't push the crew that hard." Before Aaron can say anything, Gene Kranz steps forward. Kranz says he agrees with Young. Two hours isn't enough time.

Eren will have to redo that part of the timeline, which also means that Eren needs to find some extra power to boot up the command module earlier than he expected. Eren swallows and makes a note on his clipboard. Things are off to a bad start. Approving this timeline was supposed to be the easy part of the meeting, and he's already being overruled, but he agrees to jettison the service module an hour earlier. Then he plunges ahead into the second item.

Okay. Also, we need to save a little power for after Splashdown in the Pacific Ocean. The command module has balloons to keep it afloat and upright in rough waters, but we need power to deploy them. And the module also needs to send out a radio beacon to the recovery ships. That system needs power too. And to save power for those systems...

I've decided to power up the command module without telemetry. What? No! That's crazy! You can't be serious, John! God damn it! Aaron cringes. As he feared, there's an uproar.

In normal circumstances, after any circuit comes online in the spacecraft, the onboard computer runs a few automatic checks to make sure all of its components work. Then the ship's telemetry sends data from those checks to mission control. Each check takes only a small amount of energy, but with thousands of circuits, doing every last check would drain all their power. So Aaron is proposing skipping the telemetry checks and just hoping that everything works.

The Tiger Team engineers howl at this idea. One stands up, looking livid. You're putting their lives in danger, John. If some circuit isn't working, we need to know immediately so we can fix it or find a workaround.

I know my plan has risks, but we just don't have the power to spare. There's only 43 amps, and the alternative is worse. If we waste power on telemetry checks that we don't need, we'll run out of power. They'll be helpless to make adjustments as they approach the atmosphere. Yeah, but if we go with your plan, John, they may never reach the atmosphere at all.

The argument goes back and forth, with other voices joining in against Aaron. He decides it's time. He needs to use the ace up his sleeve. He picks up his clipboard and starts running his finger along each line. Then he slaps his forehead in a way that he hopes is convincing. Oh, wait, wait, hold on. I must be more sleep-deprived than I realized. There actually might be a compromise here.

Aaron tells the room that he's just looked over his figures. They still can't check each tiny component as it comes online, but maybe he can spare a few amps to run a quick general check of each major circuit. That way, they can see if anything big is malfunctioning and devise a workaround.

Aaron bites his lip and looks up. In truth, he's wanted to run a general check the whole time, but he knew if he started there, the engineers would push for more. By presenting this as a compromise, he hopes they'll buy it. Several engineers still look angry, but others huddle up and whisper, then give Aaron a thumbs up.

He nearly melts with relief. He's tamed the tigers. He knows his plan needs some tweaking, but now they have a good timeline in place for booting up the command module in 36 hours. At this, Gene Kranz steps forward to wrap up the meeting. Aaron can't believe what he hears next. In order for everyone to get six hours of rest.

He'd be happy to collapse right here. Several engineers protest. They want to keep working, but Kranz shuts them down with a withering stare. He emphasizes that the rest period is mandatory. They all need their sleep because tomorrow is going to be the biggest day of their lives.

This is the fourth 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 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 Banis and Desi Blaylock. Produced by Emily Frost and Alita Rozanski. 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. Wondery.

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