Hello, everyone! It's that time once again. Last week, we started off the part with a little light entertainment, but this week we're getting going in earnest as we dig into the political situations that will be effecting Part IV. Hope you all enjoy!
Eyes Turned Skyward, Part IV: Post #2
By any measure, the Artemis 4 crew returned from the Moon to the Earth as the most well-known astronauts since Apollo had last landed there. Not only had the live footage of the launch been watched by hundreds of millions, and not only would footage of the mission go on to be seen by billions, but the crew became the center of a massive public affairs outreach effort which included the release of an IMAX movie,
Moon compiled from footage from the mission and preparations as well as B-roll from
The Dream is Alive (mostly surrounding Natalie Duncan, who was enduring her own renown as the First Woman on the Moon). Commander Hunt, in particular, had always had a particularly high profile since the unwelcome publicity surrounding the Spacelab 28 in-flight abort; now, he had flown his last mission with NASA straight into the history books. However, when he returned to Earth, he found himself faced with a question not unlike the one in consideration by space agencies around the world: what was next?
NASA, of course, was eager to hold onto Hunt. Though it was unlikely he would ever fly again, he had a clear path as an astronaut emeritus, serving as others like Deke Slayton and John Young had before him as a senior advisor on the manned space program and on astronaut assignments as well as gaining a pulpit with which to provide his own direction to JSC operations. Having worked hard as a part of the Artemis planning to secure his flight spot and having been a part of the NASA station program for more than 20 years, continuing in a role that would allow him to make the most of the legacy he had helped to build with both was an attractive option to Hunt. On the other hand, a part of Hunt was also frustrated by the continued bureaucracy of NASA management, and the continued struggles with the Congressional red tape and budgeting issues that had held back more ambitious stations and the more ambitious early visions of Constellation’s Artemis and Ares programs. The prospect of spending another decade or more fighting similar fights was a serious drawback to staying with NASA in a more administrative role.
NASA management, however, wasn’t the only possible option; for the growing collection of space companies in the United States, an experienced engineer-trained astronaut who happened to also be famous was a promising recruitment target, and Hunt’s phone quickly began ringing with offers from companies trying to tempt him into the lucrative private sector where so many ex-astronauts, including many of his fellow moonwalkers, had gone before. On the other hand, while the private sector of spaceflight was booming in the United States and industry leaders like Boeing, Lockheed-McDonnell, and ALS made offers with compensation packages and job titles which would put anything he could achieve as a NASA civil servant to shame, Hunt wasn’t quite ready yet to step out of the potential pathfinding role in spaceflight he had at NASA for just a salary and a corner office. In the private sector, he would have little ability to shape the future direction of the space program, however large and well-funded the firm he went to work for.
As it had for other astronauts, most prominently Senators John Glenn and Harrison Schmitt, politics loomed temptingly; in Congress, Hunt might have the opportunity to really advocate for NASA. And, perhaps, he might do so from a higher position than just a Congressional seat; John Glenn had been a vice-presidential candidate in the 1984 election, after all. Finally, though, Hunt was forced to reject those outside of NASA. With no experience in electoral politics, Hunt doubted his chances in that field, and like many Americans did not have much interest in becoming a politician in the first place, while corporate jobs would offer him only money, not influence over the program's direction. No, he would stay with NASA at least until the next steps had been settled on after the 2000 election, pushing for an aggressive advance into space.
It wasn’t just in the United States that questions about the future of spaceflight were beginning to rise among senior space officials. Even while Artemis 5 carried the first European astronaut to and safely home from the moon in 2000, the ESA was deep in internal debate over its own future course. The year had already seen the successful maiden test flight of a Europa 51, the single-core basis of the Europa 5 family which was to replace the entire Europaspace lineup, and preparation of the next Minotaur flight was proceeding apace. However, while the more conventional elements of the agency's program were on track, the German-run reusability investigations were stalling out. The Horus reusable upper stage/space-plane had been successfully glide-tested, and its detailed technical design was becoming more and more fixed by the research program being carried out for it. Unfortunately, without some kind of launch craft, Horus was incapable of reaching orbital speeds, and the Hypersonic Engine Demonstrator intended to prove out the reusable air-breathing first stage of the system had suffered nothing but failures. Slower, more conventional aircraft launch systems had been considered, but without a supersonic carrier payload was still at best marginal. Placing it on top of the Europa 5 in place of Aurore was considered, but the loss of payload caused by its greater weight compared to the expendable stage more than compensated for any cost-savings, actually making the combination
less economical. Without a launch vehicle, the future of Horus--and indeed, of the entire Sanger effort--seemed on the verge of a fatal stall, though more than one engineer sought the moment to promote their own European RLV program as a Sanger modification, alternative, or replacement.
Despite its successes, the conventional program was not much more sure of its future. While celebrating the first European steps on the moon, the launch of Europa 5, and continued support of Freedom and the agency’s interplanetary probes, the very ties to the United States program that had enabled many of those achievements continued to bind. As long as they had worked in the shadow of the American and Soviet (now Russian) programs, European engineers had harbored dreams of independent access to space, their own stations, and perhaps their own Moon and Mars landings. On its own, though, ESA simply lacked the funding to sustain the kinds of achievements that the lunar and large station programs reflected, and with Minotaur manned operations still deferred pending funding and need, access remained dependent on American largesse. Planning beyond Freedom and Artemis or figuring out how to fight for a larger share of the access to these existing collaborations suffer from the drive of these visions on one side and the sad fiscal reality on the other. Unable to chart their own course, and with their plans for their attempts to leap-frog the world technologically with the Sanger RLV languishing, the future of European spaceflight would depend, as much as they would never admit it, on the decisions which would emerge from Washington at the direction of the new President.
A similar state of affairs was plaguing the Japanese space agency, JAXA, formed in 2000 from the merger of Japan’s existing trio of space agencies. The main Japanese space agency, NASDA, came into the merger with the largest ongoing operation and plans--the flights of Japanese astronauts to Freedom and the Japanese lab module Kibo, the upcoming flight of the first Japanese astronaut to the Moon on Artemis 6, and the recently-qualified H-II rocket, which in 1997 had become the nation’s first all-native large launch vehicle, replacing the final American-derived portions of the H-I. It was a spectacularly advanced vehicle: the world’s first fully hydrogen rocket, boosted by solids derived from Japan’s native Mu program. In association with the NAL, the national aerospace research agency and the second member of the trio, NASDA had also continued the work of the still-officially-uncancelled HOPE spaceplane, which they hoped to use to begin their own launches of cargo and crew to Space Station Freedom and to bargain for a larger allocation of the station’s crew slots.
However, the nation’s budget problems continued to prevent HOPE from moving off the drawing board and wind tunnel into the factory floor, and design work had begun to stagnate in the absence of forward progress. After having initially converged on a single design, the HOPE research team began to split apart as the unplanned stall in HOPE development persisted. Engineers on the team or elsewhere in Japanese spaceflight began to advance arguments for spending the time afforded by the delays on developing more exotic alternatives, or even scrapping the concept entirely and developing a cheaper capsule or dedicated cargo vehicle like the American Aardvark which, while less efficient down the line, could be afforded in the moment. The final member of the trio, the ISAS, brought with it the nation’s space probes and telescopes, such as the International Infrared Observatory and their moon probe, Kaguya, as well as the Mu rockets that had been developed into the H-II’s boosters. These missions had begun to build respect among their peer agencies for Japan’s unmanned capacities, and Kayuga in particular had been a key part of the trade to fly aboard Artemis to the moon, but plans for more ambitious missions were stifled by funding concerns similar to those of the rest of the new agency. However, after almost a decade of dreams shattered by the unexpected financial upset which had broken the Japanese economy, JAXA was becoming more comfortable making its plans based on following where the US was willing to lead.
During its heyday, the Soviet space program had been the only one capable of proceeding in direct disregard of the efforts and direction of the Americans. However, the collapse of the USSR had left the new Russian program both impoverished and uncertain of its place. In the aftermath, attempting to secure key operating funds, it had negotiated deals with several parties: with European and American rocket engine firms for some of their kerosene staged-combustion engine secrets, with India for the joint development and licensed construction of the Neva rocket, and with China for significant involvement in their Mir space station program, accelerating the first launch of Chinese cosmonauts into space and the development of their Lóngxīng crew capsule. The new millenium saw Russian financial straits looking distinctly less dire: the delayed introduction of Neva into commercial service in 1996 had finally begun to pay dividends, increasing the competitiveness of the Russian space industry with Western firms, while the general economy of the country was beginning to improve. However, at the same time that Russian mission planners began to dare to dream again, there were new questions that posed their own problems.
Most critically, Mir was aging--the massive MOK module which made up the core of the station was going on 13 years old, and the birthday did not appear to be a lucky one. Increased maintenance hadn’t been able to totally erase the backlog of concerns that the station had developed during the tight years at the turn of the 90s, and faulty wiring abroad lead to a minor fire over the summer of 2000. While the damage wasn’t severe, it did result in increased awareness of the age and condition of the station, and concerns about the state of plans for replacement if necessary--namely, that such planning was non-existent. The unexpected suggestion that replacing Mir might need to happen sooner rather than later was an unwelcome addition to the permanent balancing act involved in deciding the Russian space program, and at just the moment when the country had begun to be able to chart its own path forwards once again. While trying to match American achievements in Artemis with a native Russian program, despite the attractions, was likely too expensive, there were many alternate plans suggested, such as a reusable launcher or “space shuttle,” a series of large unmanned lunar landings, a Mars mission, perhaps including sample return, or other unmanned missions there were more viable--but only if the cost of replacing Mir was minimized. Deciding priorities when faced with such challenges would be a dominant factor on Russian space planning until the questions could be resolved.
Of course, one of the key questions the Russians faced when planning if and how to replace Mir was whether there would be continuing Chinese participation and support. Russian assistance on Lóngxīng had been quite appreciated by the Chinese, and a key part of the spacecraft’s introduction into service and flight testing, while the Russian-built Tiāngōng station module on Mir provided them with practical experience. However the Chinese plan had always been to cut the cord and proceed on their own eventually, building their own station and resupply vehicles to establish themselves as an independent peer of both the Russians and the Americans. The Chinese program had also been deliberately paced, though, and Chinese space experts weren’t quite sure that the time was ripe--at least not without an additional infusion of funding that the nation’s leaders were reluctant to allocate. Aiding the Russian financially in replacing Mir without substantial transfers to benefit the Chinese station program also seemed like a poor return for their money, leaving the Chinese with an unclear path forwards in human spaceflight. Unmanned missions beyond Earth orbit, though, seemed like they had more potential--and unmanned missions were an area where Russia could again provide a leg up for a price. As Lóngxīng continued flying to Tiāngōng, Beijing and Moscow exchanged tentative feelers for how to find a deal that would, if not please both parties, at least result in the minimum amount of displeasure for each.
With the rest of the world largely unable or unwilling to chart their own courses into the future, the role of planning the next step in space exploration fell once again to NASA. As it had with Artemis and Freedom, whatever the United States finally planned to do would undoubtedly shape not just NASA’s priorities, but the programs of every other nation on the planet. However, as the summer of 2000 rolled into the fall, any such planning was on hold, as the next Presidential election heated up, putting NASA’s future in the hands of whoever succeeded Al Gore. The Democrats, unsurprisingly, nominated Vice President Ann Richards, although only after a serious effort to derail her, spearheaded by the young and charismatic chairman of the Democratic National Committee, Bill Clinton. Ultimately, however, her name recognition as Vice President and the “historic” factor of being the first woman making a serious run for the highest office in the United States secured her nomination.
The GOP field was more fractured, with a split between the religious right and more mainstream conservatives. Early on, one of the strongest candidates was self-styled maverick John McCain, untouchable on defense and maintaining a broad appeal past the Republican base, but many senior party operatives had concerns that running an old, white man could neuter the issue of Richards’ age--one thing they hoped they could target in the general election. Instead, they converged on Carlos “Charlie” Salinas, the popular second-term governor of Florida. He’d built his Cuban-American heritage and classic conservative values into a narrative which he powerfully sold during his time as governor. In his 1998 re-election, he’d secured a near-landslide victory thanks to strong support from both the party base and from independents. Seeing a Richards-beater, many of the party leadership passed McCain over in favor of the young, charismatic governor--a slight the Senator from Arizona wouldn’t forget after a hard-fought primary campaign.
With the economy largely on a solid footing and the Christmas Plot bombings six years in the past, the campaigns largely focused on social and personal issues. Richards, whose debating and crowd skills had been critical elements of both Gore victories, managed to connect well with much of the Democratic base. While many had concerns about her age, particularly among those trying to energize and turn out the 18-24 year old vote, the appeal of electing the first woman president did manage to stir something in many women who had come of age in the 1970s and 80s. The election would historic either way, as Charlie Salinas worked to be the first minority president by weaving the same magic across the country that he had worked in Florida, using his own narrative as support of a policy of tax breaks and deregulation. However, while he had connected well with Florida’s aging whites and Cuban population, he had never run a national campaign, and the stresses showed in his performance in interviews and the debates, in which he came off as exhausted while Richards expertly spun answers about domestic and international concerns to her experience as Governor and VP--turning the age issue into an experience advantage with her characteristic wit. However, in smaller events, Salinas did manage to connect well with the base, and made inroads into the Hispanic demographic. In the end, the campaign served little effect beyond amusing the talking heads on national television--polls of Salinas vs. Richards just before the conventions predicted a narrow Richards victory, and after all the supposed gaffes and spin on both sides, the final results were just as predicted.
276 DEM-262 GOP
After Ann Richards took the oath of office on January 20, 2001, her newly-inaugurated administration faced many issues. Though as Vice President and President-Elect Richards had been aware of the Administration’s goals and had some ability to advise, now the setting of national priorities and goals settled solely on her desk. While the new President was mostly busy dealing with national issues such as domestic concerns, foreign relations, and economic policy, the question of NASA’s direction into the new millenium was also a concern. As her NASA Administrator, she elected to re-select Lloyd Davis, with whom she had built a working relationship as VP. Ironically, while the Richards-Davis report in 1993 had lead to the dismantling of much of the post-Artemis planning from Constellation, now, eight years later, it would fall to the same pair to develop their own plans for what was to follow the Artemis landings.
