"Clearly our first task is to use the material wealth of space to solve the urgent problems we now face on Earth."
Chapter 9: Staging
The five F-1B engines of the RS-IC, between them, burned over 13 tonnes of propellant per second. As the Space Lifter ascended, its mass dropped, and the crew of the Lifter and the Orbiter were pressed back into their seats by a growing acceleration. At T+120 seconds, the center F-1B was shut-down to limit total acceleration to 4 G, while the four outboard engines gradually throttled back. This was the toughest part of the ascent on the crew, though compared to Commander Young’s Gemini flights, it was downright forgiving.
At last, the flight computers, through a combination of accelerometer input, ground-based tracking, measuring mission elapsed time, and readings of the actual level of propellant in the tanks, determined that the Lifter’s boost phase had reached its end. The four remaining F-1Bs shut down, and for a moment, the Lifter, Orbiter, and S-IVC coasted over the Bahamas unpowered. Then the pyro bolts on the S-IVC’s rear adapter fired, separating the upper stage from the blunt, graphite-covered nose of the Lifter and exposing the J-2S-2 engine to the near-vacuum of Earth’s mesosphere.
Commander Young and Pilot Crippen could watch the S-IVC drift away before the engine lit, but only for a moment. Peroxide thrusters on the nose and tail of the Lifter put it into its pitch-over maneuver--first, to protect the fragile windshield and upper surfaces of the Lifter from the high-speed steam and hydrogen blasting out of the J-2S-2, and second, to prepare for the retro burn that would return Constitution to Kennedy Space Center. The nose pitched upward, slowly, and the S-IVC disappeared from view. After a time period that felt much longer than it truly was, Young and Crippen felt a gentle acceleration from the cooling gasses of the J-2S-2 plume bouncing off their heat shield--just 1.2 meters per second per second, and tapering off quickly--and happily reported to the ground, “Houston, be advised, Lifter crew confirms S-IVC ignition.”
“Roger, Constitution, we copy. Orbiter crew and telemetry confirm.”
As the S-IVC sped away from the Lifter, Young noted not for the first time that the acceleration felt familiar. “Almost feels like the Moon,” he observed over the comm loop. “I don’t know about the Moon, but if you’re done catching our wake, we’ll see you on the other side of the sky,” Fred Haise replied from Endeavour, now tinged with the crackle of relay instead of the crispness of the stack’s internal communications links. The gentle acceleration, indeed close to lunar gravity experienced by NASA’s last flying moonwalker--but not by the STS-1 Orbiter Commander--had been brief, though. The S-IVC was already further away from the Lifter, and no longer pointing dead-center toward the Lifter’s flat underbelly. The force of the rocket exhaust on the Lifter dropped away as the booster slowly, gracefully continued its pitch. The blue-white arc of Earth was beginning to crawl back into view in the Lifter’s windshield, as the immense craft’s engines oriented themselves forward, along the line of flight.
In the Orbiter, Haise and Truly performed the immediate post-staging checks. The J-2S-2 struggled to push the stretched upper stage and its 40-tonne payload along, managing only ⅓ G at first, but steadily increasing as propellant burned off. It didn’t need to subject its crew to bone-crushing forces at this point, though--the Orbiter and its stage were still coasting upward on the momentum imparted by the RS-IC, and the J-2S-2 worked to impart the horizontal velocity needed to stay in space, rather than just get there. Without the Lifter’s power, the flight could not have happened--but without the S-IVC’s high-energy engine, it wouldn’t have had much point. Slowly, steadily, the Orbiter gained speed, pushing out over the Atlantic, the apoapsis of its orbit stretching further and further off ahead.
The middle of the decade brought a slow maturation in the Space Transportation System. The system’s flight rate continued to increase, with the 50th launch of a Space Lifter carrying the Space Shuttle
Destiny to space on her maiden flight in May, 1984. The flight was the last for several months for the RS-IC-602
Constitution, which had reached its 18th launch, and thus was due for its SLIP-II inspection to check how the booster’s structures and systems had aged since the SLIP-I inspection four years and a dozen flights before. The expectations were for a clean bill of health, like the one her sister
Independence had just recieved on her own SLIP-II inspection the year before. The largest complications in the inspection had been the replacement of several of the booster’s avionics and cockpit controls, bringing the 1970s-vintage computers closer to modern standards. The cost of the STS continued to trend down, as STC and NASA were able to spread costs for commercial, USAF, and NASA missions across more flights, and as cost reductions and increased automation were implemented in the production of the expendable fairings and upper stages for Space Lifter missions. Given that a Space Lifter launch was already cheaper not just per-kilogram but per-flight than a traditional expendable Titan or similar rocket, it was little surprise that the vehicle had been embraced by institutional and commercial payload planners, with many customers beginning to order satellite busses which could barely be lofted by expendable launchers at all. Beyond cost reduction, taking advantage of the Space Lifter’s immense payload capacity gave engineers the chance to add more margin to satellite payloads for only a marginal increase in cost. In some cases, adding redundant systems and more propellant capacity reduced insurance premiums, reducing the overall cost of communications satellites even as they grew in size and capability. This benefit is perhaps best demonstrated in the recovery of the Geostar 1 satellite in 1986.
The brainchild of space colonization visionary and physics professor Gerard K. O’Neill, Geostar was an early forerunner to the satellite telephone craze of the early 1990s. Combining position triangulation with satellite text messaging, Geostar was conceived as a method of helping airplane pilots avoid collisions. O’Neill, himself an avid pilot, had been horrified by the 1978 collision of Pacific Southwest Airlines Flight 182 with a Cessna 172 light aircraft, which killed 144 people. Blaming inadequate aircraft navigational and positioning systems, O’Neill resolved to address the problem himself, and generate income for his Space Studies Institute in the process. After receiving patents for the geostationary communications/navigation satellite system, he founded Geostar Incorporated in 1983. Following successful ground tests of the system, which would relay signals from three GEO satellites covering the entire United States through a ground-based supercomputer that would compute latitude and longitude coordinates and relay them back to the receiver, Geostar purchased a launch of the Space Lifter in 1986, to inject all three satellites into their staggered, 30-degree-apart positions in geostationary orbit.
The Geostar design was not perfect, and issues with the satellites’ relatively complex electronics cropped up within hours of orbit circularization. Though Geostar 2 and 3 operated fairly nominally after a few hours of troubleshooting, Geostar 1 continued to malfunction. Far beyond the Low Earth Orbit that could enable servicing by the Space Shuttle, Geostar had to rely on software fixes implemented on Earth. After a time, Geostar’s engineers succeeded in contacting Geostar 1 by first relaying signals through the Geostar 2 satellite, thirty degrees behind Geostar 1. Using the Geostar satellites’ redundant omnidirectional communications system (a system designed primarily for emergency telemetry transmission), Geostar’s engineers discovered that the satellite had lost attitude control during its apogee-raise maneuver. Though it was in the correct orbit, it was unable to point either toward the Earth for high-gain communications or toward the sun for efficient battery charging. Luckily, the satellite had larger-than-usual batteries (added in order to retain full operability during the eclipse phases of its orbit), and the engineers had many hours to reprogram the satellite and reset its attitude control system before they wore down. After a frightening first day in geostationary orbit, Geostar 1 joined its fully-operational sisters and enabled the company to perform the final tests of the Geostar satellite communications system before pre-ordered receivers could begin shipping out.
The recovery of Geostar 1 enabled Geostar to gain a foothold in the growing field of personal satellite communications and in satellite navigation. Though the system was not so all-encompassing as the Global Positioning System, which was entering commercial use at the same time, it made up for that with the added utility of direct, receiver-to-receiver satellite communication. Though O’Neill had designed the system for aviation, it found greater use in the land-based shipping industry, connecting truckers to dispatchers more efficiently. Businessmen also found immense use for the Geostar system, using it to stay connected to their offices even when on vacation (the image of the neglectful father, so engrossed in his work that he “taps” out messages to his office even on family vacations, became ingrained in American culture through family movies in the 1990s). Geostar also found use as a disaster-relief tool, keeping emergency workers in close communication with their dispatch centers following the Northridge and Great Hanshin Earthquakes in 1994 and 1995, when power failures disrupted both landline telephones and cellular communications. Though not the most versatile satellite-based communications system (the long light lag and power requirements for communication between Earth and geostationary orbit making use for voice communications impractical), Geostar retained a large stake in the market. With a text only system and relatively infrequent information transfers between receivers and the orbiting satellites, Geostar could offer a longer battery life for its receivers, which made it particularly useful as an emergency communication system that needed to work any time, for a long time. However, the limitations of Geostar’s geostationary platforms pointed the way for advocates for lower-orbiting satellite telephone constellations of the 1990s.
More significant in the minds of space colonization advocates, however, is the relationship between Geostar and O’Neill’s Space Studies Institute. Two years after he founded the SSI in 1977, O’Neill realized that modest donations would never suffice to develop the capital needed for a real expansion onto the High Frontier. He declared that all income from his future patents would go to SSI, and made the SSI the majority (though non-voting) shareholder in Geostar. The Space Studies Institute, created to research ways to industrialize space, ranging from lunar mass drivers and mining plants to space solar power stations, became the only space advocacy organization to have a large, consistent source of funding--an advantage that would make SSI by far the most influential of the organizations that emerged in the aftermath of the Apollo Program to promote the vision of the human conquest of space.
Such workaday successes heralded the success of the Space Transportation System in many of the goals for which it had originally been approved, even as the regular and repeated flights meant that the latest Space Lifter mission received little more than an occasional mention on nightly news or a few paragraphs in the newspaper. Crowds attending flights of regular Space Lifter launches ebbed, and even Space Shuttle missions began to see dropoffs in attention. The crowds heralded a transition in the way the public and even NASA thought of the STS: it was no longer exciting to see a massive first stage returning to land only minutes after carrying an upper stage and payload to space. The potential lay instead in the payloads it could carry, and the missions it could enable. Spacelab, the Galileo and Ulysses space probes, and the European LDEF were just a few examples of these, but one of the most publicly heralded was that of space-based telescopes, both those looking outward, and those with their gaze turned earthwards.
Plans for a large, multispectrum orbital observatory had originally begun in 1965, but in 1970, NASA divided work on the project into two overall camps: a Large Space Telescope Task Group, tasked with determining the engineering requirements of such a device, and a Scientific Advisory Committee to determine the scientific requirements. Though both Marshall and Goddard Space Flight Centers had conducted Phase A studies of the telescope, Marshall’s work on what would become Space Lifter, along with Skylab and the last few Apollo missions, meant that Goddard took on more work as time went on. Both the LST Task Group and SAC transferred to Goddard permanently in 1972.
The Large Space Telescope (eventually shortened to just “Space Telescope,” when certain managers suggested that it might be greatly outclassed in the coming decades,) had a hard fight in Congress. As with the Lifter and Orbiter, NASA attempted to deflect congressional hostility by underreporting the estimated cost of the Telescope, giving a cost target far below that calculated by Goddard in 1973. Hostility from astronomers from West Coast universities (who had been spoiled by their high, dry mountains and deserts and the large observatories placed at their peaks, and viewed the Space Telescope as unnecessary and unfeasible) did not help the telescope’s case. It took aggressive lobbying of the National Academy of Sciences to get the Telescope recommended as a top-priority project. President Ford’s federal budget cuts and renewed attacks by William Proxmire in 1975 again delayed the start of the program to FY 1978.
The final design of the telescope hinged on a major decision about the diameter of its mirror. At the start of the program, a general consensus emerged that one of the major scientific goals of the project--measuring the Hubble Constant to within 10% certainty--required a mirror at least 120 inches (3 meters) across. The facilities to build such a mirror did not exist in 1968, and so the program’s budget would need to account for the facilities that would manufacture it. While this initially seemed an insurmountable hurdle for the program, it was also an opportunity--if one needs to build new facilities anyway, why stop at 120 inches?
Such was the reasoning of the National Reconnaissance Office, whose unmanned reconnaissance satellite technology overlapped, in many respects, with that required for orbital telescopes. As plans solidified in the 1970s for Department of Defense Lifter flights, the NRO increasingly took into account the unmatched lifting capacity and payload fairing size of the Space Lifter stack. While their then-current Titan IIID topped out at 120 inches across, with a 12-tonne payload, Lifter would loft over 40 tonnes under a 260-inch fairing. Though they had just placed the KH-9 series of reconnaissance satellites into service in 1971, the NRO was already planning the next generation. The planned KH-11 series was to demonstrate the revolutionary new technology of solid-state electro-optical imaging. By removing the need to drop film canisters from orbit, electro-optical imaging promised cheaper, faster recovery of intelligence and longer satellite lifetimes.
KH-11 was rapidly replanned as an interim system, a technology demonstrator for electro-optical imaging using many KH-9 components. The true focus of NRO’s planning in the 1970s was the KH-12 project. Building on experience with the KH-11 in the late 1970s, KH-12 (code-named LUCID) would combine electro-optical imaging with an unprecedentedly large mirror--168 inches, to be ground in a new facility jointly operated by Kodak and Itek Corporation, which had previously built cameras for the CORONA spy satellites and for the Apollo Program.
The existence of this facility and its capabilities were disclosed to planners at NASA in 1977, and plans for the Space Telescope were redrawn to include a mirror up to 180 inches across. The program found a surprising backer in President Carter, who, according to declassified documents, considered it a way to demonstrate to the Soviet Union an American capability to monitor compliance with the Strategic Arms Limitation Treaties without having to officially disclose the LUCID platform’s capabilities. With the enthusiastic backing of the new President easing the objections of the Office of Management and Budget over the program’s expanded scope, NASA officially began the Space Telescope program in FY1978, though for cost reason they were ultimately forced to accept the same 168-inch mirror size as the KH-12.
The development process for both the Space Telescope and its classified cousins was long and troubled by frequent budget overruns. Even had the telescopes been ground-based, they would have been the world’s third-largest. Launching an optical apparatus this large, this sensitive, and this complex was a massive undertaking whose cost repeatedly overran Goddard’s estimates, while millions vanished into NRO’s black budget. Coordination with the astronomers who would eventually use the telescope also posed challenges--astrophysicists from West Coast universities were, again, slow to warm to the project, and regarded the increase in angular resolution as unnecessary for the resolution of astrophysical questions. University astronomers in general wanted to ensure that scientific control of the project was handed over to a non-NASA institution, as Goddard was expected to preferentially assign viewing priority to its own in-house astronomers. Finally, ESRO, in exchange for covering the cost of the Space Telescope’s solar arrays, received 15% of the telescope’s viewing time, to the chagrin of American astronomers.
Among other causes of the Telescope’s long development time was the requirement that it be serviceable by the Space Shuttle Orbiter. NASA had no intention of dropping a telescope this massive and costly into the Pacific until every last photon could be squeezed into its sensors, and thus required that the telescope be capable of receiving upgrades carried on Lifter-Orbiter flights and installed by astronauts. This meant that the Telescope had to be cooperative during the docking procedures and safe for astronauts to work around (sharp edges in particular had to be removed from any place an astronaut’s glove might work), and that the instruments be modular rather than hard-wired in. Originally intended to launch in late 1985, the telescope’s planned launch date slipped first to 1988 and then to late 1989. In the meantime, the program had acquired a new name. Though some had proposed to name the Telescope after Lyman Spitzer, for his tireless advocacy for the project since 1946, Spitzer himself declined the honor and proposed instead to name it for Edwin Hubble. The alternative had twofold meaning: not only would it would honor the importance of his study of cosmic expansion to modern cosmology, but measurement of the Hubble Constant was one of the main scientific objectives of the program. Thus, in 1985, the program was formally renamed the Hubble Space Telescope
A major, though unheralded, milestone for the Large Telescope program came in 1985, with a west coast launch of the Space Lifter
Intrepid. In an unheralded and highly classified mission,
Intrepid carried to a polar orbit the first of the the KH-12 LUCID series of reconnaissance satellites which shared some ancestry and a main mirror diameter with the civilian and scientific Hubble. The deployment of the first LUCID platform was largely trouble free, and subsequent launches were planned for the following years, enabling the replacement of the interim KH-11 CCD prototype satellites with the larger platforms using similar imagers and larger mirrors. Though details of LUCID’s capabilities remain mostly classified to this day, KH-12 was dramatically revealed to be the first American spy satellite with color photograph capability in 1986 when color photographs of a Typhoon-class submarine under construction were leaked to Jane’s Fighting Ships. Though the publication would not print another edition of its famous book until after the end of the Cold War, LUCID photographs would be a minor plot point in the film adaptation of The Hunt for Red October, and writer Tom Clancy is known to have a framed copy of one of the leaked photographs hanging in his study.
This particular rising tide did not lift all boats. Unfortunately for Martin Marietta, the entire CRLV program came under fire soon after its approval in 1985 as the Space Transportation System’s flight rate accelerated and costs remained under control. Congressional backers of the STS viewed CRLV as a threat to their favored program, and pointed out that two reusable launch vehicles split a market that was being addressed well by one. Over the objections of the administration and of Martin Marietta, Congress directed the USAF to change the program into a Contingency Expendable Launch Vehicle program--a limited purchase of some 30 expendable LVs to be kept in storage against any day when STS might actually have to stand down. With the program’s flight rate reaching new heights and few issues encountered, Congressional leadership was confident that CRLV was an unnecessary redundancy.
The CELV program very quickly converged on Martin Marietta’s Titan IIIC as the launch vehicle of choice. The heaviest of America’s expendable launch vehicles, Titan III was also considerably easier to store long-term than Atlas-Centaur. Unlike the latter, which needed constant pressurization to retain structural integrity, Titan III could stay in a warehouse for years without degradation. In August of 1985, Martin Marietta received a contract for a block purchase of 30 Titan III rockets, after which point the USAF would purchase no more.
Martin Marietta’s Phase A contract for the Terminal Descent Demonstrator managed to survive the cancellation of CRLV by the skin of its teeth, through a transfer of the program to the Ballistic Missile Defense Organization, a part of the Strategic Defense Initiative Organization that was, later in 1985, renamed U. S. Army Strategic Defense Command. Though SDIO’s plans, as of 1985, assumed the use of Space Lifter for the heavy anti-missile payloads they had in mind, payloads far too heavy for CRLV as-specified, the Terminal Descent Demonstrator was considered an important proof-of-concept for future autonomous RLVs, and the ballistic-propulsive landing profile proposed by Martin-Marietta scaled up much more easily than the winged aerodynamic systems used by the Lifter. Though the United States Air Force had abandoned CRLV, Martin-Marietta and SDIO intended to soldier on with it as far as they could.
While the Americans were beginning to take the success of their Space Transportation System for granted, the competing system from the Soviet Union began to slowly come out from behind the iron curtain. Unlike the American Space Lifter, whose RS-IC and S-IVC were simple modifications of 1950s-vintage rocket technology and 1960s-vintage structural design, the Soviet equivalent involved several new technologies, and a radically different approach to the basic questions of reuse and vehicle sizing. Of all the rocket engine cycles proposed to date, staged combustion has been the hardest to master. Most rocket engines burn their propellant in a combustion chamber, and blast the hot gas out as quickly as possible, minimizing heating by simply pushing the fire away from the engine with great haste. In order to supply sufficient power to the engine’s turbopumps, a staged combustion engine must burn a substantial fraction of its propellant internally, and drive a turbine with the combustion products, which are so hot and so corrosive that they are capable of burning common steel and aluminum into ashes. Unsurprisingly, despite having already built and flown staged-combustion-cycle engines, the Soviet Union still struggled to produce the RD-170 family of engines. Though the RD-170’s development began in 1976, it was not until 1985 that the engine was ready for flight. As this engine was almost literally the beating heart of the
Groza rocket program, its development paced the entire program’s progress.
In the absence of a working RD-170, Soviet engineers had to find alternative ways to test the cutting-edge automated landing technology of the
Raskat rocket boosters and
Uragan spacecraft. While the engineers from the Ministry of Aviation Industry were able to test
Uragan in both piloted and unpiloted landing modes by simply developing a gliding airplane, analogous to the American
Pathfinder,
Raskat’s engineers had to take a slower and more expensive approach to validating their product. These engineers, based at the Yuzhnoye Design Bureau in the Ukrainian SSR, needed to validate the aerodynamics and control systems for
Raskat at high velocities, in the supersonic and hypersonic regimes in which the rocket would operate and in which it would have to safely pull itself away from the
Groza core stage and begin maneuvering to its landing strip. Though sub-scale models carried on Tu-144s and Mig-25s were useful for gathering data in the design process, testing the actual recovery system would need a real flight to Mach 10 and beyond.
The Yuzhnoye engineers turned to their previous product, the
Tsyklon satellite launcher. Though narrower than
Raskat by about 25%,
Tsyklon shared its 40-meter length and had a broadly similar thrust:weight ratio to the loaded
Raskat/Groza stack. Indeed the effort to automate the
Tsyklon launch process through the late 1970s meant that the older boosters’ electronics were still close to top-notch, by Soviet standards, and had a great deal of commonality with the systems designed for
Raskat. Until the RD-170 was actually completed,
Tsyklon would be the closest possible surrogate.
Three
Tsyklon rockets were fitted with
Raskat’s aerodynamic controls and air-breathing propulsion package, and launched from the Baikonur Cosmodrome from 1983 to 1984. The first rocket was lost in flight, as a failed wing deployment caused the vehicle to disintegrate due to aerodynamic stresses, with its scattered remains tumbling into the desert east of Baikonur. The next two were far more successful, demonstrating successful deployment of the wings, hypersonic and supersonic flight, and operation of the jet engines. These test flights were noted by the CIA in the 1984 issue of their “Soviet Military Power” report to Congress. Although correctly identifying the tests as part of the Soviet response to Space Lifter, the report cautioned that they could also have application as a new ICBM/cruise missile hybrid intended to thwart the proposed Strategic Defense Initiative missile shield.
By mid-1984 it appeared that the RD-170 had finally overcome the worst of its development problems and was on-course for integrated testing with the Raskat booster the following year. However, the delays meant that progress on Uragan had continued to outpace that of its carrier rocket, with two flight models of the spaceplane, designated OK-1.01 and OK-1.02, now fitted out and possessing fully functional power and thermal control systems, as well as a basic life-support capability. Unfortunately, without the
Groza rocket they remained mere aircraft, not spaceplanes, as even their 25 metric ton structural weight was too great for
Proton, the largest existing Soviet rocket. Consideration was given to using
Proton to launch one of the planes on suborbital trajectory, but in the end it was decided that the additional resources needed to modify both
Proton and
Uragan for the test out-weighed the value of the new data such a mission would generate.
The first test flight of the
Raskat-Groza system came on November 4, 1985, when two
Raskat boosters lifted off carrying an inert dummy
Groza core stage and an inert dummy upper stage. The system launched on a typical orbital trajectory east from Baikonur, both the
Raskat performing flawlessly through their ascent phase. The RD-170’s temperamental nature seemed to have been tamed in repeated static testing on the ground, something on which Glushko had insisted after the disaster of the N1 program. Following separation from the dummy
Groza, the two boosters coasted downrange until they reentered the sensible atmosphere southwest of the city of Dzhezkazgan, at which point the range safety officers destroyed the water-filled
Groza boilerplate, while the
Raskats deployed their wings and opened their jet engine inlets. Falling down into the atmosphere, the
Raskats shed their velocity over the Kazakh steppe, before turning around to fly back to Baikonur. Though this flight was not announced to the Soviet public, photographs of a
Raskat booster landing at the airfields were published in
Pravda the following week, announcing a successful test of a new Soviet space launch system.
The test was not entirely successful, however. While multiple runways had been provided for the boosters in the plentiful land downrange in Kazakhstan, weather changes near launch had forced the boosters to divert to a different runway than originally programed. The change, made near launch time, had resulted in erroneous updates fed to the flight controllers of the Raskat boosters, locking both onto the same runway. While the boosters’ landing times had been staggered to simplify landing operations, the stages were not capable of taxiing themselves off the runway after landing, and the second
Raskat rear-ended the first, mangling both and starting a fire on the runway as released kerosene and LOX spilled off. These pictures, naturally, were not shared with
Pravda. The accident, a stain on an otherwise flawless first mission for the system, demonstrated the risks of automatic flight controls and the
Groza multiple-booster system, but the other benefit was that production of
Raskats was far cheaper, and no lives had been lost in the accident. While engineers went to work resolving the software problems once and for all, another two
Raskat contracts were assigned to the Yuzhnoye Bureau, bringing the initial order of ten to an even dozen.
The second test flight came on April 12, 1986, launching into a thick snowstorm. This flight involved two
Raskat boosters carrying a live
Groza core stage, with a vacuum-optimized RD-170 engine, and a Blok-D upper stage, together with a small
Oko (“Eye”) early warning satellite to a Molniya orbit. This highly elliptical orbit gave far better coverage of the high-latitude USSR than did the geostationary orbit favored by the Americans and Europeans, and gave particularly good coverage of the North Pole, over which American missiles would have to pass in a first-strike on the Soviet Union. This particular
Oko was modified with a newly-redesigned optical sensor, following a near-disaster in 1983 when an earlier model had mistaken sunlight reflecting off high-altitude clouds for missile exhaust. The injection was successful, and verified the ability of the
Raskat-Groza system to put satellites into high orbit using the old Blok-D upper stage.
It would be up to the third test flight, on June 6, 1986, to demonstrate both the massive new kerosene-powered
Groza upper stage and the
Uragan spaceplane. OK-1.02 had been the first spacecraft fitted with engines, maneuvering propellant, and a space-rated heat rejection system, and had been christened
Berkut (“Golden Eagle,” particularly one used in falconry) by its crew and the technicians who serviced her. Flying unmanned on her first orbital flight,
Berkut was launched by a
Raskat-Groza stack in a heavy configuration, with
four Raskat boosters around a core stage topped by a large 120-tonne kerosene-fueled upper stage.
Berkut completed two orbits around the Earth, opening her payload bay and maintaining steady contact with mission control through the Soviet communication satellite network (a combination of Molniya-orbit and geostationary-orbit satellites).
Berkut returned to Baikonur exactly 206 minutes after launch, touching down on the runway dead-center just hours after her boosters had done the same downrange.
Berkut’s first flight had shown the world that the Soviet Union had a heavy manned spacecraft to match the American one.