The Eagle Has Landed: The Story of Apollo 11 (14 page)

N
ear mid-day on July 19, 1969, the
Apollo 11
spacecraft passed behind the Moon. Command module pilot, Michael Collins, fired the retrorockets on the CSM’s service propulsion system engines for six minutes, slowing the spacecraft’s speed from 5,000 to 3,000 miles per hour, allowing
Columbia
to enter into an elliptical orbit
(LOI-1)
around the Moon.

Attainment of LOI-1 required precision; if the engine burn was not of sufficient duration, the spacecraft could be launched into an uncontrollable elliptical orbit. Conversely, if the engine burned too long,
Columbia
could fall out of orbit and crash on the surface of the Moon.

The CSM engine was fueled by liquid propellants—a hydrazine/dimethylhydrazine mixture and nitrogen tetroxide. Both fuels were hypergolic, detonating on contact with one another, and required no spark.

Within the 60 x 170-mile elliptical orbit,
Columbia
cruised around the Moon at 3,600 miles per hour. Each revolution took about two hours to complete.

“Hello, Moon. How’s the old back side?” Collins asked aloud.

Neil Armstrong described the spectacular view: “It looks very much like the pictures, but like the difference between watching a real football game and watching it on television. There’s no substitute for being here.”

Armstrong and Aldrin called out the names of familiar landmarks on the lunar surface—
Mount Marilyn
(named for astronaut Jim Lovell’s wife),
Boot Hill, Duke Island
(named for astronaut Charlie Duke), and
Diamond Back and Sidewinder
(geological formations resembling rattlesnakes).

“Yes, there’s a big mother over there, too!” Aldrin exclaimed, pointing out a crater below.

“Come on now, Buzz, don’t refer to them as ‘big mothers’— give them a scientific name,” Collins teased.

“It sure looks like a lot of them have slumped down,” Aldrin continued.

“A slumping, big mother? Well, you see those every once in awhile,” Collins added.

“Most of them are slumping. The bigger they are, the more they slump. That’s a truism, isn’t it? That is, the older, they get,” Aldrin replied, finally joining in the banter with Collins.

The lunar surface appeared rose-colored to the
Apollo 11
crew, and not nearly as drab as photographs had long suggested. Michael Collins named one crater
Kamp,
using the first initials of his wife and children—Kate, Ann, Michael, and Patricia.

Columbia
began its lunar orbit on the backside of the Moon, outside of radio contact range, and NASA officials anxiously awaited the spacecraft’s emergence from the
dark side. CBS News
anchorman Walter Cronkite narrated the scene for millions of television viewers: “It is quiet around the world, as the world waits to see
if Apollo 11
is in a successful Moon orbit.”

After 23 tense minutes, Armstrong radioed Mission Control: “Houston,
Apollo 11,
over.” The fight controllers were ecstatic; lunar orbit was a success.

Five hours into
LOI-1,
Collins fired the retrorockets on the CSM’s propulsion system for 17 seconds, slowing the spacecraft, and allowing it to drop into a circular orbit
(LOI-2).
The new orbital trajectory measured 66 x 54 nautical miles, placing the combined CSM/LM spacecraft into a more ideal position for lunar descent.

As the fourth day drew to a close, the
Apollo 11
crew covered their cockpit windows to keep the reflected
Moonshine
from disrupting their sleep. It was time to rest—tomorrow, Neil Armstrong and Buzz Aldrin would walk on the Moon.

.

CHAPTER 11

Magnifcent desolation

A
t 8:27 a.m., on July 20, 1969, Buzz Aldrin crawled through the 30-inch-diameter tunnel connecting the CSM to the lunar module, beginning a series of preflight checks. An hour later, Neil Armstrong joined him inside the
Eagle.
When Michael Collins closed the hatch behind them, he was fully aware that he might never see Armstrong and Aldrin again. For the command module pilot, it the marked the beginning of a lonely vigil in lunar orbit.

Armstrong and Aldrin were fully aware of the many potential hazards of a lunar landing, and had been authorized to terminate this risky segment of the mission, if their lives were in immediate danger. Two nights before the launch of
Apollo 11,
Tom Paine, who had succeeded James Webb as NASA Administrator, informed the crew: “If you have to abort, I’ll see that you fly the next Moon landing. Just don’t get killed.”

At Mission Control, 35-year-old flight director Gene Kranz addressed his staff concerning the importance of the day ahead: “Okay, all flight controllers, listen up. Today is our day, and the hopes and dreams of the entire world are with us. This is our time and our place, and we will remember this day and what we do here, always. In the next hour, we will do something that has never been done before. We will land an American on the Moon…”

The flight controllers were all ears, as Kranz continued: “We worked long hours and had some tough times, but we have mastered our work. Now, we are going to make this work pay off. You are a hell of a good team—one that I feel privileged to lead. Whatever happens, I will stand behind every call you will make. Good luck and God bless us today!”

At the White House, President Nixon closely monitored the progress of the
Apollo 11
mission. Nixon, among history’s most ardent anti-Communists, was eager to prove American innovations and technologies were superior to the Soviet Union’s best efforts. A successful lunar landing would be the ideal way to emphasize the President’s point.

Nixon and his closest advisers were thoroughly briefed about the potential pitfalls during this most dangerous leg of the mission. In the event of a catastrophe, the President had a pre-prepared statement: “Fate has ordained that the men who went to explore in peace will stay on the Moon to rest in peace. These brave men, Neil Armstrong and Edwin Aldrin, know that there is no hope for their recovery. But, they also know that there is hope for mankind in their sacrifice…”

At 12:46 p.m., during
Columbia’s
13
^th
lunar orbit, Michael Collins activated a switch, releasing the LM from the docking port. The lunar module, bug-like in appearance, with a cockpit for a thorax and four spindly legs, separated from the mother ship.

“The
Eagle has
wings,” Aldrin announced.

The LM, piloted by Armstrong, momentarily hovered near
Columbia,
allowing Collins to inspect its exterior for any signs of damage.

“I think you’ve got a fine looking machine there,
Eagle,
despite the fact that you’re upside down,” Collins reported.

“Somebody’s upside down,” Armstrong quipped.

Now that the
Eagle
appeared structurally sound, Armstrong was given the okay to proceed with lunar descent.

“Okay,
Eagle.
You guys take it easy on the lunar surface,” Collins radioed his crewmates. For the next 24 hours, Michael Collins would orbit the Moon, hoping and praying that his crewmates would return safely.

Because of features unique to the Moon, the flight of the lunar module could never be exactly duplicated in the flight simulator. Lunar gravitational pull was not evenly distributed due to heavier subterranean rocks called
mascons,
which exerted magnetic forces strong enough to alter the LM’s altitude and direction. In many respects, Armstrong and Aldrin’s lunar descent was perilous on-the-job training.

Outwardly calm, Neil Armstrong later recalled his anxiety about the lunar landing: “The most difficult part, from my perspective, and the one that gave me most pause, was the final descent to landing. That was far and away the most complex part of the flight. The systems were heavily loaded at the time. The unknowns were rampant. The systems, in this mode, had only been tested on Earth, and never in the real environment. There were just a thousand things to worry about in the final descent… Walking around on the surface (of the Moon), on a one to ten scale, I deemed a one. The lunar descent, on that scale, was probably a thirteen.”

To complicate matters, the
Grumman-built
LM had been plagued by multiple system test failures during the construction process. The first lunar module had not been ready for test flight until March of 1969, less than four months before the
Apollo 11
launch.

The
Eagle,
23-feet-tall and weighing over 36,000 pounds, was divided into two parts. The lower section housed the descent engine, fuel tanks, storage areas, and the landing gear, while the upper part was home to the ascent engine, fuel tanks, and cockpit. To minimize weight, the lunar module was encased in a thin aluminum shell; the walls were only 5/100
^th
of an inch thick. The spacecraft’s outer skin was so thin, a pencil could be poked through it, leading astronaut Jim McDivitt to describe the LM as a “tissue paper spacecraft.” The lunar module’s sparsely decorated interior was sprayed with a dull blue-gray fire-resistant coating. To further reduce weight, the interior plumbing and wire bundles were fully exposed.

“The LM flight deck was about as charming as the cab of a diesel locomotive,” Aldrin joked.

To conserve space and lessen weight, the
Eagle
had no seats, forcing Armstrong and Aldrin to stand during flight, held in place by elastic cords. During the early stages of the lunar descent, the LM was flown in a sideways position, with its two triangular-shaped cockpit windows facing the Moon’s cratered surface. When the spacecraft reached the designated area, Armstrong would reposition the LM into the legs-down mode.

After making a full lunar orbit, Armstrong and Aldrin received instructions from Mission Control:
“Eagle,
Houston. You are a go for
DOI (descent orbit insertion).”

Armstrong then initiated a 30-second DOI engine burn, lowering the LM’s orbit to eight miles above the Moon’s craggy surface.

“Eagle,
Houston. If you read, you’re go for a powered descent,” Cap Com, Charlie Duke, radioed.

The combination of static and a three-second radio delay made it difficult for Armstrong and Aldrin to hear the instructions from Mission Control. Collins, orbiting 50 miles above his crewmates, alertly relayed the message:
“Eagle,
this is
Columbia.
They just gave you a go for powered descent.”

Armstrong responded by firing the power descent engine, positioning the lunar module for landing. At the same time, Aldrin activated a 16-millimeter movie camera, located in his cockpit window, to record the historic approach.

Mare Tranquilitatis
(the
Sea of Tranquility)
was the
Eagle’s
predetermined landing spot. One degree above the Moon’s equator and 23 degrees east of an arbitrary line running from the North to the South Pole, the
Sea of Tranquility was
thought to be free of large boulders and level enough for a smooth landing.

Approaching the landing zone, 33,500 feet above the lunar surface, the
Eagle’s
computer systems overloaded, sounding a
1202 alarm.
While the LM’s computer was state of the art for the year 1969, with a 64K memory and 36,864 fixed-word memory, the sheer volume of incoming data suddenly overwhelmed its capabilities. The computer experts at Mission Control, led by 26-year-old Steve Bales, the ranking expert on the LM’s guidance systems, concluded that the alarm was not indicative of any serious problem. Flight Control soon advised Armstrong and Aldrin to disregard the warning, classifying it as an
acceptable risk.

The
Eagle
continued its descent at a rate of 30 feet per second. When the LM was 1,000 feet above its designated landing point, Armstrong realized the area was uneven and filled with lunar rocks. With his fuel supply dwindling, the
Apollo 11
commander had little time to find a smoother landing place.

“We could have tried to land there, and we might have gotten away with it. It was a fairly steep slope, and it was covered with very big rocks, and it just wasn’t a very good place to go. You know, if I’d run out of fuel, why I would have put down right there, but if I had any choice of a more promising spot, I was going to take it. There were some attractive areas, far more level, far less occupied by boulders, about a half-mile ahead or so, so that’s where I went,” Armstrong later remembered.

The landing spot Armstrong ultimately selected was 20,800 feet west and approximately 4,500 feet south of the original destination. Carefully monitoring computer flight data, Aldrin called out relevant numbers to his partner, as the lunar module neared the surface. Much to his relief, Armstrong found the LM easy to maneuver: “It settled down like a helicopter.”

As the
Eagle’s
fuel supply was rapidly disappearing, the stoic Armstrong seemed unfazed. In spite of his outward calm, the flight surgeons in Houston noted that Armstrong’s heart rate had increased to 156 beats per minute during the final lunar descent. When the LM was 50 feet above the lunar surface, Mission Control radioed the
bingo fuel call,
meaning the
Eagle
had but 20 seconds to land.

With its fuel supply precariously low, the LM’s landing sensors finally contacted the surface.

“Contact light,” Aldrin relayed to Armstrong.

“Shutdown,” Armstrong announced.

At 3:17:40 p.m., the lunar module touched down on the surface of the Moon.

“Houston,
Tranquility Base
here. The
Eagle
has landed,” Armstrong announced to Mission Control and a worldwide television audience.

Aldrin later recalled his exact thoughts: “We had less than 20 seconds of fuel remaining, but we were on the Moon.”

At Mission Control, the flight controllers and engineers in the
Trench
erupted in applause.

“Roger
Tranquility,
we copy you on the ground. You’ve got a bunch of guys about to turn blue. We’re breathing again,” Cap Com replied.

Armstrong and Aldrin shook hands and clapped one another on the back.