Act 2: The Dream is Alive
Chapter 4: “All Over the World”
WALTER CRONKITE: Now Solar Max's circuits are checked out, and the Goddard engineers make certain that it works perfectly. T.J. holds it facing the sun until its batteries are recharged. Then, gently, he returns it to orbit.
[Footage from STS-41-A] TERRY HART: And we have release.
CRONKITE: As Independence and her crew pull away, they leave behind vivid proof that we can work in space. This repair is only the first step; already, people like you and me are beginning to travel into space. Some of our children will live in space, and their children may even be born there. Soon, we will use the Shuttle to build a space station in permanent orbit, operated by international crews.
CRONKITE: Floating free, we look back at the majestic panorama of Earth: our home. Like Columbus, we dream of distant shores we've not yet seen. Now that we know how to live and work in space…we stand at the threshold of a new age of discovery.
– Excerpt from the 1985 IMAX feature “The Dream is Alive”, narrated by Walter Cronkite
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While Europe had been devastated by World War II, and remained fractured by the Cold War, it had rebuilt under these circumstances admirably. Although it was practically impossible to match the industrial capabilities of the new world powers within the short span of twenty years, there were hopes that the continent could make its own forays into the field of space. These efforts were spearheaded by France, which wanted to reclaim its former place (or some semblance of it) as a world power.
Under the growing ideology of internationalism in Western Europe, and with proof of collaborative success in other scientific endeavours such as CERN, the European Space Research Organization (ESRO) Convention was drafted in October 1961. When it came into force in 1964, formally acknowledging the ESRO’s existence, it encompassed 10 nations. All of these participated in the
Commission Préparatoire Européenne de Recherche Spatiale (COPERS) conferences in early 1961, which examined considerations needed for such an organisation.
For the next decade, ESRO was responsible for most Western European space science endeavours, with instruments launched aboard member nations’ sounding rockets, and later indigenous orbital satellites borrowing launch services from the US.
In 1973, NASA approached the ESRO for possible collaboration in the upcoming STS program. After discussions, it was determined that Europe could make contributions worth at least 10% of the STS' cost. Advisory committees identified actions Europe was taking, and could continue in an increased capacity to make that contribution: build part of the Shuttle, develop the Space Tug, or provide the ‘Sortie Can’, a pressurised laboratory in the Shuttle's payload bay. The ‘Sortie Can’ was required, as the Shuttle had transformed from a mere orbital truck to the only crewed spaceflight component. With financing a space station being an increasingly untenable position, the Shuttle would also have to fulfil the role of an orbital laboratory, and its crew space would neither be sufficient nor optimal for the expected diversity of experiments.
While such collaboration fell in line with the Nixon Administration’s ideal national image, some voices on the American side objected to any European involvement in the Shuttle. First, there was the issue of dependence: Europe's preferred contribution was the Space Tug, which would have to handle all payloads to geostationary orbit, including DoD ones. Despite the Space Tug being increasingly unlikely to get domestic funding, putting a foreign actor in such a vital logistic chain was even more unthinkable. Secondly, giving away hard-earned spaceflight expertise would give Europe a head start in competing with the US in space endeavours and future space commerce. This was particularly acute if Europe built part of the Shuttle, as the resulting information exchange would allow them to glean their way to high technology; this option could also jeopardise the Shuttle if Europe pulled out. Finally, some thought that NASA was using international cooperation as collateral for funding, for it was internationally preferable to fund something to completion than risk losing face by pulling out, regardless of how much would be spent.
That left the Sortie Can for extracting an image of internationalism with the smallest sacrifice; it was relatively independent of the Shuttle and US interests, and also much cheaper. The Americans thus vetted down the options, and presented this singular offer to the ESRO.
Europe accepted. Later named Spacelab, this science suite would consist of three adaptable parts: pallets, used to hold and provide common interfaces for exposed experiments; a pressurised Habitable Module for the crew to conduct investigations and house experiments that need to remain inside, and a smaller cylindrical module, later called the ‘Igloo’ due to its thermal protection covering, to house controls for the pallets if a Hab is not present. In exchange for providing Spacelab, European astronauts would be given seats on the Shuttle. All of them would fly as a new type of astronaut, the Payload Specialist; these individuals are assigned only for their ability to accomplish certain mission objectives, and are not permanent members in the NASA astronaut pool.
While construction uneventfully started on Spacelab in 1974 at English, French and German contractors, the current European space efforts were beginning to show a variety of institutional problems. Within ESRO, there were issues with diverging interests, an inability of dreams to be based on technical reality, and a feeling that a few core members were the ones really running the show. Elsewhere and more significantly, the European Launcher Development Organization (ELDO) failed to deliver an operational launch vehicle. ELDO was even older than ESRO, having come into being in 1962, after Britain wanted to cut losses in its redundant Blue Streak missile by joining forces with other countries, to incorporate the Blue Streak into a collaborative launch vehicle. To address these issues, ESRO and ELDO were merged into a new organisation in 1975, the European Space Agency (ESA). Spacelab was inherited by ESA, under which it would be realised.
Through ESA, Europe also created its own orbital launch vehicle, the hypergolic and hydrolox-fuelled Ariane series. The Ariane program aimed to end Europe’s dependence on the US for launch capabilities. The first version, Ariane 1, made a successful maiden launch in 1979. To capture the largest market sector, Ariane 1 was sized to lift 1.9 tons to geostationary transfer orbit, which was the orbit and mass range most commercial satellites occupied. Moreover, Ariane 1 could carry multiple payloads in one launch with a special adapter, making it even more appealing for satellite constellations. Combined with national subsidies, this launcher would have a temporary near-monopoly over the launch market, before the Shuttle entered service to compete in the same niche.
The US soon realised that it was unable to contain the European space industry’s growth without harming itself. Thus, it gradually reversed its protectionist policies throughout the 1970s. Domestically, it now aimed to make sure it could compete with Europe. Internationally, it spearheaded legislation to prevent Europe or anyone else from gaining an unfair advantage in the new business of space.
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Pieces of the Spacelab program first flew during the FMOF flights; one pallet was carried on STS-2. The habitable lab would only make its debut on STS-9 in October 1983, flying aboard Enterprise with Mission Specialist Ulf Merbold, the first of the ESA exchange astronauts. Following the landing, Enterprise was taken out of service, to be modified to incorporate improvements deemed possible after the first flights. With OV-103 still months away from completion, the Shuttle fleet once again dwindled down to one orbiter.
Thus, the period between October 1983 and early 1984 was Independence’s time to shine. Having been converted from the STA, Independence debuted on STS-6 in January 1983 [1], and would be flown almost consecutively for a few missions afterwards. This effectively stress-tested the Shuttle’s turnaround capability; at its peak, Independence was launched 1½ months after a landing. It also racked up many firsts for the US space program; STS-6 deployed the first TDRS satellite, a building block for NASA’s own relay satellite system, and hosted the Shuttle program’s first spacewalk. STS-7 carried Sally Ride, heralding an era of access to space regardless of identity. On this front, NASA’s new astronaut corps, Class 8 (Thirty Five New Guys) and Class 9 better represented the US’ demographics than the crew-cut male test pilots that preceded them.
The new era’s spacefarers were also dressed for spaceflight very differently. With the Shuttle operational, the SR-71 derived ochre launch and entry suits were dispensed with. Instead, all crews wore a blue shirt-sleeve coverall starting with STS-5, with a LEVSA helmet for an emergency air pack to function.
OV-103, christened Discovery, was soon delivered in early 1983. It was built to be lighter [2], with refinements deemed possible using FMOF data. This, along with a 1 second specific impulse increase in the J-2S engines delivered with it, gave Discovery a greater payload capacity than the other two orbiters. Discovery made its maiden flight on STS-41B in July 1984, joining Independence in delivering payloads to space.
41B should have been rightfully called STS-14 (actually the 12th flight, due to cancelled missions). However, the Shuttle mission numbering system was changed after STS-9; instead of straightforward numbers, missions would be denoted using a three-place alphanumeric code. The first digit would represent the year of a decade; the second would represent the launch site (1 for KSC, 2 for Vandenberg); the last, a letter, would represent the order in which the flight's mission plan was drafted for the year.
Soon, these letters began appearing out of alphabetical order due to processing delays, scrubs and reschedulings. Shortly thereafter, the first digit began bleeding into the next year. The Shuttle only managed to fly 4 times in 1984 and 9 times in 1985; while an impressive metric by Apollo standards, it was significantly less than what was outlined when the Shuttle was declared operational, and a far cry from the assumptions used in the 1970s economic studies. People stopped speaking about running out of letters; the Shuttle could not meet the expected flight rates, as there were too many bottlenecks in vehicle processing. Although many improvements were made throughout 1984-1985 as more facilities reached full operational status, orbiter processing time would soon plateau, and remain the limiting factor for flight rate. Expectations are changed accordingly to 10-20 flights per year, although this did not mean that NASA ever gave up on the fight for higher flight rates.
OV-104 Pathfinder was delivered in 1985; it was the last complete orbiter NASA could expect in the near term. It was decided in August of 1982 that the Shuttle program only needed four orbiters to reliably serve all national space launch needs by 1986. While deleting a fifth orbiter completely saved costs now, it would incur additional costs in the future; if orbiter processing rates did not improve, a fifth and sixth orbiter would be needed by 1986 and 1990 respectively, which meant reactivating the Rockwell production lines and logistics chains at great expense. It was thus decided to leave the fifth orbiter as an option; Rockwell’s Downey factory would produce a complete vehicle as unassembled structural spares, before closing down Shuttle production.
The boosters were another story, due to their relative cheapness and short design lifespan of 8-15 flights. The wear and tear incurred with each ocean recovery made frequent replacement a worthwhile tradeoff. Thus, Boeing was to supply one new booster approximately every nine months, in time to replace the oldest fleet member. Retired boosters would then be used as a source of spare parts. While in operational capacity, the fleet of six boosters would be scattered throughout the country; most would be stored at the KSC in the dormant VAB high bays, or be refurbished between missions at the newly built Booster Storage and Processing Facility (BSPF). Simultaneously, at least one would be at Michoud for a 6-month rebuild scheduled after every fifth flight. The operational boosters would be stored and processed under the same roof as the production lines for new boosters and ETs.
With the Shuttle’s lacklustre flight rate, ET production was intentionally slowed to avoid an excessive surplus of tanks. As for the boosters, current refurbishment times and fleet size ironically sufficed for the readjusted flight rate expectations; it was only foreseen to become a real problem when NASA strives for more than 20 flights per year.
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Various commercialization policies enacted under the Reagan administration, through the newly established Office of Commercial Space Transportation (OCST), helped the commercial satellite market grow, and ensured a steady stream of payloads for the Shuttle. The last two years of operation saw around five commercial satellites launched from the Shuttle per year, which was comparable to Ariane’s tally in the same period. This demand was significantly smaller than expected, intensifying competition.
Ariane and Shuttle also shared a market with ELVs from the US. Companies such as General Dynamics, Martin Marietta and McDonnell Douglas leveraged their formerly nationally operated rockets to provide similar services. However, as government procedures and facilities were still significantly involved in a satellite ride, these companies had to provide their services through a quasi-governmental approach. This added paperwork and scrutiny, making any launch sale an expensive hassle, and profit margins slim.
Startups, such as American Launch Services (ALS) with their Percheron and Conestoga rockets, were also subject to the same tedious regulations. But they did not have the capital to survive non-profitability; in the case of ALS, they merged with other companies, before being done in by failed maiden launches in the 1990s.
The Shuttle was also not as profitable as expected, as it turned out to be much more expensive to fly; this was a mathematical consequence of its lacklustre flight rate. For example, the Shuttle flying just 9 times in 1985 meant amortising non-recurring costs over fewer flights, pricing each of the launches at around $200 million (1985 dollars). Estimates with “operational” flight rates of more than 15 launches per year yielded a better, but still high $140 million per flight. [3]
Thus, to permit market participation, non-recurring costs of Shuttle were subsidised by the government, limiting the amount passed on to commercial launch prices internally decided by NASA. This brought the prices to lows of $85 million per flight, amortised across co-manifested payloads according to how much mass and volume they take up. Ironically, this clashed with policy goals outlined in the 1982 Commercial Space Act; the sought after free market competition never materialised, as the Shuttle’s subsidised prices to compete internationally destroyed any hope for domestic entities to step into the market. But neither was raising the price an option, for analysis showed that customers could simply flock to the cheaper Ariane, instead of the nascent US ELV market. Worse, Ariane was tailored to commercial needs, instead of being ICBM-derived and pressed into such a role.
Ariane's success was seen as a sign that US commercial spaceflight was doing something wrong. Criticism of using the Shuttle as the sole US launcher grew, mainly in the Department of Transportation (which in 1985 had yet to hold complete regulatory power over commercial spaceflight). They argued that with current market demand and launch rates, funding the development of a modern ELV would be cheaper and more profitable in the long run. They also argued that splitting the Shuttle pie would actually rejuvenate the domestic space launch sector, which was struggling to compete with both Europe and NASA. Fewer commercial customers would also reduce the pressure on NASA infrastructure, allowing them to focus on missions that truly needed the Shuttle's unique capabilities.
In response, NASA tried to argue that the Shuttle could be more efficient and economical with higher flight rates, if they were just given the resources to attain them. With demonstrated turnaround times and some extrapolation, a four-orbiter fleet was deemed able to fly anywhere between 18 to 26 flights per year; lower rates would cause the per flight costs to balloon, while higher rates were unachievable unless more facilities were activated. Adding a fifth orbiter and more boosters could also increase the maximum rate to 32 per year, but as with opening new VAB High Bays, nobody on Capitol Hill wanted to cough up the money for another $1.7 billion orbiter, and additional S-1Ds at $35 million (more with associated facility expansion costs) each, once booster processing became the limiting factor.
The conflict was later resolved in NASA’s favour. Commercial satellite launches on Shuttle would continue to be sold, but according to prices determined through auction, and thus “market forces”. The point of contention now was how low the auction prices should be allowed to go; with overwhelming support from all agencies except for the DoT, the lower auction price floor of $80 million per payload was selected. These rules were signed into law in July 1985, giving free rein for the Shuttle to compete with Ariane. While the development of domestic ELVs would suffer greatly under this policy, it was not a major consideration in the decision.
The higher than expected costs of commercial spaceflight were not isolated to the Shuttle. A prime example of this was the Industrial Space Facility, a concept for a modular Shuttle-serviced orbital factory, advocated by Space Industries Inc (SSI). The inherent expenses and risk of investment forced SSI to seek out government users, which would guarantee a basic level of income regardless of their commercial relevance. The OCST thus insisted NASA to look into the ISF; NASA initially agreed, but in 1986 began to seesaw over the decision due to the ‘threat’ the ISF could pose to plans for a national space station, as the substantially cheaper (and thus more functionally limited) ISF could be used to argue for the station’s redundancy. But ultimately, the space industry economy simply wasn’t as big as imagined; many technologies once thought to require microgravity were proven to be workable on Earth. Moreover, ISF’s concept was limited by space access; the actual flight rate and cost per flight of all space vehicles were a very far cry from what the ISF needed to make economic sense. The ISF effort would wither over the next decade, despite influential supporters such as capsule designer Maxime Faget. The demise of ISF was but one symptom of the space investment bubble bursting. However, the Shuttle that initially inflated it would continue with business as usual.
With the Shuttle constantly launching satellites for various purposes, an increasing amount of civilian technologies, most notably communications, now depended on space. But despite this abundance of civilian applications, the Reagan administration felt that more had to be done for space to truly be visible as a realm of everyday life. Namely, everyday people would have to fly there and back safely.
In 1984, the Teacher in Space project was announced. Applications were sent to over 40 thousand schoolteachers around the country, and the 11 thousand who responded were vigorously vetted. Emerging from the ten finalists was high school history teacher S. Christia McAuliffe, and her backup, elementary school teacher Barbara R. Morgan. The following year saw the similar Journalist in Space project, culminating in legendary Apollo anchorman Walter Conkrite being slated for a flight sometime in late 1986. However, the first US “civilian” to fly in space preceded finalists from both projects: Utah Senator Jake Garn flew on 51-B in early 1985, although it can be argued otherwise with his significant piloting experience during his time in the Utah National Guard.
Come 15 January 1986, McAuliffe flew to space as part of STS-51-J’s seven-person crew aboard Independence. While in orbit, she gave two lessons that were televised to children around the country and globe. The mission also deployed the second TDRS satellite, and inaugurated LC-39B, which just finished its conversion to Shuttle configuration last December. Independence returned safely to Earth seven days later.
1986's commencement also saw Enterprise returning to service on STS-61B, staying in orbit over New Year's. With a full fleet finally available, the Shuttle had better chances of meeting the 1986 manifest of 16 launches, a much more realistic expectation.
And for the first part of the year, things were mostly on track to achieve this goal. 1985 and 1986 were thus sometimes retroactively regarded as the years in which NASA truly started mastering the Shuttle. NASA was learning and inventing new ways to get things done on time, in response to avionics gremlins, fuel leaks, payload issues, and other technical reasons that continued to jostle the schedule around. Using the MSS, a problematic classified payload could be switched for a civilian Spacelab right on the pad; extensive booster rebuilds, usually undertaken every five launches, were occasionally delayed by one flight as they proved more resilient than thought; ‘wet’ prelaunch dress rehearsals were abandoned entirely; parts were cannibalised from orbiters flying later in the launch manifest to make up for shortages; missions flew with redundant systems alone, while failures of noncritical main systems were waived from repairs; the mission before 51-J was even cut short by days to allow the next one to fly. All this reshuffling was meticulously tracked down with improved change control records. With these approaches, people were confident that the months-long standowns experienced in 1984 and 1985 were a thing of the past. A NAR manager later remarked in an interview that “an unsaid goal of the Shuttle program in 1986 was to not let a -6 fly in 1987.” [4]
In the midst of these successful gambits were a significant number of close calls, most involving the fragile heat shield. Missions returned with all manner of projectile damage, ranging from scratches to missing tiles, caused by anything from ET foam to wastewater icicles. This incredible survival rate can be attributed to the fact that no damage ever occurred to the underbelly, where the heating was the most severe. Statistically, the OMS pods suffered the most, followed by the payload bay sides and wing upper surfaces; thankfully, these are also the regions where tiles are being swapped out for Felt Reusable Surface Insulation (FRSI) blankets, which are much more resilient and easier to maintain. This change to FRSI, like many other modifications, was procedurally implemented on the orbiters during their post-flight refurbishments.
The digital avionics also continued to cause issues. During STS-61-D’s lifting reentry, outputs from two of the four main flight computers diverged. Due to the ‘voting’ system, had one more failed, the pilots would have needed to immediately press a red button on the joysticks to switch to the backup, as all four disagreeing would result in a loss of flight control. The problem was eventually traced back to Pathfinder’s lower equipment bay: ratty inputs were sent through faulty wiring abraded by an overtightened screw. Such translations of hardware issues to software faults would continue to occur throughout the Shuttle program, although the quintuple redundancy inherent in the avionics usually prevented things from escalating.
Then there were the outright failures and equipment losses, most notable of which was the destruction of Booster 604. After boosting STS-51-I, one of the GOX vent valves came unseated upon parachute deployment, causing the LOX tank to lose pressure. Without the proper forces acting from inside the tank, it instantly crumpled upon water impact, leaving the remains of the stage sitting engines-down in the ocean. What was left of 604 was recovered, and its salvageable parts were reused as structural spares or in the under-assembly Booster 610. Recovering 604’s remains also became the purpose-built MV Space Clipper’s first assignment; the obsolete Catamount was replaced by the much more modern and manoeuvrable Space Clipper in a move to save recovery costs. The valve would be redesigned to avoid a repeat incident. On the bright side, this incident validated the decision to have six operational boosters, as the schedule absorbed the loss without a hitch.
Yet, these mishaps were barely apparent on the outside, and to many within the space agency’s management. To them, the Shuttle’s operation just became more routine as more time went on, and more missions were flown.
Hughes HS-376 satellites, built to a standardised design and sold to a wide variety of groups (some changed owners while waiting for launch, typical of the immature market), spun out of sunshields, attached to PAM-S kick motors for a boost to GEO. GAS cans flew by the dozen, carrying experiments that had sizes and budgets too small to justify dedicated platforms. The TDRS network became increasingly functional with each satellite added, eliminating communication blackouts for NASA missions, while replacing expensive tracking stations and ships.
Uniquely configured Spacelabs stayed on orbit for weeks, with the science missions' relatively large crews (STS-51-I, flying Spacelab Mission D-1 in October 1985, set a single-vehicle record with its 8 person crew) running experiments on schedule. Despite being nowhere as long, these long duration missions benefitted from and built on knowledge gained during Skylab missions, in enabling groups of humans to work productively in space.
At the same time, Payload Specialists, originating from various nations allied with the US, flew aboard the Shuttles. Many European nations, and others such as Mexico, Saudi Arabia, and Indonesia, had their first spacefarers carried to orbit through these initiatives. These Payload Specialists often accompanied their respective nations' first satellites. Most non-ESA 'exchange astronauts' were the culmination of bilateral diplomatic agreements. For the others, as of 1986, the US had extended many more of these to the international community; talks were underway with China and Japan for their astronauts to ride aboard the Shuttle. [5]
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The American practice of international Mission/Payload Specialists was in some ways similar to the Soviet Interkosmos program. Interkosmos had been around since 1967; while it had similar purposes of promoting international space collaboration, and the political goal of consolidating a sphere of influence, Interkosmos greatly differed in its scope.
Interkosmos consisted of both crewed and uncrewed collaborative missions; it was the USSR’s only institutional gateway to international cosmic cooperation. Assistance for uncrewed endeavours was offered through expertise, funding and launch services, allowing non-spacefaring nations to have their own space experiments or artificial satellites. The experiments were either carried aboard dedicated Interkosmos satellites or Vostok-derived Bions, the latter of which had a pressurised environment for biomedical investigations. In the spirit of space collaboration, the services were open to all countries; notably, US scientists flew experiments on almost all of the Bion satellites.
The crewed program also differed slightly; although most participants originated from communist and non-aligned states, citizens of capitalist countries, most notably France, did sometimes fly on such missions. Owing to the Soviets’ well-developed long duration spaceflight abilities, the Interkosmos flights were all visits to space stations. The earlier missions were hosted by Salyut 6 and 7, the country’s first modular stations constructed from DOS and TKS modules. The Interkosmos cosmonauts’ Soyuz rides were expected to be complemented by the Buran once it started flying; although the TKS/VA spacecraft was currently available, there was neither pressure nor universal support to bring it into crewed service.
Instead, the space program’s priorities lay with realising Buran, its associated rocket, and the YMOS as soon as possible. Either project often ate into the other's budget, necessitating work stops every now and then throughout the early 1980s; the YMOS was affected more due to Buran's relevance to national security. At the same time, Buran was lagging behind more severely; the original optimistic launch date of late 1983 slipped, first to 1985, then beyond. While there were no fantasies about it being easy, the mechanical and electronic complexity of the spaceplane and its launcher made engineers wonder how the Americans were actually coping with the Shuttle’s increasingly routine operation.
The first full-size Buran took to the skies in 1985; unlike Constitution, OK-GLI flew under jet power from four Lyulka AL-31 engines, which would also be included on the operational model for go-around capabilities. Built-in jets were required, as the Soviets did not have a big enough aircraft to carry it aloft. But like its Shuttle equivalent, OK-GLI was missing many of the systems necessary for spaceflight. Additional non-airworthy airframes also played their part in finalising the structure and testing out logistics systems. Thermal protection and the novel wing-folding mechanism were tested using BOR-5 vehicles lofted throughout 1984 to 1986.
On the launcher side, the RD-170 had decidedly been the source of problems; with its immense, barely contained power, a test stand explosion sent pieces flying 4km away. Things came to such a head that the N1’s NK-33 power plants were seriously considered as an alternative, despite the embarrassing reversal of decisions that would entail. Another approach involved developing the MD-185, an engine with a quarter of the RD-170’s thrust. However, these ideas were dismissed, as they would have potentially further prolonged the program.
As the engineers’ hard work would have it, both the RD-170 and the RD-57 were certified for flight in mid-1985. The engines first went on the 11K77 monolithic launcher, now renamed Zenit (“Zenith”). Capable of carrying 20 tons to LEO from Baikonur’s Launch Complex 45, this vehicle directly rivalled Chelomei’s Proton. The Zenit first launched on 13 April 1985 with a mass simulator; the second stage’s nozzle extensions were blown apart during hotstaging, critically reducing the engines’ specific impulse and causing the mass simulator to fall short of orbit. The nozzle extensions would be deleted for all Zenits thereafter, at a bearable cost to specific impulse. The second flight in June fared no better; one of the second-stage engines failed shortly after ignition, sending the vehicle into a destructive tumble. While this level of reliability was typical of all Soviet launchers during development, the Zenit would appear disproportionately terrible when compared to other 1980s launchers. Zenit would finally score a tentative success on its third launch, in October 1985. A few more test flights would follow, with mixed success; failures were no longer due to propulsive components shared with the 11K25.
By early 1986, the 11K25 had also completed its final tests. With the successes of fuelling and firing tests with vehicle 5S, it was decided to turn test airframe 6S into the first operational vehicle, 6SL. The original plan to expend 6SL on a boilerplate Buran was also changed, and it was instead flown in September 1986 with a military payload. [6] With the 11K25 separated from the Buran program, it also needed a new name; the type became Energia, taking after the organisation that built it.
The success of the 6SL launch in September 1986 proved the Energia’s reliability, and cleared the way for the first YMOS to launch on Energia 7SL. Had the launch still failed, the structurally complete YMOS-2 would have (hopefully) been flown as the replacement at a later date, with little mention of the first. Owing to YMOS-1’s meagre 50t mass, 7SL would use only two strapon boosters around the core, along with an under-fuelled (by 50t) upper stage with six out of eight engines installed.
On 12 October 1986, Energia 7SL lit its three first-stage engines, and ascended from the former N-1 launch complex. All RD-170s performed as expected before falling away; the side boosters were jettisoned 2 ½ minutes into the flight. While there had been plans to demonstrate recovering them on this flight, this was put off to the next due to budgetary issues. The expendable core throttled back up after booster separation, using up the fuel it previously conserved to outlive the boosters. The only problem throughout this launch arose after Stage 2 ignition, when one RD-57 engine exhibited reduced performance; it soon resolved itself as the burn continued.
Upon shutdown, YMOS-1, now COSPAR 1986-085A, was safely in a roughly circular 360 km orbit, with an inclination of 51.6°. It was the second heaviest and the largest monolithic object the Soviet Union launched to date. The module oriented its longest axis perpendicular to Earth, taking advantage of gravity gradient stabilisation to conserve attitude control fuel.
The first crewed mission to Mir launched on 7 November 1987, in time for the October Revolution anniversary; Soyuz TM-2, flying Mir Expedition 1 [7], was crewed by Aleksandr Serebrov and Vladimir Titov. Autonomously guided by the new Kurs rendezvous system, the spacecraft successfully docked to the YMOS nadir (Earth-facing) port, axially fitted to the module's three-port hub.
Once onboard, the two crewmembers activated the station, and unpackaged the 4t of cargo that was launched along to make better use of the Energia’s capabilities. They would spend a total of three months aboard the YMOS, putting various systems through their paces, and carrying out astrophysics experiments using the UV and X-ray sensing instruments aboard. Soyuz TM-2 then returned to the steppes of the Kazakh SSR, carrying the two men and a TM-3 crewmember, Syrian Interkosmos cosmonaut Muhammad Faris. TM-3 had arrived a week before the departure of TM-2, for a smooth changeover of command.
Mir was expanded in December 1987 with Kvant [8], a TKS-derived module. Kvant was launched aboard a Proton rocket, and flew itself to Mir. While it initially docked to the axial port on YMOS-1’s hub, the Lyappa arm was used to move it to the 'top' (with respect to the YMOS' pitch axis) port. Besides adding more astrophysics experiments and an airlock, Kvant would be Mir’s primary guidance and environmental control unit, to conserve equivalent systems on the less fungible core modules. Its solar panels would also provide supplementary power. Soyuz TM-3’s crew, Yuri Romanenko and Musa Maranov, was onboard when Kvant captured onto YMOS-1’s axial port, and failed to achieve a hard dock. The cosmonauts performed an EVA via the hub’s free ports; upon examination, a cloth sack was found jammed between the docking collars. Maranov removed it, and the modules came together with docking probe retraction. The episode once again demonstrated the importance of having astronauts on hand during orbital operations.
More modules were to be added to Mir, which was expected to be in service until the mid-1990s. The next module, expected to launch in mid-1988, was YMOS-2, now being outfitted as a materials science and Earth remote sensing laboratory instead. It would be followed in late 1988 by the TKS-derived Spektr [8], which contained equipment for demonstrating spaceborne surveillance and anti-missile defence technologies as a continuation of research aboard Salyut 7. Spektr would also carry two APAS docking ports, one axial and one lateral, to support Buran dockings in the near future.
However, increasingly apparent national economic difficulties meant that both modules were constantly delayed due to even more budget cuts and pauses. Spektr and YMOS-2 soon switched places in the queue due to the relative simplicity of the former. Thus, while in its two-module configuration, Mir would receive a consecutive string of seven visits (TM-3 inclusive), all flown using the Soyuz. In addition to the Syrian cosmonaut, three of those missions also carried Interkosmos cosmonauts from Bulgaria, Afghanistan and France (as a result of increased ESA-Soviet cooperation) respectively. With new crews often arriving before the departure of the last, Mir became host to the first permanent human presence in space. The crews also set duration records and pushed the boundaries of human habitation in space, with many Mir cosmonauts spending up to 300+ days in orbit.
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After Skylab's demise, US space station proponents constantly tried and failed to get a space station approved.
From 1977 to 1982, a space station was out of the question, as the highly complex and expensive Shuttle swallowed the entirety of NASA’s budget, and no budget increases beyond the hard-fought $4 billion level were expected. However, this did not preclude concept studies, such as MSC's plans of procedurally expanding a station based around the backup Skylab or Shuttle ET wetlabs, concepts that all ended up stillborn.
Hope sprang anew in 1982 with the election of President Reagan. Reagan’s policy direction of going head on against Communism included demonstrations of the Free World’s technological superiority, and a space station that was bigger and better than the Soviets’ would do just that. Expressions of interest from Europe's ESA and Japan's NASDA were interpreted as a sign of solidarity with America, and tied into this purpose. However, as with all other projects, the station’s execution would come down to Congressional approval instead of ideological well-wishes.
NASA's new administrator, James Beggs, tried to amass supporters in Congress by approaching individual Congresspeople. The agency also commissioned eight aerospace companies to find purposes for the station, in mutually independent studies. The findings more often than not swivelled back to commercial applications, scientific possibilities and national prestige, perfectly in line with the Reagan Administration’s directions. However, they could not identify an overarching, convincing reason to justify the station. This fact would constantly hamper attempts to sell it to Congress, since for all intents and purposes of outsiders, the reasons only existed to justify a pointless continuation of the Skylab legacy. There was an element of truth to the accusation, as NASA still held onto the Integrated Program Plan dream of supporting manned exploration and Space Tugs with the station in a distant future. Thus, the station would remain multipurpose, making the design process and decisions extremely multipronged, which produced high cost estimates that only deterred supporters.
The Space Station Task Group was formed in early 1983, and one of its first tasks was to 'sketch out' a design that met the variety of needs. The resulting reference concept was the “Power Tower” station, named for the solar arrays and radiators held at the end of a 120m truss, out of the way from visiting Shuttles. The solar panels would provide the 75kW of power baselined for the station. Modularity was emphasised, especially in the pressurised modules, to reduce costs and permit switching modules for different capabilities. The pressurised modules would be clustered akin to a pendulum on the opposite side of the truss; the station could thus be gravity gradient stabilised, as the heavier pressurised section is tugged on more strongly by Earth, and thus naturally tended to point towards it.
In the interim, Memorandums of Understanding were signed with ESA, Japan’s NASDA, and the Canadian Space Agency (CSA). In exchange for incorporating and using their modules and parts on the station, these partners would shoulder part of the station's expected $16 billion construction cost, and 25% of the operating costs.
“Power Tower” was soon decided against due to the potential for microgravity experiments to be disrupted by its gravity gradient-stabilisation. “Dual Keel” concepts took their place in March 1986. These moved the pressurised modules in line with a horizontal truss, which in turn held the solar panels on its ends. On either side of the module cluster, the truss branched into bracket-shaped structures, to provide ample room for applications like servicing Mars transfer vehicles.
But in October, news of Mir's launch significantly splintered space station studies. [9] Concepts of large modules to match and exceed the Soviets' YMOS in size and mass gained serious traction. These modules would be launched aboard Shuttle-derived heavy lifters, to build stations of equivalent capacity within a few launches. However, the large module concepts barely matched the country's commercial needs, and thus a majority of support remained with 'Dual Keel' and similar modular stations.
In hopes of galvanising support for the station, Reagan named the station Freedom shortly thereafter, permanently assigning a patriotic component to its continuation. But giving a name did very little to change Congress' view of the station; it only served to alienate the more practical-minded congresspeople, and did nothing to consolidate the “directionless” proposals. Of Freedom's first budget request, Congress approved $902 million out of $970 million, after vigorous debate increased it from $200 million. Of the FY $13.3 billion 1990 budget for NASA, only $2 billion was earmarked for Freedom, barely enough for the spike in design work and hardware construction to get underway for the first module to be launched in 1993.
The station would only be given a clear, singular purpose after it was viewed as necessary to the Shuttle’s normal operations, a paradigm shift that perhaps only an accident could bring.
Author’s notes:
[1] ITTL, OV-099 did not suffer from the SSME hydrogen leaks that delayed OTL OV-099 to April 1983.
[2] Possible places of weight loss include the wing spars (as OTL), vertical stabiliser wing boxes (OTL, these parts sustained the worst thermal and mechanical stresses on other twin-tailed spaceplanes such as Hermes, and were thus likely to be significantly over-designed for ITL Shuttle).
[3] These cost estimates were done using data from the 1994 Zero Base Cost Study, and some S-1C manufacturing cost projections. It was done in an embarrassingly crude manner: I took per flight recurring costs by subtracting the 10 flight case from the 1 flight case and dividing, then added those back to the 1 flight fixed cost as a linear increase by flight rate. The results in 1994/5 dollars were converted to 1986 for these numbers here.
[4] Yes, all of these were things NASA did pre-Challenger in OTL to speed up turnarounds, albeit slightly adapted here for the different design ITL.
[5] The offer to fly a Chinese astronaut was a real thing OTL that never went anywhere after Challenger.
[6] Will be talked about in Chapter 6.
[7] Since the ITL core wasn’t (able to be) rushed to meet the 27th Communist Party Congress in February as the OTL one was, they were able to use the Soyuz-TM for the first mission. T-15 still flies ITL, albeit as a Salyut-7 only mission.
[8] ITL Kvant’s design is very similar to OTL Kvant-2. ITL Spektr’s design is a combination of OTL Spektr and Kristall; ITL Spektr has OTL Spektr’s equipment and purpose, but with OTL Kristall’s docking ports.
[9] OTL, single-module Freedoms were considered too, but neither this early nor strongly.
Illustrations of the 7SL-YMOS launch configuration and Mir as planned: