Kolyma's Shadow: An Alternate Space Race

Part I Post #1: Teaser
  • 14149695645_d9124b2069_z.jpg


    Part I Post #1: Teaser


    Wernher von Braun was not a happy man. Entering his Cocoa Beach hotel room, he slammed the door behind him and headed straight for the minibar. Grabbing a bottle of Bourbon, he poured himself a large glass and gulped down a mouthful.

    He’d just left a celebration party. His celebration party.

    The launch had gone perfectly, of course, just as he knew it would. Just as he’d been telling everyone it would since Project Orbiter began. A slight modification to the Redstone missile, add a cluster of solid rockets to the top and Bingo! A simple, effective space launcher, ready to go at minimal cost. And it had worked. This afternoon the Juno rocket – his rocket – had placed a satellite into Earth orbit.

    That rocket was the culmination of a dream for von Braun. He had dedicated his life to rocketry and the goal of exploring outer space. The pursuit of that dream by any means had led him from the suburbs of Berlin to the Baltic coast, and finally all the way to the United States. And now here it was! The dream fulfilled – a rocket into space!

    Von Braun gulped down the rest of the Bourbon and poured another, eyes turned downwards. Yes, a great triumph, for him personally and for the United States – but to be second! For a man as driven as he, it was almost too much to bear.

    If only they’d listened! He had been ready to make an orbital launch almost two years ago, but he’d been forced to hold back, even to add ballast to the rocket to make sure it didn’t enter orbit by mistake! And before that, the years wasted at Fort Bliss, he and his team of German rocket experts left kicking their heels whilst the Americans debated what to do with them. Given the support he’d asked for, the United States could have entered the Space Age in 1953 instead of 1958!

    Even given all that, von Braun might have been able to take some small comfort from this belated success. But after all his hard work, to have been beaten into space! Beaten... by the Navy!


    Three Months Earlier…


    Vasily Mishin was not a happy man. He should have been. He had been dreaming of space since the 1930s. Inspired by the works of Tsiolkovsky, he’d joined that happy group of rocketeers at GIRD, then stayed with them as they had been re-formed into the Reaction-Engine Scientific Research Institute. Happy days, before the purges, with Tsander, Glushko, Tikhonravov and the others, working on the cutting edge of science and technology. And here he was, a quarter of a century later, watching his country’s first space rocket as it prepared to launch the satellite he and his bureau had worked so hard on stand ready on the pad under the bright Kazakh sun.

    The rocket should have been inspiring. Mishin found it sinister.

    “Blow my brains out! If it isn’t my old comrade Vasily Pavlovich! When did you escape exile in Miass?”

    Mishin turned to see Aleksei Isaev emerge from the bunker, cigarette in hand. “Hello, Aleksei,” Mishin replied. “I came with Mikhail Kladiyevich to see off his satellite. Assuming that poisoned firecracker can make it off the pad.”

    “Come now Vasily,” Isaev admonished him. “It’s not like it was before you left. Vladimir Nikolaevich has solved the teething problems now. They’ve made it two successful launches out of two since his team went through the project. Ol’ Number Six will deliver your package, don’t worry.”

    “I hope so,” replied Mishin. “If that thing explodes on the launch pad, how do you suppose they'll clean up such a toxic mess? Assuming of course we survived that long.”

    “Vasily, Vasily, still with this argument?” Isaev blew smoke and shook his head. “I know it’s a risk. I was here at Tyuratam during the accident, remember? I saw what can happen. But procedures have been tightened since then. Everyone takes much more care. It won’t happen again.”

    Mishin’s eyes flashed anger. “But it’s not necessary, Aleksei! If they’d just listened to me, we could have an effective, safe rocket with which to journey into space!”

    Isaev was about the answer, but just then a siren sounded and an announcement came over the tannoy:

    “Attention! Your attention please! Launch in ten minutes! Ten minutes to launch!”

    Isaev turned to his old comrade, placing a friendly hand on his arm. “Come on,” he said. “There’s no point re-fighting lost battles. Let us go together to the launch control room and see if our Comrade Chief Designer Chelomei can make it three out of three.”


    Nineteen Years Earlier…


    Cold. Hunger. They were his world.

    When he’d first received word of his transfer from Kolyma, his fellow prisoners had found as many spare clothes as they could and given them to him, to keep him warm on the journey.
    Forced to make his own way, one of the sweaters they’d donated had to be handed over as the price of hitching the 150 kilometres to Magadan on a passing truck. But even had he kept the sweater, the Siberian winter would still have found him.

    Cold. Minus forty degrees centigrade. The snow thick upon the ground. A few extra shirts were no defence.

    Perhaps if he’d left one day earlier, he’d have made it in time to catch the ship. But that ship, the last of the season, was already far out in the Okhotsk Sea by the time he reached the town.
    Instead he was forced to stay in Magadan. He’d sought shelter in a local Army barracks, but had been discovered. The soldiers kicked him out of their warm wooden shelters, back out into the snow.

    Hunger. Two days now since his last meal. At Kolyma he’d learned to be grateful if that day’s soup ration was just slightly thicker than the day before. Two days ago had been a thin day.

    Here there was no soup. Even a crust of bread might have been enough. But there was nothing.

    If he were less hungry, less cold, his last thoughts might have dwelled on his former life. Moscow in the summer. His RNII comrades and their rockets. Xenia. As it was, when the time came all he could feel was a numb weariness.

    Alone and forgotten on a freezing Siberian night, Sergei Pavlovich Korolev closed his eyes for the last time.
     
    Part I Post #2: Spoils of War
  • 14149695645_d9124b2069_z.jpg


    Part I Post #2: Spoils of War


    In 1945, with Allied armies pressing from all sides, the most technologically advanced rocket programme in the world was to be found in the rubble-filled husk of Hitler’s broken Reich. In the last six months of the war, prioritised by a desperate leadership and manufactured using slave labour, over 3 000 V-2 missiles were fired by German forces. Despite the rocket’s high failure rate, it was still an incredible feat for a nation on its knees. As soon as victory was won, the Allied powers set out to find the men who had made this possible.

    Following an initial political struggle in Moscow, responsibility for the development of Soviet rocket technology had been assigned to the Ministry of Armaments under Central Committee member Dimitry Ustinov. Unlike many of his contemporaries, Ustinov saw rockets as the weapon of the future, especially if used to carry the atomic bombs currently being developed under the direction of Lavrentiy Beria. In a secret directive approved by Stalin in May 1946, a network of research institutions was established under Ustinov’s control with the objective of systematically exploiting the captured German rocket technology for the benefit of the Soviet military.

    The lead institute, NII-88 (the Russian acronym for “Scientific-Research Institute No.88”), was to be the central institute responsible for rocket designs, with an initial focus on developing Soviet versions of the V-2, Wasserfall, Schmetterling and Rheintochter missiles. Another institute, OKB-456 (“R&D Institute No.456”) , would focus on rocket engine development, reproducing and then exceeding the V-2 engine capabilities. Additional institutions were established for guidance and control systems (NII-885), gyroscopes (NII-10), and launch equipment (GSKB). Together, these institutes would allow the development of a complete range of ballistic, cruise and ground-to-air missiles for the defence of the Motherland.

    The May 1946 decree also affected the future of the Soviet specialists then working at Bleicherode in occupied Germany, with many promoted to leadership positions in the new institutions. Valentin Glushko was assigned to be Chief Designer of OKB-456 in Khimki, whilst Vasily Mishin was assigned to NII-88, working under Chief Designer Yevgeny Sinilshchikov. The decree also ordered that the German rocket scientists who were working with the Soviets in Bleicherode, led by Helmut Gröttrup, be relocated to the USSR at the earliest opportunity. The purpose of this was not so much to have the Germans design Soviet weapons, but rather to pass their knowledge and expertise on to Soviet workers, with the aim of eventually ending the USSR’s reliance on the German specialists.

    13990018829_fbb5fd866a_o.jpg

    A rare photo of future NII-88 Chief Designer Yevgeny Vasilyevich Sinilshchikov (circled), taken in 1932.
    Photo credit: coollib.com

    The first priority for the Soviet Union’s rocket scientists was to reproduce a domestic version of Germany’s V-2 rocket. Many of the scientists and engineers involved, eager to try out their own new ideas, saw this approach as a pointless waste of time. After all, despite being an impressive technological achievement for the time, in combat the V-2 had proven itself to be militarily useless. Far from turning the Allied tide, Hitler’s “wonder weapon” had if anything accelerated the Third Reich’s downfall by diverting critical resources from conventional forces. What was needed were larger, longer ranged rockets capable of carrying the future Soviet atom bomb direct to enemy cities, not a puny V-2 clone.

    Ustinov disagreed. The USSR had been devastated by the war, both in terms of physical destruction and in the loss of a generation of workers to the front. Moreover (though he would never raise this point in public), the purges of the pre-war years had decimated the ranks of the nation’s brightest and best. Ustinov realised that the USSR of 1946 simply didn’t have the industrial or intellectual capacity to design and build all-new rockets from scratch. Far better, in his opinion, to use the captured and re-created V-2 plans as a starting point to train a new cadre of technicians, engineers and specialists in rocket production, and only then taking the next step to a fully domestic rocket. Studies could and would be started into designs for potential longer ranged rockets, but the R-1 (the designation given to the Soviet version of V-2) would be the priority.

    Work proceeded rapidly, and the first launches of the N-series V-2s that had been built with German components in Bleicherode took place from the new test range at Kasputin Yar in October 1947. The first launch attempts failed due to faulty wiring, and a team of Gröttrup's specialists were brought out to the site to help fix the problems. Even with their assistance (or perhaps, as some darkly alluded, because of their sabotage), many of the rockets veered off course, exploded, or otherwise failed. Given that the operational reliability of the V-2 had never been much more than 50% this was perhaps unsurprising, but it did nothing to convince people like Glushko or Mishin that they had anything left to learn from the Germans. Many in the military and political hierarchy agreed, and the Germans found themselves increasingly isolated, with Soviet plans to duplicate the V-2 kept secret from them.

    Despite this widespread distrust and disdain for the Germans’ contributions, the experiences of next year seemed to validate Ustinov’s view of the lack of readiness of Soviet industry to support missile production. In building the R-1, Sinilshchikov’s team faced daunting problems, ranging from the duplication of delicate guidance instrumentation to the more basic problem of simply sourcing the numerous specialist grades of steels and synthetics needed from Soviet industry. Entire chemical and metallurgical factories were handed over to NII-88 control in order to create local substitutes for German materials, and the most prestigious Soviet scientific institutes were instructed to provide the rocket industry with support in radar technology and aerodynamics. Only Beria’s atom bomb project received a higher priority from the State.

    By November 1948, Sinilshchikov was ready to begin flight tests of the R-1. The extra experience gained and greater understanding of the systems meant that the R-1 tests went far better than the V-2 launches had, with only two of the eight missiles failing. A second test campaign in 1949 went even better, confirming the missile’s range at 280 km, and the R-1 quickly entered into full production for operational deployment. Regardless of the statistics from the R-1’s test campaigns, its main purpose, that of training up the Soviets in missile development, had been a complete success.

    Underutilised by the Chief Designers, when the captured German specialists were given substantial work they applied themselves with vigour. In May 1947 Gröttrup's group were given the task of designing a rocket with a range of 600 km. Designated G-1, the intention was to use the German design as a benchmark against which to assess a design proposed by NII-88 to meet the same specification. When the designs were compared in December 1948, Gröttrup's G-1 was found superior to Sinilshchikov’s R-2. A similar competition in June 1949 for a multi-stage missile able to launch a 3 tonne warhead over 3 000 km again saw Gröttrup's design, the G-4, preferred to Sinilshchikov’s R-3.

    Despite these apparent victories for the German team, they were still denied access to experimental equipment, and so had no hope of developing their designs any further. Instead, aspects of Gröttrup's rockets were incorporated into Sinilshchikov’s designs. The R-2, now a Gröttrup-inspired cylindrical shape rather than Sinilshchikov’s original ogive, began state trial flights in September 1949, and was accepted into military service in 1951. The R-3A technology demonstrator incorporated numerous aspects from the G-4, including the distinctive sloped first stage. By the beginning of 1951 the Germans had been almost completely isolated from the real work of the Soviet rocket programme, and by the end of 1953 all had been repatriated to East Germany.

    Although progress was being made, Ustinov and his deputies weren’t entirely happy with the output of NII-88. The relative poor quality of the original R-2 and R-3 design submissions had been bad enough, but there was also a palpable discontent with Sinilshchikov’s management style amongst the workforce, as well as friction between the NII-88 Chief Designer and his counterparts at other institutes. Finally in May 1952, following slow progress on development of an ICBM, a major restructuring of NII-88 was proposed. OKB-1 was created within NII-88 with its focus purely on land-based long range ballistic missiles. Sinilshchikov would remain as Chief Designer of OKB-1, but all responsibility for ground-to-air, cruise and naval missiles would be removed to other departments. Additionally, Mikhail Yangel was appointed as the institute’s Director, and therefore as the immediate superior of Sinilshchikov, with instructions to whip OKB-1 into shape and get the ICBM project back on track. However, at first it was far from clear if this change of leadership was a good idea.

    Yangel had joined NII-88 from the aviation industry in April 1950 as head of the the guidance systems section. Despite some initial friction with Sinilshchikov (not uncommon amongst the Chief Designer’s subordinates), Yangel soon developed a productive working relationship, and became heavily involved in the re-assessment of NII-88’s design approach following the shortcomings exposed in comparison to Groettrup’s designs. During the course of his work on the R-5, R-11 and R-12 draft projects, Yangel became convinced that the kerosene-oxygen propellants being proposed by NII-88 were not well suited for military purposes. Although giving good performance, they were bulky and posed severe difficulties in maintaining the launch readiness at short notice needed by the military. Glushko had been experiencing his own problems in attempting to scale up kerolox engines for their rocket designs (the failure of his RD-110 being one of the main issues with the original R-3 design), and this reinforced Yangel’s impression that “high boiling point” storable, hypergolic propellants, that could be pumped around without complex insulation and kept on-station in their rockets’ tanks for weeks at a time, would be a much better fit to the military’s needs. Indeed, such propellants were already being successfully used in the smaller ground-to-air, air-to-air and naval missiles coming from other design bureaux.

    When a decree in December 1950 authorised a project for the "Development requirements for a liquid rocket with a range of 5 000 to 10 000 km and a warhead of 1 to 10 tonnes", the initial expectation was that this would be a scaled-up hydrocarbon-liquid oxygen rocket along the lines of the R-1, 2 and 3 proposals. However, as the draft projects proceded over the following year, Yangel started to push for a storable propellant solution. Sinilshchikov was willing to listen to Yangel’s approach, but the proposal faced strong internal dissent within NII-88, led by Vasili Mishin. Mishin and his supporters argued that not only were the storable propellants extremely toxic, but they also had a considerably lower theoretical performance than kerolox. Even at this early point, Mishin had one eye on an eventual space launcher, and he knew that every second of specific impulse would be crucial in orbiting a useful payload. Additionally, all of NII-88’s experience for large ballistic missiles up to then had been with liquid oxygen/hydrocarbon vehicles. Proposing the new storable approach on their largest missile yet would be to throw away the knowledge gained so painfully on earlier projects.

    The debate raged within NII-88 and between the Chief Designers and their staffs for the next one and a half years until finally, tipped by Yangel’s newfound influence as OKB-1 Director from 1952 onwards, Sinilshchikov selected the storable propellant option. The former artillery man did not have the same romantic vision for future spaceflight as Mishin, and following his recent dressing-down from the leadership he wasn’t prepared to risk producing a sub-standard ICBM in the hope that it could one day send men into orbit. At Yangel’s suggestion a compromise was reached whereby Mishin was put in charge of a team that would continue to study kerolox rockets as a potential fall-back option should the preferred design prove to be unfeasible, but the draft concept of the R-6 missile for presentation to the Council of Ministers would be fueled with storable propellants.

    Despite the time lost to the propellant debates and the leadership shake-up, the R-6 requirements project was completed and a proposal for further development ready for presentation by the end of February 1953. But just as it was due for discussion by the Council of Ministers, Joseph Stalin died. All other government and Party business was put on hold as various factions began the drawn-out and highly dangerous process of choosing a successor to the dead dictator. When the initial dust had settled, Georgy Malenkov was the new Chairman of the Council of Ministers (and so de jure head of the Soviet government), whilst Nikita Khrushchev was elevated to the re-created role of General Secretary of the Communist Party’s Central Committee (head of the Party, and therefore the de facto leader of the nation). Dimtry Ustinov, who had been such an active patron of Soviet rocketry, remained on the Central Committee, and even saw his role in government expanded as the Armaments Ministry and Aviation Ministry were consolidated under him in the Ministry of Defence Industry.

    Following this reorganisation of the Soviet government, a decree was issued in December 1953 authorising the start of development on a slew of rocket programmes, including the R-5, R-11, R-12 and R-6 missiles. At the same time, at Khrushchev’s insistence, it was decided that a new, autonomous rocket development institute should be created in the Ukrainian SSR to ensure that in the event of a nuclear strike on Moscow, the USSR would still retain an effective missile industrial capability at a separate location. Following his success as Director of NII-88, Yangel was quickly chosen to be Chief Designer of the new OKB-586, charged with development of the R-12 MRBM. Development of the Soviet Union’s first Intercontinental Ballistic Missile, the R-6, would remain with Sinilshchikov at OKB-1. It would not be an easy job.

    As soon as the end 1953 it was realised that the 3 tonne warhead initially specified for the R-6 (or “Article 8K61” as it was referred to in all official documentation) would be insufficient. The USSR had exploded its first atom bomb in 1949, and it was hoped that this would soon be followed by a thermonuclear “Hydrogen” bomb, but despite these efforts to catch up with the US, Soviet bombs remained for the time being cruder and heavier than their American counterparts. The R-6 would have to deliver a payload of at least 5.5 tonnes to be an effective weapon of war. Fortunately, this change of requirements occurred early enough in the programme that adaptations were manageable, and the basic design of the R-6 was completed in October 1954. The missile was to be a two-stage design, with both stages using Sinilshchikov’s favoured nitric acid/UDMH propellants rather than Gröttrup's kerosene and liquid oxygen. The first stage would be powered by four of Glushko’s twin-chambered RD-215 engines working in parallel, with the second stage using a altitude-optimised engine dubbed RD-221. This combination would be more than capable of delivering the heavy warhead over 8 000 km. It was on the basis of this concept that development of the R-6 was authorised in January 1955. However, there was one more external factor that would significantly affect the R-6 project.

    In 1950, the International Council of Scientific Unions had declared that the period from 1st July 1957 to 31st December 1958 would be designated as the International Geophysical Year. Modelled on the earlier International Polar Years of 1882-83 and 1932-33, the IGY was intended to encourage East-West scientific cooperation in various fields of Earth sciences. Plans proceded throughout the early fifties, propelled by a strange mixture of cooperation and one-upmanship between the two Superpowers, with each side seeing it as an opportunity to demonstrate that they, not their Cold War opponent, were the leading scientific nation of the world. The pinnacle of this competition came in July 1955 when the Eisenhower administration announced plans to launch Earth orbiting satellites during the IGY. Not to be outdone, just a few days later the Soviet government announced that they too would soon launch a satellite. With that announcement, the Space Race was on.
     
    Last edited:
    Part I Post #3: Race to Orbit
  • Today is Sunday, so that must mean it's time for...

    14149695645_d9124b2069_z.jpg


    Part I Post #3: Race to Orbit

    Following President Eisenhower’s July 1955 announcement of US intentions to launch a satellite into orbit, the Department of Defense moved quickly to determine how best to meet the challenge. Within two months of the President’s announcement, the United States' Ad Hoc Advisory Group on Special Capabilities was established under the chaimanship of Homer J. Stewart. The objective of the Stewart Committee was to assess the feasibility of a satellite launch, review existing missile projects and recommend the best way forward in meeting the 1958 deadline. The options before the Committee for a launch vehicle were split between the Army, Navy and Air Force.

    The US Army had been investigating ballistic missiles since 1943, and had the advantage of being the custodians of von Braun’s team of V-2 experts from Project Paperclip. Their Redstone missile (previously known as “Hermes”) had made it’s first successful test flight in January 1954, reaching a maximum height of 90 km. The Redstone was designed to carry a 3.5 tonne payload over 320 km, but assessments of its potential to orbit satellites had already been started, with von Braun proposing in 1954 to augment the basic Redstone with a clustered solid rocket upper stage.

    The Air Force had the most powerful option on the table. Since inheriting jurisdiction over the development of rockets with a range of over 1 600 km from their forerunner, the Army Air Corps, in 1947, the Air Force had been working on a range of ballistic and cruise missiles with intercontinental range. In January 1951 they had started Project Atlas to develop a missile able to deliver over 3 600 kg of payload across 9 000 km. Building on the earlier MX-774 project, Atlas raised the possibility of orbiting almost a tonne of payload. However, despite this alluring promise, in 1955 Atlas had yet to fly, with a contractor not even confirmed.

    The Navy option was Viking. This was a sounding rocket in use with the Naval Research Laboratory since 1949. Whilst not itself capable of reaching orbit, the addition of an upper stage based on Aerobee-HI sounding rocket would enable the launch of a small payload on the order of 20 kg. An additional consideration was that, being based on scientific sounding rockets rather than nuclear-armed ballistic missiles, the Viking-Aerobee combination would appear more ‘civilian’ than its Army or Air Force alternatives, and so more in keeping with the peaceful aims of the International Geophysical Year.

    In the end, the Stewart Committee recommended a two-phased programme. The first phase would place a small, very simple satellite into orbit in time to meet the 1958 IGY deadline. By a margin of 5-2, the Committee recommended the Viking-Aerobee option over the Redstone as the launcher for this first satellite. The follow up Phase II would direct the Air Force to develop the Atlas ICBM into a heavy launcher and orbit a more capable scientific satellite at a later date. This recommendation was accepted, and selection of the NRL’s Viking-Aerobee rocket, now called “Vanguard”, was confirmed in August 1955.

    On the other side of the Iron Curtain, Eisenhower’s challenge was being met with the R-6 ICBM. By February 1956, Sinilshchikov had frozen the design and component fabrication was started, but the launcher still needed a payload.

    OKB-1 had been conducting studies into potential satellites for a number of years, partly with the aim of further justifying their expenditure by providing new military capabilities to their patron, Ustinov. A prime candidate mission identified was reconnaissance. Unlike the US with their U-2 aircraft, which Soviet agents were informed had taken its first flight in August 1955, the Soviets had no corresponding system that would be capable of providing overhead imagery of the US. Sinilshchikov proposed to provide this capability from orbit, far beyond the reach of any anti-aircraft missile system. Around the same time the R-6 design was being finalised, OKB-1 gained approval to begin studying a reconnaissance satellite system, code-named Sammit (“Summit”), in collaboration with Special Design Bureau 385 (SKB-385). This would be a 1.5 tonne satellite that would operate from a low polar orbit, taking photos that would be returned in a small re-entry capsule a few days after launch. Although some within SKB-385 had attempted to leverage Sammit into a system that could also form the basis of a manned spacecraft, Sinilshchikov acted decisively to keep the team focussed on the military mission, and so the preliminary design for the satellite was completed by April 1956.

    However, it was immediately realised that Sammit would not be a suitable payload for the IGY satellite, not least because the Soviet military would not want to publicise that they possessed such a capability. It was therefore decided that SKB-385, in cooperation with the USSR Academy of Sciences, would build an appropriately scientific satellite for the mission. Dubbed the ISZ (the Russian acronym for “Artificial Earth Satellite”), code-named “Object D”, this would be a 1 tonne physics laboratory in space. Intended to investigate upper atmospheric conditions and the near-Earth radiation environment, Object D would directly contribute to the scientific objectives of the International Geophysical Year. The preliminary design was completed in July 1956 and formal approval for the ISZ/R-6 combination for the IGY was granted in a decree the following September.

    In contrast to the heavy Object D, the Americans’ planned Vanguard satellite was to weigh less than 1.5 kg. In line with the Stewart Commission’s recommendations, Vanguard-1 was to be a proof-of-concept vehicle, little more than a radio transmitter. Despite this lack of instrumentation, it was expected that careful monitoring of the position and frequency shifts in the carrier signal would yield valuable data on the density and electromagnetic properties of the upper atmosphere. The satellite would also test the use of photovoltaic solar cells for use on spacecraft. If successful, this technology would mean future missions would not be limited by the endurance of their electrical power sources. In April 1957 a prototype of the Vanguard satellite was tested on a suborbital sounding rocket. Launched from the Cape Canaveral Missile Annex in Florida, the payload reached a maximum altitude of 195 km and successfully met all of its test objectives. The Navy Research Lab team were delighted, and they pushed ahead with plans for a second suborbital test later in the year.

    By October 1957, the fourth month of the International Geophysical Year, the NRL had established a world-wide network of tracking stations to monitor their orbiter as it circled the globe, but the Vanguard launcher was still experiencing technical difficulties. Although none of the problems were considered critical, the decision was nevertheless made to try to iron out all the bugs before proceeding with a launch. The second launch finally took place in early December. This was a test of the Viking first stage with dummy second and third stages, intended to verify the first stage performance and aerodynamic characteristics of the stack. This test was also a complete success. For many of the Navy men the success was especially sweet coming in the same month that the Air Force’s first Atlas launch failed, causing a proliferation of “Fly Navy!” posters to appear around the Cape. As 1957 came to a close, confidence was high that the third Vanguard would soon reach orbit.

    Confidence was not so high in Moscow. As the Americans were celebrating their first Vanguard launch, the Soviets were still working on ground tests. Intelligence reports kept them well informed of US progress on the Vanguard and (more ominously) Atlas and Titan missiles, and OKB-1 was put under increasing pressure to speed up the R-6 development.

    One of the loudest voices criticising Sinilshchikov’s slow progress was that of Vladimir Chelomei. Having pioneered the development of cruise missiles for the Soviet Navy, Chelomei had ambitions to move into the more exciting field of space technology, and was developing concepts for an entire infrastructure of launch vehicles and manned and unmanned spacecraft building on his experience with encapsulated, storable cruise missiles. As the delays in getting the R-6 to the launch pad increased, Chelomei began to actively lobby to take over the project from Sinilshchikov, including making strong efforts to cultivate a relationship with Khrushchev. But as long as Minister of Defence Industries Dimitri Ustinov continued to support Sinilshchikov, Chelomei’s efforts were in vain.

    Ustinov’s support was severely tested in October 1957, when a wiring fault in the first prototype R-6 Blok-A caused one of the oxidiser tanks to explode during ground handling tests at Tyuratam. Seventeen technicians who had been working on the rocket were killed immediately, but the toxic cloud of vapour that resulted when the UDMH and nitric acid propellants dispersed would claim ten more lives, including that of the Range Test Director. The test stand was left highly contaminated and could not be approached without chemical protection gear until late November when rain washed away most of the residuals.

    Mishin immediately pointed to Sinilshchikov’s decision to use storable but toxic propellants as the cause of the deaths, calling once again for the use of “clean” kerosene and liquid oxygen for launch vehicles, as in the American Atlas. Conversely, Sinilshchikov, Yangel and Glushko all maintained their assertion that the advantages of storable propellants, if treated with the appropriate care, outweighed the risks. Although unwilling to change horses mid-stream in defiance of the balance of opinion of the Chief Designers, Ustinov was concerned enough by the incident that he pushed for Mishin’s development team to be set up with their own facilities to develop designs for alternative ballistic missiles using kerolox propellants. Glad to be rid of a troublemaker, Sinilshchikov agreed, and so in December 1957 Mishin and his team were transferred to SKB-385 in Miass, which was redesignated OKB-385 and given responsibility for small rocket stage designs in addition to its existing satellite development role. Meanwhile OKB-1 continued to work to get the R-6 ready for launch before the end of the IGY, now just twelve months away.

    Despite the flawless start to the Vanguard programme, the Americans did not have things go all their way as 1958 dawned. February saw the NRL ready to test their full Vanguard rocket with all stages live for the first time, but the rocket veered wildly off course just 33 seconds into the flight and had to be destroyed by the range safety officer. The cause was quickly traced to the guidance system and a fix devised.

    The next launch attempt in April was more successful, with both the first and second stages performing flawlessly. However, when the third stage was lit, it quickly diverged from its course and rather than giving the payload a final push into orbit, the rocket plunged back into the atmosphere. The problem this time was a bad separation from the second stage, which had damaged the third stage nozzle and given it a tumbling spin from which it couldn’t recover. Considering the earlier ragging they’d suffered from their Navy colleagues, the Air Force personnel at Cape Canaveral showed no mercy in teasing the Vanguard team, especially after the successful launch (at the third attempt) of their Atlas ICBM in May.

    In Huntsville, von Braun and his Army missile team loudly told anyone who would listen that they had a Redstone rocket standing by that could perform the Vanguard mission if they were just given the word. Despite their lobbying, Eisenhower kept faith with the NRL, and the Army team could only look on in frustration as the Navy continued to fumble their way towards the Space Age.

    At Tyuratam, aware of the reports from America, Sinilshchikov watched the roll-out of the first flight model R-6. If everything went to plan, the Soviets still had a chance to beat their rivals to orbit.

    14258015935_88a282218e_o.png

    The first R-6 missile is made ready at Tyuratam.
     
    Last edited:
    Part I Post #4: We Have Liftoff!
  • Sunday is here and I've managed to find a computer :) Last time we left the Soviets preparing to launch their R-6 missile for the first time, so now let's pick up the story in....

    14149695645_d9124b2069_z.jpg


    Part I Post #4: We Have Liftoff!

    In June 1958 the Kazakh steppe would finally reverberate with the sound of an R-6 launch. The 25 metre missile, affectionately called “Shesterka” (“Ol’ Number Six”), had been rolled out of the Assembly and Testing Building (MIK) of the Scientific-Research and Test Firing Range No. 5 (NIIP-5) at Tyuratam on its specialised railway car and moved the two kilometres to Launch Complex 1. Here the rocket was slowly elevated to a vertical position above the flame trench and brought to rest on four short support pillars. After the base of the rocket had been clamped into place the transport car was withdrawn.

    The next day, 5th June, was spent going through a battery of electrical and mechanical checks to ensure that everything was as it should be, both within the rocket itself and the instrumented payload that would verify the missile’s range and accuracy on this suborbital test. Numerous minor issues were discovered and corrected on the pad, but nothing that would call off the launch. Finally, with great care, the toxic AK271/UDMH propellants were loaded into their tanks. This task completed, the launch crew technicians retreated from the pad to their firing bunkers. Range tracking stations were checked and reported ready. Twenty minutes before planned liftoff, the gyroscopes of the guidance system were spun up and the service towers were pulled back. All systems were go. In the fire control room, the Chief Designers Sinilshchikov, Barmin and Glushko watched with varying degrees of nervousness as the second hand of the launch clock swept towards the appointed hour. With them for this inaugural launch were a host of military and Party observers, including the Deputy Minister for Defence, Chief Marshal Mitrofan Nedelin. He would report directly to Ustinov on the results of the day’s test.

    At the appointed time, the commands were given: “Broach! Key to ignition! Purge! Key to vent! Launch!” and the four twin-chambered RD-215 engines at the base of the Blok-A booster roared into life. The thrust of each engine steadily increased, measured and relayed to the firing room by instrumentation in the hold-down clamps and on-board the rocket itself. Once full thrust was achieved in all engines, the clamps were released and the 340 tonnes of Shesterka began to slowly rise from the earth. As the R-6 cleared the lightning towers there were loud shouts and cheers from many of the observers in launch control. Success! Congratulations comrades, all your hard work has paid off! Those specialists with more experience in test launches held their tongues. This was the most complex rocket they had ever attempted to launch, and the seasoned experts were all too aware that the dangers were not over yet.

    For the first two minutes everything appeared nominal, with the R-6 correctly following its programmed trajectory. As reports started coming in from the first of the tracking stations it seemed the missile was well on course for its target zone on the Kamchatka Peninsula. With just seconds to go before first stage separation, everything looked good.

    The first indication of a serious problem was a sudden reduction in thrust from Engine 3. In a matter of seconds, all thrust from that engine disappeared. With the three remaining engines still at full power, the rocket stack immediately started to yaw alarmingly. The on-board guidance system recognised the deviation and attempted to compensate, but the four small vernier steering rockets were unequal to the task. By the time the three remaining engines shut down together as planned, the R-6 had already entered a fatal tumble. As the explosive bolts fired to split the two stages, the angular momentum transferred to the Blok-B left it in a violent supersonic spin. Blok-B’s propellant tanks ruptured, spilling 60 tonnes of UDMH and nitric acid into the void, as aerodynamic forces finished the job of ripping the R-6 to pieces. In the midst of the destruction some of the hypergolic propellants combined and ignited, creating a bright fireball. The remaining unburnt propellant was transformed into a haze of toxic rain, which descended onto the steppe below as the more massive fragments of rocket body continued on a ballistic trajectory that would end in the wastelands of Siberia, thousands of kilometres short of the intended target.

    In the immediate aftermath of the R-6 failure, Sinilshchikov jumped to the seemingly obvious conclusion that the fault must lay in Glushko’s RD-215 engines. Glushko was infuriated by this accusation. His factory had produced dozens of RD-215s and hundreds of similar rockets. All had undergone rigorous testing before being shipped to Tyuratam for integration. Those engines had been in perfect condition when he’d handed them over! The fact that Sinilshchikov blamed the RD-215 in front of Marshal Nedelin, before a technical investigation had even started, poisoned relations between the two Chief Designers from that point on.

    Over the following days and weeks it slowly became apparent that Glushko had been correct. The RD-215’s had been in perfect condition when they were received, but following their installation on the Shesterka OKB-1 technicians had conducted a fuel loading test. This type of test, which had been performed many times before on other rockets, involved filling and pressurising the tanks, checking for leaks, then emptying the rocket again. To avoid the risks associated with using the toxic propellants, the test instead filled the tanks with water laced with an additive liquid similar to cleaning fluid which brought the mixture to the same density as the propellants. This liquid was used and re-used for multiple tests, and it soon became apparent that at some point the batch had become contaminated. When the test fluid storage tanks were inspected a waxy residue was discovered on the inner walls. Some of this residue must have remained in the R-6’s propellant tanks after the test, and after launch a small plug of matter had been dislodged and blocked a feed line to the failed engine, cutting off the propellant supply.

    Glushko seized on these results as a complete vindication of his OKB-456. In a meeting of the Rocket Propulsion Coordination Committee (KKRD, the main forum for discussions between the various institutes involved in missile development), Glushko personally attacked Sinilshchikov as not competent to be the Chief Designer of the lead institution for ICBM development. Whilst Yangel tried to act as a peacemaker between the two rivals, Chelomei actively supported Glushko. The meeting broke up in acrimony, with the only conclusion recorded being that the test procedures would be updated, filters installed in the propellant tanks, and a second R-6 launch attempted within two weeks. As events turned out, that would be too late.

    Unaware of the Soviets’ attempted launch, the engineers of the Naval Research Laboratory were at that moment preparing for their own mission. Following their April launch attempt, which had just barely missed reaching orbit, the Navy team had gone through a detailed analysis of their design to ensure that the next attempt would succeed. The review quickly identified the cause of the April stage three separation failure and implemented a fix to avoid a recurrence, but it also threw light onto several other potential issues that had been previously missed. After eight weeks of analysis, modifications and testing, there was a feeling of confidence as final preparations began.

    Assembly of the Vanguard stack was completed on Monday 16th June 1958 with the installation of the solid rocket 3rd Stage. Unlike the Soviet R-6, Vanguard was assembled directly on the pad, with the payload left off whilst the stack underwent final checks. Throughout Tuesday 17th checks were performed on the vehicle propulsion system pressures, the pipelines supplying water to the launch stand, and the fire-fighting facilities. Also undergoing checks was the satellite that, it was hoped, would open the Space Age. At 1.47 kg, the grapefruit-sized metal ball could easily be held by one man, as long as he took care to avoid damaging the radio antennas and solar cells that studded the tiny spacecraft. With everything checking out green, the payload was declared ready.

    As Tuesday turned into Wednesday, prospects looked good. The previous Sunday had been the hottest of the year, with temperatures topping 35 degrees Celsius, and the weather forecast for the 18th remained fine and clear, with wind speeds averaging around 15 km/h and gusts not exceeding 35 km/h: perfect conditions for a launch.

    The day’s preparations started at 1am, as pad technicians began propellant loading the Vanguard 1st and 2nd stages. The 1st stage was fuelled with relatively conventional kerosene, but the 2nd stage used 1 470 kg of Nitric Acid and UDMH, necessitating extreme caution. The smallest leak of these highly toxic, highly corrosive chemicals would necessitate an evacuation of the pad whilst specialists in chemical protection suits were brought in to make the area safe. Fortunately, no such leak occurred this time, and by 11am the go-ahead was given to install the satellite payload on the nose of the fully fuelled rocket.

    At 14:00 the countdown clock was started. 45 minutes later, the satellite was switched on and checked: all systems green. At 17:25 cryogenic liquid oxygen began filling the first stage oxidiser tanks: the rocket was now fully loaded with propellant. An hour before scheduled lift-off, the service crane was retracted and Vanguard stood alone and proud on its pad in the late afternoon sunshine. The countdown was proceeding precisely on schedule. With just minutes left on the clock, the rocket’s telemetry, beacon and command receivers were switched to internal power, then the last air conditioning umbilicals were retracted and the oxygen vents closed. All tracking stations were standing by. The weather was fine.

    Finally, at 19:00 exactly, the firing switch closed and the 1st stage X-405 engine ignited. Six seconds after ignition, from out of a chaos of light and smoke, Vanguard left the launch pad and began its climb into space. From inside launch control, from the tops of buildings and parking lots all round the Cape, and from vantage points for miles up and down the Floridian coast, people looked up to follow the fiery trail of the American rocket as it arced into the unknown.

    Just over two minutes after its dramatic departure, the observers saw the distant light dim and fade, only to quickly re-appear as the first stage was discarded and the second stage took up the load. Before another two minutes had elapsed the second stage too expired, it’s job done. Tracking stations reported Vanguard was dead on course; telemetry indicated the separation was clean. Seconds later the solid 3rd stage ignited, banishing the ghosts of April’s launch failure. Controllers at Cape Canaveral nevertheless bit their nails and held their breaths as the burn continued. So close! Don’t let it fail now, please! So damned close! The thirty-second burn seemed to stretch into hours, but finally the thrust tailed off and the stage fell dormant. In Launch Control there was silence. Finally, it was one of the Tracking Stations which broke the spell: “Tracking confirmed, Vanguard is in orbit. I say again, Vanguard is in orbit.”

    With that announcement Launch Control erupted with cheers and applause, as loudspeakers began to relay the distinctive “Beep-beep-beep!” signal from Vanguard that would soon be famous all over the world. That sound marked June 18th, 1958 as the dawn of the Space Age.
     
    Part I Post #5: Action and Reaction
  • 14149695645_d9124b2069_z.jpg


    Part I Post #5: Action and Reaction

    The reaction of the press all across the Free World to the launch of the planet’s first artificial satellite was a mixture of amazement, pride and a re-enforcement of the image of America as the source of all modern technical marvels. Vanguard 1 (as it had been retrospectively named, the Navy quietly brushing the payloads of earlier, failed attempts under the carpet) was orbiting the Earth once every 133 minutes at a distance of between 650 and 3 800 km. The high apogee meant that, despite its orbital inclination of just over 34 degrees preventing it from directly overflying much of the world’s population (and avoiding potentially provocative overflights of the USSR), it would be on a line of sight with most of the planet at regular intervals. Amateur radio operators immediately rushed to their equipment to pick up Vanguard’s “Beep-beep-beep!”, with the more determined even going so far as to attempt to derive the satellite’s orbital parameters from their own observations. However, after the initial fanfare of the launch, most people quickly incorporated the achievement as part of the backdrop of their lives and moved on to consider more pressing concerns.

    The reaction in the Kremlin was not so short-lived. In a short article on page 2, Pravda congratulated the Americans for their achievement, but warned against “any attempt to extend Imperialism into Cosmic Space." The article went on to reassure readers that “Soviet workers and scientists are even now preparing to launch their own space vehicle in response.” This response was to be made by the R-6, and pressure mounted on Sinilshchikov to get the rocket working. Khrushchev was keen to use a satellite launch to demonstrate how the Soviet Union was catching up with (and would soon surpass) the US, but more importantly he and Ustinov both knew that the Atlas ICBM was nearing completion. The Soviet military was only just starting to come to grips with the nuclear bomber threat; they could not afford to allow a missile gap to develop.

    But just one week after Vanguard entered orbit, the Shesterka suffered a second launch failure. This time it was the guidance system at fault, diverting the missile from its programmed course after just 45 seconds of flight, after which the missile was deliberately destroyed as a safety precaution. This second failure in a month was the final nail in Sinilshchikov’s coffin. He was immediately summoned to Moscow and stripped of his role as Chief Designer. He would be replaced at OKB-1 by Vladimir Chelomei, who coincidentally happened to be the boss of Nikita Khrushchev’s son Sergei. This was the realisation of a long-held ambition for Chelomei, and he had many plans for the future of Soviet rocketry, but for now Khrushchev and Ustinov made it very clear that Chelomei had one overriding priority: Get the R-6 flying.

    Chelomei set to work immediately. Bringing in many of his own people from OKB-52, he quickly set up an independent review of the R-6 design and production with the aim of identifying and eliminating any flaws that could cause a failure. Over the next month his team produced a slew of recommendations, mostly related to increased redundancy in critical systems, a tighter quality regime at the production facilities, and expanded testing of all systems before and after vehicle integration.

    After three months of furious activity, Chelomei was ready to allow Shesterka a third chance to prove itself. On 9th October 1958, an R-6 missile once again stood ready at Launch Complex 1, but this time things would be different. To the delight of the watching Nedelin and the satisfaction of Chelomei the missile made a perfect launch, delivering its dummy warhead to the Kamchatka test site 18 km from the aim point. Or rather, parts of the warhead. It seemed that the sharp-nosed, fast penetration configuration chosen to reduce enemy reaction times was not up to the job of protecting the bomb from the rigours of atmospheric re-entry and instead broke up in mid-air. However, this small detail was kept Top Secret, and TASS was soon announcing that the Soviet Union had developed an ICBM to rival the American Atlas.

    The Americans meanwhile were experiencing a few problems of their own. Although the USAF had performed a second successful test launch of the Atlas in August, reaching 2 500 km range, the Navy was having some difficulties in following up the success of Vanguard 1. Another attempt at orbit was made in September, but ended in failure when the second stage burn cut off prematurely, dooming the rocket to a watery grave. Determined to launch a second satellite before the International Geophysical Year ended on 31st December, the NRL engineers focussed all their energy on ensuring success on the next Vanguard. Their hard work paid off, with the flawless launch of Vanguard 2 on 18th December providing an early Christmas present to the team.

    Unlike the simple radio beacon payload of Vanguard 1 (which was still operating, powered by its solar cells, four months after launch), the Vanguard 2 satellite would carry a dedicated scientific experiment. Included in the 10 kg mass of the satellite were a pair of small telescopes, facing in opposite directions, at the focus of which was a photocell similar to those that powered the spacecraft. As the satellite spun on its axis, the field of view of the telescopes would sweep past the surface of the Earth, and the reflected sunlight they saw would generate a small current within the photocell. By measuring how the intensity of this current varied, it would be possible to deduce the reflectivity of the clouds, land and sea surface, and so for the first time show the Earth’s percentage of cloud cover from above.

    This first experiment in using a satellite to monitor weather was only partly successful. The system relied on the satellite’s spin to give a good field of view, but unfortunately the spin axis achieved was not optimal for the experiment. The system operated for 15 days before a breakdown of the tape recording system ended the flow of data, but for much of that time all that was recorded was starlight. More success was had in the use of Vanguard 2’s radio transmissions to measure ionospheric properties and atmospheric characteristics, adding to the knowledge already being gained from Vanguard 1.

    Following the success of Vanguard 2, the Naval Research Laboratory decided to retire the Vanguard project. Although it had opened the Space Age and demonstrated the techniques necessary to reach orbit, its tiny payload capability made it of marginal use for any serious scientific or military purposes. The Navy instead planned to develop a new, more powerful launcher, Explorer, with which they hoped to be able to launch satellites of up to 600 kg. However, this ambition would soon appear far too timid.

    Despite the problems with the R-6 warhead (a second test launch in November had also resulted in the re-entry vehicle breaking up), Chelomei felt confident enough in the missile itself to entrust the Shesterka with its secondary mission, that of launching the USSR’s first satellite. Despite Khruschev’s hopes that they could still make the 31st December deadline for the end of the IGY, Chelomei persuaded him that it was better to take a little more time and get it right rather than rush into failure. It was therefore not until the turn of the New Year that the 1 300 kg “Iskusstvennyy Sputnik Zemli Odin” (“Artificial Earth Satellite One”, ISZ-1) was installed at the peak of a Shesterka rocket. In temperatures which dropped below -10 degrees Celsius, the ground crews worked through January to make the launcher ready. With all checks completed, the R-6 was moved to the pad and fuelling commenced on Monday 19th January. After two days of further tests ensured everything was ready, the launch key was turned and the rocket lifted off the pad at 15:03 local time (10:03 UTC). Just as with the previous two launches the Shesterka performed as expected, lofting the satellite, still attached to the Blok-B second stage, into an initial orbit of 185 by 1 768 km.

    At this point Chelomei hoped to demonstrate a capability to re-start the Blok-B’s vernier engines, using them to raise the perigee of ISZ-1 by a few hundred kilometers. Unfortunately this proved unsuccessful, with the verniers firing for only a few seconds before shutting down again, raising the orbit by only a dozen kilometres. Chelomei nonetheless considered this to be a qualified success, and shortly afterwards ISZ-1 was separated from its carrier rocket.

    Back at the OKB-1 facility in Podlipki, near Moscow, the ISZ-1 control team now took over the mission. Unfortunately, the orientation of the orbit was such that the perigee (the point at which the spacecraft was lowest and therefore moving at its fastest) was over the northern hemisphere, meaning that ISZ-1 was only visible from the control stations at Podlipki, Ulan-Ude and Khabarovsk for periods of three to thirteen minutes at a spell, leaving little time to downlink telemetry or uplink commands. To partially overcome this handicap, ISZ-1 was equipped with a tape recorder which would store all the data collected by its instruments for the previous 105 minute orbit and then play it back at high speed during the brief periods of contact with Ground Control. From these quick bursts, the initial indications were that ‘Object D’ was in perfect health and operating as designed.

    An early period of tension came during Orbit 6, at 18:40 UTC, when ISZ-1’s ground track would for the first time pass directly over the territory of the United States. Unlike the Vanguard launches, Tyuratam’s high latitude meant that it wasn’t possible to craft an orbit that would avoid overflying US airspace. Coincidentally, this first overflight would pass almost directly over Washington DC. How would the Americans react to this intrusion? The Soviet Embassy had alerted the US government of their successful launch within moments of confirmation of the orbit, and American radar and tracking stations were more than capable of spotting the satellite during its previous two orbits, so ISZ-1’s appearance over the Capitol should not come as a complete shock. Even so, there was a nervous atmosphere in Podlipki as technical and military officers packed the control room, despite the late hour, to await contact with the satellite after its first foray over the Imperialist heartland.

    14314127856_21768983b9_o.png

    First overflight of US territory by ISZ-1, Orbit 6

    There were audible sighs of relief from the assembled military brass when contact was re-established on schedule at 22:57 Moscow time (18:57 UTC). The Americans, it seemed, were not going to blow ISZ-1 out of the sky for violating their territory. Then, hard on the heels of relief came exuberance. They would not destroy the satellite because they could not! Soviet spacecraft could cross the United States at will, and there was nothing the Americans could do about it! At 20:26 UTC the satellite ground track again entered US territory, this time over Arizona, and again there was no response. The Americans were impotent before the might of Soviet science!

    14150769137_069d16492e_o.png

    Ground Track of ISZ-1 over North America during Orbits 6-9 (right to left)

    Although clearly a vast exaggeration of reality, such feelings were nonetheless also present in some parts of the US military. They had of course known that the Vanguard satellites passed over many nations as a matter of orbital mechanics, and that by adjusting the launch they could easily make a spacecraft overfly the USSR. But to have another power, a hostile power, do the same to the US was… unsettling.

    When the news was reported in the paper morning editions and over the radio and television networks, the general public mood was one of surprise. To most Americans, despite their possession of thermonuclear arms, Russia was still perceived as a backward nation of peasant farmers. Now it appeared that they were catching up with the US in technology, and if they could send a satellite over America, why not also a bomb? Government spokesmen emphasised that the US had launched a satellite more than six months before the Soviets, and that even now the Air Force’s Atlas ICBM was entering operation with the 576th Strategic Missile Squadron at Vandenberg Air Force Base, California, keeping America ahead of the Reds in the ability to strike across continents. (The news of the 576th’s establishment came to a surprise to many, including its new CO, who was made aware of his promotion just hours before the press release. He would have to wait a further three months before he received any missiles to command). These arguments were largely accepted by the public, but beneath the general confidence that America was still Number 1, there remained a sense of mild unease and vulnerability throughout the nation.

    In contrast to this general mood of concern, a small smile reportedly passed President Eisenhower’s features as he received news of the Soviet launch. He had long been made aware that the Soviets were getting close to launching a satellite, and his reaction to it finally happening was similar to his opinion of the earlier US achievement: It was a neat scientific trick, but nothing to get excited about. As far as Eisenhower was concerned, the most important aspect of ISZ-1 was the precedent it set for overflights. Ever since his 1955 meeting with Premier Bulganin in Geneva, Eisenhower had been trying to establish a principle of “Open Skies” that would allow the assets of one Superpower to overfly the territory of the other on reconnaissance missions without it being seen as reason for an immediate escalation to war, as a means of ensuring no secret military build-ups could take place. At that time and ever since, the Soviets had flatly refused such a proposal, but now that the Soviets had overflown the US with their satellite they could hardly object to the Americans returning the favour.

    To cement this principle, as well as to confirm American leadership in rocketry, it was necessary for the US to quickly perform an overflight mission of their own. With the recent cancellation of Project Vanguard and the Atlas ICBM still in trials (despite the USAF declaration that the missile was “Operational”), the only near-term option was the Army’s Redstone.

    The Army Ballistic Missile Agency had been working on Project Orbiter for several years as a potential back-up to Vanguard, but had been ordered two years earlier to cease all work on space launches. Whilst reluctantly following that command, von Braun had decided that, rather than scrapping the missiles he had, it would be useful to begin a “Long term storage test” of his Jupiter-C vehicle. He had persuaded the Jet Propulsion Lab that such a test would be instructive for their Sergeant upper stage booster as well, meaning that when Defense Secretary Neil McElroy called ABMA commander Major General John Bruce Medaris in January 1959, the Major General was able to confirm that the Jupiter-C and her payload could be made ready to launch within three months of the President’s say-so. The word was given, and so after almost thirty years of dreaming, Wernher von Braun was finally to get his chance to enter the Space Age.
     
    Last edited:
    Part I Post #6: The Soviet Conquest of Space
  • Another Sunday, another Post! Last week saw Chelomei succeed in getting the R-6 to launch the USSR's first satellite. This week we take a look at what other plans he has for cosmic exploration...

    14149695645_d9124b2069_z.jpg


    Part I Post #6: The Soviet Conquest of Space

    Whilst the general international reaction to ISZ-1 had not been as admiring and awe-struck as some had hoped (“The Russians launched a satellite? Didn’t the Americans already do that last year?”), the Soviet satellite did impress in certain scientific and technical quarters. Firstly its shear size was noteworthy. At 1.3 tonnes ISZ-1 was 130 times heavier than the Vanguard series of satellites, indicating a powerful rocket that could not be matched in the West, at least until the Atlas missile began launching spacecraft. This large mass meant more room for scientific instruments. Whereas Vanguard 2 had carried just its radio beacon and cloud cover experiment, ISZ-1 had a suite of twelve instruments for investigations into the composition of the upper atmosphere, charged particles, cosmic rays, electromagnetic fields and micrometorite detectors. Despite having launched after the end of the International Geophysical Year, the Academy of Sciences of the USSR announced that they would follow the principles of the IGY and make their discoveries freely available to the scientists of the world.

    Certainly the most famous result obtained from ISZ-1’s mission was the discovery of what would come to be known as the Vernov Radiation Belts. As soon as the first data started to come in to Podlipki, the results showed that ISZ-1’s detectors were picking up huge amounts of radiation, almost to the point of saturating the instruments. At first there were theories that the radiation could be the result of a recent American nuclear weapons test, but as more data came in from successive orbits, dutifully recorded and relayed by the spacecraft’s Tral-D tape recorder, Soviet physicists were able to build up a map of the radiation and rule out an artificial source for the particles. At a conference held in New York City in March 1959, Academician Sergei Vernov presented a paper on their initial findings, demonstrating that the Earth was surrounded by a concentrated belt of radiation trapped by the planet’s magnetic field. Later observations by other spacecraft, both Soviet and American, would confirm Vernov’s findings, marking an important step in the understanding of the near-Earth environment.

    With the success of ISZ-1, Mikhail Tikhonravov’s spacecraft team at OKB-385 were keen to quickly follow up the mission with a second launch. As well as the back-up satellite for ISZ-1, they were working on a concept for a biological mission that would put mice and insects, or maybe even a dog into space to test their reactions. Unfortunately for Tikhonravov, it would be some time before he saw another of his satellites in orbit.

    Following the American announcement that the Atlas ICBM was now operational, as well as news of a successful first test flight of the even larger Titan ICBM in February, the rocket team OKB-1 were instructed to complete the state trials for the R-6 as quickly as possible. It was at this point however that Chelomei’s early run of luck ran out, and the next two Shesterka launches in February 1959, using a new re-entry vehicle design, both ended in the failure of the carrier rocket. Knowing that a successful deployment of the R-6 would strengthen his hand in making proposals for his future plans, and also aware of the continuing progress being made by Yangel’s OKB-586 on a competing ICBM design, Chelomei drove his team hard. Between March and June he was able to demonstrate a record of seven successful launches from ten attempts. One of the failures had been the attempted launch of the ISZ-1 back-up at the end of March, so Chelomei discounted this and reported his success rate for attempted missile launches as seven out of nine, all using the new, more robust warhead design. This record was deemed acceptable by Nedelin and Ustinov, and so at the beginning of July the R-6 started its formal service with the Soviet armed forces. Whilst one operational R-6 pad was maintained at Tyuratum, the main base for the rocket forces was to be at Plesetsk in northern Russia, closer to its US targets, and it was here that the bulk of operational Shesterka’s were deployed starting in November 1959.

    Having achieved success in nursing the R-6 through its problems, Chelomei’s stock was high with the military and political leadership, and he felt the time was ripe to present his plan for the future of Soviet space power. After first approaching Minister of Defence Rodion Malinovsky, Chelomei was invited to present his plans to a meeting of high-level government and military officials, including Khrushchev, in June 1959. Over the course of several hours Chelomei laid out his roadmap for the Soviet conquest of space.

    Chelomei’s plan had two main thrusts, the “Universal Rocket” system of missiles and launcher, and the “Raketoplan” spacecraft platform. The Universal Rockets would consist of a scalable set of rocket vehicles based upon clustered common cores. This would allow them to meet all military requirements for nuclear warhead delivery and space launch, from the current 5 tonne payload of the R-6 all the way up to 100 or even 200 tonne monster rockets for the exploration of interplanetary space.

    The payloads for these Universal Rockets would be Raketoplans. These would typically consist of a service module, providing propulsion, power, communications and other basic functions, and a mission-specific payload module. This could consist of optical telescopes and film re-entry vehicles for reconnaissance missions; communications systems to allow instant radio contact anywhere in the USSR; nuclear bombs that could be dropped on enemies at a moment’s notice; or even manned spaceplanes, that could overfly enemy positions anywhere in the world before returning to land at airfields on Soviet territory. By using standardised re-entry envelopes based upon the technology Chelomei had developed for encapsulating naval cruise missiles, a variety of different Raketoplan vehicles could be returned to Earth without needing dedicated heat shields. With the largest of the Universal Rockets, appropriately modified Raketoplans would enable a Soviet landing on the Moon, with even larger Raketoplans (called “Kosmoplans” by Chelomei) using nuclear reactors and electric thrusters to perform manned missions to Mars or Venus.

    Khrushchev was impressed by Chelomei’s vision, but like many at the meeting he was not entirely convinced that such dreams were achievable. The Soviet leader believed that rocketry was the future (and cheaper) means of ensuring the defence of the Rodina, and Chelomei’s talk of larger missiles and performing reconnaissance and bombing missions from orbit certainly chimed with Khrushchev’s vision of a slimmer, high-tech military force. But people on the Moon and giant spaceships to Mars? That sounded very expensive, especially considering the relatively marginal prestige generated by the USSR’s space achievements to date. Khrushchev would need much more convincing of the value of space spectaculars before he could think about backing anything like that.

    One of those definitely not impressed with Chelomei’s approach was Dmitriy Ustinov. The Minister of Defence Industry was irritated that Chelomei had gone through the Ministry of Defence rather than his own ministry, which still had official jurisdiction over rocketry. Of particular annoyance was the way Chelomei had made use of his contacts at the Aviation Ministry and with Khruschev personally to short-cut proper channels. Any proposals for long range plans should have come to Ustinov via Nedelin, not through afternoon drinks with ministers. Despite Ustinov’s obvious anger, Khrushchev instructed the Minister to look into Chelomei’s proposals and have him present a draft decree for consideration by the Council in August. His hand forced, Ustinov agreed to consult with Chelomei on his plan. In fact, he promised, he’d make sure the proposal got the best possible technical assessment by asking for comments from Chelomei’s comrade Chief Designers at the Rocket Propulsion Coordination Committee (KKRD).

    Putting the proposal before the KKRD was a smart political move by Ustinov. Though many of the Chief Designers, notably Glushko and Yangel, had supported Chelomei over Sinilshchikov as the man to get the R-6 delivered, they had not been entirely happy with the way he appeared to be using his political contacts to hoover up projects and resources. Upon seeing the plan he’d put before Khrushchev, it was clear that aside from Glushko’s engines, Chelomei was planning to grab all large missile and space projects for himself. Yangel saw that his OKB-586 was intended to become nothing but a production sweat-shop for Chelomei’s UR designs, whilst Mishin was angered that, despite OKB-385’s success with ISZ-1 and the ongoing Sammit project, they were to be completely cut out of Chelomei’s Raketoplan developments. “Perhaps Vladimir Nikolayevich would like to have the Bolshoi Theatre assigned to OKB-1 as well?” Mishin is reported to have asked in sarcasm.

    Following a stormy first meeting, Chelomei was forced to redraft his plans to include the other Chief Designers, and so the next month was spent haggling between the design bureaux. Mishin in particular made himself a thorn in Chelomei’s side, making sure to extract as many concessions as possible from the OKB-1 Chief Designer. He especially continued to push his preferred propellant combination of kerosene and liquid oxygen as the best solution for the large carrier rockets envisaged for Chelomei’s interplanetary and lunar ambitions. On this point Glushko fought back strongly, flatly stating that his OKB-456 would have nothing to do with the development of cryogenic engines. Without the support of Glushko’s experts, it was highly unlikely that suitable engines could be developed for such large rockets in a reasonable timeframe, effectively scuppering Mishin’s proposals. As before, it was left to Yangel to suggest a compromise between the two positions, proposing that Mishin be authorised to develop a smaller kerolox launcher within his OKB-385 in order to gain experience in the technology, whilst Glushko started work on his large storable propellant engines. Yangel himself would coordinate a study of the potential of nuclear rocketry, so that a fully-informed technical decision could be taken on the propulsion systems for the larger rockets at a later date.

    With the major point of contention dealt with and the allocation of projects agreed, by September the KKRD finally completed a text for the draft decree to put before the Council of Ministers. The draft decree divided the areas of work as follows:

    OKB-1 (Chelomei):

    • Upgrade the R-6 rocket in collaboration with OKB-385 for use in deep space probes and manned launches, to be ready by 1962.
    • Development of an initial 1-man capsule for launch on an R-6 to confirm the ability to support a human being in space for periods of up to 5 days, to be ready by 1962.
    • Development of the UR-500 heavy ICBM/launcher with a payload of up to 30 tonnes to LEO by 1965.
    • Presentation of a draft project for UR-600 technology development in 1961. The rocket to have a LEO payload of up to 100 tonnes to be developed by 1970.
    • Presentation of a draft project for UR-800 technology development in 1962. This would focus on capabilities and potential mission architectures for a potential 150-200 tonne launcher to be developed after 1970.
    • Development of unmanned and manned Raketoplans by 1965, with initial test launches starting in 1961. The unmanned versions would include a co-orbital anti-satellite weapon, electronic intelligence and navy reconnaissance capabilities. The manned version would carry a crew of at least two and be capable of rendezvous missions in Earth orbit for military inspections and reconnaissance, as well as having a large cross-range capability. Later manned versions to be capable of supporting lunar flyby and, eventually, lunar landing missions.

    OKB-385 (Mishin):

    • Deployment of Sammit photoreconnaissance satellites by 1961.
    • Development of an upper stage for the R-6 in support of interplanetary probes by 1962.
    • Development of a launch vehicle for small satellites (5 tonnes to LEO) using Mishin's preferred kerosene/oxygen propellants, to be ready by 1963.
    • Development of a series of early lunar and planetary probes to be launched in the period 1960-1965. Unmanned Raketoplans would take over these missions from 1965 onwards.
    • Development of scientific Earth orbit satellites, including weather satellites, over the period 1960-1965.
    • Development of an experimental communications satellite for launch in 1963.

    OKB-586 (Yangel):

    • Development of a missile meeting the UR-200 requirement (10 tonnes to LEO, heavy ICBM) for deployment from 1963 onwards.
    • Development of a Fractional Orbital Bombardment Satellite (FOBS) system for the delivery of nuclear warheads from orbit, to be ready by 1965.
    • Early development work to investigate nuclear-thermal propulsion for potential use in the UR-600 and UR-800 and nuclear electric propulsion for Kosmoplans to be developed post-1970.

    OKB-456 (Glushko)

    • Development of high thrust, storable propellant engines in support of the UR-200 and UR-500 launchers.
    • Early development work on high thrust, high energy chemical engines for the future UR-600 and UR-800, and for potential use in high energy upper stages from 1965 onwards.

    This plan was presented to the Politburo before presentation to the Council of Ministers in September 1959. The final decree deferred all UR-800 related efforts except for nuclear engine studies, but authorised the rest of the KKRD programme, as well as a new point to be achieved in the short term, added at Khrushchev’s personal urging. With this decree in place, the USSR had a roadmap to the stars.
     
    Part I Post #7: America’s Road to the Stars
  • So, we've seen what the Soviets are planning. Let's take a look at how the Americans are getting on.

    14149695645_d9124b2069_z.jpg


    Part I Post #7: America’s Road to the Stars

    True to Major General Medaris’ word, April 1959 saw the Army Ballistic Missile Agency’s Jupiter-C rocket ready for launch at Cape Canaveral. Re-named “Juno” to distinguish it from those military versions of the same missile, the completed rocket stood just over 21 metres from tip to tail, its Sergeant-based solid rocket 3rd stage and Explorer 1 payload balanced on its nosecone as a trained seal might balance a ball. Neither the rocket nor the payload seemed any the worse the wear for having been held in warehouses for two years: von Braun’s “long term storage test” had apparently been passed with flying colours.

    Winds at the Cape averaged a frisky 33 km/h on the preferred launch date of Tuesday 14th, with sustained peaks of 44 km/h, so it was decided to postpone the launch by a day to see if conditions approved. As the 15th dawned, the winds did indeed die down, averaging just 18 km/h by midday, and so the decision was taken to go for launch.

    At 13:15 local time, loading of the Redstone 1st stage’s Hydyne fuel was started. More toxic than the earlier alcohol-based fuels (but less so than UDMH), this blend offered significant thrust and specific impulse gains over previous fuels. As loading of the Hydyne was complete, the oxidiser tanks began to fill with liquid oxygen, so that by 13:45 the Juno stood fully loaded, its solid rocket 2nd, 3rd and 4th stages needing no further attention. Apart from a brief hold to confirm some spotty telemetry from a launchpad pressure sensor, the countdown proceeded smoothly all the way to zero, with the Juno rocket lifting off at 14:37 local time.

    As advertised, von Braun’s rocket worked perfectly, inserting the Jet Propulsion Laboratory’s Explorer 1 satellite into a 350 x 1 600 km orbit at an inclination of 52 degrees. The satellite passed over the USSR before even completing its first orbit, firmly establishing America’s right to orbit above Soviet skies just as Russian satellites could pass over the USA. In addition to this political purpose, Explorer 1 added further data to the sum of human knowledge on the Vernov Belts, confirming the existence of a particular concentration of radiation above the South Atlantic that would become known as the Van Allen Anomaly.

    Despite the complete success of the Explorer 1 satellite and its Juno launcher, the mission was to be the last hurrah of the Army Ballistic Missile Agency’s work on space vehicles. Their political objectives met, Eisenhower and McElroy re-imposed the moratorium on Army missiles of over 1 500 km range. Space exploration was to remain the preserve of the “Civilian” Naval Research Lab, with military space efforts assigned to the Air Force. The deflated ABMA team were sent back to work on the Jupiter IRBM and its successors, forced to watch from the sidelines whilst others continued the conquest of space.

    For von Braun this was the last in a long line of frustrations. The same political and military bureaucracy that had thwarted him for the past decade was snatching away his prize at the very moment of victory. Dejected, von Braun left the ABMA in November 1959 to take up a role in industry, from which he hoped to one day further his dreams of manned spaceflight.

    Wernher von Braun was not the only person in the United States who dreamed of putting a man into space. The Air Force had been looking into crewed spaceflight as far back as May 1955, when they released their General Operational Requirement 12 for a piloted, high-altitude, reconnaissance weapon system available by 1959. Less than a year later they requested industry to submit proposals for a two year study of manned ballistic missile systems that would take advantage of the Atlas and Titan ICBMs then in development. In parallel, following the success of the X-15 high-altitude research jet, the Air Research and Development Command (ARDC) in October 1956 requested that the National Advisory Committee for Aeronautics (NACA) look into potential follow-on vehicles that could push man higher and faster than ever before - perhaps even the fabled “Boost-glide” transcontinental vehicle that had been an aviation dream since it was first conceptualised as German scientist Eugen Sänger’s “Silbervogel” (“Silver Bird”) during the Second World War.

    The NACA was at that time a relatively obscure government agency based out of Langley, Virginia. Created in 1915 to act as a government sponsor and coordinator for aeronautics research, the group had gone on to develop much of the theoretical knowledge on transonic and supersonic flight. Previous collaborations with the Air Force had resulted not only in the X-15, but also the legendary Bell X-1, the world’s first supersonic aircraft. Many at the NACA were therefore pleased to be able to continue this successful working relationship, establishing in early 1957 a dedicated "Round Three" Steering Committee (Rounds One and Two being the X-1 and X-15 programmes) to study feasibility of a hypersonic boost-glide research airplane.

    Not everyone at the NACA embraced the boost-glide airplane idea as the best way to put a man into space. A small but vocal group around Maxime A. “Max” Faget instead took their inspiration from the work done on warhead re-entry vehicles to propose a high-drag ballistic capsule, which would bring its pilot in to a landing under parachutes. This group argued that eliminating the wings of an aircraft-like concept would reduce the overall mass of the system and simplify the thermal control and stability problems of re-entry. This in turn would make it easier and cheaper to develop, ensuring that the first man in space would be an American.

    Despite these technical and programmatic advantages, and the fact that a hard-core group at the USAF were pushing for a capsule under the “Man In Space Soonest” banner, most others at the Air Force remained unconvinced. A ballistic capsule would have to rely completely on its booster to project it across its entire range. It would not be able to skip off the atmosphere to gain extra range, as in the boost-glide concept. A capsule would also have only a very limited ability to steer in the atmosphere, severely reducing its cross-range capability upon re-entry, and so limiting its flexibility. Finally, and more emotionally - a capsule just didn’t look “Air Force”. Air Force pilots were aviators, not mere payload. They flew planes. You couldn’t expect the likes of Chuck Yeager to just sit passively in a box while you lobbed him over the Atlantic.

    In November 1957 a joint NACA-USAF conference was held at Wright Patterson Air Force Base to review the various proposals submitted by contractors of the 1956 study award as well as Langley’s in-house studies. This meeting resulted in a combination of all of the boost-glide studies into a single programme to develop an initial one-man spaceplane with intercontinental range (not orbital, at least at first). This plan was approved in January 1958, and in June of that year a formal agreement was signed between the NACA and USAF to jointly develop the boost-glide spaceplane, now christened “Dyna-Soar”.

    The ballistics group at Langley were not happy at the sidelining of their cheaper, faster and (in their view) better approach to manned spaceflight, and continued to work on the concepts independently of the Dyna-Soar programme. They had managed to get a small amount of Air Force funding via the ARDC to study ballistic capsule designs as a potential option for gaining early experience on the effects of spaceflight on animals and perhaps men. The idea was that this knowledge could then be fed back into the Dyna-Soar project, but from the start Faget made sure that every concept and design the team put forward would be easily upgradeable to a full, manned orbital system. His plan was that, when Dyna-Soar inevitably became bogged down in the technical problems of its approach, he would be able to step in with a mature alternative design that could be ready within a year of the go-ahead.

    As things transpired, Faget didn’t even have to wait that long. Although the launch of ISZ-1 by the USSR in January 1959 had failed to generate the same level of buzz as Vanguard’s first success, the much greater mass of the Soviet satellite had highlighted a worrying possibility. The 1.3 tonnes of ISZ-1 was about the same as the minimum mass Faget’s team was proposing for a manned capsule. The implication was that, should they choose to, the Soviets could very quickly leap-frog the Americans by launching the first man into space. Around the same time that Secretary of Defense McElroy was calling Huntsville, the ARDC were on the phone to Langley, asking NACA Director Hugh Dryden how long he would need to put a man into space on one of Faget’s capsules. Dryden’s reply, after consulting with Faget, was that a concerted priority project could put an American in space in the next three years. The ARDC formally kicked off a joint project with the NACA in June, but with the Air Force brass focussed on Dyna-Soar, Faget’s team found themselves very much the unwanted step-child. It also didn’t help that, although McElroy was supportive, President Eisenhower was reluctant to feed what he would later call the “Military-Industrial Complex” with a second manned spacecraft project, and the next year’s budget allocation was correspondingly limited.

    With Juno having countered ISZ-1’s overflight capability, and with Dyna-Soar and the newly-named Mercury projects ongoing in a bid to ensure America was first in manned spaceflight, it was left to the Air Force’s Atlas team to demonstrate that the US could match the R-6’s payload capability. Fortunately for them, the USAF had for a number of years been developing the Agena upper stage in support of the top secret WS-117L spy satellite project. Consideration had been given to first try out the Agena-A stage atop a Thor first stage, but in early 1959 it was decided to jump straight to the more capable Atlas-Agena combination.

    The satellite to be launched by Atlas-Agena was officially declared to be a “Space technology test satellite”, and was given the mission name “Discoverer”. Off the record, its primary mission was to test the new spy satellite in operation. The 800 kg primary payload consisted of a sophisticated optical system, guidance and orientation capabilities to point the satellite at its chosen targets, and a re-entry capsule to return the exposed film to Earth. In addition to this, a number of other instruments were added, bringing the entire mass up to just over 1200 kg. This was done both to provide a veneer of scientific data as part of the cover story and to increase the spacecraft’s mass and so demonstrate that US launchers could match (or almost match) those of the USSR.

    The first launch of Atlas-Agena took place from Vandenberg Air Force Base in July 1959. The location was chosen because, unlike the Cape, Vandenberg provided clear launch trajectories for the satellite’s intended polar orbit. However, like so many maiden rocket flights, this first launch attempt ended in failure when the Agena refused to separate from the Atlas first stage. However, the second attempt in September succeeded in placing Discoverer 1 in a polar orbit with an altitude varying between 180 and 990 km. This success was tempered when contact was lost with the spacecraft two days after launch, before the re-entry capsule could be tested. The cause of the failure was never definitively tracked down, but a likely aggravating factor was the added complexity of the “Science” payload interfering with the “Military” payload’s systems. For the next test scheduled for November, all scientific instruments would be removed and the focus would be purely on demonstrating the military mission, in particular the re-entry capability. This test ended in failure when the Agena stage failed to light after separation, but the next test flight in late November succeeded, with the re-entry capsule coming down in the forests of British Columbia.

    As this was going on, the Dyna-Soar project was progressing well, with contracts awarded to Boeing and Martin in August 1959. The requirements for the contract awards confirmed the earlier intention that a two-man, fully orbital version of the spaceplane was to be provided, following early glide and suborbital skip-glide tests. The booster to be used to launch Dyna-Soar was the subject of continued debate, however, with a derivative of the Titan ICBM or a dedicated, all-new heavy lift launcher both considered front runners.

    In comparison, work on Mercury was slow, limited mainly to wind tunnel testing of various capsule shapes at Langley. As 1960 dawned, Faget was pushing the Air Force to provide him with an Atlas missile for testing of a full-sized aerodynamic mock-up in the second half of the year, but was meeting with considerable resistance. However, a possible alternative presented itself in February 1960 when the Chrysler corporation proposed to provide a small number of Redstone missiles at a reduced price. This deal was pushed and facilitated by Chrysler’s new Chief Engineer, one Wernher von Braun, who used his contacts in the ABMA to arrange for Army part financing in return for a joint test programme. As a joint project, this would allow the Army to keep a foot in the door of long-range missile technology whilst circumventing the Presidential directive that the Air Force and Navy should lead space projects.

    That such political manoeuvring was necessary gives an indication of just how low a priority Mercury was within the government in general and the Defense Department in particular. However, this would change very quickly following events in late April 1960.

    On Thursday 23rd April, an R-6 rocket once again lifted off from Tyuratam carrying a 1.5 tonne satellite into orbit. More sensational than its weight was its cargo: ISZ-4 carried a female mongrel dog, named Vega. Vega circled the Earth three times, her barks picked up by amateur and official listening stations around the world before the vehicle’s retro rockets fired, pushing the capsule back into the atmosphere to a landing in central Siberia. The following Friday, 1st May, a beaming Nikita Khrushchev was shown petting the world’s first space traveler during the May Day celebrations in Moscow. After starting out behind, it looked as if the USSR had taken the lead in space.
     
    Part I Post #8: Nations Divided
  • Slightly later than usual since I've been travelling this weekend, this week we take a wider look at the world beyond the space programme in...

    14149695645_d9124b2069_z.jpg


    Part I Post #8: Nations Divided

    The Turkish night air was crisp and cool in the small hours of 12th January, 1960, as Flight Lieutenant John MacArthur climbed the ladder into the cockpit of his Lockheed U-2 aircraft. Not that you could tell it was his from its appearance. The aircraft carried no marks to identify its nationality, and neither did the pilot. Officially, John MacArthur was on temporary assignment from the RAF to the Meteorological Office, undertaking a high altitude research flight to better understand the weather.

    Once buttoned into the cockpit, MacArthur started the plane’s single Pratt & Whitney J57 jet engine and taxied carefully to the end of Incirlik Air Base’s runway, guided by the ground lights and followed by a chase car. Once at the end of the runway, ground crew pulled away the safety pins from the “Pogo” outrigger gear that kept the long, delicate wings from dragging on the ground, followed by a quick last-minute check from the Mobile Officer. With a final thumbs-up given, MacArthur released the brakes and pushed the throttle all the way forward. The ungainly aircraft began to move down the runway, gradually building up the speed needed for takeoff. As the wings lifted upwards, the Pogos fell away, and MacArthur rotated the jet off the tarmac, climbing rapidly as he turned to an Easterly course.

    As MacArthur reached his operational altitude of over 70 000 feet, he looked out across a black sky above a curved globe which was just becoming visible as dawn broke ahead of him. This must be what a spaceman would see, he thought. Appropriate, considering his target for this mission. A target personally authorised by the Prime Minister.

    MacArthur crossed into Iranian airspace a little over two hours after take-off. There was no traffic control message to record this. The Iranians were probably completely unaware of his high-altitude passage, and even had they known the good relations between London, Washington and Tehran would have kept the incident hushed up. But MacArthur knew that other, more dangerous watchers would have seen him by now.

    Sure enough, as he crossed the Caspian Sea into Soviet airspace, a distant glittering below him spoke of two Sukhoi Su-11 “Fishpot” interceptors following his flight. With a service ceiling more than 15 000 feet lower than his U-2, MacArthur knew they posed no threat, and he ignored their radio challenges. The U-2’s instruments showed various radars painting him, but again nothing that could harm him at this height.

    After two hours of cat-and-mouse games with various interceptors sent after him, MacArthur finally reached his target: the main Soviet ICBM and space launch complex at Tyuratam. High powered telescopes in the belly of his aircraft began snapping pictures of the launch pads and assembly halls of the cosmodrome, all clearly visible in the mid-morning sunshine. His primary objective achieved, MacArthur turned his aircraft North-West, heading for Bodø in Norway via the Plesetsk missile base and a few tertiary targets in the Urals.

    Unknown to MacArthur or the intelligence chiefs in London and Washington, a new danger lurked in the Ural mountains. A battery of S-75 surface-to-air missiles had become operational just a few months earlier in late 1959. The battery’s commander had never attempted to engage a real target with his missiles, nor any target operating at such high altitude, but when the order came one did not question it. One simply fired.

    A volley of three S-75’s leapt from their guide rails and accelerated rapidly towards MacArthur’s U-2. The British pilot was immediately alerted to their launch and attempted evasive manoeuvres, but the guidance experts at OKB-301 had done their work well. The U-2 was hit by the first missile amidships and rapidly broke in two. MacArthur was hit by shrapnel from the explosion and died instantly as the two halves of his aircraft began the long, long descent to the ground.

    14468390886_7076877f7d_o.jpg

    The route of Flt. Lt. John MacArthur’s U-2, showing the position of his shoot-down.

    The shooting down of Flt. Lt. MacArthur’s U-2 would make for an uncomfortable start to the year for both British Prime Minister Harold Macmillan, who was already facing controversy following his “Winds of Change” speech in Cape Town earlier in the month, and for President Eisenhower. As had been pre-arranged, the UK government immediately put out a statement that they had lost a “Research aircraft on loan to the Meteorological Office” which had gone missing and was presumed crashed “somewhere over Eastern Turkey” following a “navigation error”.

    In Moscow, Khrushchev was infuriated by this bare-faced lie. Moreover, he knew from the recovered wreckage that whilst the pilot might have been British (MacArthur’s body had no official identification), his aircraft was undoubtedly an American-built U-2. Khrushchev was aware of the close cooperation between the UK and US intelligence agencies, but could not bring himself to believe that Eisenhower would allow overflights of the USSR without giving his own explicit approval.

    Pravda publicly announced the shooting down of the U-2 on Thursday 13th January, following an initial assessment of the wreckage by KGB and GRU experts. Simultaneously, the Soviet ambassador in London delivered a strongly worded rebuke to the British government, condemning the incursion as a blatant violation of Soviet sovereignty and making it clear that future attempts to enter Soviet airspace with spy planes, of any nation, would be met with similarly deadly force. The Soviet embassy in Washington delivered a similar warning to the President through more discrete channels.

    Eisenhower, who had previously been enjoying reasonably good relations with Khrushchev, took the hint and immediately banned further overflights. He also returned operational control of all U-2s to American personnel. On the other side of the Atlantic, Macmillan continued to stick to his cover story that the plane had been a lost meteorological flight, a position repeated when answering questions in the House of Commons. The Prime Minister faced fierce questions from Parliament and in the press, but he would weather the immediate political storm. However, the incident would affect his future relationships with both Eisenhower and Khrushchev.

    The most significant impact was at the Four Power Talks which kicked off on 16th May in Paris. At these talks, Macmillan had hoped to propose a ban on the testing of nuclear weapons in the atmosphere, both to prevent potential harmful effects from airborne radiation and as a first confidence-building step towards a gradual disarmament. He was dismissed out of hand by a belligerent Khrushchev, who took the opportunity to remind Macmillan exactly how few Soviet hydrogen bombs would be needed to wipe the UK from the map “As you would know, had you been able to count our rockets as you’d planned.”

    Eisenhower was not brushed aside so easily, but still found Khrushchev unreceptive to his proposals for a system of international arms inspections to reassure both sides in the Cold War that the other was not planning a sneak attack. In 1959, with the Soviets barely in space and before the U-2 shootdown, Khrushchev may have been willing to talk about this, but the MacArthur incident had seriously dented any trust he’d previously had in Eisenhower. Also, prototypes of Mishin’s Sammit spy satellites would be starting to fly by mid 1960, allowing Khrushchev to boast that “The Soviet Union has all the means she needs to keep an eye on your forces. We don’t need your permission for this.” French President Charles de Gaulle later suggested in private that “Perhaps M. Khrushchev was referring to reports received from his space dog.” Had he heard these comments it’s doubtful that Khrushchev would have been amused, as he knew what de Gaulle did not: Vega had not actually survived re-entry, and the dog he’d been photographed with at the May Day parade was a substitute.

    As for Khrushchev himself, his priority coming to Paris was the status of Berlin. The city was still officially under joint occupation by the four Allied Powers that had defeated Nazi Germany, with each Power being assigned a Sector within the city. However, the city as a whole was located deep within the former Soviet Occupation Zone, the German Democratic Republic (Deutsche Demokratische Republik, DDR). An attempt by Stalin to seal off the city in 1949 had failed, since which time the Western Allies had maintained access rights to Berlin through dedicated road, rail and air routes crossing Soviet-controlled territory. None of the Western Allies recognised the legitimacy of the DDR, and access to the different zones within Berlin had remained relatively free for civilians and occupation officials alike.

    This freedom of movement within Berlin had become a serious problem for the DDR regime as it became apparent that there were many Germans in the East who did not relish the task of "Building Socialism". Whilst the long Inner German Border between the DDR and the Western Federal Republic of Germany (Bundesrepublik Deutschland, BRD) had been largely sealed off since 1952, occupied Berlin wasn’t, and by 1960 over 3 million East Germans - almost 20% of the population - had taken the opportunity to escape to the West. This situation was clearly unsustainable, and Walter Ulbricht, the Chairman of the DDR Socialist Unity Party (Sozialistische Einheitspartei Deutschlands, SED), had been pressuring Khrushchev for some time to hand East Berlin’s border control over to him so he could stem the tide.

    Khrushchev was uneasy with the idea of handing control over to Ulbricht, as it would essentially give the German the ability to create an international incident whenever he felt like it by “squeezing” on what Khrushchev had described as “the testicles of the West”. On the other hand, the Soviet Union couldn’t just stand by and watch as their westernmost Warsaw Pact ally imploded through mass emigration. No, Khrushchev’s preferred solution was for Berlin to be declared a demilitarised Free City and the Western Allies agree to hand control over to a local city authority. This authority, Khrushchev assumed, would quickly fall under the sway of the SED and the escape route would be cut off, whilst simultaneously removing a NATO military presence within the heart of the DDR.

    Needless to say, Eisenhower, Macmillan and de Gaulle had all reached the same conclusion and had no intention of relinquishing their presence in Berlin. So Khrushchev was left with the bargaining position he’d held for the past year: Agree to Free City status, or the USSR will sign a separate peace treaty with the DDR and hand over East Berlin and control of its borders to Ulbricht.

    Thus deadlocked, the summit broke up with no substantial progress having been made. After the meeting, talks were quietly resumed on the test ban proposal, but on Berlin it seemed that no-one was prepared to move.

    Whilst Eisenhower was dealing with these foreign policy issues, his Vice President Richard Nixon was firmly focussed on domestic politics. 1960 was an election year, and with Eisenhower barred from running by the 22nd Amendment, Nixon seized his chance to go for the top job. With the withdrawal of Nelson Rockefeller in late 1959, the field was open for Nixon to claim the Republican candidacy at the National Convention in Chicago on 28th July. The Convention also approved the policy platform that Nixon had, with support from Rockefeller, put forward rather late in the day. This platform focussed on confronting Communism at home and abroad, providing stimulus for businesses and farmers, improving health and education and urging a continued push against segregation. After much consideration, Henry Lodge was announced as the candidate for Vice President, both for his foreign policy expertise and, hopefully, as a way of giving Nixon’s Democratic opponent, John F Kennedy, a strong fight in his home state of Massachusetts.

    The campaign was incredibly close-fought between the two candidates. In particular, the four televised debates held between September and October showed how evenly the fight was split, with polls suggesting radio listeners had taken Nixon as the winner whilst TV viewers thought Kennedy had just done enough to win it. Kennedy came across as youthful and energetic next to the tired, establishment figure of Nixon, but countering this was Nixon’s greater credibility as an experienced hand and tough anti-Communist. Despite Kennedy’s attempts to talk up fears that the Soviets may soon open up a gap in ICBM production, and to exploit the Eisenhower Administration's culpability in the U-2 shoot-down, he was unable to get as much traction as he’d hoped against Nixon’s credentials on defence matters.

    Come November 8th, the polls showed a nation split almost exactly down the middle, but when the final vote came in it gave a razor-thin majority to Nixon with 50.09% of the popular vote compared to Kennedy’s 49.17%. This translated into an electoral college victory of 286 to 243 in Nixon’s favour, with Mississippi’s 8 votes going to Harry Byrd. Richard Milhous Nixon would be the 35th President of the United States.

    14490277422_2f99bf26db_o.png

    The result was keenly watched in the Kremlin and in Berlin. Khrushchev’s May ultimatum giving the West six months to agree to a settlement on Berlin or have the USSR sign a separate treaty had come and gone without fanfare. Despite his threats, Khrushchev was not prepared to hand over border controls to Ulbricht, but the SED leader continued to press for action to restrict the flow of East Germans fleeing to the West. Khrushchev had persuaded Ulbricht to hold off on any action until after the US elections, but with the Nixon's victory the Soviet leader knew that things would not get any easier if he chose to act. He had met Nixon and “looked him in the eye” during the famous Kitchen Debate of 1959, and knew the ex-lawyer would be a tough opponent in any confrontation. If a crisis was coming, the old gambler Khrushchev decided it was better to come sooner rather than later.

    December saw first Ulbricht and then the other Warsaw Pact leaders called to Moscow for consultations. Following these meetings, an agreement was rubber-stamped authorising Ulbricht to act. Having spent the previous two months in secret preparations, the East German leader said he could now be ready to move within weeks. Khrushchev decided that the best time to strike would be before Nixon’s inauguration on 20th January, taking advantage of the handover period to cause confusion in the West’s response.

    Shortly after 1 am on Sunday 15th January, 1961, East German forces began deploying barbed wire through the heart of Berlin. By the time most of the city awoke, the entire border zone was surrounded by armed men of the East German army and border guard, with West Berlin almost entirely fenced off with wire and concrete blocks at the major street intersections.

    President Eisenhower was alerted at around 6am Eastern Time (12 noon in Berlin) and immediately brought Vice President Nixon and his transition team into the loop, whilst making it clear that the final decisions still rested with him as Commander in Chief. The two men quickly agreed that this unilateral abrogation of the Four Power Agreement by East Germany could not go unanswered and so, after conferring with the officer commanding the Berlin forces, US units were deployed to Potsdamer Platz and the Brandenburg Gate, with the objective of confronting the East German forces and demanding a meeting with a Soviet representative (East German authority not being formally recognised by the US) and a resumption of free access throughout the city. When the East German troops refused, and with no Soviet officials in sight, Eisenhower gave the order at 6pm Berlin Time for American tanks to forcibly clear the barbed wire at Potsdamer Platz. This order was given in clear via telephone through the line running through the DDR, and therefore was fully expected to be intercepted and understood by East German and Soviet eavesdroppers, sending a clear message that the US was prepared to stand up for its rights in Berlin.

    As ordered, a single American tank advanced across the border under floodlights and smashed through the barbed wire and concrete blocks, followed by a small contingent of US soldiers. East German forces withdrew from the area, falling back to the streets one or two blocks back from the border all along the line, not just at Potsdamer Platz. Seeing this, East Berliner civilians who had been watching with growing disbelief and horror throughout the day, began a mass exodus Westwards. Many jumped, crawled or cut their way through the now unguarded wire in the freezing night of the 15th/16th, but by far the greatest number headed for Potsdamer Platz. East German forces attempted to establish a secondary perimeter from their new line behind the border, but more than 6 000 people still managed to get through by midnight, despite shoot-to-kill orders coming down from Ulbricht and his Security Chief Hoennecker.

    With the torrent of refugees quickly becoming unmanageable, Khrushchev authorised Soviet military forces to move in and support the DDR's troops. As in the earlier 1953 uprising, Soviet forces acted with brutal efficiency, clearing a 100 m buffer zone all along the edge of the Soviet Sector, with the entire area between the Brandenburg Gate and the Spree placed under direct Soviet military control. US forces deployed along their own side of the border, but Eisenhower gave strict orders that no more clearances should be undertaken and the Americans should stay in their own Sectors. In the British Sector a similar policy was followed, whilst the French cleared just one street but otherwise made no move Eastwards.

    Fighting continued sporadically in East Berlin throughout the morning of the 16th, whilst at the inter-Sector checkpoints Soviet and NATO troops and tanks watched each other warily, fingers light on their triggers. Despite the orders not to advance, there were a number of instances of small contingents of US troops stepping over the border to assist fleeing East Berliners, and even in one case providing a few shots of covering fire, ratcheting up the tension. A similar heightened state of alertness was being observed worldwide, with bombers on both sides sent airborne and missiles readied for their final flights. Tyuratam reverted to its primary function, with two nuclear-armed R-6 missiles brought to readiness at the site’s ICBM pads, whilst at Plesetsk four more were put on alert. At Vandenberg, the one Atlas missile normally kept at ready status was joined by two more, and Thor missiles based in the UK were armed by their USAF/RAF crews. At the American base in Mannheim, near Frankfurt, a force of 10 000 relief troops, including tanks and artillery, were readied to make passage through the DDR and re-enforce the Berlin army group. In Washington, as the situation threatened to escalate out of control, Vice President (and President-Elect) Nixon was sent to Area B at Mount Weather, from where he would take the reigns of power should Eisenhower be killed in a Soviet strike. The world stood on the brink of war.

    As the enormity of the situation dawned on both sides, cooler heads began to prevail. With a more-or-less stable perimeter established behind the border, on the 19th Soviet tanks began a gradual withdrawal from the Sector border. This pull back was matched by US and allied forces, so that by mid afternoon only light troops remained at the border checkpoints to keep an eye on the situation. East German forces were kept well away from the front line, busying themselves building a new line of wire and checkpoints behind the buffer zone, out of sight of the forces on the border itself, as well as a third line completely encircling Berlin, East and West, with only the access roads used by Allied forces left open. Shortly after Nixon's inauguration on the 20th, direct talks with Khrushchev led to an agreement to keep diplomatic channels open, which eventually led to the Geneva summit on the future of Berlin in June. However, even at the time a shaken Nixon was taking his oath of office, the future shape of the city was already becoming clear from the facts on the ground. Whilst the border between the Eastern and Western Sectors of the city remained ostensibly open, the secondary line behind the border meant that the city was effectively divided in two, with a broad de-militarised zone extending 100 m into the Soviet Sector. The direct Sector border was manned by Soviet personnel, but behind the Line Ulbricht's men held sway. Whilst Allied officials were permitted free access to the East, in the future West Berliners and foreigners would need to apply to the DDR authorities for a special, seldom-granted visa for travel behind the Line. A similar system was instituted for East Berliners, but in their case visas were virtually never granted, and the old practice of people living in the East and working in the West became a thing of the past. Even access to East Berlin from the rest of the DDR was now restricted by the Outer Line surrounding the city, cutting the flow of people attempting to use Berlin as an escape route.

    More than 10 000 people had managed to cross from East to West during the crisis, and a thousand more would make it over by the end of February before the Line was fully fortified and shoot-to-kill made official policy. Estimates of the number of deaths during the three days of the peak of the crisis are difficult to confirm, but certainly exceeded 1 000. However, despite this tragic loss of life, all parties understood that the price had nearly been a lot higher. The world had stared into the nuclear abyss, and lived to tell the tale. On both sides of the Iron Curtain there was a determination that such a close call could never be allowed to happen again.


    +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++​

    A special thanks to Brainbin for his extra support in preparing this Post, above and beyond the fantastic help both he and e of pi give in reviewing and suggesting improvements to every Post. It is no exaggeration to say that without their support and inspiration, Kolyma’s Shadow would not exist.
     
    Last edited:
    Part I Post #9: Bang, Zoom! Straight to the Moon!
  • After last week's excursion into the wider world, this week we return to space for the penultimate Part I post of...

    14149695645_d9124b2069_z.jpg


    Part I Post #9: Bang, Zoom! Straight to the Moon!

    As the Atlas missiles stationed at Vandenberg were being prepared for a possible launch against Moscow in January 1961, another Atlas was undergoing checks at Cape Canaveral with a more peaceful purpose in mind. This was the Atlas-Agena rocket intended for the launch of the world's first deep space probe, Pioneer. The 200 kg spacecraft had been built by the Jet Propulsion Lab as a follow on to their Explorer designs and was intended to make a flyby of the Moon on its way to an independent solar orbit. It carried a number of particle and field sensors, but the highest expectations fell upon its sophisticated camera system. This camera, it was hoped, would at last allow humanity to see what lay on the far side of the Moon. Theories ranged from something essentially identical to the nearside's geography to fanciful suggestions of valleys containing breathable atmospheres, strange Selenite plants, or even a race of advanced Moon-men. Pioneer was intended to settle these questions.

    At least it would if it could get off the launch pad. The original launch date of mid-January was postponed at the last minute as the Berlin Crisis was reaching its peak. Although most analysts agreed that it would take a very paranoid Soviet radar operator to interpret the launch as a missile strike, paranoia was very much in the air, and nobody felt that it was worth taking a chance on. The mission was therefore stood down for two weeks whilst the Berlin situation stabilised, and then waited a further two weeks for the Moon to enter a favourable position, with the aim of making a flyby around the time of the New Moon so that the farside would be fully illuminated. However, although the Moon may have been ready by mid-February, it transpired that the launcher was not. The Atlas rocket's core engine failed 45 seconds into the flight, leading to the destruction of the missile by safety officials.

    The run of bad luck continued, as a second rocket and spacecraft could not be made ready in time for the March opportunity, whilst the April window was plagued with high cloud cover that would restrict visual tracking of the launch. It was May before the second Pioneer attempt successfully lifted off the pad, but even then the bad luck continued as the Agena upper stage shut down prematurely, stranding Pioneer 1 in a highly-elliptical Earth orbit. The control team at Pasadena were able to operate the spacecraft for several months, validating the imaging system by photographic Earth and using the radiation sensors to explore the Outer Vernov Belts and magnetosphere, but it was hardly the achievement everyone had hoped for. This was especially true at a time when the Air Force was questioning the value of diverting launchers from the vital Keyhole spy missions to Moon probes (disparagingly referred to as "Alices" by the Pentagon brass).

    As in many other arenas in the zero-sum game that was the Cold War, America's misfortune was seen as a boon to the Soviets. Mishin had been working hard on his R-6 upper stage (Blok-V) since late 1959, but it was still nominally at least 6 months away from a launch by the start of 1961. His efforts to improve this schedule were hindered by the total lack of assistance from Glushko and Chelomei for his kerolox engine. In fact Mishin was beginning to suspect deliberate sabotage by his “comrades”, perhaps relating to the June 1960 decision by Ustinov to re-allocate development of the manned space capsule from Chelomei to Mishin. Chelomei was not happy with the loss of this prestige project (even if it was intended only as a stop-gap on the way to his Raketoplans), and Mishin felt a definite itching between the shoulder-blades whenever the OKB-1 Chief Designer was in the room. This paranoia appeared be justified when Barmin informed Mishin in late 1960 that there would be a three-month delay in installing liquid oxygen tanks at Tyuratam due to the start of work on facilities for Chelomei's UR-500, a rocket which wasn't scheduled to fly for at least five more years. In this context, Mishin saw the delays being suffered by the Americans as a glimmering opportunity to trump them in a major space "first" and put himself into Khrushchev's good books, hopefully giving him the political leverage to push back against his rival Chief Designers.

    To meet this push, Mishin took a savage knife to the Blok-V's development and test schedule, cutting out anything he deemed nonessential. Similarly, the Luna probe he planned to launch was cut down from an ISZ-like science station to little more than a camera attached to a radio, with an attitude control system taken off-the-shelf from the Sammit programme. This could operate either as a fly-by probe to image the farside, or as an impactor that would transmit pictures of the surface before forming the Moon’s first man-made crater. When the technicians at Miass had completed assembly of the probe and announced they were about to start end-to-end electrical tests, Mishin overruled them with a brusque "Test it on the launch pad!"

    These herculean efforts meant that Mishin was able to get his uprated R-6A on the launch pad by mid-April 1961. Unlike at the Cape, conditions at Tyuratam were fine for a launch (though many suspected Mishin would have pushed ahead even in a thunderstorm), and the R-6A left the pad at the beginning of its launch window. Despite Mishin's fears that Chelomei might engineer an "accident" to scupper him, the R-6 Blok-A and Blok-B stages worked perfectly, putting the Blok-V/Luna combination into a low elliptical Earth orbit. This hurdle passed, at the appointed time the Blok-V's kerosene/oxygen engine was commanded to fire... and did nothing. The stage refused to light, and within a few hours had drained its batteries, leaving it dead in space.

    14278219103_78f7c518a5_o.jpg

    First launch of the R-6A “Luna” rocket, incorporating Mishin’s kerolox Blok-V upper stage, April 1961.

    Over the next week, checks on the two other completed Blok-V's at OKB-385 revealed that both had a wiring fault in the complicated system designed to light the rocket in the zero-gravity, zero-atmosphere environment of space. The fault should have been caught at the design stage, or at least during testing, but Mishin's push to meet an arbitrary schedule had cut those tests out. The problem was corrected and the new stages shipped to Tyuratam in readiness for the next launch window in May. However, this attempt would prove even less successful than the first, as the R-6A’s Blok-B exploded in mid-air before Mishin's stage had a chance to prove itself.

    Aware of the risks and unwilling to wait a further month for optimal lighting conditions for a flyby, Mishin had another Luna R-6A standing ready in reserve, and this was rushed to the pad in the following two days to carry out the impactor mission. Finally, on this third attempt, all three stages fired on cue, and the L1-A “Luna 1” probe was placed into its transfer orbit. Unfortunately, the Moon Curse held, as a guidance error meant that the transfer orbit would miss the Moon by almost 100 000 km and head directly into interplanetary space. Even the lesser distinction of launching the first Earth escape spacecraft was diminished when the thermal control systems failed to adequately counter the heat of the sun. Luna 1 overheated and shut down within 36 hours of its launch, and was quietly announced by TASS as the "engineering payload" of an "interplanetary launch vehicle test flight."

    Since ancient times, humanity had associated the Moon with causing madness. By mid-1961, engineers on both sides of the planet were convinced that this was completely true.

    Despite his run of bad fortune with lunar probes, Mishin was experiencing more success with his other unmanned spacecraft. In particular, by mid-1961 the long-running Sammit programme was starting to reach maturity, with an average of one launch every two months from mid-1960 onwards. The satellite was based around a pressurised module similar to those being used for suborbital biological flights with animals. The pressurised chamber held a 1 m focal length telescope and was attached to a service module which provided the necessary pointing, power and thermal control needed. At the top of the assembly, a small re-entry vehicle was provided to return film to Earth. Early experiments with scanning the film for transmission to Earth had been disappointing, but the system had been retained to enable a “quick look” at important targets before the end of the spacecraft’s nominal 5-10 day mission. Later Sammits carried additional instruments for electronic intelligence gathering (ELINT), for example characterisation of US radar stations and communication frequencies.

    After their initial rocky start, Sammit missions now had a success rate approaching 75% and were, along with their US Keyhole counterparts, a significant stabilising element as the Cold War entered its post-Berlin phase. In particular, both sides were able to categorise the other’s ICBM launch sites with reasonable accuracy, providing reassurance that neither Superpower was in danger of falling behind the other. However, it also prompted both sides to re-assess the vulnerability of these large, above-ground launch sites. In the US it was hoped that the Polaris submarine-based missiles would soon reduce this vulnerability, whilst on the Soviet side Yangel updated his R-16 design (which had previously lost out to the R-6 as the main Soviet ICBM) to make it suitable for deployment in hardened silos, from which they could survive and exact revenge for any American first strike.

    On the American side, since its early success with Vanguard, the Naval Research Laboratory had found itself overshadowed by the USAF in space achievements. Development of the proposed Vanguard follow-on launcher, originally named Explorer but now called Triton, was floundering as the requirements were continually changed. At first, aware of comparisons with the larger Atlas and future Titan missiles, as well as the Soviet R-6, the Triton’s target payload was upgraded from 700 kg to 5 tonnes. This meant a complete redesign of the launcher, only for Defense Department brass and the White House to demand a justification for why the military needed another booster in this class. So the specification was changed again to 1 tonne, with the intention of filling a gap in small payload launch capabilities. This once more re-set the development clock, so that by the start of 1961 the Navy had still not selected a prime contractor, or indeed finalised the requirements against which the contract could be competed.

    The NRL showed itself to be more effective when it came to producing satellites. Building on the earlier experiments with Vanguard 2, in late 1959 the NRL had started a project to develop a weather satellite with a TV imaging capability. This would allow near real time information on cloud cover to be beamed to Earth continuously, greatly aiding the prediction of the weather. As the Navy no longer had their own launcher (and in any case Vanguard would have been underpowered for the mission), it was to be a joint mission with the USAF. The Navy would provide the satellite, the Air Force would provide the ride, and both would share the resulting data between themselves and with the US Weather Bureau. By mid-1960 the Army had also become involved in the programme, providing additional ground station support.

    The first dedicated weather satellite, named Iris for the Greek goddess of rainbows, launched from Cape Canaveral on an Atlas-Agena in May 1961. Operating from a 700 km 50 degree orbit, Iris-1 began sending back infrared TV images almost immediately. The images were of poor quality by modern standards, and Iris’ low orbit meant that only small portions of the planet could be viewed at a time, but even with these limitations the satellite represented a revolution in the way in which weather fronts could be tracked. Follow-on spacecraft were launched in September 1961 and February 1962, with plans already in progress for a series of more capable weather satellites to follow.

    The Soviets were also aware of the possible benefits to be gained from weather satellites, and the September 1959 decree had included instructions for OKB-385 to develop these over the period 1960-65. Mishin had originally planned to delay deployment of the Meteor weather satellites so they could be launched by his new all-kerolox M-1 rocket, but the success of the American Iris satellite brought pressure to switch Meteor to a different launcher that could be available earlier. The first Meteor satellite was therefore launched in March 1962 on an R-6A/Luna vehicle. With its early teething problems apparently solved, the rocket successfully placed the 4 tonne Meteor into an 80 degree, 500 km orbit. The satellite operated well for over six months, and would be the basic model for Soviet weather satellites for the next five years.

    Despite the success of Meteor, communications satellites proved to be a tougher challenge for the Soviets, in particular in achieving the necessary reliability and power needed for components of a resilient active relay system. Although experimental communications satellites would be tested as early as 1963, the first operational Molniya satellites would not be launched until 1966, over four years after the US Army’s first Courier experimental comsat, and two years after AT&T launched their first Telstar satellite. The most significant result of the Molniya project in the early 1960s was that the heavy satellites in their energetic, highly elliptical orbits served as sufficient justification for Mishin to gain authorisation to increase the specification of his M-1 rocket to the point that it would rival Yangel’s U-200 in payload capability.

    As for the race to image the far side of the Moon, after Pioneer 2 missed its target and became the world’s first operational interplanetary spacecraft, the goal was finally achieved when the American Pioneer 3 spacecraft made a 1 200 km altitude flyby on 26th October 1961. The black-and-white images returned showed the Lunar farside to be even more rugged than the nearside, with the only significant feature observed being a small, dark oval, similar to the nearside Mares. This new feature was quickly christened “Mare Pasadena” by the JPL imaging team, although this designation would be disputed for some years in the astronomical community.

    Just one month later, in November 1961, the Soviet probe Luna 1 (all previous attempts having be retrospectively re-named under the generic “Kosmos” designation) repeated Pioneer’s accomplishment, passing just 800 km above the lunar surface. Unlike the earlier Soviet moonshots, Luna 1 was not a hasty improvisation, but rather the originally intended 400 kg “LNS-1” scientific spacecraft. In addition to the imaging system, instruments were also included to measure particular radiation and magnetic fields, and so after its flyby Luna 1 became the first spacecraft to measure the solar wind from outside of the Earth’s magnetosphere.

    Whilst these scientific achievements were very impressive and often had great practical value, it was clear to both sides that, in propaganda terms, there was only one first that really mattered. Who would be the first nation to place a human being into space?
     
    Part I Post #10: The First Man
  • So today we come at last to the final Post of Part I of...

    14149695645_d9124b2069_z.jpg


    Part I Post #10: The First Man

    At the start of the 1960s, the US and the USSR each had two parallel man-in-space efforts underway. In the Soviet Union, Chelomei’s long-term Raketoplan space plane project ran alongside the underfunded capsule programme, operating under the code-name Zarya (“Dawn”), which had been reallocated from Chelomei to Mishin in 1960 under pressure from Ustinov. The United States mirrored this situation, with the Air Force focussing first and foremost on their Dynasoar space plane, whilst the Mercury capsule programme was seen as a cheap stop-gap. The leadership of both sides were interested in what data capsule flights could provide with respect to how men could adapt to the space environment, and accepted there would be significant propaganda value in launching the first human space explorer, but few on either side saw capsules as leading to any significant military operational capability. An additional factor in the US was that Eisenhower had become more concerned with slowing the growth of the Military-Industrial Complex than competing with the Russians in space stunts, even after the flight of Vega the dog again highlighted the political benefits that could accrue.

    The situation for Mercury changed with the inauguration of President Nixon. Taking his oath of office under the shadow of the Berlin Crisis and possible nuclear war had a huge impact on the shape of Nixon’s term of office. Although still a staunch anti-communist and a firm believer in the long-standing policy of containment of Soviet influence, the near-miss of Berlin convinced Nixon that direct confrontations between the two world systems had to be avoided in the future. Nixon’s policy, encapsulated in his famous “Not One Step More” speech in Bonn, instead became to “freeze” the Cold War in its current configuration, with both sides sticking to their current spheres of influence and not attempting to shift the borders between the First and Second Worlds by military means. Nixon would continue to expand the US’ military forces to ensure they would be ready for anything, but he also wanted to focus on beating Communism through the increased economic and technological dynamism of the Free World, ensuring that America stayed ahead of the Communists and would eventually begin to widen the gap again. Hopefully this would open up new options in the future for defeating the Communist system, or at least in coming to some sort of stable accommodation without recourse to nuclear war.

    As a highly visible demonstration of technological prowess, space was to be a vital front in Nixon’s Cold War strategy. Shortly after taking office he created the Defense Research Agency as an independent R&D arm under the Pentagon with the aim of developing new, breakthrough technologies to augment and secure the defence capabilities of the United States. The DRA would consolidate, coordinate and complement the R&D efforts of the individual services, bring new expertise and new funding to ensure that the American military would remain the most technically advanced in the world, with its Space Systems Office having a particular focus on launch vehicle development. In conjunction with this change, the Nixon administration moved to formally incorporate space technology into the NACA’s remit, so that from November 1961 it became the National Advisory Committee for Aeronautics and Astronautics (NACAA), gaining new funding and new personnel to support its work in fundamental research in support of air and space transportation.

    Both of these changes had the effect of supercharging the ongoing Dynasoar programme, including its associate launch vehicle development, but of the most immediate impact was on Mercury. With the new focus on being seen to be ahead of the Soviets, the potential of Mercury to extend an early lead made it very attractive. Dynasoar, whilst considered valuable and worthwhile, was not scheduled to begin airborne glide tests until 1963, with the first space launch not coming until at least a year later. Mercury could guarantee to put a man in space within Nixon’s first term. Suddenly, Max Faget’s lonely team of ballistics advocates found themselves with more friends and resources than they could have dreamed of a year earlier.

    Following a series of wind-tunnel assessments and Redstone-launched suborbital flights of aerodynamic test vehicles throughout 1961, by the start of 1962 the final configuration of the Mercury capsule had been fixed. Mercury would be a small, conical capsule, 1.9 m in diameter - just big enough for a single occupant. Although the Air Force still used the term “pilot”, for the first few flights at least it was possible that the man inside the capsule would be little more than a passenger along for the ride. Although controls were included to allow the pilot to turn the craft in space and fire the retro-thrusters, the mission could be completely automated, with critical events verified by ground control. If the alien environment of outer space were to somehow incapacitate the pilot it would be vital to be able to bring him home with the automatic systems. Assuming that the first candidates showed no adverse effects, future pilots would test manual operation of the vehicle, providing valuable feedback into the design and concept of operations for Dynasoar.

    In January 1962 the production model Mercury capsule made its first short flight when the Escape Tower rocket that would pull the capsule clear of its launcher in the event of a catastrophe succeeded in yanking a Mercury off its test stand at the NACAA Wallops Island facility. The first test of a full-up Mercury from the top of a missile came the following May, when a modified Redstone was fired at the Cape, lobbing the Mercury capsule over 350 km and reaching a maximum altitude of 200 km. On board was a Rhesus monkey named “Bucky”, who survived the experience with no ill effects, giving confidence that a man would be able to survive the experience equally well.

    This mission, MR-5, was planned to be the last Mercury-Redstone flight, as the increased priority from the White House and the DRA succeeded in persuading the Air Force to allocate models of the more powerful Atlas-D missile to the Mercury test programme. However, the first Mercury-Atlas launch at the end of May was unsuccessful, with the booster engines cutting out just seconds after ignition, causing minor damage to the rocket and the launch pad. Further test flights in June and July showed better results, the latter test boosting the unmanned capsule into a low Earth orbit, although a failure of the retro-boosters meant that it was unable to return to Earth as planned. Finally, in August Ham the Chimp completed a suborbital flight on mission MA-4.

    Ham and Bucky both became minor celebrities in the US, frequently appearing on television throughout the remainder of 1962. This level of fame was not matched by the canine cosmonauts of Soviet space tests of that period. The flight of Vega in April 1960 had been a publicity coup for the USSR, but only because of a cover-up. Launched aboard a hasty modification of the Sammit re-entry vehicle, Vega was killed when the parachute of the tiny capsule failed. The resulting impact was potentially survivable for the hardened film canister of a spy satellite, but not for a living creature. The broadcasting via TASS of Vega’s barks whilst she had been on-orbit meant that the Soviets couldn’t simply deny the mission had ever happened, and so a replacement dog had been found to stand in for Vega at the following May Day parade. Although the Soviets got away with this deception for many decades, they were unwilling to take similar propaganda risks in the future, and so all biological test flights were put on hold. When flights with dogs resumed in mid 1961, they were carried out with no publicity at launch, and were simply noted as “Space technology test vehicles”. Only after the safe return of the subject would the mission’s true purpose be announced, with unsuccessful missions quietly omitted.

    Following Vega’s death, future biological missions would be flown using a new re-entry vehicle design. After considering use of a simple spherical capsule, Mishin and Tikhonravov decided instead to develop a headlamp-shaped vehicle. This decision was taken with an eye to the future. The decree of September 1959 that had authorised the start of work on Zarya was primarily a child of Chelomei, and made it very clear that it was OKB-1’s Raketoplans that would be the vehicle enabling Soviet space travel in the long term. Chelomei planned for Zarya to be just a test programme on the path to Raketoplan, an unfortunately necessary step which could be safely farmed out to Mishin without harming his grand scheme.

    For Mishin then, Zarya was his first, last and only chance to establish a foothold in manned spaceflight, and so he intended to make sure that, rather than a dead-end test vehicle, whatever flew would be expandable and upgradeable to support future space spectaculars which would advance Mishin’s position vis-a-vis Chelomei. A spherical re-entry vehicle, though providing superior stability, would result in gee forces unsuitable for future deep space missions. Therefore Mishin contracted with Keldysh’s Central Aerohydrodynamic Institute (Tsentralniy Aerogidrodinamicheskiy Institut, TsAGI) to propose an alternative shape which would provide some lift and steering capability whilst minimising mass. The resulting headlamp shaped capsule would be suitable for high-orbit and even lunar missions, but required use of a sophisticated active attitude control system to maintain stability during re-entry. Though the experience gained with the Sammit pointing mechanism and efforts to improve the accuracy of ICBM warheads had given some experience in this field, the complexity of the system needed still posed a significant challenge to Mishin’s engineers.

    These challenges were finally overcome in February 1962, when an R-6 missile was rolled out to the pad at Tyuratam carrying the 4 tonne Zarya capsule at its tip. The rounded 2 m wide re-entry capsule (Spuskaemyi Apparat, SA) formed the nose of the rocket, with the short Sammit-derived instrument module (Pribornyy Apparat, PA) concealed under a conical supporting fairing, although for this first test flight a non-functional mock-up was in place. Inside the Zarya was another dog-cosmonaut, a male named Baikal, but this time he would only be making a suborbital hop of around 1 000 km, as without a functional service module it would be impossible to conduct the necessary retro-burn.

    The first suborbital test flight however ended in disappointment, as the Zarya SA failed to separate from the R-6 second stage, and the entire complex impacted together, killing Baikal. Despite this, March saw another fearless dog, optimistically named “Vezuchiy” (“Lucky”) launch atop an R-6. Vezuchiy lived up to her name, successfully landing in central Siberia from where her Zarya capsule was retrieved less than six hours after launch.

    Further suborbital flights throughout the spring and summer of 1962 were mostly successful, leading up to the first orbital flight launched on an R-6A ‘Luna’ rocket at the end of August, once again piloted by the fearless Vezuchiy. Coming less than a week after Ham’s flight, this mission made Vezuchiy the first living entity to travel into space more than once. Her reputation was slightly tarnished when the Zarya capsule landed over 300 km off target, but aside from this the mission was a complete success, with Vezuchiy completing five orbits of the Earth. Following her retrieval, a confident Mishin declared that, assuming the next two test flights went as planned, he would be ready to launch a manned mission in time for the 45th anniversary of the Revolution in November 1962. The race was tightening.

    The successful mission of Vezuchiy, coming so close to that of Ham, focussed attention in the US on just how tight the race had become. The Air Force’s original plan had been to launch at least two, more probably three more “Astrochimp” missions before attempting to launch a man into orbit. This was partly to gather more data on the biological effects of spaceflight, but also to improve confidence in the Mercury capsule, in particular the retro booster control system, which had given some trouble on the second unmanned flight. But following this methodical test regime could risk letting the Reds beat them into space, with some in the chain of command of the opinion that the “Godless Commies” would not be above risking a pilot in a substandard spacecraft if it meant getting there first.

    Largely at the instigation of von Braun, now back in Government service as the DRA’s top rocket specialist, a new test plan was put forward. To ensure that the first man in space was an American whilst minimising risks, von Braun proposed launching Mercury on a Redstone for a suborbital mission first. Two spare Redstone missiles had been ordered as part of the early test phase in case of failure of one of the unmanned tests, and true to form von Braun had ensured these extra boosters had been stored rather than scrapped following the completion of those tests. Taking one out of storage and prepping it for flight would be the work of a few weeks, much simpler than the reconditioning job that had been needed for Explorer 1. Although the entire flight would last just over 15 minutes, it would be able to launch on very short notice, whilst the reduced duration and “Fail-safe” assurance that the capsule would return to Earth no matter what meant that the risks of mechanical failure were vastly reduced. Of course a sub-orbital flight would not grab the same headlines as an orbital mission, but by taking the place of one of the planned “Astrochimp” tests the addition of this ballistic hop would have only a small impact on the orbital mission’s schedule. The Air Force, von Braun promised, would be able to have their cake and eat it.

    The plan was formally approved in mid-September, by which time Mary-Ann had splashed down after becoming the second chimpanzee in space and the first to orbit the Earth. The next launch, scheduled for 5th October, was chosen to carry the first human in history to travel beyond Earth’s atmosphere.

    At 8am on the morning of Friday 12th October 1962, test pilot James W. Wood was transported to Launch Complex 5 at the Cape Canaveral Air Force Station. Standing at the pad, holding T-minus 2 hours 20 minutes into its countdown, was the Redstone missile chosen to carry Mercury mission MA-6. Winds were light and visibility good.

    After ascending the support tower, two airmen helped the silver-suited Wood into his Mercury capsule, named “Spirit of Freedom” by Wood himself, in reference to Charles Lindbergh’s pioneering flight in the “Spirit of St. Louis”. Wood was strapped into place and, after a final check, the hatch of the tiny vehicle was closed and sealed. After giving a final thumbs-up through the window of the hatch before the two airmen left the gantry, Wood then busied himself working through the pre-launch checklist. All systems looked good and the countdown resumed.

    The countdown proceeded relatively smoothly, with only two holds to check minor technical issues, until at T-minus 15 minutes the final planned hold-point was reached as the real-time trajectory computer was checked. Checks completed, the final phase of the countdown began. Inside the capsule, Wood reported “Freedom is ready to go.”

    At 10:56 am the Redstone’s A6 engine ignited and James Wood began his flight into history. “Lift off. Clock has started,” he reported as the missile cleared the launch pad. two-and-a-half minutes into the flight the engine shut down and the escape tower was jettisoned. The Redstone separating cleanly to leave Spirit of Freedom on a ballistic trajectory that would carry it to a maximum altitude of almost 200 km. As the Mercury capsule continued along its flight path, Wood reported that he was feeling fine and suffering no adverse effects. Three minutes after launch he activated the manual controls and tested the Attitude Control System (ACS). Wood confirmed he had good control over yaw, pitch and roll, and followed up these simple tests by manually re-orienting Freedom for re-entry. As he passed apogee, Wood reported good visibility of the Earth, picking out various landmarks.

    Seven minutes into the mission, Wood activated the Automatic Stabilization Control System (ASCS) and prepared for re-entry. Exactly as it had been designed to do, the ASCS maintained Freedom’s attitude as the capsule plunged back into the atmosphere, with Wood reporting forces of up to 9 gee as the craft descended. At 9 minutes and 40 seconds, the drogue parachute deployed, followed by the main ‘chute 40s second later. Finally, at Mission Elapsed Time 15 minutes 27 seconds, the Spirit of Freedom splashed down in the Atlantic Ocean 500 km East of the Cape. Ten minutes later a helicopter from the USS Kearsarge triumphantly retrieved James W Wood, the First Man in Space.
     
    Last edited:
    Part II Post #1: Teaser II
  • Hi everyone. I'm travelling at the moment, so I'm afraid I won't have much chance to respond to comments for a while, but as promised here's the start of Part II of...

    14586157714_768de6d615_o.png


    Part II Post #1: Teaser II

    US Army Corporal Paul Roesen sipped contentedly at his coffee as he enjoyed the sunshine on this mild Spring morning. All things told, Berlin wasn’t the worst posting he’d ever had. Normally stationed in the tiny Stars and Stripes field office adjacent to the Armed Forces Network Berlin at Podbielskiallee in the American Zone, part of his duties were to provide a review of what the German papers were reporting on, including those published in the East. Which meant that each morning he got his coffee and cake paid for by Uncle Sam at the ornate Karl-Marx Cafe on Unter den Linden in the Free Zone, reading Neues Deutschland and Berliner Zeitung along with Die Zeit, Frankfurter Allgemeine and, of course, Bild.

    Roesen took a moment to enjoy the scene before ploughing through the pile before him. From his table he could see the girls (mostly West Berliners, judging by their fashionable clothes and heavy make-up) strolling past the checkpoint at the Brandenburg Gate and through to Pariser Platz, perhaps like him intending to enjoy breakfast at the cheaper, DDR-subsidised prices available in the Free Zone. Opposite stood the imposing bulk of the Soviet Embassy, whilst looking towards the East, Roesen could just make out the guard towers and gates at Schlossbrücke. They marked the end of the Soviet-sponsored “Berliner Frier Stadt Sector”, beyond which lay East Berlin proper. The long lines of wire fences and guard towers running along the banks of the Spree, forming what the DDR government had euphemistically named the “Anti-Fascist Control Barrier” were hidden from Roesen’s view. The newly rebuilt facade of stores and hotels kept the Line out of sight, if not out of mind. Those East Berliners Roesen could see, including the waiter who’d served him, would all be in that ten percent of the Eastern population considered “Politically Reliable” by the Ulbricht regime. Hardly any of them were under the age of thirty, and likely most of them would have families and dependants behind the Line who could not easily be left behind. Otherwise they would never have been permitted to work in the Socialist Bloc showcase that was the Free Zone.

    Taking another sip of coffee, Roesen looked back down at the papers on the table in front of him, a mixture of East papers and Western publications he’d picked up on his way to the cafe. As all the official newspapers of the DDR followed the same Party line, it was usually sufficient to read one then just skim the rest. Today’s editions were no different, all carrying the same stories: Ulbricht is planning a state visit to Czechoslovakia; The Ministry of Finance projects the DDR economy will out-perform the BDR by 1970; Castro denounces the US for supplying weapons to counter-revolutionaries - usual stuff. The West German papers were all about the latest scandal to hit Adenauer's ailing government, with claims that Defence Minister Strauss had accepted bribes from a Canadian aerospace company in return for ordering their fighter jets. Strauss had managed to shrug off previous accusations of bribe-taking over the Fibag affair, but to Roesen this new scandal looked to be a lot more serious. He shook his head. Why couldn’t the Canadians compete fairly on a level playing field, like American companies did?

    In international news, there was a depressing piece in Die Zeit about the race riots back in the US, with the paper reporting that Nixon was calling on all levels of government to enforce desegregation, whilst Humphrey deplored his inactivity and Wallace threatened to deploy the National Guard in Alabama. It ran alongside a story that the US was considering increasing military aid to the new government in Saigon, whilst reassuring the world that the weapons being sent were purely defensive and reiterating that there was no chance of major American forces being deployed against the Viet-Cong in combat roles.

    One story that appeared in both sets of papers was a piece about yesterday’s returning Soviet space mission. Even considering the East German papers’ tendency to embellish Soviet achievements with hyperbole, there was no denying that the USSR’s recent space exploits were impressive. Sure enough, when Roesen checked the West German papers, they too were full of praise for the achievement. When, they asked, would the US again be able to match the Communists in space? Roesen wondered the same thing. He was fascinated by all this Buck Rogers stuff and had been following the Mercury flights and Dynasoar tests along with everyone else over the past year, but it looked to him like the Air Force was dropping the ball and letting the Reds pull ahead.

    The story about space reminded Roesen of the curious little booklet he’d picked up in the American Sector along with the West German papers. After jotted down a few notes to wire back to the S&S head office in Darmstadt and ordering another coffee, he pulled the booklet out from under the pile of papers and took a closer look. It was digest-sized and featured a painting of a group of astronauts on some alien planet (no, that would be the Moon - the Earth was clearly visible in the background), running towards a rocketship. It was that picture that had caught his eye in the newsagents. Opening the magazine, Roesen was slightly disappointed to find no other illustrations inside, but as he began to read the German text he found himself becoming more and more engrossed. The tale of an American expedition to the Moon discovering an alien spaceship had him hooked. His half finished second cup of coffee was cold by the time he put the magazine back down and signalled to the waiter he was ready for the check.

    The waiter was delighted when Roesen not only paid with West Marks (officially 1:1 with East Marks; unofficially more like 5:1), but also absentmindedly added a ridiculous tip to the total. Roesen barely heard the heartfelt “Dankeschön!” from the waiter; he was still in the world of spaceships and aliens. I wonder if there’s an English translation I can send to my nephew? he thought to himself as he stood to leave. If there isn’t, maybe I should translate it myself. I’m sure he’d get a kick out of reading the adventures of this “Perry Rhodan” character…

    14857741955_5c79d6f5d7_o.png

    The centre of Berlin after the Crisis of 1961. The Soviet-controlled “Free City Zone” acts as a buffer between the Eastern and Western Zones. “The Line”, a militarised barrier of wire and concrete, prevents unauthorised passage between the Free Zone and DDR-controlled East Berlin.
     
    Part II Post #2: Space Race
  • 14586157714_768de6d615_o.png


    Part II Post #2: Space Race

    Even as James Wood, the First Man in Space, was enjoying a ticker-tape parade in New York City on October 17th 1962, on the other side of the globe the Zarya-1 space capsule was arriving at the Assembly and Testing Building (MIK) at Tyuratam. Over the next week, the spaceship was unpacked, tested, and moved for integration with her R-6A carrier rocket. In the nearby town of Leninsk, no less careful preparations were underway as Air Force pilot Yuri Gagarin and his back-up, Valentin Bondarenko, underwent final training and medical examinations for his mission. As had been the case throughout the selection process, Gagarin passed all these tests with flying colours. He was by every measure the finest example of Soviet manhood - fit and fearless, rising from humble beginnings to greatness in service to the Motherland as was only possible under Socialism.

    On 28th October the integrated R-6A/Zarya stack was rolled out of the MIK to Launch Complex 1, the same pad from which ISZ-1 had launched almost four years earlier. Under the watchful gazes of Chief Designers Mishin and Chelomei, she was raised vertically and clamped securely into place on the pad. After a further day of checks and double-checks, the order was given to begin fueling. Clad in protective gear, technicians raised the fueling arm and gingerly connected the pipes. Even after years of experience in both the space programme and military service, no-one was taking any chances with the Blok-A and B’s highly toxic AK271/UDMH propellants - propellants which Mishin intended would soon be fully replaced by the kerosene and liquid oxygen now starting to fill the Blok-V upper stage.

    Their hazardous task completed, the fueling technicians withdrew the arm and retreated from the pad. It was now time for Gagarin, fully sealed in his spacesuit and accompanied by two more hazmat-attired technicians, to ascend the support gantry and climb into his ejection seat in the waiting SA capsule.

    With Gagarin safely sealed inside Zarya, the countdown resumed and final checks were made. Everything proceeded smoothly. Mishin had learnt hard lessons in preparation over the last few years, and had not allowed artificial deadlines to distort his timetable. For Chelomei’s part, the R-6A was now a very familiar creature, and he and his staff knew all her little quirks. The rocket and her payload were both as ready as they could be made. All that remained was to launch.

    Liftoff came at 09:12 am local time on Tuesday 30th October. “Davay!” (“Come on!”) yelled Gagarin as the R-6A cleared the pad and began its ascent. Back in the firing room, everyone nervously watched the incoming telemetry from the rocket and the chain of tracking stations down-range of Tyuratam. They thought they knew this vehicle, but this was the first time there had been a man strapped to its nose. Nothing must go wrong!

    As the Blok-A depleted and Blok-B separated, everything looked good. The RD-221 engine lighted on command, speeding Zarya-1 towards orbit. In its turn, the Blok-B shut down and fell away, leaving the Blok-V to give Zarya the final push to a perfect 180 x 330 km orbit about the Earth. “I feel fine,” Gagarin reported. “I am in good spirits. I can see the Earth very clearly. She is beautiful!”

    After a single orbit of the globe, Zarya-1 automatically re-oriented itself and fired the single rocket of its PA service module off the African coast, slowing the ship for a re-entry over the USSR. Its job done, the PA separated cleanly, and the SA began its fiery descent into the atmosphere. After experiencing forces of up to 7 gee, at 7 km altitude Zarya’s hatch was jettisoned and Gagarin ejected from the capsule. His parachute deployed as planned and he landed safely in the Samara region of the Russian SFSR, to be picked up forty minutes later by a Red Army team. The Zarya capsule landed nearby under its own parachute, with automatic measurements indicating that the impact would have been harsh, but survivable. Both Gagarin and Zarya-1 were rushed to Moscow and a hero’s welcome. Yes, the Americans had made a little hop in their Mercury, but it was the USSR who had first put a man into orbit! Finally, it seemed that the Soviet Union was starting to overhaul the Capitalist states, just as Khrushchev had predicted they would.

    14510917998_f1f1646488_o.png

    A replica of the Zarya-1 capsule, seen here on display for the Cosmonautics Exhibition at the Moscow Polytechnic Museum in 1968.

    The triumphant reception of Gagarin in Moscow was echoed around the world, and the Soviet propaganda machine wasted no time in portraying their man, not Wood, as the “real” First Man in Space. The fact that Gagarin had bailed out before Zarya-1 reached the ground, technically violating the Fédération Aéronautique Internationale’s rules for aviation records, was omitted from official Soviet reports, but rumours nonetheless managed to reach the West. It was also pointed out that, strictly speaking, Gagarin landed before completing a full orbit, and so the accomplishment was in fact little more than an extension of Wood’s feat. This argument gained little traction worldwide, with the FAI accepting Gagarin’s position as the first human to “Orbit the Earth”. American complaints risked the appearance of being the sour grapes of a sore loser, so Washington offered their official congratulations on “the sending of the first Soviet man into space,” whilst at the same time pushing forward their own response with the Mercury programme.

    That response was not long coming. In November, the Air Force launched two simian-crewed Atlas-Mercury missions in quick succession, both of which performed multiple orbits and successful re-entries, their Astrochimp passengers returned in good health. Based on these results, the official go-ahead was given to proceed with mission MA-9, or “Mercury-2” as it was inaccurately named in the press. On 12th December 1962, Joe Walker became the first American to orbit the Earth in his capsule “Columbia”, completing two orbits before returning to a successful splashdown just over 400 km East of the Bahamas. His three hours aloft gave the US the duration record for manned spaceflight and demonstrated that the two Superpowers remained neck-a-neck in the Space Race.

    1963 would see the race continue and escalate, as the rocket scientists of both sides came under pressure from their respective leaderships to go further and faster. In February, the Soviets once again took the lead, when Zarya-2 carried cosmonaut Valentin Bondarenko on a six-hour mission. However, things did not go entirely to plan, with Bondarenko feeling the effects of severe motion-sickness within a few minutes of unstrapping from his seat on-orbit. When reporting this to mission control in Podlipki, he down-played the seriousness of his symptoms, insisting that he could continue the mission. After some discussions with the flight surgeon, Mishin authorised the mission to continue on the understanding that all control of the spacecraft was in any case automated or commanded from the ground, so should Bondarenko’s condition worsen he could be brought back without needing to use the controls himself. In the event, the cosmonaut’s symptoms did recede a little, although he later admitted to feeling very queasy for the entire mission. Following consultations between Bondarenko and Podlipki Control, it was decided to forego the option of ejecting as Gagarin had done and instead proceed with the plan of landing him with his ship. This he did, ending Zarya-2 with a successful (if bruising) parachute landing for the capsule and cosmonaut.

    The American counter-punch came with the flight of Al Perini in Mercury-3. Originally scheduled for launch on 3rd April, the mission was delayed two days when a wiring fault was detected in the command link to one of the Atlas sustainer engines. This was quickly corrected, and so it was on 5th April that Perini and his capsule “Liberty” ascended for a five hour mission. Although not matching Zarya-2’s time on orbit, Perini’s flight further validated the Mercury capsule and provided more data on human reactions to microgravity which were greedily seized upon by flight surgeons working on the Dynasoar programme.

    Despite concerns over Bondarenko’s adverse reaction to spaceflight, the Soviets decided to push ahead with their Zarya programme by conducting an even more ambitious mission. Mishin had from the start intended that Zarya would be an upgradable spaceship, to which a variety of modifications could be added over time to increase her capabilities. Already he was working on Zarya-B, a two-man version with an expanded service module and some limited manoeuvring capability, for launch on his M-1 rocket now under construction. If everything went to plan, the M-1/Zarya-B combination should be ready to launch by the end of 1963. However, with the initial objective of beating the Americans to orbit achieved, Chelomei was now working his political connections to cut back on the Zarya missions and focus all efforts on his own Raketoplan project. To fight this Mishin felt it necessary to continue pushing the envelop and provide new “Firsts” for the Soviet leadership to boast about.

    Mishin’s initial idea was to advance the timetable for a two-man mission by modifying the Zarya-3 SA capsule to a similar configuration to that planned for Zarya-B. Mishin’s deputy, Zarya’s lead designer Mikhail Tikhonravov, objected strongly to this. Adding a second cosmonaut would mean removing the ejection seats, both to provide more room within the capsule and because Zarya’s hatch was in any case only designed to fit one ejecting cosmonaut. For Zarya-B this would be no problem, as that capsule would be fully enclosed within a fairing equipped with an escape tower similar to Mercury’s, which would pull the entire fairing/Zarya combination to safety in the event of a launch accident. In theory Zarya-A could be modified to use an escape tower too, but the tower had not yet completed testing. If it should fail when needed, the two cosmonauts would both perish. Mishin reluctantly accepted Tikhonravov’s arguments, and so it was instead decided that the next Soviet “first” would be a demonstration of the equality of Socialist womanhood.

    When Zarya-3 stood on the pad in June 1963 it carried 22-year-old Tatyana Kuznetsova. A regional and national champion parachutist, Kuznetsova was not only the first woman to be assigned to a space mission, but also the world’s youngest trained cosmonaut or astronaut, a record that remains unbroken to the present day. Unfortunately the mission did not go well. Less than three seconds after ignition, one of the R-6’s RD-215 engines ruptured, causing the entire rocket to explode on the pad. Kuznetsova was thrown clear by her ejection seat, her expert parachute skills allowing her to land with only minor bruising despite the low altitude of the jump, but she found herself caught down-wind of the toxic cloud now emanating from the doomed rocket. Despite keeping her respiration gear on after landing, some of the noxious gasses managed to find a way through her suit seals, causing serious chemical burns around Kuznetsova’s wrists and lower arms. She also suffered injuries to her nose, throat and lungs through breathing in a small quantity of fumes. Members of the fueling team, heroically acting without orders and clad in their own protective gear, immediately jumped out of their bunker and ran to the aid of the fallen cosmonaut. She was rushed first to the base medical facility, then rapidly transferred to a specialist military hospital in Moscow. Despite their best efforts Kuznetsova never fully recovered from her injuries, which were officially declared to be the result of exposure to fumes from an on-board aircraft fire whilst training for a parachuting competition. She would continue to suffer respiratory and neurological problems over the following six years before finally sucumbing to a complication of pneumonia in December 1969.

    The Zarya-3 tragedy was kept secret from the outside world, but within the Soviet space community it served to graphically illustrate all of Mishin’s worst fears about using storable propellants on manned space missions. In angry exchanges at the Rocket Propulsion Coordination Committee (KKRD), Mishin declared that he would not risk any more lives on Chelomei’s vehicles, with all future Zarya flights put on hold until the M-1 became available. He also pushed for the future Raketoplans to be either transferred to his Bureau's non-toxic rockets or be scrapped outright in favour of Zarya upgrades.

    Chelomei of course considered this to be an overreaction, claiming that Kuznetsova had simply been unlucky to land downwind, and even then would have escaped unharmed if Mishin had provided her with a better spacesuit. At this Mishin exploded, hurling his notes across the table and storming out of the meeting. From this point on he would refuse to communicate directly with Chelomei, or even to be in the same building with him unless absolutely unavoidable. Where contact was needed between OKB-385 and OKB-1 it would be Tikhonravov who would represent the Miass team.

    With the Soviets observing a temporary moratorium on manned flights, the Americans were given a clear field for the rest of 1963. There would be two more Mercury flights before the end of the year: Robert “Bob” White’s Mercury-4 in August and Albert Crews’ Mercury-5 in December. White’s flight was marred by a failure of one of the gyroscopes used for attitude determination, causing an early end of the mission to be called after just three orbits. It was left to Crews to finally beat Zarya-2’s duration record, staying in orbit for over seven hours. However, a number of minor mechanical problems also occurred during that mission, highlighting the fact that the Mercury spacecraft was already approaching the limits of its capabilities. In order to extend man’s ability to live and work in space the US would need a new ship.
     
    Last edited:
    Part II Post #3: Dynasoar Evolution
  • 14586157714_768de6d615_o.png


    Part II Post #3: Dynasoar Evolution

    Even as manned Mercury flights were becoming routine, thoughts were already turning to what would follow. The shape of that future was on display on 12th August 1963 when the Dynasoar Atmospheric Test Vehicle “Diane” was carried aloft for the first time under the wing of a B-52C Stratofortress at White Sands, New Mexico. Following separation from the B-52 at an altitude of 11 000 metres and a speed of Mach 0.78, pilot Bill Dana successfully guided the ATV glider from the B-52 down to a landing on the dry lake bed, skidding to a halt after just seven minutes of free flight. Though the test objectives were modest, the pictures of the futuristic, dart-shaped spacecraft in flight inspired the public and gave a great publicity boost to the Dynasoar Program Office at Air Force Systems Command. This success was very welcome after several years in which the project had undergone a series of major changes.

    14503384029_2b8d5ba109_o.png

    Bill Dana’s Dynasoar ATV “Diana” is carried to altitude by a modified B-52 bomber for its first drop test, August 1963.

    Ever since the project’s inception, the question of which launcher the spaceplane should use had been an open one. At the time of its 1960 System Review, the assumption had been that Dynasoar would boost to orbit on a modification of Martin’s Titan booster. Martin had been developing designs for an improved, hypergolic version of the Titan-I missile which could be augmented by large Solid Rocket Boosters to create a powerful launch vehicle capable of putting up to 13 000 kg into orbit. The Solid Rocket Boosters were an outgrowth of the Minuteman ICBM project, which aimed to field a force of advanced missiles capable of being stored in hardened bunkers for years at a time, fully fueled, then launched against the enemy at a moment’s notice. Such a weapon would be able to provide an instant response to any surprise Soviet attack, and the Nixon administration planned to deploy 200 of the missiles by 1964.

    Regarding Titan, there were those in the Air Force who were as worried about using toxic propellants as Mishin was in the Soviet Union. During development of the Titan II ICBM there had been several accidents with the Aerozine 50 and dinitrogen tetroxide propellants, leading to concern in the Air Force that the advantages of hypergolics were not matched by the risks, especially if it was intended to place a crew atop the missile.

    As an alternative to a Titan-II launcher, the Air Force had also considered combining large SRBs with an advanced hydrogen-oxygen upper stage to create the “Space Launching System”. First studied as part of Project Lunex in the late 1950s, SLS would mix-and-match small and large hydrolox cores with a variable number of SRBs to give a range of capabilities from 9 tonnes all the way up to the 160 tonnes needed for Lunex’s direct-ascent Moon missions. The hydrogen-oxygen cores would make use of the J-2 engine, development of which had started, along with the smaller RL-10, back in the late 1950s. This family of launchers was expected to be flexible, responsive, and cost-effective, but its main competition would come not from within the Air Force, but from the father of modern rocketry himself.

    With its creation in 1961, the Defense Research Agency had been assigned responsibility for coordinating and rationalising the Armed Forces’ disparate launcher development programmes, and almost immediately von Braun’s Space Systems Office began pushing a new option. The design represented the culmination of the former ABMA team’s previous decade of studies, combined with work done for the Navy’s now-cancelled Triton launcher, plus the extensive design work von Braun had undertaken at Chrysler. The resulting launch vehicle (named “Minerva” for the third member of the Romans’ Capitoline Triad that also included Jupiter and Juno) would make use of a combination of kerosene-oxygen stages for liftoff, married to a selection of high-energy hydrolox upper stages. Powered by the E-1 engine that had been in development since 1957, the kerolox stages would consist of a large first stage core to which two or four smaller Liquid Rocket Boosters could be attached. These LRBs would build upon work von Braun had already started whilst at Chrysler as a potential successor for Atlas, greatly reducing the time that would be needed to deliver an operational vehicle. Both the Core and the LRBs would be powered by the E-1, meaning that early LRB launches would also provide valuable data back into the Core design effort. The hydrogen-oxygen second stage would make use of the J-2 engine which had also been planned for SLS, again taking advantage of existing development work. For high-energy geostationary or Earth escape missions, the RL-10 powered Centaur upper stage would be added. Combining the Centaur with a single LRB would create a launcher with around twice the payload capability of Atlas, whilst varying combinations of LRBs, 1st and 2nd stages would provide for a spectrum of payloads from ten tonnes up to to twenty-two tonnes.

    Von Braun, never one to underestimate the political side of building rockets, had learnt his lessons since his Army team had been sidelined by Eisenhower. Even before being appointed to the DRA, he and his team began lobbying in the White House and in Congress to promote the advantages of the Minerva design. By proposing to spread contracts between Convair (the upper stage and Centaur), North American (the core stage), Chrysler (the LRBs), Roketdyne (the E-1 and J-2 engines) and Pratt and Whitney (Centaur’s RL-10 engine), von Braun had allied himself with a powerful industrial team. By making the Minerva family flexible enough to cover almost the entire range of desired capabilities, he was guaranteeing these companies government orders for years, even decades to come. In return, the combined lobbying might of a significant portion of the “Military-Industrial complex” that Eisenhower been wary of was harnessed to von Braun’s ends. This helped to counter the powerful opposition of the proponents of Solid Rocket Motors within the Air Force, since under von Braun’s proposal the main contractor for the Minuteman missile, Boeing, would gain two rocket production lines instead of just one. When combined with von Braun’s technical arguments in favour of LRBs over SRBs (including lower development costs, ease of handling, and flexibility), the opposition collapsed. Minerva was confirmed as the launcher of choice in January 1963, with plans to upgrade Titan-II with SRBs also cancelled in favour of von Braun’s rocket just a few months later.

    Whilst the launcher debate was raging, a parallel discussion was ongoing regarding the role Dynasoar would perform. The spaceplane had originally been sold as a global-range bomber and high-speed, high-altitude reconnaissance platform, but with the emergence of reliable ICBMs, as well as the continuing supremacy of SAC’s gigantic bomber force, the global strike mission was no longer seen as vital. As for reconnaissance, since the shoot-down of John MacArthur’s U-2 in early 1960 the CIA had been placing more and more emphasis on gaining intelligence from spy satellites. Development of these satellites had been transferred from the Air Force to the new top-secret National Reconnaissance Office in April 1960, since which time a series of increasingly capable spysats had been developed under the Corona code-name. The Air Force felt that there was still a requirement for a manned reconnaissance plane (and in fact were secretly working on their A-12 Mach-3 jet for just this role), but as the satellites kept improving, the more traditional manned approach was becoming a harder sell on the Capitol.

    In February 1963 a USAF-NACAA-DRA meeting was held in Washington DC to consider options for expanding Dynasoar’s mission capabilities. Since passing its first Design Review in June 1960, the glider aspect of the Dynasoar project had been proceeding reasonably smoothly, but it was quickly agreed that the initial one-man concept could not meet the crew size or duration needs desirable for the kind of experimental missions now being contemplated. To solve this problem it was proposed that two distinct variants of Dynasoar be created, each sharing a common glider airframe. The Mk-I variant would be a single-pilot craft including a small payload bay, which would verify the overall system performance, make short-duration reconnaissance flights, and test experimental Air Force technologies. The second version, the Mk-II, would replace the payload bay with 2-4 man passenger compartment, and be equipped for extended duration flights to investigate the feasibility of performing long-term military missions in space. This greater duration would be achieved through the use of a disposable “Mission Module”, which would house the main on-orbit propulsion, power and support systems and would be dumped before re-entry to keep heating loads on the glider within acceptable limits. Once this idea was accepted, it was quickly realised that a wide variety of systems not needed for re-entry or return to Earth could be moved to this Mission Module, giving considerable flexibility in the mission equipment that could be supported.

    Although Dynasoar, equipped with an appropriate Mission Module, would have an on-orbit endurance of several days, its cramped quarters and limited payload capability restricted the usefulness on longer missions. What was needed was a more spacious, heavier “Space Base” or “Space Laboratory”, that could support large experiments and long-term crews in comfort. Based on a number of studies dating back to the 1950s, the conference proposed a step-by-step development of a manned space platform capability.

    The starting point would be effectively an expansion of the planned Mission Module into a crewed space lab, with the first mission targeted for 1966. Weighing in at somewhere between 5 and 7 tonnes, this Dynasoar Experimental Laboratory (DEL) would be launched along with a manned Dynasoar atop a Minerva rocket, removing the need for complicated on-orbit rendezvous and docking capabilities. Once in space, the crew of the Dynasoar Could transfer to the DEL via an internal tunnel at the rear of the spaceplane. They would spend the next ten-to-twenty days living and working in the DEL, before returning to Dynasoar with the results of their experiments and using the DEL’s engines to put both the lab and the spaceplane into a re-entry trajectory. The Dynasoar would the separate for re-entry and land as normal, whilst the DEL would be destroyed in the atmosphere.

    Assuming the DEL confirmed that men could live in space for extended periods, it would be followed up by the Dynasoar Orbital Station (DOS). This would be a 20 tonne module, to be launched on its own Minerva rocket some time around 1968. Once in orbit, it would be able to support multiple month-long Dynasoar missions (assuming the problems of rendezvous and docking had been solved), carrying out a variety of life sciences and Earth observation experiments. If successful, DOS could be followed by other stations, perhaps using on-orbit assembly and replenishment to support missions of several months.

    14680946134_09ec701e9e_o.png

    Early concept drawing for the Dynasoar Mk-II with the Dynasoar Experimental Lab.
    (Based upon this image)

    One group still not happy with the direction of America’s manned space programme were the “Capsule Faction” of NACAA, led by Max Faget. Following the successful development of their Mercury design, they had assumed that the next logical step would be “Mercury Mk.II”, an expanded, 2-man capsule with on-orbit manoeuvring capability. On top of the many technical advantages they claimed for capsules over winged spacecraft, the development costs for this approach would be a fraction of what was needed for Dynasoar. It was, to them, the obvious choice.

    Although by now firmly committed to the Dynasoar, there were those in the Air Force who sympathised with the NACAA position. In particular, one area where Dynasoar came up short was for potential high orbit or deep space missions. Here Dynasoar was limited by the maximum heating, and therefore maximum re-entry speed, which could be supported by its radiatively cooled skin and thin, vulnerable wings. In contrast, a blunt capsule would be able to make use of an ablative heat shield similar to Mercury’s, allowing missions to extremely high orbits, or even circum-lunar flights.

    It was this possibility for future deep-space flights that led von Braun to throw his weight behind Faget and argue in favour of a detailed design study for a future space capsule. Despite resistance in the Pentagon and in Congress to the idea of funding two parallel manned spacecraft, in late 1963 the two wiley engineers succeeded in getting approval for a joint NACAA-DRA project to investigate designs for a 3-man space capsule for deep space missions. Although a far cry from the full vehicle development programme Faget craved, these studies kept the door open for future alternatives to Dynasoar, even as the spaceplane began taking its first flights.
     
    Part II Post #4: Making Raketoplans
  • 14586157714_768de6d615_o.png


    Part II Post #4: Making Raketoplans

    Like many in the United States, the leaders of the Soviet Union were not entirely clear what missions Dynasoar would be used for. They knew that the original brief had been for an intercontinental range skip-glide reconnaissance platform and bomber, but by 1963 ICBMs and spy satellites appeared to be making these missions obsolete. Despite this, the Americans were continuing to spend huge sums of money developing their spaceplane. The official line, that Dynasoar was intended to advance techniques for the peaceful manned exploration of space, seemed inadequate in the face of the costs.

    To the minds responsible for guiding and protecting the home of the World Socialist Revolution, the absence of an obvious visible mission could only mean that there was a secret, hidden purpose to Dynasoar. If Soviet experts were unable to deduce that mission, the conclusion must be that the US were taking extreme measures to keep it secret, in turn proving that it must be a vital, even game-changing advancement of the Cold War. So came the final conclusion: The USSR must develop an equivalent capability! Even if they could not currently see the value in it, they needed to be able to match the Americans on the day their secret purpose was finally revealed!

    It was this chain of reasoning, as well as his personal contacts with a sceptical Khrushchev, that enabled Chelomei to maintain support for his Raketoplan spaceplane development even in the face of massive cuts to the Soviet military forces. Following the September 1959 decree formally authorising the project, OKB-1 quickly began drawing up plans and conducting experiments to make Chelomei’s vision of a family of responsive military spacecraft a reality. The common service module that would support the various specialised Raketoplan payloads was considered to be relatively straightforward to develop, but the protective aeroshell and in particular the manned spaceplane presented more challenging problems.

    Working closely with TsAGI (Tsentralniy Aerogidrodinamicheskiy Institut, “Central Aerohydrodynamic Institute”), LII (Lotno-issledovatel'skiy institut, “Flight Research Institute) and VIAM (Vsesoyuznyy nauchno- issledovatel'skiy institut aviatsionnykh materialov, “All-Union Scientific Research Institute of Aviation Materials”), a number of sub-scale test vehicles were developed starting in 1960 for both the spaceplane and aeroshell. These were used in a series of wind tunnel and suborbital ballistic tests through to the first half of 1962, the results of which validated Chelomei’s approach of using a standard, discardable aerodynamic heat-shield for re-entry. However, the tests also uncovered serious problems with his preferred deployable swing-wing aircraft design.

    Based on his earlier work with Naval cruise missiles, Chelomei had proposed to duplicate their pop-out wings on a larger scale in order to fit his spaceplane behind the aeroshell. However, there were severe challenges involved in scaling up this mechanism for a manned spacecraft whilst making it both reliable enough and, critically, light enough to be worth the trouble. As on almost all space projects, weight growth was a serious issue for Raketoplan, and the wing deployment mechanism soon came to dominate the system’s mass budget discussions.

    Reluctantly, Chelomei was forced to change tack and accept TsAGI’s recommendation for a fixed delta-wing spaceplane. However, this approach raised new issues, as the tips of the wings would now project outside of the aeroshell. Whilst this would provide an opportunity to improve stability and control on re-entry, it also exposed the thin wing edges to greater temperatures. In response, the shape of the aeroshell was adjusted to minimise the exposure of wings to the plasma flow, and a tough, tungsten-based alloy with a protective sheath of graphite was developed by VIAM for the wing leading edges.

    A full-scale aerodynamic model of this version of the spaceplane, code-named “Orel” (“Eagle”), took its first flight in May 1963 from Kapustin Yar. Flying without a Service Module, the Orel test article and its aeroshell, weighing a combined 5 tonnes, were installed on the nose of a modified R-6 first stage for a suborbital test. The test was largely successful, with the aeroshell demonstrating excellent hypersonic manoeuvrability and a clean separation from the spaceplane. Orel also performed moderately well at first, gliding downrange as intended, but five minutes after separation it suddenly veered sharply to the left and entered a steep dive. The recovery parachute deployed, but the aircraft hit the ground nose-first, causing considerable damage.

    Film footage from one of the Sukhoi Su-9 chase aircraft showed that a section of the leading edge of the left wing had detached, partially ripping away the skin of the wing as it departed. Later analysis proved this had been caused by a failure of the thermal protection along the leading edge, leading to a redesign of the system to include ablative “Sabot” shields built into the aeroshell along the wing edge, which would be jettisoned along with the shell after re-entry.

    This improved version took its first flight in January 1964, and proved far more successful. The plane made a smooth landing on the frozen Kazakh steppe, its rugged skids cushioning the landing, and was recovered by Army helicopter for shipment back to Moscow. The Orel was found to be in good shape, and was later re-flown on the fourth suborbital flight test in July. Meanwhile, starting in May 1964, a series of piloted test flights were performed out of the State Red Banner GK Scientific Research Institute VVS at Khodynka, outside Moscow. These test flights involved using Orel’s small jet engine to fly to altitude and then perform a series of varying approaches to the airstrip. Later tests added a small rocket stage to the rear of the plane, boosting it to the supersonic speeds and high altitudes it would experience upon aeroshell separation, then manoeuvring unpowered until its airspeed dropped low enough for the jet to cut in. Pilots reported that the aircraft handled well at high speed, but became less stable as the speed reduced, with a stall speed of around 190 knots (350 kph). It was flyable, but would require special training to ensure safety.

    14747392374_c40c146596_o.png

    Atmospheric flight testing of the Orel Raketoplan spaceplane.

    As work progressed steadily on Raketoplan, the development of its UR-500 launcher was also underway. Chelomei had sold the UR-500 in 1959 as a “Super ICBM”, capable of delivering a new generation of “Tsar Bomba” superbombs anywhere in the US. But as with Orel, changing circumstances were undermining its justification. As nuclear weapons became lighter and their delivery systems more accurate (thanks in part to Chelomei’s advances in hypersonic re-entry), the extra costs of the UR-500 no longer matched its usefulness. In particular, the huge silos that would be needed to protect the UR-500 from a disabling first strike would be prohibitively expensive, to the point where it would be cheaper to use three of Yangel’s R-36 missiles against a target rather than a single UR-500.

    In addition to these economic problems, the UR-500 was also running into technical issues. Glushko had hoped to develop a common set of engines for the UR-500 and Yangel’s R-200, but diverging requirements and scaling problems made this increasingly difficult. In response, Glushko had chosen to focus first on the R-200’s RD-201 engines, then use these as a basis for the larger RD-221 later. Partly this was down to a rational engineering assessment by Glushko, but he was also influenced by a simple preference for working with Yangel over the assertive, arrogant Chelomei. This would not be the last time that Chelomei’s focus on charming the bosses whilst ignoring his peers would come back to bite him.

    The two people that saved the UR-500 from outright cancellation were Khrushchev and von Braun. Von Braun was important because it was his Minerva rocket that convinced enough of the Soviets’ top generals that the USSR needed an equivalent. As with Dynasoar and Raketoplan, Minerva and the UR-500 were linked as move and counter-move in the chess game of the Cold War. Khrushchev was of course vital because of the personal support he lent Chelomei at the top of the Soviet government. Chelomei had plans to use the UR-500 not only for his Orel spaceplane, but also for his planned “Almaz” military space station and his capsule-based “Safir” Raketoplan variant for circumlunar flights. Whilst the military showed some interest in Almaz, it was only Chelomei’s hard lobbying of Khrushchev, and the latter’s desire for further space spectaculars, that won him support for development of Safir.

    As Chelomei’s UR-500 struggled towards realisation and Yangel’s R-200 moved smoothly through development, a third rocket was being created by Mishin. Authorised in the 1959 decree to develop a five-tonne class launcher using kerosene and liquid oxygen propellants, Mishin had quickly managed to expand the scope of his M-1 vehicle by assuming that “Five tonnes” referred to the payload of one of his Molniya military communications satellites. These were planned to use a highly eccentric (and so highly energetic) elliptical path that would keep them over the northern hemisphere for the majority of their orbit. To support this capability, the M-1 would have to be considerably larger than Chelomei had intended when he agreed to the draft decree for the Central Committee. In fact the M-1 in its final configuration would match the R-200’s 10 tonnes to low Earth orbit, double the original specification.

    Building on the experimental work Mishin had been overseeing since the mid-’50s, the M-1 design came together quickly, and the first prototype launcher had reached the pad at Kapustin Yar in April 1962. With a first stage powered by six of OKB-385’s in-house VM-12 engines, the two-stage rocket lifted from the pad, but then quickly veered off course due to a failure in the guidance system. The M-1 was destroyed as a safety measure, but even in the face of this apparent failure Mishin was able to point to the fact that no cloud of poison gas had been created during the accident.

    More tests followed, starting at Kapustin Yar and then moving to Tyuratam as Barmin completed the necessary facilities in late-1962. These tests culminated in March 1963 with the successful orbiting of an experimental communications satellite.

    With the Zarya-3 tragedy coming just three months later, Mishin received authorisation to push ahead with the modifications needed to launch manned Zarya capsules on the M-1. These modifications were tested in November 1963, with the unmanned launch of a Zarya-B spacecraft. Enclose within a new fairing design that sported a launch escape tower on its nose, the rocket successfully delivered the capsule to a 300 km circular orbit. Supplied by its enlarged service module, the Zarya-B (given the cover name “Kosmos-27”) remained on-orbit for six days before performing a re-entry burn. Separation from the service module was clean, and the return vehicle made a perfect landing back in Russia. When a second unmanned test showed similarly textbook mission profile in January 1964, Mishin gave the go-ahead for a manned flight, which if successful would be the USSR’s first manned mission for over a year.

    On 10th March 1964, cosmonauts Aleksei Leonov and Pavel Belyayev were strapped into their capsule at Tyuratam for the Zarya-3 mission (Kuznetsova’s failed mission of the same name having been deleted from the official history books). Unlike the earlier missions, this time there was no ejection seat. If anything went wrong with the M-1, the two cosmonauts would have to rely on the Escape Tower to pull them clear of the explosion. Whether the tower worked as planned or not though, Leonov and Belyayev knew that the M-1’s non-toxic propellant mixture meant that they would at least be spared the fate of poor Tanya.

    At 10:15 am local time, the VM-12 engines roared into life and Zarya-3 left the launchpad. Despite their fears, the first stage burn went completely according to plan, with forces on the two test pilots climbing to over 6 gee at first stage burnout. The first stage was jettisoned, along with the unneeded escape tower, and the single VM-22 second stage engine ignited to complete the insertion of Zarya into its planned 220 km by 330 km orbit. Both cosmonauts reported a smooth ride and no problems as they separated from the second stage and deployed the PA module’s small solar panels.

    Zarya-3 stayed in orbit for over a full day, smashing the 7 hour duration record set by Mercury-5 the previous December. In terms of man-hours on orbit, Zarya-3’s record was an even more impressive, topping 51 hours for a single mission. Although conditions were cramped for Leonov and Belyayev, the removal of ejection seats meant that they had enough space to remove the outer layers of their spacesuits, and both men were able to sleep for short periods during the mission.

    The only significant problem encountered during the mission occurred during the return to Earth. Following the separation of the PA, the SA re-entry capsule experienced a sudden depressurisation. Fortunately both cosmonauts had been wearing their spacesuits for the critical return journey, and both were able to seal their faceplates before suffering any worse than a bloody nose and a minor fright. However, the air-cooled electronics in the SA module soon began to overheat in the near-vacuum of the cabin, and the cosmonauts were forced to quickly shut down all unnecessary systems in an effort to keep essential systems functioning. Fortunately the aerodynamic design of the Zarya capsule meant that the re-entry was able to continue unguided to a successful ballistic landing in Russia a few hundred kilometres from the target zone, with recovery forces arriving on the scene around two hours after touchdown. The cause of the depressurisation was later traced to a faulty valve in the SA - a case of poor quality control. This event solidified the Soviet practice of cosmonauts always wearing full spacesuits for critical mission events.

    The Zarya-3 mission was a badly needed propaganda boost for the Soviet Union. Whilst the USAF could just about manage to send one man into space for a few hours, the USSR was launching multi-man, multi-day flights. For Khrushchev the mission gave him a genuine triumph to point to at a time when the Soviet economy was slowing and Soviet influence abroad was waning.

    Mishin too was buoyed by the success. He was directing real missions with real achievements, whilst arch-rival Chelomei played with his toy spaceplanes. With his next flight, Mishin aimed to top Zarya-3’s achievements with something even more spectacular - something that would finally give him enough prestige to overcome Khrushchev’s patronage and supplant Chelomei as the undisputed leader of the USSR’s space programme.
     
    Part II Post #5: The Final Frontier
  • For this week’s post I’d like to again thank my regular consultants Brainbin and e of pi for their extensive help in bringing this post together and acting as sounding boards. I’d also like to give special thanks to Michel Van for consulting on a topic very close to his heart. Any destroying of childhood dreams is, however, purely my responsibility.

    So without further ado, it’s time for...

    14586157714_768de6d615_o.png


    Part II Post #5: The Final Frontier

    The dawn of the Space Age had been influencing popular culture even before the launch of Vanguard-1. Space serials like Buck Rogers and Flash Gordon had been gracing comics, radio shows and the silver screen since the 1930s, whilst the early 1950s saw an explosion of space-themed movies, such as the era-defining Forbidden Planet, anticipating the coming era of rocket travel. Even real rocket scientists lended a hand in these efforts, with early example being Hermann Oberth consulting on Fritz Lang’s Frau im Mond in 1929 - a film so technically accurate that the Nazi regime later edited out sequences showing the rocket engines for fear of giving away military secrets. Over two decades later Oberth’s protegé von Braun partnered with Walt Disney to produce three episodes of the Disneyland show, outlining a sequence of missions starting with giant spaceplanes, Earth orbital space stations, Moon missions and eventually to the manned exploration of Mars. These shows, as well as the related articles in Colliers magazine, were hugely successful, and helped to solidify space in the imagination of the American public. In the USSR, films like 1924’s Aelita: Queen of Mars served a similar function, giving a Red-tinted glimpse of humanity’s cosmic destiny.

    Despite this early blossoming, there was a tailing off of space-based science fiction movies from the late fifties onwards, perhaps in direct correlation to the fortunes of one George Pal. Having made his name with such early ‘50s hits as Destination Moon, When Worlds Collide and The War of the Worlds, he was hit hard when Conquest of Space flopped at the box office in 1955. Heavily based upon the Mars missions described by Wernher von Braun in his 1954 Colliers article “Can we get to Mars?”, Pal had intended Conquest to be his most realistic movie to date. However, audiences and critics found the plot dull, whilst the mediocre special effects lacked the “Wow” factor that had been possible when such techniques were new.

    Following the disappointment of Conquest of Space, Pal found it much harder to sell his pitches for other projects. His next film, 1958’s Tom Thumb, maintained his run of fantastical subject matter, but ditched any space references. The movie was a moderate success, but it was his next project, 1960’s adaptation of H.G. Welle’s The Time Machine, which catapulted him back to the top of his game. The film, with its engaging characters, epic plot, and startling effects (including the famous scene of fashion store mannequins being hastily re-dressed as the hero speeds into the future) won Pal the plaudits he had been missing for so long, and opened the door for new projects.

    For his next movie Pal came up with a “Sword and Sandals” fantasy based upon the story of Atlantis, but the production was troubled, with the final cut making extensive re-use of scenes from previous movies. These poor production values helped to make the film an even bigger flop that Conquest of Space had been upon its 1961 release, and could well have signaled a permanent end to Pal’s career had he not already sold the concept for his next movie. This would see Pal return to the familiar territory of space in a sequel to his classic When Worlds Collide.

    1951’s When Worlds Collide, based on a 1933 book by Philip Gordon Wylie and Edwin Balmer, had ended with the landing of a spaceship carrying the final survivors of humanity to their new home on the planet Zyra, a satellite of the star Bellus that had destroyed the Earth. The ending had been portrayed as the hopeful dawning of a new age of mankind (drawing heavily on the imagery of Noah), leaving plenty of scope for a follow-on. In fact Wylie and Balmer had penned a second book, After Worlds Collide, in 1934, and this was to be the starting point for Pal’s project.

    Taking his initial cue from the plot of the book, and capturing much of the mood stemming from the aftermath of the Berlin Crisis, Pal’s script showed the survivors of the first film coming into conflict with a second group of survivors who had launched secretly from “a rival power” (the inhabitants of which spoke with heavily caricatured Russian accents). Facing harsh conditions on their new home of Zyra, the two groups initially fought one another for the limited resources available, in a conflict that threatened to wipe out the last remnants of humanity. Naturally, after many struggles, both sides eventually realised the desperation of their situation and agreed to work together to ensure the survival of their descendants, forging a common community. The optimistic ending of the movie helped to make it a major success upon its release in 1962. Although not quite matching the plaudits received for The Time Machine, After Worlds Collide made a significant profit and earned an Oscar for Best Effects.

    In contrast to Pal’s fantastical vision, the other major Berlin-inspired movie, Sidney Lumet’s 1963 thriller Fail-Safe, was an ultra-realistic techno-thriller highlighting the dangers of the so-called “Balance of Terror” between the two superpowers. Depicting the catastrophic results of an accidental US nuclear release at a time of international tensions, Fail-Safe provoked an emotive debate in the media and the wider nation as to what safeguards were in place to prevent such an event happening in real life. However, despite this cultural impact and critical acclaim, the grimness of the theme of the movie damped its performance at the box office. Stanley Kubrick, who had been considering making a film on a similar theme, later commented that the only way he could see to portray such depressing events would be to satirise them as comedy.

    Aside from the dark influence of the Berlin Crisis, Germany would find itself impacting American science fiction in other, more positive ways. The most significant of these was through the Perry Rhodan series of comics. Originally created in 1962 by by Karl Herbert Scheer and Walter Ernsting for the Moewig-Verlag publishing company as a 30-issue series of weekly “magazine novels”, they described the adventures of the eponymous Perry Rhodan, commander of the first manned mission to the Moon in the year 1982, and the vast and strange universe that is revealed after he discovers a crashed alien spaceship. At first the series combined aspects of Secret Agent, Alien Invasion, Detective and Utopian fiction, as the implications of Rhodan’s discovery are worked through on a war-torn Earth. However, the story soon left the solar system behind, settling down into a more classical Space Opera in the style of Heinlein, A. E. van Vogt, and E. E. ”Doc“ Smith.

    The books were extremely successful in Germany, with the initial 30-issue run being expanded first to 50 issues and then to an open-ended commitment as sales outlets clamored for more printings of back-issues as well as larger runs of the new issues. During this time, copies of Perry Rhodan were brought to the US by a returning Army journalist Paul Roesen, who had been translating issues for his young nephew during his tour. Following his discharge from the Army in late 1964, Roesen took on a number of jobs as a freelance journalist, but continued importing and translating Perry Rhodan issues from friends still stationed in Germany. In 1965 he got an interview for a job at Gold Key comics and pitched them the idea of publishing his translations of the Rhodan books for a US audience. Gold Key had been looking for a space-themed issue to capitalise on a re-awakening interest in astronautics stemming from the Zarya and Dynasoar test flights, but felt that even with frequent illustrations, the format was simply not suited to an American audience. However, if converted into a more traditional comic book format, the Perry Rhodan stories could be just what Gold Key were looking for.

    Gold Key hired Roesen and immediately set him to work negotiating a licensing agreement with Moewig-Verlag. The eventual agreement gave Gold Key the right to re-use the Perry Rhodan characters and plotlines in a comic format (though explicitly not in the digest format used in Germany) in exchange for a fee, whilst Moewig-Verlag would in turn have the right to re-print translations of the Gold Key comics in Germany. Gold Key and Moewig would maintain complete editorial independence from one-another, effectively meaning that there would be two parallel versions of the Rhodan story, which would continue to diverge over time. Dan Spiegle was brought in as the lead artist for the comic, quickly joined by former Flash Gordon illustrator Al Williamson, whilst the covers started out as re-prints of the original German artwork. This proved a perfect fit with Gold Key’s long-standing practice of using painted covers, and as the series progressed these were supplemented by and later completely replaced with original work by artist George Wilson.

    The first issue of Star Captain Rhodan hit newsstands in late summer 1965 to a positive reception. The first story, “Operation Stardust”, kept the original plotline of the discovery of a crashed alien spaceship during the first American Moon mission, but discarded the German version’s notion of Perry Rhodan using the superior alien technology to impose a forced peace on the Earth’s nations. Instead the story jumped ahead, with Rhodan shown using the repaired ship to immediately head out into the universe in response to a signal from the star Vega, a choice Gold Key’s editors felt would more closely chime with the outward-looking, frontier-focussed American audience.

    As Star Captain Rhodan began to enjoy some success, television viewers were being presented with a different vision of our future in space, courtesy of former pilot and LA cop Gene Roddenberry. Roddenberry started out writing television scripts as a freelancer in the 1950s, penning episodes for Highway Patrol and Have Gun - Will Travel amongst others, but he quickly decided he didn’t just want to write for other peoples’ shows - he wanted a show of his own.

    After pitching a number of ideas in the early 1960s, police show Night Stick was picked up in 1962. Set in New York’s Greenwich Village, Night Stick ran for just one season to modest success, but had a profound influence on Roddenberry’s future career, not for the stories it portrayed, but for one story it didn’t show. Roddenberry had written and filmed an episode which dealt with the racial prejudice suffered by a young black couple, but with growing unrest over Civil Rights, the network decided that the episode was too controversial. They dropped the episode, forcing Roddenberry’s production company to pick up the bill. This experience helped persuade Roddenberry that in order to tell the stories he felt were important, he’d have to find a way to camouflage them from the eyes of the studio executives. It was then that he hit upon the idea of using a science fiction setting to tell allegorical tales of the real world.

    The concept that Roddenberry came up with in 1963 was The Far Frontier, which he pitched to networks as a sort of “Lone Ranger in Space”. Drawing heavily on his experience in scripting Westerns, the show would follow the adventures of Marshal John Winter, an officer of the Galactic Federation, who would travel to different frontier planets each week maintaining the peace and enforcing the law, as well as establishing friendly relations with newly discovered alien races. Winter would be accompanied by a young Deputy named Joss Tyler and Ruk, an alien guide, who despite his youthful appearance was over a hundred years old. In an ingenious plot device, rather than flying between worlds in a spaceship (necessitating expensive special effects miniatures), the team would make use of a “Teleporter Beam” to leave their central base and instantly materialise on that week’s planet. This format would allow a large number of varied environments to be visited, allowing almost infinite storytelling potential. Roddenberry felt he would be able to discuss almost any topic through allegory on some alien world, with the laws and mores of the Federation providing the show with a moral compass through which to expound Roddenberry’s own philosophy of tolerance and respect.

    Roddenberry began shopping The Far Frontier around the major networks and studios in 1963, but received little interest initially, although he was able to sell a concept for a straight-up Western, Pike’s Hunt, about a homesteader on a mission to track down the men who killed his family. This was a moderate success, and earned Roddenberry the credibility he needed to finally land a deal with Desilu in 1964 to film a pilot for The Far Frontier. This episode, “The Menagerie”, saw Winter (played by Jeffrey Hunter) and his team investigating the mysterious disappearances of human settlers on a recently discovered planet. Winter soon found himself captured by the aliens responsible, who were able to manipulate people by creating mental illusions. Whilst Joss (Joby Baker) and Ruk (Bill Cosby) worked to find and free the Marshal, Winter discovered that the aliens were the last few natives of the planet, and that they were capturing humans in an effort to breed a slave race to re-build their world. With help from Joss and Ruk, Winter was able to escape and free the captive settlers, but when the locals attempted to form a posse to drive out the aliens, Winter intervened to stop them. He instead proposed that the two sides work together to restore the planet to its former health, using human technology and drive coupled to the aliens’ technical and creative skills.

    The initial cut of the pilot was received coolly by Desilu’s management. They saw the potential of the show, but it seemed a little too intellectual for prime-time. At the studio’s request, Roddenberry re-drafted the script and additional scenes were shot to add a fist-fight to the escape sequence, a shoot-out between Joss and a local settler, and a love-interest for Winter. There was also some concern at the casting of Cosby, a black actor, in a leading role, but Roddenberry refused to budge on this point. His stubbornness, plus Cosby’s name recognition (he was already hugely famous for his comedy albums at this time) eventually won through. The re-edited version of the pilot episode (now called “The Cage”) was approved by the studio and a series was commissioned to be broadcast on CBS starting in 1965.

    14771400858_e5b15b89bc_o.jpg

    Marshall Winter (Jeffrey Hunter) and Ruk (Bill Cosby) attempt to penetrate the alien’s mountain base with their lasers in a scene from “The Cage”.

    With space-based shows, books and movies proving increasingly popular by the mid-1960s, it seemed that America had no lack of inspiring fiction showing humanity’s future in space. What remained to be seen was if the real-life rocket scientists could match these expectations.
     
    Last edited:
    Part II Post #6: Orbital Dual
  • Thanks to the wonders of modern WiFi, rather than posting late I'm able to bring this week's post to you extra-early. So here is your mornng edition of...

    14586157714_768de6d615_o.png


    Part II Post #6: Orbital Dual

    The two-man Zarya-3 mission of March 1964 had given the Soviet Union the edge in the Space Race. As the first multi-crew mission it established a capability that the US would be unable to match until the orbital debut of the Mk.II Dynasoar, still years away. Despite some frantic conferences between the Air Force and NACAA, there seemed no way in which the tiny Mercury capsule could be modified to accommodate a second crewman, and development of a larger capsule would take longer than the completion of Dynasoar.

    For many in the Air Force and the wider government, this hardly mattered. So the Soviets had crammed two men into their space-pod instead of one? So what? Though it made for a good headline, it didn’t imply any obvious military advantage. Let the Soviets continue with their stunts, went the line, while we continue development of our superior spaceplane system. Whilst this view had some justification from a military and technological perspective, it didn’t look so good from a political point of view. The continuing air-drop tests of Dynasoar were good up to a point, but to have the Russians performing high-profile stunts in orbit whilst the best the Air Force could do was simply repeat Joe Walker’s first flight undermined the image of the service in the eyes of the public and the Air Force’s Congressional paymasters. For this reason there was considerable pressure from within the Air Force hierarchy to do something to counter the Soviet propaganda victories, and do it soon.

    With the Minerva-1 rocket, based on the Minerva Liquid Rocket Booster, not scheduled for its first flight before the end of the year, it was clear that the US response could not come from a Dynasoar launch, even an unmanned, sub-orbital mission. For all its limitations, Mercury was currently America’s only option for getting men into space. Once this was accepted, the question became how best to use the system in place. Two more space-qualified Mercury capsules were in inventory, with two more structural and electrical test articles that might it be possible to refit for use in space over the next six- to nine-months. More could be ordered from McDonnell, but it would take the best part of a year before any new capsules could be delivered, so for now any response would have to come from those Mercury spacecraft on-hand.

    The mission that would be adopted came from the desk of General Bernard Schriever, commanding officer of Air Force Systems Command, who oversaw all of the Air Force’s manned space efforts. For a number of years the Air Force had been investigating a requirement for a manned satellite interception (or “SAINT”) capability, to enable their pilots to rendezvous with Soviet satellites, ascertain their purpose and, if necessary, destroy them. For a short time there had been consideration of developing a new manned spacecraft specifically for this purpose, before the mission had finally been folded into the Dynasoar effort, but perhaps Mercury could be used to test the concept earlier. Although the Mercury capsule had only limited maneuvering capability, careful control of the launch time and trajectory should allow the Atlas-D to place a manned Mercury capsule in a direct ascent intercept course passing close to an already orbiting target vehicle. If that target vehicle were itself another Mercury, the mission could be evaluated from the perspective of both the target and the interceptor, whilst also demonstrating America’s ability to perform in-space intercepts and to have two astronauts aloft simultaneously.

    This ambitious mission plan was passed up the chain of command, through the Secretary of the Air Force to the White House, where it was personally approved by Nixon in early May 1964. The mission would use both of the remaining spaceworthy Mercurys, with Mercury-6 launching first as the target vehicle, to be followed six hours later by Mercury-7. This six hour upper limit was dictated by the short on-orbit lifetime of the spacecraft, but made it absolutely imperative that Mercury-6 achieve a very precise orbit, and that highly accurate tracking data be obtained at the earliest opportunity in order to fine-tune Mercury-7’s ascent. A launch scrub for Mercury-6 would introduce severe errors into the calculations, whilst a delay to Mercury-7 would certainly cause the mission to fail. Preparation of the spacecraft, their launchers, and all of the support systems therefore must be precise, with everything checked and triple-checked before the final go-ahead would be given. This ruled out an attempt before mid-September, the absolute earliest date by which everything could be made ready.

    The Soviet Union faced no such constraints, and on 10th September the Zarya-4 mission launched from Tyuratum, carrying cosmonauts Dimitry Zaikin and Viktor Gorbatko. Like the previous Zarya-3, this mission used the Zarya-B capsule launched on the M-1 rocket, and had a similarly smooth ride to orbit. However, unlike the previous mission, for this flight a new piece of equipment had been added to the hatch at the top of the SA re-entry module - a stowed, inflatable airlock.

    After three revolutions of the globe from an altitude of between 245 km and 350 km, Zaikin gave the command to deploy the airlock. Locks released and air filled the airlock, pushing it out to it’s full 3 m by 1.5 m dimensions, extending a number of hinged support arms that clicked into place to reinforce the rigidity of the structure. With both cosmonauts in their spacesuits in case of a sudden failure of the seal, the hatch between the SA and the airlock was opened. The seals held as designed, and Gorbatko crawled into the airlock, closing the hatch behind him and carefully clipping his safety lines to the outer surface of the SA hatch. This done, Zaikin began the airlock depressurisation cycle from within the SA. As the air pressure dropped to almost zero, and with their spacecraft fully visible to the ground tracking stations of the USSR, Gorbatko opened the hatch of the Zarya-4 airlock and cautiously pushed his head and shoulders out of the spaceship into outer space.

    At Mission Control, Mishin watched the grainy video transmission from a camera mounted on the airlock module as Gorbatko pulled himself fully out of the capsule to become the first human in history to float freely in the cosmic void. For the next few minutes Gorbatko drifted alongside the Zarya spaceship, watched by Zaikin through the SA window. Gorbatko reported no ill effects from his excursion, though he found it difficult to orientate himself, with tugs on the safety tethers often resulting in unexpected spins. He also reported some difficulties in bending the limbs of his spacesuit, which had become stiff as the internal air pressure pushed against the fabric of the suit.

    After ten minutes outside, Gorbatko was ordered back inside the airlock. The spacewalker complied reluctantly, using the tethers to pull himself in head-first. However, he quickly realised that he did not have enough room inside the airlock to turn around and close the hatch. He had to push himself back outside, turn around and then back into the airlock feet-first, before finally pushing the hatch closed and locking the seal into place. This done, Zaikin re-pressurised the airlock and a few minutes later was re-joined in the SA by a jubilant Gorbatko.

    Following the triumphant spacewalk, Zarya-4 spent a further 36 hours on orbit before detaching the airlock and firing her retro-thrusters for home. By the time Zaikin and Gorbatko touched down on the Russian steppe, their total mission duration was double the previous record set by Zarya-3 six months earlier. The mission briefly turned Gorbatko into a world-famous celebrity, and reinforced the view that the USSR was now ahead of the US in space achievements. It was a view that the Americans hoped to make short-lived.

    14798901313_c80cbd8df9_o.png

    A commemorative stamp celebrating the Zarya-4 mission.

    On 15th September 1964 two Atlas-D missiles carrying Mercury spacecraft, named “Orville” and “Wilbur” for the pioneering Wright brothers, stood poised for launch at Cape Canaveral. Two earlier attempts had been foiled by poor weather over one of the tracking stations making up the world-wide network that would be vital to the success of the mission, whilst a third had been cancelled at the last minute due to a fault signal from one of the rockets. As the 15th dawned though, the weather was fine and everything was as ready as it could be.

    First to launch was rookie astronaut Neil Armstrong in the Mercury-6 capsule Orville. His Atlas rocket lifted off at 07:22 local time, blasting him into orbit on a 220 km by 197 km orbit inclined at 31.4 degrees. Mercury-6 was to act as the target vehicle for veteran astronaut Al Perini’s Mercury-7, and as soon as Armstrong reported final stage shutdown the global tracking network that the Air Force had put in place set to work pinning down his orbit with all the precision they could muster. The results were fed back to the Cape, where one of the most powerful mainframe computers in America crunched the numbers and spat out the detailed parameters to be used to fine tune the launch of the second Atlas.

    At 10:31, as Orville was coming up on completion of its second orbit, the Mercury-7 Atlas fired and Perini and his spacecraft were catapulted into the void. The mission profile called for a “Direct Ascent” type intercept between the two ships, in which Wilbur would pass Orville before completing the first orbit. The alternative approach, a so-called “Co-Orbital” intercept, would have first placed the intercepting craft into a lower orbit, from which it would chase down its target. This type of intercept would be more typical for the kind of satellite inspection missions the Air Force hoped to perform with Dynasoar, but the limited manoeuvrability of the Mercury spacecraft made it impractical for this first attempt. Therefore Perini would make just one close approach to Armstrong’s ship before the two separated on increasingly diverging tracks.

    The meticulous planning and detailed calculations paid off handsomely, with Perini’s Mercury-7 passing Armstrong’s Mercury-6 over southern Africa. Closest approach occurred over southern Africa at a minimum distance of just 2.2 km. Armstrong reported having seen the launch plume of Perini’s Atlas as it ascended towards him, and both astronauts were able to see the other’s craft as they sped past one another. Armstrong and Perini exchanged radio greetings ship-to-ship, and remained in contact for several hours as the distance between them gradually increased.

    14730893651_e8f2b37fd3_o.png

    Neil Armstrong’s Mercury-6 capsule “Orville”, taken by Al Perini in Mercury-7 “Wilbur” as the two spacecraft pass one another.

    The primary mission accomplished, Armstrong fired Orville’s retro-rockets at the beginning of Orbit #6, coming in for a splashdown off the California coast at 15:57 EDT, giving Mercury-6 a total mission time of 8 hours 35 minutes. Perini remained on-orbit, running further tests on Mercury’s ability to orientate itself in space and conducting observations of the Earth, taking many photographs with the camera that had earlier captured Orville as she’d rushed past. Perini also conducted one unauthorised experiment in space cuisine when he consumed a salami sandwich that had been hidden in his flight suit. Despite the fears of Mission Control, crumb generation was minimal and caused no harmful effects to the spacecraft’s equipment, whilst Perini reported a definitely positive effect on his moral.

    Although consideration had been given to having Perini stay on-orbit overnight, the experts from McDonnell were reluctant to offer guarantees that all of the spacecraft’s systems would perform over such a long period. Additionally, the cramped confines of the Mercury cockpit were tough enough to endure even for relatively short periods - a full day on-orbit could give Perini severe problems. Wilbur therefore followed the example of Orville in firing her retro-rockets on Orbit #8, splashing down in the Pacific east of Hawaii at 22:38 UTC, 8 hours and 7 minutes after lifting off from Florida. This gave the overall Mercury-6/7 mission a combined sixteen-and-a-half man-hours on-orbit, and when taken together with his Mercury-3 mission, Perini now had a total flight time of over 13 hours.

    Despite these durations comparing poorly with the multi-day flights now commonplace for Zarya, the mission was hailed as a success in the media. The intercept itself had been a great accomplishment in technical precision and electronic control, and the ability to operate two spacecraft simultaneously was an area in which the US could undisputedly demonstrate to be ahead of the game. With Dynasoar now undergoing rocket-assisted supersonic testing in the skies over Edwards Air Force Base, it was expected that the US would soon be able to match the Soviet’s achievements in mission duration and space walking, and then extend a lead into the new realm of establishing a permanent foothold in the heavens. At least that was the image Nixon’s election team were pushing as the US went to the polls in November 1964.
     
    Last edited:
    Part II Post #7a: Events, Dear Boy...
  • This week’s post on political developments in the Western world grew a little larger than customary, so for easier digestion I’ve divided it into two parts. The first, Post #7a, stays on the Eastern side of the Atlantic.

    14586157714_768de6d615_o.png


    Part II Post #7a: Events, Dear Boy...

    The fall-out of the Berlin Crisis had continued throughout the early sixties, not least of all in Downing Street. Despite the damage done to his relationship with Eisenhower over the U-2 shoot-down incident, during the Crisis Macmillan had demonstrated Britain’s total solidarity with her American partners, up to and including preparations for a joint nuclear strike. Nixon did not forget this support, and he and Macmillan worked closely together in the subsequent Geneva conference. Their personal relationship would remain strong, and was an important factor in Nixon’s later decision to continue the Skybolt missile project, which would become the lynchpin of the UK’s nuclear deterrent in the late 1960s. Similarly, Macmillan’s pledge of military support for US counter-insurgency operations in South Vietnam might not have been as forthcoming had a different President been in the White House.

    At first, this popularity with the US government was reflected at home too. Despite the first large-scale anti-nuclear demonstrations being held at Thor missile bases in the UK over the summer of 1961, in general the country and Parliament had rallied round the Prime Minister in the nation’s hour of need, giving the Conservatives a boost in the polls. Macmillan’s personal standing was also helped by the signing of the Partial Test Ban Treaty in October 1961, a foreign policy success that helped to drown out the critics of his ongoing decolonisation programme. However, Macmillan’s popularity was fated not to last, and his poll rating took a severe knock at the end of 1961 when the government was forced to impose a wage freeze to try to address Britain’s awful balance of payments. Macmillan reshuffled his Cabinet in October 1962 to try to bring in some fresh young faces, but whilst the changes were generally well received they were not enough to turn around the party’s fortunes. More troubles came in January 1963, when Macmillan faced humiliation in Europe as President de Gaulle vetoed Britain’s application to join the European Economic Community.

    After struggling through a grim Conservative Party conference in October, Macmillan was diagnosed with a prostatic obstruction and decided it was finally time to throw in the towel. He announced his resignation in December 1963, and was succeeded as Prime Minister by Richard Austen “Rab” Butler. Despite a temporary boost in the polls from the new leader, the Conservatives’ support soon began to wane again, not helped by a series of sex-scandals involving ministers. In the General Election of October 1964 Harold Wilson’s Labour Party was elected as the largest party, although at 314 seats they remained 2 seats short of a majority. Butler and Wilson both entered talks with Jo Grimond’s Liberals, but the price (proportional representation for future general elections) was deemed too high by both Conservatives and Labour, so in the end Wilson formed a minority government. This situation changed when Wilson called a snap election the following May, winning a majority of 7 seats. With a new government in place after “Thirteen years of Tory mis-rule”, there was some hope amongst the British people that the scandals of the previous government would be left as a thing of the past.

    Scandal was not something unique to Britain, and even Macmillan might have reflected that things could have been worse as he looked towards the trials (literally) facing the West German government. In late 1963 the Defence Minister, CSU chairman Franz Josef Strauss made an announcement that the BRD was scaling back its order of Avro Arrow fighters from Canada to 150 aircraft, compared to the original order of 300 placed in 1961. The reasons he gave were the increasing projected maintenance costs of the Arrow and the success of the Lockheed F-104 Starfighter, that had started delivery in 1962, in the Luftwaffe’s interceptor role. This caused much anger in Ottawa, as the reduced order would further increase the already heavy burden being borne by the Canadian government to keep Avro solvent in the face of the Arrow’s enormous development costs. In response to the reduced order, Avro was forced to announce a large number of politically damaging layoffs at their main production plant.

    In February of 1964 a junior civil servant at the Canadian embassy in Bonn met with a journalist from der Spiegel magazine and handed over a dossier of records relating to the negotiations that had taken place in early 1959 relating to the sale of Arrows to West Germany. At that time there had been considerable pressure within the Canadian government to cancel Arrow, but the final decision had been deferred pending the results of a project review in March 1959. Just two weeks before that review took place, Defence Minister Strauss had signed a Memorandum of Understanding committing the BRD to purchase at least 400 Arrows over the period 1962-67. With the expectation that the German order would open the gates to other foreign sales, the Canadian government had agreed to continue with the development of the Arrow, to the point that by the time it was realised that no further orders were forthcoming the programme was considered too far along to cancel. However, the documents obtained by der Spiegel indicated that just prior to the signature of the MoU, Avro had transferred six million Canadian dollars (almost US$6.5 million) to a firm fronted by Aloys Brandenstein for “design consultancy services”. Brandenstein had close ties to Strauss’ CSU party and to Strauss personally (he was the uncle of Strauss' wife), and it didn’t take much further digging to turn up evidence that almost all of the Canadian money had ended up either in the Party funds or in a Swiss bank account suspected to be linked to Strauss himself. Defence Ministry documents from the time, obtained via a leak from within the Ministry, appeared to confirm that there had been no intention to purchase Arrows until after the Minister had personally intervened.

    When the story was published in March 1964 Strauss loudly and belligerently denied all of the charges, accusing der Spiegel of undermining the defence of the country and demanding that charges of treason be put to the journalists and those who had leaked Defence Ministry documents to them. Adenauer publicly backed Strauss, echoing his sentiments that the story was a betrayal of the German people, and several journalists were arrested over the following weeks. This provoked a huge backlash in the press and the public, with the government facing accusations of a return to authoritarianism and the quashing of press freedom.

    Finally, with fresh accusations emerging over potential bribery in the purchase of Starfighters and other military hardware contracts in addition to the Arrows, in May the police formally charged Strauss with corruption and the Defence Minister was forced to resign. Having backed his Minister to the hilt, Adenauer’s own position became untenable, and he too resigned in the following week to be succeeded as Chancellor by the former Minister Without Portfolio Heinrich Krone. Krone tried valiantly to clean up the image of the CDU/CSU, but the stench of corruption clung to the government, and their electoral chances took a further hit when Strauss was convicted of bribe-taking and sentenced to six months in jail in June 1965, just three months before the general election. Adenaeur escaped criminal charges, but received a punishment in many ways harsher when his arch-nemesis Willy Brandt, the man Adenauer had once dismissed as “the Bastard from Berlin”, was returned as Chancellor at the head of an SPD-FDP coalition in September 1965.
     
    Last edited:
    Part II Post #7b: Outrageous Fortune
  • Following up from our quick look at the UK and Germany, we now cross to North America for a special guest post by Brainbin.

    14586157714_768de6d615_o.png


    Part II Post #7b: Outrageous Fortune

    The Dominion of Canada had found itself in a unique position when the Cold War began, as it was located directly between the two superpowers, with the United States to the south, and the Soviet Union to the (far) north, on the other side of the Arctic Ocean. This was an immediate concern in a world where atomic bombers - and later missiles - had sufficiently long ranges that the two countries could engage each other directly, and quite possibly over Canadian skies. Obviously, the fear was primarily of the Soviets - Canada was a founding member of NATO and a close ally of the United States - but the Canadian national identity had always been predicated on its distinctiveness from that of the US, and many Canadians did not simply want to fall into lockstep with Washington over foreign and defence policy. Canada had eagerly fought in Korea alongside American and British troops, but the country had been demilitarizing at a fairly swift pace since then - the third-largest navy and the fourth-largest air force in the world in 1945 was rapidly diminished as early as 1960.

    The Liberal Party of Canada had governed the country since 1935, assuming power when the Conservatives proved unable to surmount the economic challenges of the Great Depression. The Prime Minister, William Lyon Mackenzie King, governed until 1948, replaced by his Quebec lieutenant, Louis St. Laurent. “Uncle Louis”, as he became known, allowed his party to grow complacent and corrupt, and made the fatal mistake of underestimating the dynamic, charismatic Tory challenger, John G. Diefenbaker, in the 1957 election. In a victory that nobody saw coming, the PCs won a tenuous minority government - only to be followed by a snap election and Canada’s largest majority ever the following year. Diefenbaker was positioned to govern Canada in whichever way he saw fit in the years that followed, a task he took to with considerable relish. However, the early-1960s were an economically tumultuous time for Canada - by the time 1962 rolled around, the country was in a worse relative position than it had been in 1956. More immediate was Diefenbaker’s concern with foreign policy. He got along very well with President Eisenhower - the two had served alongside each other for nearly four years. His successor, Richard Nixon, on the other hand, was somewhat less agreeable than Eisenhower had been, and was far less patient of Canada’s attempts to assert its independence from the United States. It was probably inevitable: both “Dief” and “Tricky Dick” had such strong personalities, after all.

    Nevertheless, Diefenbaker entered the 1962 campaign with his party as the odds-on favourites to win a second majority term, something that the Tories had not done since 1917, when they were heading a wartime coalition government. The leader of the opposition Liberal Party was Lester B. Pearson, who had also led the “Grits” in 1958, surviving the scale of his defeat based on his international reputation as the statesman who had resolved the Suez Crisis (for which he won the 1957 Nobel Peace Prize). But that didn’t translate to very much success on the home front - many (English) Canadians still felt considerable attachment to their British Imperial heritage, and considered Pearson’s actions a betrayal. Pearson, for his part, made no bones about his desire to have Canada distance itself from Perfidious Albion, even making the adoption of a “uniquely Canadian” national flag a campaign issue. At the time, Canada had no official national flag - however, de facto, the Red Ensign (with the British Union Jack in the canton, and the Canadian arms defacing the fly) had been used for several decades. Canadian troops (when distinct from Imperial/Commonwealth troops as a whole) had served under that flag in both world wars. Diefenbaker personally had a great affinity for it, and often mentioned “the flag which our Canadian boys fought and died under” when defending it. But the flag was in general a minor campaign issue - Dief fought vigorously in support of his “Bill of Rights”, legislation he had passed in 1960 which enshrined the rights and freedoms of the Canadian citizen. However, this legislation was toothless in that it could be repealed by any later government (including the Liberals, who showed no interest in supporting it). Unlike the British government, the Canadian government was bound by overriding constitutional law… which could only be amended by the Westminster Parliament, even though Canada had otherwise been fully independent of British legislative authority since 1931. Diefenbaker made enshrining his Bill of Rights, and other social reforms, the cornerstone of his platform. Despite a shaky economy, he also pointed to the Avro Arrow, a natively-designed and built supersonic interceptor aircraft, as a demonstration of Canadian technological competitiveness, and that buyers were already being lined up worldwide. This would come back to haunt him in his second term.

    For sure enough, the PCs won a second majority, though much smaller than their previous one had been - they were elected in 140 ridings, down from the 208 they had won in 1958. As the House of Commons had 265 seats, this gave them a workable majority of 14 seats. They would need every last one of those in the years ahead. The Tories lost a few seats to the resurfacing Social Credit Party (who had been wiped out in 1958) in the West, along with the New Democratic Party, formed out of a merger between the rural agrarian Co-operative Commonwealth Federation and the Canadian Labour Congress. The NDP, as it became known, saw only modest gains east of Manitoba - the Liberals largely won most of the Tory seats lost in the most populous province of Ontario. Quebec was another story. In 1958, the PCs had swept the province with support from the Union Nationale, which formed the provincial government. In the intervening years, the provincial Liberals had been elected and, under their leader, Premier Jean Lesage, Quebec was undergoing a rapid shift from a rural, pastoral, and deeply traditional and conservative society into one more modern, secular, liberal and progressive, with government agencies taking the reins of social and educational programs previously in the hands of the Church - one of their last bastions of temporal power in the industrialized world. Quebec was changing, and that too would prove significant in the years to come. For the time being, however, it meant the collapse of Tory strength in that province, though they retained 17 seats there, still well above average by their standards. The Liberals picked up some of the slack, but the Quebec wing of the Social Credit Party, which had never been an electoral force east of Manitoba before, picked up a whopping 23 seats - against five in the rest of Canada. The Socreds (“Creditistes”, in French) were popular in Quebec due in large part to their leader, Real Caouette, who controversially did not lead the party as a whole - party bosses in the Prairies revolted at the notion of a Francophone Catholic in charge and backed R.N. Thompson, who controversially won the leadership convention on the first ballot (vote totals were never released). Still, his party had never done better, winning 28 seats on over 10% of the national vote.

    15050637255_0c7a1e059f_o.png

    After Parliament reconvened in the autumn of 1962, Diefenbaker faced several pressing issues. First and foremost was the possibility of nuclear warheads on the BOMARC anti-ballistic surface-to-air missiles which had been developed by American military contractors. Diefenbaker was extremely resistant to Nixon’s proposition that Canada equip their missiles with nuclear warheads, and did his best to defer any commitment to them, earning the ire of the President. Even before Arrow planes began flying for the RCAF, critics began observing that they were obsolete - and that Canada had tossed aside the future of warfare for a pointless exercise in chest-thumping nationalism. It didn’t help that the buyers which Avro had been claiming would line up to purchase these shiny new supersonic interceptors never materialized. West Germany greatly reduced their preliminary order for Arrows, thus weakening Avro’s standing with regards to their only committed foreign client, and this in turn would set off the payola scandal in both countries. The few other countries which had shown an interest in the Arrow disappeared from the bargaining table entirely, and notwithstanding the tenuous German interest, it seemed that the plane made entirely by Canada would be flown solely by Canada. The crowning achievement of the Canadian aviation industry, its pride and joy just a few years before, had become nothing more than a flying white elephant, and the scandal tainted the triumph of the first Arrows entering RCAF service. The press was merciless in its criticisms: “ARROW FLIES - AT WHAT COST TO CANADIANS?”, asked the Toronto Daily Star. The Toronto Telegram was less diplomatic: “AVRO PAYS GERMANS TO FLY OUR OWN PLANES”, read the headline. Their editorial commentary was even more blatantly Germanophobic: “Our planes have fought Germany’s in two wars over the last fifty years - now Avro is practically giving them new planes for whatever purposes they see fit.” The Defence Minister, George Pearkes, was sacked from cabinet as a consequence of the emerging Arrow Scandal, resigning his seat in Parliament shortly thereafter. Diefenbaker, meanwhile, sought to focus on domestic policy for the remainder of his term, aware that he would likely lose power to the opposition Liberals - led by right-winger Robert Winters since Pearson had resigned his leadership position shortly after losing his second consecutive election (making him the first Liberal leader not to become PM since Edward Blake in the 1880s).

    14848548704_b8ac6e144e_o.png

    The Canadian press came to see the Avro Arrow as a symptom of all that was wrong with the nation under Diefenbaker.

    Diefenbaker’s frenemy, Richard Nixon, faced considerable domestic issues of his own. Civil Rights, a burgeoning concern throughout the 1950s, had come to the forefront. Disenfranchised blacks demanded the basic rights that had been denied them for most of American history, and found increasingly sympathetic supporters for their cause in Congress. The Democratic Party, which controlled both Houses, was split between its Northern and Southern wings, but the minority Republicans were overwhelmingly supportive, and gave the pro-Civil Rights factions a decisive majority. President Nixon was lukewarm on the expansion of civil rights, partly as continuing resentment at many black leaders endorsing his opponent in 1960, Senator Kennedy, and partly because the “slow-and-steady” approach had worked for his predecessor, President Eisenhower - who won nearly 40% of the black vote in 1956, the most for any Republican candidate since the Great Depression, simply by abiding by Supreme Court rulings such as Brown v. Board of Education. Even Nixon won about a third of their ballots cast in 1960. But the days of gradualism were past. Civil rights agitators wanted radical change, and if they could not achieve it peacefully, or playing by the white man’s rules, they were increasingly prepared to do so by any means necessary. By the early-1960s: two alternatives had emerged: peaceful integration, or violently-enforced “black supremacy” and “separatism” from white society. It was likely that an emerging extremism led many who were otherwise resistant to change to back the “compromise” espoused by moderates, and these culminated in the bipartisan Civil Rights Act of 1964 - Senate Majority Leader Lyndon B. Johnson, notably a Southerner, was a principal architect of the bill, signed into law by President Nixon (who only reluctantly supported the legislation, when it was clear that most Americans did). Both parties tried to take credit for the bill in the 1964 elections, but many Americans came to see the bill as a “bi-partisan” effort; Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. noted that both Republicans and Democrats were united in drafting and passing the bill. It was also consistent with other bi-partisan cooperation between President Nixon and Senator Johnson that year, such as the appropriation of funding for the National Environmental and Space Sciences Administration in Houston (located in Johnson’s state of Texas).

    Although both parties had come together to support the Civil Rights Act, one of those two parties was deeply divided: the majority of the Democratic Congressmen and Senators from the US South opposed extending any civil rights to blacks. Alabama Governor George Wallace, who had become a nationally-known figure for his direct and active opposition to desegregation, announced that he would run for President in February of 1964 on the Democratic ticket, in order to reverse the party’s policies on segregation and civil rights. He soon lined up the support of most Southern Democratic operatives, making it clear that a lone Northerner would have to do the same in order to have a chance opposing him. John F. Kennedy considered running again, as Adlai Stevenson had done in 1956, but his health was in decline and he eventually announced his retirement from the Senate; his younger brother, Robert F. Kennedy, sought and won the nomination to replace him. Lyndon B. Johnson wanted to run, but knew that he could never win the nomination - he decided to play kingmaker instead. Among those candidates who did run were: Pat Brown, Governor of California; John Reynolds, Governor of Wisconsin; Matthew Welsh, Governor of Indiana; Daniel Brewster, Senator for Maryland; Henry M. Jackson, Senator for Washington; and Hubert H. Humphrey, Senator for Minnesota. Humphrey was liberal but staunchly anti-communist and an ardent civil rights supporter; he had played a key role in the Democratic National Convention of 1948 presaging the party’s movement away from their segregationist past. More ominously, Humphrey’s influence convinced southern Democrats to abandon the party and rally behind South Carolina Governor Strom Thurmond (who had later been elected to the Senate, where he remained in 1964 - naturally backing Wallace for the Presidency). History would repeat itself after Johnson endorsed Humphrey (who chose Johnson’s fellow Texan Senator, Ralph Yarborough, as his running-mate as an obvious proxy), and Wallace and his delegates walked out of the Democratic National Convention, announcing that he would run for President on the schismatic “American Democratic Party” ticket (forcing the Northern Democrats to identify as the “National Democratic Party” - especially in the states where Wallace co-opted existing Democratic infrastructure).

    Although the Democratic schism of 1948 had not been successful in preventing Truman from securing re-election (much to most everyone’s surprise), Wallace was more optimistic about his run hampering Humphrey. In fact, given how close 1960 had been, Wallace hoped to deadlock the Electoral College, preventing either Nixon or Humphrey from winning a majority of the electoral vote, thus forcing them to negotiate with him and commit to adopting some of his policy planks. Wallace had a more universal appeal than Thurmond, however, and was popular with the white working class voter. He also ran in states outside the South, even choosing a running mate from Nevada, Rep. Walter Baring (who also opposed expanded civil rights). Both Humphrey and Wallace attacked the incumbent Nixon on civil rights - Wallace claimed that Nixon administration had gone too far, while Humphrey claimed that the President hadn’t gone far enough. Naturally, many blacks supported Humphrey, though others, particularly those in the South who had been newly enfranchised, were loyal to Nixon.

    In the election that November, Nixon was returned to office by a surprisingly slim margin in terms of the popular vote, less than three points ahead of Humphrey on only 44.4% of the total, translating to over 31 million votes. This time, a split in the Democratic Party would prove sufficient to allow the GOP to emerge victorious, though Nixon had the advantage of incumbency and a fairly solid domestic record, despite his shaky foreign policy in his first term. Humphrey received 41.7% of the vote - the gap in absolute terms was about two million. George Wallace did very well for a nominally third-party ticket (he insisted that his ticket was the “real” Democratic ticket, though most observers disagreed), picking up over 13.5% of the vote (nearly ten million ballots cast) and winning seven states - six in the former Confederacy (two better on Thurmond’s run in 1948) and Nevada, in a close three-way. The state’s reputation as the “Mississippi of the West” was firmly cemented in the popular imagination. His seven states were good for 56 electoral votes. The National Democrats won close races in New York, Pennsylvania, and Texas, allowing them to take 174 electoral votes. Nixon won 308 electoral votes, actually a slight improvement on the 286 he had won in 1960. This allowed him, like most Presidents who won a second term, to technically better his first-term performance despite a reduction in his popular vote share. His Republican Party also performed well in the House and Senate - particularly in the Northeast and Midwest - gaining seats in both Houses of Congress, though the Democrats retained their majorities.

    Richard Milhouse Nixon was inaugurated into his second term as President of the United States on January 20, 1965. It would prove a most eventful four years…

    15318599055_1c4e740eec_o.png
     
    Last edited:
    Part II Post #8: The King is Dead
  • For this week's post we're back in the USSR for...

    14586157714_768de6d615_o.png


    Part II Post #8: The King is Dead

    At the beginning of 1962, Nikita Khrushchev appeared to be in an unassailable position. The fear created by the Berlin Crisis, where his misjudgement of the strength of Eisenhower and Nixon’s response had almost led to war, began to fade following the Geneva summit meeting of June 1961. The summit helped to diffuse tensions between the Superpowers, establishing the so-called “Nixon Doctrine” of no further change to Cold War borders through use of force. This principal saw the Soviets give guarantees on the status of West Berlin and South Vietnam in exchange for a promise of no military action by the US against Cuba or North Vietnam. The summit also saw an agreement to establish a Hot Line between the White House and the Kremlin, so that future crises could be diffused before they escalated too far. Finally, there was an agreement to conclude the delayed talks on a nuclear Partial Test Ban Treaty, which saw the Treaty finally signed in October 1961.

    Although some within the Soviet military and the government (not to mention Peking) saw the Geneva Summit as giving too many concessions to the West in the struggle for World Socialism, in most quarters it was seen as a substantial boon to the Soviet Union. The primary objective of the Berlin operation, to secure the Inner German border and stem the flow of migrants from East Germany to the West, had succeeded. Ulbricht’s DDR had been shored up, whilst the establishment of the long sought after Soviet-enforced Free City Zone within Berlin gave Khrushchev direct control of a potential flashpoint. The signing of a formal peace treaty between the USSR and the DDR in March 1962 gave the East German government civil authority and de jure sovereignty within the Zone, but granted Soviet control of the Free City/West Berlin border and effective immunity from interference for Soviet personnel based there.

    Khrushchev took advantage of the boost these successes gave him to shore up his position internally. There were rumblings from Party members still unreconciled with Khrushchev’s denouncement of Stalin’s policies, as well as those in the military who had long disliked Khrushchev’s focus on the domestic economy at the expense of the Red Army. This faction managed to get the KGB Chairman Alexander Shelepin promoted to the Central Committee secretariat in November 1961, but Khrushchev was able to partly offset this move by ensuring Shelepin’s replacement at the KGB would be the former head of the First Directorate Aleksandr Sakharovsky, not Shelepin’s protégé Vladimir Semichastny, who was widely expected to have been little more than a puppet for Shelepin had he taken the job. Khrushchev was able to further exploit his political capital in a minor purge of the Central Committee in early 1962, replacing several opponents with allies.

    However, the political situation became more difficult for Khrushchev as 1962 progressed. After some initial successes, the gains of his late-1950s agricultural reforms and Seven Year Plan were starting to slip, and in June the government was forced to raise food prices, leading to riots. At the same time, his reorganisation of the Party at local and national level generated significant opposition within the Soviet power structure. The international triumph of Yuri Gagarin’s flight in September was overshadowed by the growing split with Mao, with the USSR finding itself giving political backing to US-supported India against Communist China in the Sino-Indian war. Khrushchev was glad to see Mao thwarted, and did not object when Nixon authorised the sale of fighter jets and military equipment to India in support of their war effort, but ideologically it did not look at all good.

    In 1963, even as Soviet cosmonauts continued to stun the world with their achievements, the situation on the ground was only getting worse for Khrushchev. Early in the year he was forced to abandon his Seven Year Plan two years before its completion, whilst a drought saw the end of his dreams for agricultural reform and the humiliating necessity of buying in food from the West. Then in September, with US sanctions biting and Moscow apparently unwilling to provide support for his revolutionary insurgencies in Central America, Castro declared that Cuba was leaving the Moscow camp and aligning itself with the People’s Republic of China.

    The breaking point finally came on 14th March 1965 with the death of Frol Kozlov, Secretary of the Central Committee and a Khrushchev supporter. With Khrushchev out of Moscow on a visit to Romania, Alexander Shelepin moved quickly to step into the role of Acting Secretary of the Central Committee and convene the Presidium to debate the future direction of the Soviet government. Upon Khrushchev’s return on the afternoon of the 15th he was informed that the Presidium had decided that the burdens of leadership of both the Central Committee (a body of the Communist Party) and the Council of Ministers (part of the Government) were too heavy for any one person, and so the roles should be split. Of course it would be poor reward for all of Khrushchev’s fine work if he were to find himself demoted, and so instead the Presidium suggested he take a well-deserved retirement and allow others to carry on his legacy.

    Khrushchev, aged and exhausted from his long years of politicking, agreed without a fight. The next day, the Presidium and the Central Committee both accepted Khrushchev’s resignation “for health reasons”. Leonid Brezhnev was made Chairman of the Council of Ministers, whilst Alexander Shelepin was appointed First Secretary of the Central Committee, splitting the leadership of the Government and the Party. It was initially agreed that a principle of collective leadership would be followed in the post-Khrushchev period, but as time went on Shelepin would gradually gain the upper hand on his former ally.

    The March Coup which saw Khrushchev ousted and Shelepin installed as Party Chairman had an immediate impact on Soviet space efforts. At a stroke it removed Chelomei’s principal patron and political protector, replacing him with a collection of old-school Stalinists. In particular, Dimitriy Ustinov, whose influence over the military had been key to the success of the plot to remove Khrushchev, was made Chairman of the Supreme Council of the National Economy. This gave him extensive powers to direct spending priorities and control resource allocation throughout the Union, including in the space industry (which was now directed by Ustinov’s protégé Nedelin at the Military-Industrial Commission). Ustinov had harboured a dislike of Chelomei ever since the latter had tried to by-pass him to push through the September 1959 decree on space projects. This dislike had intensified over the years, partly due to Chelomei’s arrogant style but also due to the perceived lack of progress and utility of OKB-1’s output compared to Mishin’s space spectaculars or Yangel’s consistent meeting of battlefield needs. Ustinov was well aware of the standard joke within the military: “Mishin builds for TASS. Chelomei builds crap. Yangel builds for us!”

    The joke was particularly cruel coming at a time when Chelomei’s large UR-500 rocket was in the middle of flight testing, with all the inevitable setbacks that entailed. A total of four flights had been attempted starting in November 1964, of which only one had been a complete success. Though perhaps only to be expected, the negative perception of this record was compounded by the fact that the UR-500 no longer had a clear military mission. The heavy ICBM role for which it had been proposed in 1959 was not needed in 1965, with the Strategic Rocket Forces more than happy with the power of their new hydrogen warheads on Yangel’s efficient R-16 and R-36 missiles, with added advantage that these could be based from silos, protected from any American first strike. In comparison, the size of the UR-500 made silo or mobile basing impractical, meaning Chelmoei’s “Super ICBM” would be vulnerable to enemy attack. Lastly, the Fractional Orbital Bombardment System (FOBS) which the UR-500 was to have deployed was in the process of losing its advantages. Intended to sneak up on America from its less-protected southern border, increased US radar deployments had greatly lessened the chances of achieving surprise, whilst advances in submarine based missiles promised the same level of strategic surprise with a higher number of warheads. FOBS had lost its advantages whilst the costs continued to escalate.

    Chelomei of course argued that even if it were no longer an effective weapon, the three-stage version of the UR-500 was still needed as a space launcher for the Raketoplan system. The first prototype Raketoplan spaceplane had launched unmanned on an R-200 in August 1964, and Chelomei was planning a manned launch later in 1965. The heavy versions of Raketoplan would require his UR-500, as would the “Almaz” military space station, heavy interplanetary probes and manned lunar flyby missions he was planning, all leading into development of his UR-600 100 tonne class rocket for a manned Moon landing.

    In these ambitions however, Chelomei was stabbed in the back by rival Chief Designers. Yangel argued that, given the lack of a clearly identified mission, larger Raketoplans weren’t needed and his R-200 could continue to launch the initial versions to maintain parity with Dynasoar. Mishin agreed with this approach, whilst pushing evolved versions of his successful Zarya capsule as the main Soviet manned spacecraft, with his own Heavy Manned Space Base (TPKB) concept replacing Almaz as a military base in orbit. This would be supported by a 50 tonne class kerolox/hydrolox launcher called M-2, which would also enable all of the missions proposed for the toxic UR-500 as well as enabling a multi-launch Moon landing mission. Alternatively, Mishin offered his M-3 super-heavy launcher design to support a direct ascent manned mission to the Moon by 1975. Yangel, with Glushko’s support, offered his R-56 concept as a third alternative super-heavy lifter.

    This plethora of alternative options, combined with Chelomei’s perceived connections to the ancien regime, led to the Council of Ministers issuing a decree in June 1965 extensively reorganising the Soviet space industry. Mishin’s OKB-385 was to absorb many of the facilities and personnel of OKB-1 to form a new “Central Design Bureau of Specialist Equipment” (“Tsentral'noye konstruktorskoye byuro spetsial'nogo oborudovaniya”, TsKBSO). This bureau would take over the Almaz station project and lead future developments of manned spaceflight and scientific missions. To Mishin’s disappointment, the nearly-complete UR-500 would not be scrapped, but control of the production facilities and future development was transferred to Yangel’s OKB-586. Despite serious consideration being given to moving Raketoplan development under the Mikoyan Design Bureau, a residue of loyalty within the Soviet Air Force meant that Chelmoei kept control of his spaceplane at the rump OKB-1, as well as continuing development of the IS “Fighter Satellite” ASAT weapon.

    All three bureaux were authorised to conduct preliminary conceptual studies into Moon missions, but the main focus was to be on military applications in Earth orbit. The new guard in the Kremlin disliked the way Khrushchev had provided lavish funding for rockets whilst cutting back the Air Force, Navy and especially the Red Army, and they intended to correct this imbalance. From now on, any project that was not directly contributing to the enhancement of Soviet military power was liable to be cancelled. Nixon apparently hadn’t felt the need to regularly shoot men into orbit to prove American virility, and so neither did the USSR.

    There remained one last chance for Chelomei to shine though. Even as his empire was being taken apart, the first space worthy Orel Raketoplan was being shipped to Baikonur. Once on site, the plane was encapsulated in an aeroshell and joined to a reduced-sized service module before the entire assembly was mated to an R-200 rocket and rolled out to the pad on 3rd September 1965. the next week was spent on tests, with fuelling commencing on the 9th. On the morning of Friday 10th September, cosmonaut Yury Artyukhin ascended the tower and entered his Raketoplan spaceplane.

    14853533282_05639682e6_o.png

    An R-200 rocket carrying the Orel spaceplane stands ready for its first manned suborbital flight.

    At 10:43 local time, the R-200’s four RD-240 engines ignited, lifting the rocket from its pad and marking the start of the Orel-1 mission. Ten minutes later the 900kN second stage engine completed its burn to place the Raketoplan into long ballistic arc. Artyukhin reported all systems operating as planned as the Orel and its aeroshell separated from the R-200’s upper stage.

    Artyukhin tested the Raketoplan’s manoeuvring capability during the apex of his trajectory, using the service module’s thrusters to turn the spacecraft on all axes. Although the systems worked as designed, Artyukhin reported that the lack of visual cues caused by the aeroshell blocking the Orel’s windows made positioning difficult. Despite this issue, the cosmonaut was able to use his instruments to successfully orient the craft for its re-entry into the atmosphere and jettison the service module.

    The most challenging part of the mission remained - would the full-scale, manned aeroshell behave as well as the unmanned test articles? Fortunately for Artyukhin the answer was yes. The conical aeroshell fully protected the Orel spaceplane within, and Artyukhin was able to use the shell’s control surfaces to manoeuvre his craft towards its landing zone whilst travelling at hypersonic speeds. At an altitude of 15 km, still flying at more than Mach 2, the aeroshell was blown away and Artyukhin was at last able to look outside the cockpit of his aircraft.

    At this point of the mission the plan was to bleed off speed before starting the Orel’s small jet engine and guiding her down to a landing at the new runway at Dzemgi air force base at Komsomolsk-on-Amur. However, upon reaching subsonic speeds Artyukhin was unable to start the engine. Keeping a cool head, the cosmonaut-pilot reported his situation to the ground and began his approach in pure glider mode. It was a situation for which he had trained many times at Khodynka, but which meant there was no margin for error. Followed down by two Su-9 chase planes, with only light cross-winds to interfere with his approach, Artyukhin placed the Orel on the runway just two metres from the centreline. As the plane rolled to a stop, Artyukhin popped the canopy and waved to the approaching recovery vehicles. The success of his mission ensured that in spite of his recent political setbacks, Chelomei could not be counted out of the game just yet.
     
    Part II Post #9: Voyage to the Planets
  • This week we take a look at how the unmanned space programme is going, in...

    14586157714_768de6d615_o.png


    Part II Post #9: Voyage to the Planets

    Whilst the manned space feats of the Superpowers tended to generate more headlines, both the USA and the USSR were engaged in building and launching unmanned space probes during the early 1960s. In the early years, successes like the Pioneer-3 and Luna-1 Moon probes were heavily outweighed by the failed attempts, but with each new launch more lessons were learnt and greater experience won. In many cases the scientific results were considered to be of secondary importance compared to the engineering skills developed, especially in the fields of celestial navigation, command and tracking, and thermal control systems. However, the scientific knowledge gained was also considerable, and the results were published and shared in a far more open manner that was typical for the two Cold War antagonists.

    The early focus on the Moon as a target for space probes had continued through 1961 and into 1962. Luna-1’s successful flyby of November 1961 was followed in February 1962 by another Soviet attempt at an impactor mission. Named Luna-2 (though it was actually the fifth attempted Moon probe), this L1-B type probe was an upgrade of Mishin’s earlier L1-A impactor design, but unfortunately shared the fate of its immediate predecessor by missing the Moon and passing into interplanetary space. The probe’s radiation detectors nevertheless returned useful information on the near-Earth interplanetary environment, continuing to function for several weeks before passing out of range of the Soviet deep-space tracking stations.

    On the American side, the US Air Force were also following up their earlier successes, with the launch in July of Pioneer-4 on an Atlas-Agena vehicle. Unlike the earlier Pioneer-3, Pioneer-4 was designed as an impactor intended to take close-up pictures of the Moon’s surface on its way to destruction. However, a guidance error on the Agena upper stage caused it to miss the Moon and follow Luna-2 into deep space, although not before taking a startling black-and-white image of the crescent Earth seen from lunar distances.

    Not to be deterred, JPL sent Pioneer-5 to the Cape for a September launch. This time there was no mistake, and Pioneer-5 sent back a series of stunning close-up images before becoming the first man-made object to hit the Moon on Monday 17th September 1962, impacting in the Mare Humorum close to Gassendi crater. This success was followed up in March 1963 with Pioneer-6, which became the first man-made object to circle another celestial body when it entered orbit of the Moon, demonstrating the Air Force’s new-won skills in celestial navigation.

    The Naval Research Lab, in contrast to its dead-end attempts at launcher development, continued to develop scientific spacecraft through the early 1960s, launching several deep space science missions under the name “Mariner”. Massing around 200 kg, the first two examples, Mariner-1 and Mariner-2, were launched atop separate Atlas-Agena rockets on the 8th and 11th December 1962 respectively. Their target was the planet Mars, with two spacecraft launched in order to maximise the chances that at least one would make it, avoiding the need to wait another two years for the interplanetary launch window to open.

    The wisdom of this approach became apparent when contact was lost with Mariner-2 just hours after launch. Although the cause was never definitively uncovered, the fact that the failure occurred whilst the probe was passing through the Vernov Belts led many to suspect that the radiation caused a spurious signal in the probe’s electronic control systems, shutting down the transmitter. If true, this would be the first recorded instance of a “Radiation Induced Anomaly” (RIA), a failure mode that would go on to become the industry-standard fall-back explanation for any spacecraft problem lacking an easily apparent cause.

    Whilst Mariner-2 was making engineering history in its own way, it was hoped that Mariner-1 would go on to make scientific history by successfully crossing the hundred-million kilometres between Earth and Mars. Unfortunately it was not to be, and four months into its voyage contact was lost when a battery fault caused the probe to lose all power.

    Better luck came in February 1964, when Mariners 3 and 4 were launched towards Venus. Both continued to function well throughout their cruise, and in late May they passed within 70 000 km and 130 000 km of the planet respectively. The probes carried no cameras (nothing assumed to be visible through the thick clouds that had been observed from Earth), but their radiometers revealed a world with a cool outer cloud layer enveloping a scorching hot surface, whilst magnetometers revealed the surprising fact that Venus had no magnetic field to speak of.

    Despite this early flurry of lunar and planetary probes, by 1963 it was realised that there was a deeper lack of direction to American unmanned space efforts. All of the lunar probes were run by the Air Force, with the primary objective of demonstrating technologies rather than answering scientific questions. In addition to the Mariners, the Navy, and to a lesser extent the Army, had launched a few small Earth and solar physics spacecraft in this period, but after 1963 their efforts began to focus more and more on the practical applications of Earth-orbit satellites. The Navy were developing a more capable follow-on to their successful Iris weather satellites, the Defense Meteorological Satellite programme, to use a constellation of spacecraft based in Geostationary orbit for constant monitoring of the Earth’s weather systems. Together with the Army and the DRA they were also working on the Defense Satellite Communications System (DefSatCom) to provide secure voice communications to major Army bases and ships at sea. In addition to these acknowledged programmes, there were secret efforts to develop a series of nuclear detection and ballistic missile early warning satellites, as well as the ongoing development of larger and more capable spy satellites under the NRO. Amongst these pressing military needs, members of the scientific community found their wishes subordinated, reduced to providing a few small instruments as occasional secondary payloads, as long as they wouldn’t interfere with the real work of the military.

    This situation began to change as the 1964 election season approached. Nixon had been considering a reorganisation of the Department of Commerce, and as part of that effort planned to move the roles of the Geodetic Survey and Weather Bureau, along with a few other environment-related functions, to a new National Environmental Sciences Administration. As the Commerce Bill passed through Congress in early 1964, Senate Majority Leader Lyndon B. Johnson seized the opportunity to push both his long-standing advocacy for space exploration and bring skilled jobs into a vulnerable Democratic district by proposing a mark-up that would include unmanned space exploration under the remit of the new Administration, with the headquarters to be located in Houston, Texas. The land for the headquarters was donated by the University of Houston and Rice University (rumour has it after a series of calls from the Office of the Senate Majority Leader). The new Administration would also take over technical facilities from the Naval Research Lab in Bay St. Louis, Mississippi. Despite a counter-proposal to move these scientific missions over to the NACAA, it was generally felt that NACAA’s role should remain more in the fields of engineering R&D than scientific study, and so April 1964 saw President Nixon sign to create the National Environmental and Space Sciences Administration (NESSA).

    In the USSR, Mishin’s OKB-385 took the early lead in interplanetary exploration, launching two probes each to Mars and Venus in October and November 1962. Of these four attempts, one failed at launch and two failed to escape Earth orbit, earning a “Kosmos” moniker to hide their true purpose. The survivor, Venera-1, lasted a further two months before communications were lost on the way to Venus, probably as a result of faulty wiring. Mishin tried again in December 1963, launching another two probes towards Venus, but again there were failures. Only one of the probes left Earth orbit and the second, quickly re-named Solntse-1, suffered a guidance failure that put it on an heliocentric orbit completely missing the planet. These failures gave the United States and Mariner-3 the honour of the first successful interplanetary encounters, but Mishin was able to reclaim some glory when his Mars-2 probe made a successful flyby of the Red Planet in July 1965 (its twin Mars-1 having succumbed to an explosion in its attitude control propellant tanks en-route). Just a few weeks later the American Mariner 5 and 6 spacecraft (the last interplanetary missions to be led by the NRL) duplicated his achievement, allowing for observations of the planet from varying perspectives with multiple instruments over a very short time period. These parallel programmes together returned a wealth of data on Mars, including the revelation of a surprising dichotomy between the heavily cratered southern hemisphere imaged by the Mariners and the smoother planes revealed by Mars-2 farther north. They also finally and decisively disproved romantic notions of Martian canals, and revealed an atmosphere even colder and thinner than had previously been assumed. Of life there was no sign.

    Even as Mishin was celebrating the success of Mars-2, his domestic rival was preparing to enter the fray. Chelomei’s Raketoplan system had always been about more than manned spaceplanes, and despite the withdrawal of much of the support he had enjoyed prior to the March Coup, in July 1965 he was ready to test his five-tonne Heavy Interplanetary Spacecraft (Tyazhelaya Mezhplanetnaya korabl', TMK) on the fifth launch attempt of the UR-500 “Proton” heavy rocket. More than just a flyby attempt, the TMK would enter orbit around the Red Planet, as well as releasing a small lander, based upon a scaled-down version of the Safir capsule, to take the first pictures from the surface of another planet. Whilst en-route, propulsion, power and communications would be provided by a modification of the standard Raketoplan Common Equipment Module (Apparat Obshcheye Oborudovaniye, AOO), which had flown successfully in November 1964 in support of an experimental radar reconnaissance satellite for the Soviet Navy. For TMK-Mars, the AOO would support solar panels and a large communications dish for contact with Earth, as well as propulsion and attitude control systems for all necessary deep-space and Mars orbit insertion manoeuvres. In addition, several deep space field and particle experiments were mounted to the support structure between the AOO and the lander, along with a camera system designed to image the Martian surface. By demonstrating the superiority and flexibility of his Raketoplan-based systems, Chelomei hoped that TMK-Mars would allow him to win back the support of the Politburo and restore him to the position of the lead Chief Designer for space systems.

    As had become standard practice for interplanetary missions, two TMK-Mars probes were prepared for the 1965 opportunity, doubling the chances of success for this complexed mission. However, unlike the case for Mishin’s smaller probes and their R-6A and M-1 rockets, Tyuratam as yet had only one UR-500 launch pad available. This meant that whilst much of the integration and preparation work could be carried out on both rockets in parallel, the launches themselves would have to be performed in series, one after the other. With only a narrow launch window to target, ground crews would have to operate at peak performance to ensure both rockets left the pad on time. Just to make the launch even more critical, the UR-500 “Proton” had so far had just one fully successful launch (a physics satellite which had given the launcher its name), with the two previous attempts failing due to a first-stage engine explosion and a second stage failure respectively. All in all, a lot was riding on these Mars launches.

    On 28th July the first of the two UR-500s roared into life and left the pad at Tyuratam. Unlike the previous attempts, this time the rocket performed flawlessly, with all three stages completing their burns, placing the first TMK-Mars probe, now officially named “Mars-3”, onto its interplanetary trajectory with only minor course corrections needed from the AOO stage.

    Before the echos of the launch had even died away, Barmin’s ground crews immediately set to work prepping the pad for the second probe. Just five days later they were ready to begin on-pad fuelling of the second Proton rocket, but as the procedure began pad crews noticed a crack in a fuel line, resulting in UDMH leaking down the interior of the first stage and into an electrical control box. Propellant loading was halted whilst the pipe was repaired and the spilled fuel scrubbed, but with the launch window rapidly closing there was no time to replace the control box. A few quick electrical tests indicated that it continued to function within specifications, and so Chelomei authorised the launch to go ahead on 4th August.

    On its sixth flight, Proton unfortunately did not perform so well. The first stage, including the contaminated control box, worked as designed, but the rocket was let down by the second stage, which deviated from its planned trajectory almost immediately after separation, and had to be destroyed. The fault was eventually traced to the guidance system, which in the rush to get the rocket to the pad had somehow been left in a test configuration. The fault was easily corrected and the next Proton flight in November 1965 would be a success, but the August failure left Mars-3 as the only Soviet champion for the 1965 launch opportunity.

    Despite a minor scare three months into the cruise, when an erroneous ground command temporarily caused a loss of communications with the probe, Mars-3 successfully entered orbit of the Red Planet in May 1966, becoming the first spacecraft to orbit another planet. However, this achievement was tarnished when the lander failed to re-establish contact with the mothership following its atmospheric entry.

    Despite this setback, Mars-3 itself continued to send back a wealth of data and images for the next seven months. These observations confirmed the strange dichotomy between the planet’s northern and southern hemispheres, as well as discovering a plethora of massive geological (or areological) features such as the Tharsis volcanoes and immense canyon systems.

    The Mars-3 mission was a scientific and propaganda success for the USSR, and for Chelomei in particular. After Mishin’s quick successes in unmanned and manned flight, Chelomei had now demonstrated that his slow-and-steady Raketoplan strategy was paying off. Even as Mars-3 continued to send back data, Chelomei was preparing to show that his manned systems were equally effective.

    fetch.php

    Photomontage from the Soviet Mars-3 probe showing Valles Tsiolkovsky, June 1966.
     
    Last edited:
    Top