Deke Slayton was in charge of assessing the American astronauts and choosing the crews for various different missions, with the assistance of Alan Shepard, who had been grounded for medical reasons and was now chief of the Astronaut Office. They had made their decisions for the next Apollo trips, 9 and 10, which would test further docking in space and the flight of the untried lunar module. These astronauts were all currently in training for their missions but now they needed to confirm the crew for the ‘bull’s-eye’ trip – the one that would land on the moon. They had established a rotation system for the crews: the backup crew of one mission would fly the third flight after that. On this basis, the backup team for Apollo 8 would fly Apollo 11. Neil Armstrong would be commander. His prowess and unique skills with the ‘Flying Bedstead’ would be essential when it came to making the critical lunar landing. Buzz Aldrin had proved himself brilliant at space walking – as had Mike Collins. They seemed the ideal team.
Deke Slayton summoned them to a meeting and got straight to the point. The three men practically looped the loop when they heard the news, even though the ‘bull’s-eye’ date was as yet unknown. It might never happen, of course; in the space programme, so much could go wrong. Overnight, disasters had a way of changing schedules. But if and when it happened, the Apollo command and service module in lunar orbit would be manned by Mike Collins, who would stay in that orbit, while Neil Armstrong and Buzz Aldrin would attempt to land on the moon using the lunar module. Meanwhile, the emphasis would be on training, especially in the lunar landing simulator.
Buzz Aldrin was alight with excitement. The captain always stayed with his ship. That surely meant Aldrin would be the first man to set foot on the moon. Not necessarily so, replied Armstrong, who also had plans to make the first historic step. Both men in their mind’s eye had the same vision of standing alone in the white moon world. Their name would be a living legend till the end of time.
The lunar simulator became a battleground. In too many sessions, Armstrong crashed. Aldrin challenged what he saw as irresponsible behaviour. Armstrong replied that he was quite deliberately pushing the machine in order to find its limitations. Aldrin continued to accuse; Armstrong continued in his own unique style, skimming disaster. The two men were caught up in a squabble that could threaten their lives, to the growing alarm of Gene Kranz who was to be Flight Director for their mission. The astronauts reined in their feelings but simmered like dormant volcanoes. Behind the scenes at NASA, a decision was made that Armstrong would be the first to step on the moon. Buzz Aldrin was bitterly disappointed. As difficulties persisted in the simulations, Kranz began to wonder if they would have enough time to rehearse the lunar landing.
The deadline was approaching all too fast. In March, Apollo 9 tested docking the command and lunar module in earth orbit and the lunar module was given a test run of more than one hundred miles. In May, Apollo 10 took the lunar module down to within nine miles of the moon’s surface, and in a dry run for the real flight tested the ascent stage of the lunar module as they flew back to dock with the command module. Next up was Apollo 11 – the moon mission. This would carry the red, white and blue American flag that would be planted firmly on the moon’s pale surface. The date was set for 16 July.
Surreptitiously, people began bringing the astronauts souvenirs to take to the moon. A flag was chosen, one with no manufacturer’s label, to thwart advertising. And interested noises in the project were growing from a whisper to a steady clamour. Who were these men, so ready to gamble their lives, willing to risk the hellfire of rockets or the prospect of being lost in space for a day’s glory? The world’s press was avid for details. Life magazine arranged a family get-together for the three astronauts. From the comfort of their armchairs, people the world over could see them at last, nice, normal family men, with pretty wives and beautiful children, just doing a job like everyone else.
Just when the Americans seemed on the verge of winning, the CIA produced yet more worrying information for NASA. They had news that the Soviets were ready to launch a massive new rocket. All year rumours had been growing that the Soviet Union had ambitious plans for a sensational space venture that would dwarf the Apollo missions. Now American spy satellites had photographs showing a rocket bigger and more powerful that Saturn V on the launch pad at Baikonur. Von Braun believed that the Soviets could reach the moon first using its huge booster, if for any reason Apollo 11 missed its July deadline.
The Soviet Union was abuzz with talk of an imminent, astonishing space event. With conflicting reports it was difficult to distinguish rumour from fact. The cosmonauts themselves were in full training for a lunar mission. They were only too aware of America’s imminent target to reach the moon with a launch date of 16 July for Apollo 11. ‘The Soviet Union is also making preparation for a manned flight to the moon, just like the Apollo programme of the US,’ cosmonaut Alexei Leonov declared. ‘The Soviet Union will be able to send men to the moon this year … We are confident that pieces of rock picked from the surface of the moon by Soviet cosmonauts will be … on display.’
In April and May, Vasily Mishin’s team was making frantic adjustments and improvements to the N-1 rocket. In spite of frenzied activity to meet the mid-June launch deadline, it was missed. The new launch day would be 3 July, which would still beat the Apollo launch. Baikonur buzzed with activity as staff laboured to bring the launch to fruition. Soldiers and technicians struggled in the July heat. Slowly order was created from chaos. The rocket stood on the pad, unbelievably tall and slender against the blue sky, waiting to orbit the moon. On 3 July, preparations lasted all day. All the prominent people in the space and military industry made their way to Baikonur, and every road leading to the site was congested with vehicles. Chief designers, manufacturers, cosmonauts and ministers mingled with the less elevated, all eager to witness the great event.
Most spectators were well away from the site. The cosmonauts had found an observation point, over four miles distant. Those in the bunkhouse were waiting in expectation. The countdown went ahead without problems and liftoff began at 11.18 p.m. The enormous firestorm of white flames under the rocket forced it upwards, bathing the night sky in shadowless brilliance, almost too bright to watch. In the glare, the rocket, so slender against the night sky, appeared to hesitate. Thick clouds of smoke billowed out. As the thirty engines arranged in two concentric circles reached full power, the ground shuddered and heaved. The rocket trembled. The noise was overwhelming.
At 600 feet, it was clear something was wrong. The upward flight could not be sustained. The rocket doubled over and fell back towards the pad where it exploded with almost the force of a nuclear bomb. Hot blast waves shot out in increasing circles and a mushroom cloud in lurid purples rose over the steppe as hot metal rained on the ruined launch pad. Those viewing the launch at some distance in the open felt the shock waves breathing hot air over them as the rocket, splintering into a thousand brilliant fireballs, fell like hailstones.
The light of the morning revealed carnage as thousands of dead birds and other wildlife littered the blackened launch site at Baikonur. The damage was extensive. It would not be possible to recover quickly from such a blow. Mishin was in despair. For months there had been no break from his unremitting workload. Three days after the disaster, he collapsed with chest pains.
‘I was convinced that the rocket would not fly, but somewhere in the depths of my soul there glimmered some hope for success,’ Kamanin admitted. ‘We are desperate for success, especially now, when the Americans intend in a few days to land people on the moon.’ Initial analysis showed that, once again, the KORD control system had turned off most of the engines a few seconds into the launch. The reasons for this were unclear although the evidence pointed towards the possibility that some loose component, perhaps one single shard of metal, had entered the oxygen pump of one of the engines, triggering the catastrophe. Other evidence pointed to an overall design flaw: the thirty engines of the N-1 were aligned in two circles, with low-pressure regions between them. If some of the engines failed, the low-pressure regions would not balance out, the forces in the rocket would no longer be symmetrical and it would become unstable. Whatever the reason, months of detailed investigation lay ahead.
Although it looked as though the Soviet Union was out of the race, an indomitable refusal to accept this remained. So many years of endeavour had gone into the space effort. So much money, so many hopes and dreams: there was still time to send a rocket to the moon. Within days of his heart problems, Vasily Mishin was back at work monitoring Georgi Babakin’s next lunar attempt: the unmanned, robotic Luna 15. Once it reached lunar orbit, it was to descend to the moon’s surface and a drill would bore into the ground collecting soil samples.
Three days before Apollo 11 was due to launch, a less powerful Proton rocket left the pad at Baikonur with its payload. There was still time to steal America’s thunder. The Soviet robotic mission would bring back the fabled pale lunar soil before Apollo 11 returned – if it returned. There was no guarantee that the American undertaking would be successful. There was plenty that could go wrong. The Soviet team might still carry a bouquet of stars back to earth. At six o’clock on the blue and gold morning of 13 July, the rocket soared on an exact trajectory to the moon, staunching the flow of endless failures and taking with it so many wistful Russian hopes for success.
At Cape Kennedy, tension was mounting as last-minute preparations got underway. An argument erupted over the suitability of filming the moon landing. Chris Kraft and Max Faget argued vehemently in favour of filming and shouted all opposition down. The next concern at NASA came from the medical team who wanted to keep the astronauts protected from any chance of infection. When the astronauts met the press prior to the launch, elaborate safeguards ensured that a glass screen came between them and the offending, germ-laden journalists.
Finally, on Wednesday 16 July at 9.30 a.m., the moment arrived. The three astronauts said their most important goodbyes and their minds were now wholly given over to the purpose of the mission. As von Braun watched the monitor, he could see the Saturn V lift off from Pad 39A. The ascent was a perfect, clean, upward sweep into the seamless blue; the long tail of white fire faded as the sound diminished. This was the fulfilment of his life’s ambition. The world was watching. The Soviets were watching. At the BBC in London, commentators speculated on where the Americans would land and whether the Russian robotic mission would be in the way.
Four days out in space, with no worrying incidents so far, Neil Armstrong and Buzz Aldrin transferred from the command module to the lunar module, Eagle, which lay embryo-like above the Apollo third stage. This strange spidery craft with its fragile skin defied the normal rules of engineering. Now the time had come to prove it worked. The astronauts were due to try for their lunar descent on 20 July.
At Baikonur, the Soviets were worried. Problems had delayed the landing of their robotic mission. The mountainous terrain of the lunar landscape had made it impossible. A new orbit was calculated but they could not be completely certain exactly where the craft would land. At NASA, the concern in everyone’s mind focused on whether the Soviet Luna 15 would cause problems for the American Apollo 11. The astronauts were informed of the situation. The world continued to watch with baited breath.
In mission control on 20 July, Flight Director Gene Kranz and his team were preparing themselves for the lunar landing. This was the one day when nothing must go wrong. To help everything along, Kranz had turned himself into his own mascot, wearing a handsome silver and white waistcoat in the moon’s colours his wife had made for the occasion. On arrival, he had given his team a pep talk in language they understood:
Hey gang, we’re really gonna go and land on the moon today. This is no bullshit; we’re going to go land on the moon. We’re about to do something that no one has ever done. Be aware that there’s a lot of stuff that we don’t know about the environment … I trust you implicitly. But I’m also aware we’re all human … We’re working in an area of the unknown that has high risk. But we don’t even think of tying this game, we think only to win … We’re going to win … so let’s go have at it, gang …
Kranz returned to his seat. He appeared calm, almost casual, like the rest of mission control, but the reality was they were all sitting on pins. When the lunar module came from behind the moon, the descent would begin. The lunar landing would present difficulties, maybe unsolvable problems. It would be up to Armstrong, the skilful champion of the ‘Flying Bedstead’, to find a safe landing spot. And if he couldn’t, then it would be his decision to abort the mission, fire the ascent process and, hopefully, return to Mike Collins, who was orbiting the moon in the Apollo craft.
The Eagle was on course for the moon, descending backwards. The descent was timed to take advantage of sunlight. At 40,000 feet the landing radar began giving information to the computer on the altitude and speed of the Eagle. Suddenly, Aldrin heard the alarm buzzer. The code ‘1202’ showed on his display panel. He reported this to mission control. Was there a problem? Mission control was uncertain.
The light was flashing. ‘1202. 1202,’ Aldrin repeated. Information kept cutting out on the panel in front of him. It was looking serious, but only Houston would have the answer. Kranz didn’t know if ‘1202’ meant abort. He referred to Steve Bales in the Flight Dynamics Division. All eyes in the room were on the computer whiz kids. The computer systems and electrical circuits in the Apollo mission were multitudinous. Sometimes an overload of information led to an emergency warning light. But suppose it was a real emergency? Steve Bales had seconds to weigh up the difference.
‘We’re … we’re go on that, Flight,’ twenty-six-year-old Bales stammered. He was sure it was computer overload.
‘We’re go on that alarm?’ Kranz queried.
‘If … if it does not recur, we’ll be go.’
Aldrin had his answer. Ignore the alarm.
At 7500 feet, the Eagle was descending at 50 mph. But a few tense moments later they heard Aldrin’s voice questioning:
‘1202 again?’
The alarm was flicking on and off. It seemed an eternity before Kranz heard Bales reply, ‘Ignore,’ as he did several more times.
At 3000 feet, Kranz informed Aldrin that it was ‘go’ for landing.
‘Understand, go for landing at 3000 feet,’ Aldrin replied. ‘1201 alarm.’
‘1201 alarm?’ Kranz repeated.
Bales had little time to work out whether this new alarm was a life-threatening situation and they should abort the mission. Kranz wanted an answer.
‘Ignore,’ said Bales. ‘It’s the same type. We’re go, Flight.’
The nearer the astronauts got to the lunar surface, the more worrying it looked. The designated landing area was pitted and strewn with boulders. At 1000 feet, Armstrong had no alternative but to override the computer and take over. He needed to find an area of level ground out of the zone of rocks they were in. Accelerating, he moved the craft forward, searching for an ideal spot. Mission control did not know when Armstrong had taken over, but were aware that his fuel was limited.
At 300 feet, Armstrong thought he had a landing place but at 200 feet he changed his mind. Aldrin remembered Armstrong’s flights on the ‘Flying Bedstead’ and how often he had taken it to the wire. Mission control was nervous.
‘There ain’t no gas stations on the moon,’ a voice reminded them.
Now Armstrong was over a crater. A warning light came on. In Houston, the technician responsible for the radar sensors that detected the moon’s surface fainted. No one noticed. There was only sixty seconds of fuel left. Twenty seconds of fuel was needed for takeoff if they couldn’t land and had to abort. The control room listened in horrified silence. For these last seconds, as time seemed to stretch, the mission was in Armstrong’s hands, reliant on his peculiar mastery of the gangling lunar craft.
‘Thirty seconds of fuel left,’ Houston warned.
Armstrong detected a flat area ahead. This was essential as the awkward craft had to have its four spindly legs all planted equally firmly on level land or eventual takeoff would be in jeopardy. Moon dust was thrown up as he lowered the lunar module with caution. There were still far too many boulders. The attention of both men was focused only on the rocks and fissures in the crumbling greyish plaster of Paris soil beneath them. At last Armstrong found what he needed: that miracle of a small flat area. Moon dust made a snowstorm as they descended.
‘Contact light,’ Aldrin said with relief.
They were down. Armstrong had handled the machine so skilfully there was no feeling of impact. They had twenty seconds of fuel left. It was 3.17 in the afternoon in Houston when they heard Armstrong’s voice:
‘Tranquillity base here. The Eagle has landed.’
‘Roger, Tranquillity. You got a bunch of guys about to turn blue. We’re breathing again. Thanks a lot.’
The men in their strange lunar vehicle looked in wonder at the crystalline world outside the window stretching as far as the horizon six miles away, where a sky the colour of night revealed a gently curving horizon. Outside was a dead world. For time immeasurable no sound had rung out across the white waste to echo among the boulders. No living creature had left its mark. Already, the disturbed dust of their landing had settled to hide evidence of their arrival. Only the fall of meteorites had broken the silence down the centuries. But the two men were enraptured with what they saw. This historical moment could never be duplicated and the whole world was waiting to hear what was really out there beyond the small periphery of the safety of the craft.
As Armstrong backed out of the hatch, automatic TV cameras on the lunar module switched on and six hundred million people watched the hazy figure on television. He stood in his strange white suit, his golden helmet meant to ward off the sun’s rays, its reflective visor obscuring his features, turning him into ‘Everyman’. His feet touched the moon dust and the world looked on while he tried a step in the new element. In the Soviet Union, the cosmonauts, crammed into a military reception centre with senior officials in Moscow, watched as he lived the moments they thought would be theirs. Then his voice narrowed the huge distance:
‘That’s one small step for man; one giant leap for mankind.’
The Soviet viewing room erupted with applause as they stared at the grainy images of Armstrong, looking like a moon creature in his pale, puffed-up suit in the pale new world so blanched of colour. ‘Everyone forgot that we were all citizens of different countries on Earth,’ Alexei Leonov wrote. ‘That moment really united the human race.’ A few hours later, the Soviet probe, Luna 15, crashed at almost 300 mph into the suitably named ‘Sea of Crises’ on the moon’s surface.
America was the winner. The red, white and blue Stars and Stripes on the flag planted nearby proclaimed that they had legitimately won the glory. The years of dedicated work, never deviating from the original dream, had led to this brilliant conclusion. But woven into the American endeavour were also the dreams of men like Korolev, whose spirit no doubt, given the ghost of a chance, would be standing unseen by Armstrong’s side. But the camera only registered one small anonymous figure standing on that bleak waste of cherished soil, waving at the blue earth, halfway to the stars.
It was a moment to savour, a moment for which Korolev had lived and died, a moment that for von Braun concentrated the long journey from the dark days of Hitler’s Nazi Germany and the V-2 to this momentous culmination of a youthful vision. As he looked at Armstrong’s figure on the TV monitor standing where he had dreamed he would stand, it was a timeless moment, rich with victory second to none in man’s short history, and it left him without words.