From Runway to Orbit: Reflections of a NASA Engineer - Revelations about the Space Shuttle, Challenger Accident, X-15, Lifting Body Program, NASP, Hypersonics and the X-33 (NASA SP 2004-4109)
National Aeronautics and Space Administration (NASA), World Spaceflight News, Kenneth W. Iliff, Curtis L. Peebles
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From Runway to Orbit: Reflections of a NASA Engineer
NASA SP 2004-4109
Kenneth W. Iliff and Curtis L. Peebles
During the past century, human flight has evolved from a 12-second glide over the dunes of Kitty Hawk, to landings on the Moon, to long and complicated orbital missions aboard the Space Shuttle, to six month stays on the International Space Station. During the last four decades of this saga, Dr. Kenneth W. Iliff has been one of the world's foremost practitioners of flight research. Known internationally as the pioneer of parameter estimation. Iliff participated as a young engineer in the X-15 flights and contributed substantially to the famed lifting body programs. Dr. Iliff also worked for 25 years on the aerodynamics and flight characteristics of the Shuttle Orbiter. In this conversational and lively memoir, Kenneth Miff tells the personal story - which is also a national story - of finding a way to realize the dream of flying in the next dimension, direct from runway to orbit.
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For my parents, Warren and Dorothy Iliff and my wife's parents, Dean and Katheryn Shafer
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Chapter 1: Apprenticeship of a Young Engineer
Chapter 2: Birth of the Lifting Body
Chapter 3: Building the Heavyweight Lifting Bodies
Chapter 4: Flying the M2-F2 and Other Adventures
Chapter 5: Flight Research in the 1960s and Early 1970s
Chapter 6: Origins of the Space Shuttle
Chapter 7: Getting Ready to Fly
Chapter 8: The Approach-and-Landing Tests
Chapter 9: Counting Down to Launch
Chapter 11: Analyzing the Data
Chapter 12: Becoming Operational: STS-3 through STS-5
Chapter 13: STS-6 to the Loss of Challenger
Chapter 14: Return to Flight: The Shuttle Program in the 1990s and Beyond
Chapter 15: Going Nowhere Fast: The NASP
Chapter 16: Hypersonics in the 1990s
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Acknowledgements
The quest for higher and faster flight started when the Wright brothers first flew 100 years ago. This is my version of going higher and faster for the past forty years, while I worked at NASA Dryden Flight Research Center. During those years at Dryden I have been in the privileged position of analyzing data from over ninety aircraft configurations, including over thirty first flights. I was fortunate to work on, among others, all of the early lifting bodies, the X-15, the XB-70, and the Space Shuttle.
This document began as an oral history of my experiences and still bears definite signs of its origin. This is my personal story, as a working engineer. Because of this it's told from my point of view. When I started working at the NASA Dryden Flight Research Center in 1962, I worked with senior NASA employees who could remember first-hand the excitement of the Wright brothers' first powered flight in 1903. The lifetimes of those senior employees plus the forty years of my career span one hundred years of powered flight, from the Wright Flyer at Kitty Hawk to the Space Shuttle Orbiter and beyond.
This story, personal though it may seem, involves the contributions of thousands of dedicated and talented people. I have only mentioned the few with whom I worked closely and with whom I remembered as I recounted my version of these past forty years.
The loss of the Space Shuttle Columbia and her crew happened when this document was in the final stage of editing. Like everyone else, I had a very emotional response to the loss itself, as well as the subsequent investigation. I originally felt that I should redo the Shuttle-related material to emphasize the dedication of those who worked so hard to make the Shuttle, a very complex vehicle, fly so well for the past 25 years. On reflection, the publishers of this book decided to leave the discussion of the loss of Columbia to later writings.
There are many people to whom I owe much for the help they gave me. The first is my co-author, Curtis Peebles, who did all the hard work of turning the original taped narration into a coherent document. Dill Hunley. retired Dryden Center Historian, suggested that I make the narration and then encouraged me to turn it into this book. Michael Gorn, the present Dryden Center Historian, has been dedicated to getting the account from draft form to publishable document.
Many people assisted in the transformation of the extremely rough draft into a finished book. While I can't name them all I can list the major contributors. The process of publication is very demanding and sometimes tedious, but these people persisted, driven by their professional pride, desire for accuracy, general obsessiveness. and goodwill toward me.
These individuals include Bill Dana (retired Dryden research test pilot). Ed Saltzman and Mary Shafer (both retired Dryden research engineers), Darlene Lister, and Sue Henderson. All of them read the entire manuscript and made innumerable suggestions and corrections that turned the document into an accurate historical account. (Mary Shafer's motives also included the understandable desire not to have her husband, me. look any more foolish than necessary.)
In addition, Tony Landis, Ed Saltzman, and Joy Nordberg spent many hours helping me find the photographs that I used. Mary Shafer also provided a number of Dryden photos from her collection. Once we found the right pictures. Carla Thomas scanned and perfected them, a process necessary for the high quality images she demanded.
Barbara Rogers and Sylvia Dolber ensured that all my references are available to the public. Muriel Khachooni compiled the list of references and checked the accuracy of every citation using the original documents. Denny Gonia contributed to the creation of the appendices.
Dryden DC-8 pilot Mark Pestana painted the beautiful jacket pictures. Justine Mack created all the line drawings, just as she has done for years for my technical publications. Steve Lighthill laid the book out in its beautiful final form.
However, even the most gifted specialists sometimes miss things. All errors and omissions in this book are my responsibility.
Preface
In his remarkable memoir Runway to Orbit, Dr. Kenneth W. Iliff - the recently retired chief Scientist of the NASA Dryden Flight Research Center - tells a highly personal, yet a highly persuasive account of the last forty years of American aeronautical research. His interpretation of events commands respect, because over these years he has played pivotal roles in many of the most important American aeronautics and spaceflight endeavors. Moreover, his narrative covers much of the second half of the first 100 years of flight, a centennial anniversary being celebrated this year.
Dr. Iliff's story is one of immense contributions to the nation's repository of aerospace knowledge. He arrived at the then NASA Flight Research Center in 1962 as a young aeronautical engineer and quickly became involved in two of the seminal projects of modern flight, the X-15 and the lifting bodies. In the process, he pioneered (with Lawrence Taylor) the application of digital computing to the reduction of flight data, arriving at a method known as parameter estimation, now applied the world over. Parameter estimation not only enabled researchers to acquire stability and control derivatives from limited flight data, but in time allowed them to obtain a wide range of aerodynamic effects. Although subsequently involved in dozens of important projects. Dr. Iliff devoted much of his time and energy to hypersonic flight, embodied in the Shuttle orbiter (or as he refers to it, the world's fastest airplane). To him, each Shuttle flight, instrumented to obtain a variety of data, represents a research treasure trove, one that he has mined for years.
This book, then, represents the story of Dr. Ken Iliff s passion for flight, his work, and his long and astoundingly productive career. It can be read with profit not just by scientists and engineers, but equally by policy makers, historians, and journalists wishing to better comprehend advancements in flight during the second half of the twentieth century,
Kevin L. Petersen
Director, NASA Dryden Flight Research Center
October 2003
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Foreword
Dr. Kenneth W. Iliff has had a long and distinguished career in aerospace at NASA Dryden Flight Research Center. The retired Dryden Chief Scientist has now written a history of the activities that comprise his life's work. The scope of his activities were extraordinarily broad and he has a fascinating story to tell, partly because he was born at the right time and chose the right career, but also because he possesses a highly original vision of the future, penetrating observational skills, and a storyteller's knack for recounting a good tale.
Ken W. Iliff was born during World War II in rural Iowa. When Sputnik orbited in 1957, Ken was in high school. He was captivated by the space program, and shortly after the launch of Sputnik, began building and launching rockets of his own design.
Ken attended Iowa State University, graduating in 1962 with degrees in mathematics and aerospace engineering. He received offers of employment in aerospace engineering from the government as well as from private industry, but he chose to work for NASA Dryden Flight Research Center at Edwards Air Force Base in California.
NASA Dryden's major program in 1962 was the X-15 research airplane, then in its envelope-expansion phase. Iliff quickly gravitated toward that program, where he analyzed vehicle stability and control. He remained with the X-15 in a number of capacities until it was cancelled in 1968. He also worked with the advanced Mach 6.7 version of the X-15 and the proposed delta-winged design.
Ken's career also included the M2-F1 lifting body, the first of its kind ever to fly with a human aboard it. Ken's work with the lightweight M2-F1 led him to the M2-F2, a lifting body almost identical in shape to the M2-F1, but built of aluminum and stressed for supersonic flight.
The M2-F2 had an instability in its roll axis which caused it to oscillate in bank angle when flown to low angle of attack. In From Runway to Orbit, Ken covers in detail his frustrations with the M2-F2.
His next project involved the XB-70, a large Mach 3 prototype bomber acquired from the U.S. Air Force as a research airplane. The XB-70 shared with the lifting bodies and X-15 a common problem: it was difficult for the research engineers servicing these research airplanes to separate and identify the aerodynamic and other parameters that define their behavior in flight. Ken, challenged by this difficulty, developed a theory that he termed "maximum likelihood estimator" to assess parameter values. A revised version, known as the "modified maximum likelihood estimator," or MMLE is used by flight-test organizations worldwide to extract estimates of aircraft aerodynamic, structural, and performance parameters.
After a break to attend graduate school, Ken returned to NASA Dryden in 1971 and began to work on the Space Shuttle, still in its formative stage. Dr. Iliff observes that although technology existed to build a modest two-stage-to-orbit spacecraft (the second stage of which could serve as a space-station supply vehicle) Congress mandated requirements that inhibited its pursuit. Ken notes with insight the congressional decision and its result.
Ken worked on the Space Shuttle for 15 years—from the early stage, through the approach-and-landing tests, to orbital flight test and post-Challenger operations. He also contributed to several advanced airplane design studies, including the now-cancelled National Aerospace Plane and several multistage concepts which proposed to use the SR-71 reconnaissance airplane as the first stage.
From Runway to Orbit makes observations about the United States aerospace program that will not be found elsewhere. The chapter about the National Aerospace Plane is in itself worth the price of the book, as is the story of a trip Ken took to the Soviet Union during the height of the Cold War.
This volume will satisfy the most ardent aerospace-history enthusiast, and will inform the thinking of the present generation of engineers, students, and policy analysts alike.
William H. Dana
NASA Dryden Flight Research Center
September 2003
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Introduction
The first thing I noticed was an incredibly bright flash at the base of the Saturn V. The flame got brighter and larger as it spread up the side of the thrust trench. Slowly, the 363-foot vehicle started to lift off the launch pad. At first, I could see very little acceleration as Apollo 11 rose up along the gantry. About 12 seconds after launch. I started hearing the sound. It was absolutely overpowering. I've never heard a recording that did it justice. It was as if the air were discontinuous, the sound coming in crackling waves.
My body resonated with the power of the sound. The further the vehicle lifted, the more energy I got from the sound. I was completely awed by what I was observing. As Apollo 11 got higher, there was a small, thin cloud above the launch pad. I could see through it, but it was there, nonetheless. As Apollo 11 passed through that cloud, the engine exhaust left a round hole larger than the vehicle. I could even see a change in the light from the hole in that small cloud. I've never seen a film of the Apollo 11 launch that even approaches showing the extreme contrast between the blue mid-morning sky and that long bright flame. I could see the white vehicle perched on top of an exceedingly long yellow flame. The edges of the flame were so sharp and bright that it looked like an animation. I, like the other people in the VIP area on July 16, 1969, continued to watch this spectacle, which I've used in evaluating all later engineering accomplishments in my career. Also in the VIP area were Vice President Spiro Agnew, high-ranking NASA managers, various entertainers including Johnny Carson, and a few people who, like me, were lucky enough to get passes. I sat in the VIP area because I'd had the good fortune of knowing astronaut Fred Haise when he was a test pilot at the NASA Dryden Flight Research Center.
For the two days prior to the launch, I observed the three Apollo 11 astronauts in simulations. Watched them rehearse the various failures and emergencies, it was obvious that the astronauts were bored with this process, because they were flip in some of their responses, although Neil Armstrong was very quiet, as he always was. A pilot at the Dryden Flight Research Center, he had been selected as an astronaut just as I arrived there. The astronauts' bored response to the emergencies being simulated was something that I had frequently observed in the X-15 simulator, the project on which I had just completed work prior to the Apollo 11 launch.
At Dryden, I'd had the opportunity to work a great deal with Fred Haise in the simulator and in other studies, primarily with the lifting body program (1). In addition to being a very smart, easygoing, nice guy, Fred was an outstanding engineer, so it was natural for me to work with him. We could converse engineer-to-engineer sorting out the problems that we were trying to resolve. After Fred was selected for the astronaut program, I'd kept in infrequent touch with him. I hadn't expected him to be able to get me a pass to watch the launch because I'd asked late, fairly close to the Apollo 11 launch date. But Fred managed to get VIP passes for a friend, Lowell Greenfield, and me.
This event is pivotal to the story I will tell because for the previous decade, much of the United States' technical resources, like the U.S.S.R.'s, had been devoted to the space program. Most NASA engineers were big supporters of the space program. We felt that going to the Moon was well worth doing, even if it meant that some of the things we thought needed to be done in aeronautics would be delayed somewhat.
After the launch, the Vice President made a speech on future space policy. Most of us hoped he was going to say that now that we'd shown that we could go to the Moon, we were going to take the next step, landing on Mars. Unfortunately, he didn't say that. What he did say was that the United States had many problems and needed to use the resources of the space program here on earth for problems like the Vietnam War. I had always wanted us to go to Mars to explore the possibility of life there and learn what the environment was like, so I was disappointed.
The Road to Space
My interest in space began when I was a child in West Union, Iowa. I remember hearing about the first supersonic flight when I was six years old. It was a big deal but it wasn't announced until a while later. Nevertheless, everybody I knew who had an interest in aviation was quite excited about it, as I recall. By the time I reached high school, I'd read science fiction, by Jules Verne and others, about going into outer space, but the books and stories usually involved voyages to the Moon, a planet, or other stars. I'd also seen some science fiction movies in the mid-1950s. I knew that there were real rockets, but there wasn't much film coverage of them then. Occasionally, you could see film of an actual rocket launch, but that was about it.
The concept of humans actually leaving the Earth never occurred to me, as I remember, although it was accepted widely in science fiction. In later years, I read that Konstantin Tsiolkovsky of Russia was probably the first person to look seriously at these concepts, at the end of the 19th century. Everything changed, of course, in October 1957, when the Soviets orbited Sputnik I. For the first time, it occurred to me that orbiting the Earth had real significance. I had read things that mentioned it, but it hadn't really sunk in, for me or most Americans, until the Soviets did it with Sputnik.
Having been good in science in high school, I decided (in the wake of Sputnik) that I'd like to make some rockets. I did know a little bit about them. Zinc and sulfur rockets were fairly straightforward and I knew the mixtures needed to make them work. With my science instructor's permission, I ordered the mossy zinc and the sulfur I needed for the rockets.
Together with Larry Enderes (a friend since the age of seven) we started our own rocket program. We began with pinched-off copper tubing and launched the rockets from my back yard. They'd go up a few hundred feet and come tumbling down. We very quickly learned how to make rockets that would go up a little ways. We also learned that they got very hot, that if we went over and picked up the rockets when they first came down, we'd burn our hands. So we came up with welding a nut on the end of the thin-wall tubing. We would load the tube up with the zinc and sulfur mixture and put fins on the back of the rocket to stabilize it, but we never launched those rockets in town. Another friend, Jim Grimes, lived in the country. Larry and I found one area on Jim's father's farm that was a little hillier than others, with a gully we could get down in to launch the rockets. We actually had our own little natural bunker. We could duck down behind a little ridge in this gully and not have to worry about explosions.
We learned to launch some fairly big zinc and sulfur rockets. Then we tried other kinds of propellant. We made bigger rockets, with bigger tubes, bigger fins, and more zinc and sulfur. We tried two-stage rockets which we got to work by using a technique that we had stumbled across. We found that if we put gasoline in the zinc and sulfur mixture for the second stage, it wouldn't ignite until all the gasoline had burned off. So we used gasoline as an internal fuse for the second stage. Obviously, it didn't stage optimally, but both stages did fire. We sent up mice and parachuted them back down to earth. Sometimes the parachute failed, which was very bad news for the mouse. When we couldn't find a mouse, we'd send up a cricket or something like that. Larry and I were emulating the space programs as we understood them, trying to see for ourselves how things worked. We were not the only high school kids doing this sort of thing, naturally.
We thought that we'd gotten a rocket up over nine thousand feet once calculating by triangulation and timing. We could see from the ground that when the parachute came out, the rocket was at its apex. Timing from parachute release until the rocket hit the ground was our most accurate way of determining altitude. Thinking about it years later, I realized our technique wasn't all that accurate. That rocket could have reached only six thousand feet, or gone as high as ten thousand. The Chicago Tribune printed a story about our success, saying that it may have been a record altitude for an amateur rocket.
These rocket nights probably focused my interests toward space. Many other Americans my age with a bent toward physics, chemistry, engineering, or mathematics were also attracted to it because it seemed important to the nation, as well as being a field where one might make a useful scientific contribution.
I briefly thought of starting my career after I received my degree in mathematics from Iowa State University. I was 20 years old, and it seemed like a good time to start making money and quit accumulating college debt. However, because my roommate, John McElrath, seemed to be enjoying aerospace engineering so much, I decided to also finish a second degree in aerospace engineering, which I did the following year.
After graduating from Iowa State University with Bachelors degrees in math and aerospace engineering, I wanted to be involved in aircraft or space activity. My two primary choices were going to work for NASA - at Kennedy Space Center in Florida or Dryden Flight Research Center in California. This was during the Mercury program, shortly after John Glenn had orbited the Earth. At the time I felt that I probably could make a bigger contribution and have a more exciting career if I went to work at Dryden, a smaller place and not as much in the public eye as Kennedy. It also meant working on the very important problem of getting aircraft from the ground into high altitude and high speed regimes.
Other factors influenced my decision. Having spent most of my life in Iowa, California in the early 1960s had that special attraction of being where life was really happening, where all kinds of exciting things were going on. There was an ocean and mountains and California girls, as the song said. As a young bachelor, I felt California to be a good decision.
Dryden and Kennedy offered the lowest pay, with the exception of the Army Corps of Engineers. My initial salary, I believe, was about $6,300. I had also received offers from Rockwell. Lockheed, and McDonnell in the $8,000 range. But work, not money, was the issue.
I had read and studied about what had gone on at Edwards Air Force Base and Dryden. I was particularly attracted to the X-15 program, which had had a fair amount of publicity in popular publications. I thought it sounded like what I might want to do.
Getting Started: From X-1 to Dyna-Soar
Dryden and the Air Force Flight Test Center (AFFTC) made the first step in going from the runway to orbit in 1947 with the first supersonic flight. The goal in 1947 was to penetrate both the supersonic and the transonic regimes to try to understand them. The X-1 was mated to the B-29 mothership and flown to an altitude where it could be dropped. The X-1 could then either glide back and land or fire its rockets and accelerate, which it ultimately did on October 14, 1947, in the first supersonic flight with Chuck Yeager.
The advantage of the X-1 team's approach was probably obvious to the team members and, as a young engineer, it soon became obvious to me. By using an air-breathing first stage (the B-29) and a rocket-powered second stage (the X-1). they separated the problem into two well-behaved, well-understood regimes. The rocket part was less well understood, but they expanded the flight envelope incrementally, so they understood the subsonic and transonic regimes most of the way to Mach 1.
This approach also relieved the problems of energy management and abort contingencies. By using the well-tested air-breathing propulsion system in the first stage, they could position the vehicle at a point where it could launch, knowing that if the rocket didn't light, the pilot could still land the vehicle on the dry lakebed. If it did light, the pilot could accelerate, and the energy and maneuverability of the vehicle would enable it to glide (once the rocket was out of fuel) to a safe landing on the dry lakebed. Another advantage of air launch is that at any point prior to the drop, the launch can be aborted. Aborting the launch preserved the system and bringing back both the mothership and the X-1 to earth allowed the problem to be sorted out. The two vehicles might have to be demated for some major modifications, or the problem might turn out to be something small, caused by the weather or an instrument failure.
In my opinion, the technique chosen in the 1940s to launch the X-1 is still the optimum way to fly from the runway into orbit and beyond. The D-558-II and X-2 aircraft also used the same approach of going to the launch point, being able to abort at any point prior to that, and then flying with incremental increases in velocity and altitude. Throughout all of this the pilot knew that he could get back to land on the dry lakebed at Edwards.
Energy management was probably the primary problem on Mel Apt's fatal flight in the X-2. He went faster than the night planners had intended and could see that his landing site was going by too fast, so when he elected to turn the vehicle while it was still above Mach 2, he got into trouble. My opinion, based largely on what Richard Day - a retired NASA engineer and inertial coupling researcher - has said that Apt had gone beyond his normal landing point because he'd gone faster and, therefore, further. As he decelerated he continued to go further from his landing point.
Apt knew the vehicle was predicted to be unstable above Mach 2 at a significant angle of attack. Pilots in such an airplane tend to be sure they can sort out those things out in terms of stability and control and handling qualities, get the vehicle pointed the oilier direction, and then proceed with the flight as planned. In Mel Apt's case, the inertial coupling was so large that he was unable to compensate for it with his piloting skills and he lost control.
As the NACA and AFFTC pursued the X-15 program, the idea was to understand the hypersonic region up to Mach 6 and the high-altitude region of rarified air where reaction controls had to be used to control the vehicle (because there was not enough dynamic pressure at the low atmospheric density there to use standard aerodynamic controls).
They used the same approach of going from the runway on the B-52 mothership to some predetermined launch point uprange. If the X-15 pilot had to abort, he might not be able to reach Rogers Dry Lake, but he could land on one of the alternate lakebed sites. Doing that meant energy management became a bigger issue. However, the idea was to select a specific launch point so that if the rocket failed to work - did not start, did not work long enough, or did not get sufficient power - the pilot could always abort to one of the uprange lakebeds along the ground track. If the rocket did work, the vehicle would be near Rogers Dry Lake and, as with the X-1 and D-558-II, the pilot would be able to make the intended dead-stick landing.
Using this approach throughout the X-15 program we had many aborts. After takeoff, we would find something on the "no-go" list. We would abort the flight, return, and analyze the problem on the ground until we were fairly sure that everything was going to work. Then we would again mate the X-15 to the B-52, refuel, and fly back to the launch point. There's always a risk in these things, so we'd try to take care of all foreseeable difficulties while still taking a big enough step forward that we would continue to expand the flight envelope learning even more.
When I arrived at Dryden in 1962, the X-15 program was involved in envelope expansion, using the XLR-99 engine to get the vehicle going as fast and as high as possible. During the next few years, Joe Walker set the altitude record, above 350,000 feet, for a winged vehicle. After that we concentrated more on issues of high-dynamic-pressure heating in the hypersonic (above Mach 5) region.
To get the X-15 to go a little faster, tanks were added, making it a three-stage vehicle - the First stage being the B-52, the second stage being the reusable tanks that would be dropped and parachuted up range, and the third stage being the X-15 itself. We were still using the air launch as the first stage and the rocket, in this case, as both the second and the third stages. Some might prefer to call it two-and-a-half stages instead of three, but I always viewed it as three stages.
Another Road to Space
As the X-15 underwent development during the late 1950s, the future was taking a different shape. Since the late 1920s, it had been assumed that spaceflight would be an extension of atmospheric flight. This assumption was implicit in the so-called Round One, Round Two, and Round Three concept. The X-1, D-558, and X-2 aircraft constituted Round One. designed to reach higher Mach numbers and altitudes within the atmosphere. The X-15 ( Round Two) was intended to reach hypersonic speeds and make brief forays to the edge of space. The X-20 Dyna-Soar (Round Three) was planned to test the ability of a winged spacecraft to reenter from space and make a controlled horizontal landing. Beyond the X-20, the Aerospaceplane concept envisioned taking off from a runway, fly into orbit, and then return to Earth. It was conceived lo be the ultimate achievement of aviation technology. The X-20 and Aerospaceplane were cancelled in 1963 because of cost and other constraints.
With the launch of Sputnik I by the USSR on October 4, 1957, space became an arena for the Cold War rivalry. While a winged spacecraft was still a distant possibility, a capsule could be developed and launched using existing technology and boosters. As a result, both the U.S. and the USSR selected capsule designs for their early manned spacecraft. A capsule launched by a ballistic missile supplanted the winged spacecraft because the United States was in a race, first of all, to get people into orbit and, second, to go to the Moon and return safely. But this approach did not seem to me to be an impediment to ultimately going from a runway to orbit. It had a different objective, but it shared some of the risks and physics involved in transitioning from an air-breather on the runway to a vehicle that ended up in space, came back, and landed.
The initial capsule launches occurred during my college years, and I followed them closely, finding them exciting and interesting. These were the Vostok launches of Yuri Gagarin and Gherman Titov in the U.S.S.R. followed in the U.S. by the orbital flight of John Glenn after two suborbital flights by Alan Shepard and Gus Grissom.
The Vostok was a zero-lift capsule in the shape of a sphere. One side of the capsule had ablative material on it, and the capsule's center of gravity was positioned so that the Vostok would automatically reenter with the ablative side forward. The Soviets conducted their launches with elliptical orbits so that even if the de-orbit burn failed, in a week or so the orbit would decay, the capsule would re-enter, and the cosmonaut would land by parachute somewhere on Earth. The cosmonaut had enough oxygen and other supplies to survive that long.
In those days, we thought the Soviets lacked concern for the lives of their cosmonauts. Years later, it became clear that the Soviets had the same fears and hopes for their cosmonauts that we had for our astronauts. The Soviets' very simple approach of a spherical capsule with no lift and an elliptical orbit was actually one of the most risk-reducing approaches to putting a cosmonaut into space.
The U.S. picked a similar concept for the Mercury program, a cone-shaped capsule that was parachuted into the ocean for recovery by the Navy. Our capsules also did not generate any lift, so astronauts ended up spending a very short time in reentry but were under very high g's. which they found to be very uncomfortable. Of course, the cosmonauts endured the same discomfort in the spherical Vostok capsule.
In the early 1960s, nobody had flown a lifting entry in a capsule. In contrast, the later Gemini and Apollo capsules had low hypersonic maximum lift-over-drag ratios L/D max in the neighborhood of .4 or .5. These were the first capsules to generate any lift, which, by rotating the vehicle, presented the opportunity to change not only where it landed downrange but also to change the lateral (crossrange) displacement during the re-entry, or the "footprint."
After the retros were fired on a Mercury capsule, the footprint was fairly small. For Gemini or Apollo, the capsule generated enough lift to increase crossrange and modulate downrange for a more precise landing. For Gemini and Apollo capsules, the landing was in water, in the Pacific and Atlantic Oceans. When things went as planned, the primary recovery ship would be nearby.
At that time, some of us at Dryden were working on a different concept. Partly it was an outgrowth of the earlier work done with winged vehicles like the X-1 and X-15. It also involved a hybrid concept, a wingless vehicle which could develop lift. The "lifting body" idea had come from research on warhead designs. Cutting a cone in half created a shape which could develop a small amount of lift. With this and other control surfaces, the object could be steered and maneuvered. All of the lifting-body shapes of the late 1950s and early 1960s had hypersonic L/D max ratios of 1.2 up to 1.5, much greater than the L/D max ratio of the Gemini or Apollo spacecraft. With that much L/D max in hypersonic regions, the footprint was increased so a vehicle would have a crossrange that allowed it to return roughly to its launch point after one orbit.
Some fairly elementary orbital mechanics show that a hypersonic L/D max of 1.2 or greater will give sufficient crossrange to launch from and land at Kennedy. It also improves the downrange picture. By modulating energy with bank reversals/ as the Shuttle does, crossrange and downrange can be controlled to land a vehicle where intended.
The idea of an air-launched, two-stage orbital vehicle was more or less in the back of my mind during the 1970s and afterward. I'm not sure whether somebody told me the idea or whether it was my own extrapolation, a unique combination of things that I was working on then. In any event, these concepts used technologies that we really weren't ready to send into space in the early 1960s, when I started work at Dryden, but working on them was a good exercise in terms of getting us focused on the right problem. They led ultimately to the Shuttle'' and will, I hope, lead to future vehicles as well.
1. See Appendix A for the various terms for pilots used throughout the text.
2. We will refer to the Dryden Flight Research Center (Dryden or DFRC) throughout the text, regardless of the name used at that time. See Appendix B for the actual names at the various parts of the chronology.
3. Three-view drawings of the aircraft that I discuss in detail are given in Appendix C.
4. The glideslope is roughly proportional to the inverse of the L/D ratio, or D/L. The higher L/D is, the shallower the glideslope is and the larger the downrange and crossrange.
5. See Appendix C for the terminology used for various Shuttle configurations.
6. We use the terms "Shuttle," "Orbiter," and "Shuttle Orbiter" interchangeably, except where context makes it clear that we are referring to the Orbiter, external tank (ET). and two solid rocket boosters (SRBs). The term "Shuttle stack" refers to the Orbiter, ET and SRBs.
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Apprenticeship of a Young Engineer
As graduation from Iowa State drew near. Don Kordes from NASA Dryden interviewed me and made me an offer. So with my degrees in math and aerospace engineering. I started work at Dryden in 1962, My primary assignment was to support the X-15. (2-7) (Fig, 1) I'm sure my job description said more than that, but that's how it was explained to me. Being fresh out of college I didn't know exactly what this meant. My first supervisor, Gene Matranga, was quite busy at the time, shepherding the maturation of the Lunar Landing Research Vehicle (LLRV) concept. Gene had a lot of experience working on the X-15 and other vehicles, and occasionally made himself available to me.
Data Processing
But since Gene was so busy. I mostly talked to my actual supervisor at the time, Ed Holleman, Ed said, "Well, just pitch in where you're needed." That was the sort of mentoring that was done at Dryden then. I found engineers who had some lower level analysis to do that was time-consuming or just not much fun. and they'd let me volunteer to do it for them.
The data systems on the X-15s were very simple by current standards; a film that recorded the movements of the galvanometers as they reflected light from tiny mirrors onto the film. (8) If you looked at the data from one today, it would look like a bunch of random squiggles, lots of them, all over a piece of film three or four inches wide. We read the traces from copies of the film, or we worked from Ozalid copies. They had a film scale that looked like a clear ruler with various scales. For identification most channels had a uniquely-placed gap in each trace. There was a zero point and a scale for each signal. We would read off the scale from the zero point. A person could get pretty good at using the film scale and those people who had been doing it a long time always got the best answer. With some practice we all picked up the knack and would then would perform various calculations, converting the position of that trace on the film to engineering units.
The conversions were done using what today would be called a spreadsheet. Above each column, I would write down each step of the calculation - such as add A to B, or divide A by B - as I worked my way across this sheet. The time of the flight was on the film, so I could read it off for the interval I wanted. Most of what I was doing were time histories, so each trace moved throughout the maneuver that I was reading up. I usually read the traces at intervals of ten data points per second. I think the more skilled people could do a little better. but that was the standard in trying to read traces. As can be imagined, there were a lot of opportunities for me to volunteer to do those calculations. Sometimes it wasn't volunteering, though. People would get behind, trying to get results calculated in time to make the input for the next flight plan or to understand something before the next flight and it would be all hands and the cook helping.
Doing these conversions could become tedious, but as a new engineer, I found the task interesting. If the data needed to be very accurate we used the Frieden calculator, a noisy one-of-a-kind mechanical device that multiplied, divided, subtracted, and added to many decimal places accurately. A few of them, the very special ones for the very privileged people, would take a square root. If you felt like creating a little turmoil, it was fun to go into a quiet office, plug a number into their Frieden, start it up taking the square root, then leave the room. I have no idea how the Frieden took the square root mechanically, but it made a lot of racket for a long time. Everybody in the office knew what you had done, and later they would berate you for creating all that uproar. We didn't have a Frieden in the first office I was in, and there were five engineers in that office when I started.