_A Carnival at Dawn_
My mental alarm clock, a handy, precise instrument which seldom
failed, woke me at exactly 0500 on the morning of March 10, 1959.
Charlie Feltz was snoring loudly, deep in sleep on the other twin
bed in our room at the Edwards Bachelor Officers Quarters. I prodded
Charlie gently and then went into the bathroom and drank a glass of
water. I drank sparingly: soon I would be tightly laced in the X-15
full-pressure suit, which has no provisions for answering the call of
nature.
At long last the day had come to take the X-15 into the air, snugged
beneath the right wing of the B-52 mother plane, for her first
realistic test. The purpose of this preliminary “captive” flight was
to check out the X-15’s many systems under near-flight conditions
and to make sure the B-52 could support her external store at launch
speed of Mach .8 or 530 miles an hour. We would go through all the
motions of an actual flight--I would operate her control systems and
flaps, and lower the landing gear--but we would not drop the X-15.
Our plan was to spend a couple of hours circling the Edwards base at
40,000 feet and, if all went well, land again with the X-15 still
hung on the B-52 wing.
“Come on, Charlie,” I said, “let’s go find out if we built an
airplane.”
We dressed in business suits and ties, like anybody preparing for
a day’s work at the office, and drove to the flight line in one of
North American’s green station wagons. Take-off was scheduled for
0700. Based on my previous experience at Edwards with experimental
airplanes, I calculated we would be lucky to make it by noon or 1400.
* * * * *
We could see the tail of the B-52, five stories tall, from half a
mile away. The sun, just beginning to rise in the east, cast heavy
shadows into the Edwards basin. The runway lights were still on.
Two jet fighters, returning from a pre-dawn flight, taxied in the
distance, their dazzling landing lights ablaze. Maintenance and fuel
trucks, painted a garish yellow, sped by. It was freezing cold and
we kept the windows in the station wagon shut, the heater turned up
full. We drove past row on row of jet airplanes parked and silent.
“You’d think that with all this activity,” I said, “they’d have a
place open around here for a cup of coffee.”
Feltz didn’t reply. His mind was fixed on the scene which paraded
across the windshield as I turned into a parking place in the “mating
area.” There were half a hundred cars parked two-deep in a neat row.
A team of North American guards directed traffic and checked badges.
Most of us, I suppose, have visited fair grounds at dawn to watch
the carnival pack up and leave town, to stare in awe as the tents
are torn down and the stakes pulled up, as the trucks back and churn
in low gear and the carnival hands scurry here and there, sleepy but
determined. This is what the scene in the mating area reminded me of
that morning. It was a kind of organized pandemonium moving with a
sense of urgency.
The big bomber dominated the concrete mating area. It towered over
everything like some colossal creation on a Cecil B. De Mille set,
a monster with drooping wings 185 feet long and a bulky body over
one-half the length of a football field. Mechanics swarmed over the
B-52, preparing it for flight. I saw a man on the wing silhouetted
against the dull early morning sun, a tiny speck on a massive expanse
of aluminum. Far up in the cockpit the lights shone through the small
windows and I could see the bobbing heads of the ground crewmen,
working through the long pre-flight check-list. The story of how a
B-52 is made ready for flight is a book in itself.
Beneath and around the bomber there were not less than twenty-five
trucks and carts, and probably a hundred men. A few were working on
the huge ship. But most were clustered around the strange, shark-like
store mounted beneath an inverted, streamlined pylon on the right
wing--the X-15. Just forward of the B-52 wing leading edge, the
X-15 cockpit canopy was cocked up and open. Had it been closed, the
X-15 might have been some over-sized missile, to the untrained eye.
Despite the cold and their heavy clothing, the men worked feverishly,
like mechanics in the pits a half hour before the Memorial Day race
in Indianapolis. They had been working at that pace in the North
American hangar three shifts around the clock for four months. I
wondered how any mechanical device could generate so much enthusiasm
and dedication.
One truck stood apart from all the rest. This was Sam Richter’s
communications van, which resembled a beat-up, miniature school
bus, though it was painted the company green. The rear of this van
was fitted with radio transmitters and receivers, a tape recorder,
and devices to transcribe data from the battery of weird-looking
weather instruments and antennae which protruded, like a forest of
prehistoric trees, from the top of the van. During the pre-flight
operations in the mating area, Sam’s well-heated van served as a kind
of headquarters for the engineers and crew foremen. Crowded in among
the radio gear were a swivel chair and seats which had long ago been
salvaged from some office.
Feltz and I opened the door on the rear of the van and pushed our way
inside. Mel Beach, overall ground boss of the X-15 crew, was there,
as well as Q. C. Harvey, flight-test director, and Si Fohl, the chief
foreman. They were urgently leafing through a clipboard thick with
forms.
“Will we be ready for an on-time take-off?” I asked.
Si answered by rattling off a list of items yet to be fixed which
spelled at least an hour’s delay. No modern airplane ever takes
to the air with all its machinery in perfect working order. On a
B-52, for example, an average of ten per cent of the equipment
is usually out of commission. On the X-15, more complex than ten
B-52s put together, the ground crewmen were doing their best to
shrink the first-flight “carry-over” list to acceptable limits.
The out-of-commission, or carry-over, items were compiled on the
clipboard, on pages of special forms. It would be up to me in the end
to review the list and either “buy” the carry-over items or cancel
the flight.
I leafed through the forms, noting the many anticipated, minor
items not working: a valve, a leak, a piece of complicated NASA
instrumentation not essential for the X-15 flight performance. I
signed my name at the bottom of the sheets, indicating a “buy” on
the part of the pilot. After all, the captain of the S.S. _United
States_ would not refuse to get his vessel under way on a scheduled
trans-Atlantic voyage because the coffee pot was out of order or a
water faucet wasn’t working.
I climbed out of the van, slammed the door, and made my way into the
confusion of crewmen and supervisors crawling about the X-15. The
ground service carts, linked to the little craft by a snarl of heavy
cables and hoses, were pushed up close. The vast array of dials and
gauges on these carts told a complete story of what was going on
inside: helium-source pressures okay, both hydraulic systems okay,
number one electrical system okay, liquid nitrogen tank-pressure okay.
Squeezed up against the cockpit was a steel-tubing work platform. I
went up the steps to talk to the three men standing there probing
into a section just behind the cockpit area. Here in this bay lay
the most sensitive, and up to then the most frustrating, piece of
the X-15’s machinery, the Auxiliary Power Unit (APU). A series of
failures of this equipment had kept the X-15 grounded for three
months in a row. If it was not working properly today, I would have
to cancel.
“How’s it going?” I said, addressing “Robby” Robinson, a General
Electric technical representative. Several G.E. engineers had come
to Edwards over two months ago, when Stormy rang the bell after the
trouble developed.
“I think we’ve really got it made this time, Scotty,” Robby said. “I
think we have it licked.” We were a long way from completely licking
the problem, we knew, but Robby had caught the X-15 team spirit. Like
the rest of us now, he was a determined, indefatigable optimist.
The two APUs in the X-15 separate turbine engines that run on
concentrated hydrogen peroxide to drive generators and pumps which
give electrical and hydraulic power for the instrumentation and
flight controls. There are two separate systems, in case one fails.
Jets and prop airplanes get their auxiliary power from their engines,
but since in the X-15 the rocket engine runs only a short time,
separate powerful sources of energy are necessary for the unpowered
glide.
This was not a problem unique to the X-15. All the rocket airplanes
preceding it had some form of auxiliary ship’s power. The first
craft, the X-1, was equipped with batteries which supplied enough
juice to operate the simple instruments and other electrical devices
for about twenty minutes of flight. The “muscle” for the controls
came from the pilot. But as rocket planes became more complex, and
the instrumentation load for obtaining aeronautical data in flight
became heavier, the batteries, which are basically heavy and bulky,
could not keep pace. Thus the engineers shifted to small, immensely
powerful turbines which, independent of the main rocket-propulsion
system, whirled electrical generators that in turn supplied the
electrical power. The same turbine also powered hydraulic pumps to
supply control “muscles.” The turbines burn hydrogen peroxide, a
chemical that yields a vast amount of energy and doesn’t need air to
burn, as does gasoline, for instance. Many ballistic missiles have
APUs.
The demands for the X-15 APU were far and away the most severe
ever placed on any manufacturer. What we asked was that each unit
supply 8,000 watts of continuous electrical power--more than enough
to supply a modern house with many electrical appliances--at all
times during the flight and more than 30 horsepower each for
hydraulic controls. To save precious fuel, we asked that the
hydrogen-peroxide-powered turbine run very efficiently and yet be
able to assume large changes in load without slowing down as demands
were put on it. The unit had to operate at any altitude under extreme
temperature conditions; in effect, it had to be capable of operating
on the surface of the moon. We imposed a weight limit of less than
two hundred pounds, including turbine, pumps, generator, and full
fuel load for thirty minutes of flight.
The subcontract for the APU had been let to General Electric in 1956
before the first cockpit mock-up. The giant company, with decades of
experience in building all kinds of engines and odd-ball electrical
devices, put its top talent on the project. All told, hundreds of
thousands of engineering man-hours were devoted to this one piece
of machinery for the X-15. I am certain that before the contract
was concluded, G.E. must have spent millions to make good its
promises. The APU design was ingenious and delicate, and it met our
requirements. This unit, or one like it, will pioneer the way for
APUs on true space craft. North American and its vendors furnished
all the maze of plumbing, valves, regulators, and tanks for the
system. Like the APUs, everything worked well in the laboratory tests
but, as is ever the case, when in the airplane both G.E.’s system and
ours gave us untold trouble.
Ground “APU runs” during December, 1958, and January and February,
1959, followed a grim pattern. After the specialists were certain
they were ready, I would climb into the X-15 cockpit at the test
stand and run through an “APU start,” testing number one APU and
number two APU in turn. The two small units would come to life,
gulping down the potent peroxide. As the turbine wheel spun at 50,000
rpm (five feet from my head), the generator and pump would begin to
pump the vital electricity and hydraulics into the X-15’s system.
Then something would happen. Bearings would overheat and the turbine
would seize, or even more, valves and regulators would fail, leak, or
not regulate. Then the mechanics would remove the offending part and
rebuild it, preparing for another test. It was absolutely mandatory
that these units be made reliable. A total APU failure in the air
would leave the pilot without instruments and hydraulic control
power. He would have to bail out.
These were sleepless weeks of sheer agony. The APUs and their fuel
systems were, in effect, pieces of jewelry. Each of their hundreds of
parts was as carefully and delicately balanced as a watch. A piece of
lint or some dust would clog microscopic apertures and cause the unit
to turn sour. Even low-key vibration came into play. We noted after
much experience that when one APU failed with vibration the other
unit almost invariably broke down a minute or so later, seemingly
without cause. Then we learned the reason. Both APUs were mounted on
the same bulkhead. The slight vibration in a failing or seizing APU
was enough to send a fatal tremor through the bulkhead to the other
APU. We fixed this by mounting the units on separate bulkheads.
When we were deep in APU trouble with no solution in sight, Stormy
moved in and brought his prestige to bear. One conference with
General Electric’s top engineers followed another. The APU systems
were analyzed and re-analyzed, down to every single nut and bolt. It
was then that the special G.E. team joined us in the North American
hangar at Edwards and worked day and night to bring this pioneering
device up to snuff. Finally this sensitive, temperamental race horse
was broken to the bit. Prior to our first scheduled captive flight,
both APU units had been run without failure almost every day for
two weeks. But a question remained unanswered: were they ready for
the sweepstakes? Blake Staub, our systems engineer, had practically
ruined his health to assure it.
I stared down at the APU in the X-15 bay and listened as Staub and
Robinson assured me again that the units were ready. Well, I thought,
who can really tell, but we’re not going to launch, so what the hell?
I’ll buy it.
I climbed down from the work stand and walked over to one of the
trucks parked near the B-52. This one was as large as a moving van,
with colorful Air Force insignia painted on its side and above them
the words “16th Physiological Training Flight.” This was the “home”
for the X-15 full-pressure suit. As I opened the rear door, I could
see that it was crowded inside. There along the wall were oxygen
manifolds and pegs on which the various layers of my pressure suit
were hung out, like a diver’s rig. Several X-15 suit-helmets were
fitted into other racks. Air Force Captain Ralph Richardson was in
charge of the van. His assistant was Sergeant Crow. The van was a
restricted area; supposedly, I was the only one allowed in besides
Richardson and his men and Pete Barker, North American personal
equipment specialist.
“Hi, Scotty,” Richardson said as I closed and dogged the rear door.
“Have a cup of coffee?”
Sergeant Crow handed me a steaming cup which, after my tour in the
frigid mating area, was welcome.
“You boys really know how to live,” I said, sipping the coffee. “This
van is like a home. You could drive it anywhere, park and live like a
king. How about a martini?”
“Well, we try to make our customers comfortable,” Richardson said.
“But you have to fly first.”
“Are you joking?”
“No, we have all the ingredients right here,” Richardson said,
sweeping his long arm toward the front of the well-lighted van.
“A great idea,” I said. “Like the old days in England after a raid. A
shot of whiskey for the de-briefing.”
“Exactly.”
“I’ll buy it.”
Time was ticking away rapidly. Charlie Bock and Jack Allavie, the
B-52 pilots, had arrived on the scene and reported the mother plane
ready for flight. Bill Berkowitz, the North American launch-panel
operator in the B-52, had been up the entire night preparing his
“office”--from the moment the rocket craft was rolled to the mating
area and lifted on hydraulic jacks into its nest on the B-52 pylon.
On the Edwards base a hundred other people were moving to stations,
in accordance with the plans laid during the final flight-briefing
the day before. At Air Force Fighter Ops the three chase airplanes
were being groomed for take-off. One precautionary delay or another
had already pushed our take-off time back an hour and a half.
With Pete Barker’s help I began to put on the full-pressure suit,
starting with the first layer, the set of long johns. Twenty-five
minutes later Pete zipped up the silvery, photogenic outside layer.
We “plugged” the suit into a special manifold and ran several tests
to make certain the delicate valves were operating properly. The
suit pressurized as designed, although like the X-15 it was new and
untried, and months would elapse before it could be considered a
standard issue item. By the time I left the van, helmet in hand, I
was uncomfortably hot and remained that way until I got inside the
X-15 cockpit and plugged in the nitrogen gas source which ventilated
the suit.
The area around the B-52 was not so cluttered now. The carnival was
pulling out. The ground service carts were pushed to one side, the
cables and hoses were pulled from the X-15. All the access panels on
the side of the rocket ship were back in place and she looked sleek
and clean. Now finished with their work, the ground crewmen clustered
in knots here and there beneath the B-52 wing, rubbing their hands
to keep warm. The X-15 instrument panel was alive and humming with
electrical power from the B-52. All the gauges were in the green.
Oscar Freeman, North American X-15 Crew Chief, and Pete Barker
remained on the steel working platform, heads poked inside the X-15
cockpit, cinching up my restraint harness and offering words of
advice. It seemed impossible that we were almost ready. But we were.
The time had come.
Barker picked up my helmet and lowered it gently over my head,
clamping it in place. On the left side of the X-15 cockpit there was
a valve marked: OXYGEN. B-52 SUPPLY. X-15 SUPPLY. I turned the valve
to “B-52 SUPPLY” and breathed in deeply. A special seal prevented the
nitrogen ventilation gas from the body of the suit from seeping into
the helmet. I waved my black-gloved hand sharply, and Barker slammed
the canopy shut. The inside of the canopy roof pressed against the
top of my helmet. My vision was now restricted by the narrow,
V-shaped, left-and-right X-15 windshields.
Fully settled in my tiny flight office, I could speak by radio to the
B-52 pilot, Charlie Bock, who was about thirty feet away in the nose
of the mother plane, out of sight.
“Okay, Charlie,” I said. “I’m ready when you are.” I had a small
portable tape recorder rigged in the X-15 cockpit, to take notes in
flight.
I watched from my perch forward of the wing, as the B-52 ground
chief, wearing a radio headset, waved his arm in a circle. Bock wound
up the eight jet engines one by one. When he started numbers five and
six, the two engines on the pod nearest the X-15, I felt a gentle
shaking inside the cockpit and was conscious of the muffled noise.
Then Bock rammed on power, and the massive bomber began the long
five-mile taxi to the main Edwards runway.
As we rumbled down the taxiway, the B-52 wings flexed up and down.
The X-15 flexed with the wings but the sensation was not unpleasant.
In fact, as I noted on the tape, it was much more comfortable than
being inside the bomber itself. A long line of emergency trucks sped
to pre-plotted positions along the runway. Sam Richter’s comic van,
trailed by a snake of North American ground-maintenance vehicles,
struggled to keep up. From his command post in the North American
tower, Q. C. Harvey, surrounded by his team of X-15 experts, came
on the air. Charlie Feltz and Stormy were riding in Sam’s van. The
Edwards and NASA towers reported in. Then chase planes briefly
checked radios. The emergency helicopter took to the air. Police on
the base at Edwards closed off certain roads.
At the end of the main runway Bock turned the ship and lined up
for take-off. Sitting ten feet from the concrete surface, I noted
the many black skid-marks left behind by the tires of countless
experimental planes which had preceded us, blazing the long and
turbulent history of aviation. Now, God willing, we would begin a new
and fabulous chapter in that history.