_Live From Cape Canaveral_ - Jay Barbree [54]
Later that day, there was again the salute, the bugler’s stirring taps, and the thunder of jet fighters as Roger Chaffee went to rest at Grissom’s side.
On the same afternoon, on a bluff overlooking his beloved West Point, Ed White went to his final destination.
It was over.
And as Deke promised Gus, Ed, and Roger, it never happened again on his watch.
There was a new beginning.
The Apollo 1 fire sent red flags sailing through the space agency and its contractors with one question: Why? NASA boss James Webb gave the job of answering that question to Floyd L. Thompson, director of the Langley Research Center in Virginia. He ordered Thompson to set up a board of review: “Find out what the hell really happened, Floyd, and get back to me as soon as possible.” Thompson nodded and brought in some of the toughest investigators and specialists on the planet. Among them was Frank Borman, who had commanded the two-week Gemini 7 flight. Together, they assembled a team of fifteen hundred men and women to trace every inch Apollo 1 had traveled in its construction, its movements from hangar to hangar, and its tests on its launch pad.
They looked at thousands of dials and switches and transistors and electrical connections, and then they built an exact copy of Apollo 1 and set it ablaze. The test badly shook many who could not study the results until the next day. Some went home and stared at the walls.
From the outset, heads rolled in the top reaches of executive suites. The search for incompetence didn’t have far to go. It was right in front of the investigators’ eyes.
By summer’s end 1967, NASA’s George Page, a veteran of the Mercury and Gemini flights, could swallow no more. He was sick of all the politicos’ posturing, stabbing fingers into the air, declaring their innocence while demanding something be done. The problems, Page knew, would be solved at the grunt level, with the techs and engineers pulling wire and turning wrenches, if only the suits in Washington would give them the time.
Page was one of NASA’s best managers and he knew who could make the trains run on time. He phoned an old friend. T. J. O’Malley was in Quincy, Massachusetts, working for General Dynamics’ electric boat division.
“T. J., this is George.”
“Hello there, Mister Page,” O’Malley smiled down the line. “How’s everything at the Cape?”
“A mess,” George said flatly. “No, let’s make that a goddamn mess.”
“How many asses have you hanged for that fire?”
“Not enough,” George said. “If we hanged all those we should, we’d run out of rope.”
“That bad, huh?”
“Yep, T. J., it’s that bad.” He paused. “We need you, old friend. We need you.”
“Well, George,” T. J. spoke seriously, “I’m expecting a promotion here. I’m expecting it tomorrow morning in fact. And…”
Page interrupted. “T. J., we’re in a terrible mess. We need you,” he pleaded. “Please think it over tonight and we’ll have Buzz Hello call you tomorrow morning.” Buzz Hello was the vice president for North American Aviation, builders of the Apollo.
T. J. O’Malley turned to his wife, Ann. Few disputed the fact O’Malley had married well above his station in life, and he said, “Mrs. O’Malley, George says they need me at the Cape.”
“Tom,” she said lovingly, “you’ve always made this family a good living. We’re with you. It’s your decision, but,” she winked, “Cocoa Beach is nice.”
Thomas J. O’Malley returned to Cape Canaveral exactly one year to the day he had left and was immediately given the job as director of Apollo Operations by North American Aviation.
He went to work that afternoon and within minutes, he knew two things. One, George Page was right on target. And two, he wasn’t sure Page was his friend. What in the hell had George gotten him into?
There were no simple checks and balances in the Apollo operation. Each department was going down its own road. Each was