Epic Rivalry

by Von Hardesty

  Popovich reported at one juncture that he made visual contact with Nikolayev’s Vostok 3, describing the sister spacecraft as a “small moon.” While in orbit, the two spacecraft followed identical routines with both cosmonauts eating meals and sleeping in identical time slots. They were able to maintain regular radio communication with each other, notwithstanding the occasional static and noise. Television cameras on board each spacecraft broadcast home a chronicle of life in space. Onlookers acquired a vivid sense of weightlessness through images of floating pencils and logbooks. Each cosmonaut ate four times a day; the food in plastic tubes consisted of meat cutlets, roast veal, chicken, pastries, and sweets. There was a systematic program of photography, and the cosmonauts exercised regularly. While both missions were highly automated, each man experimented with the manual control system to alter the attitude of his spacecraft.10

  The nausea experienced by Titov in Vostok 2 led to the use of a special coded language for the cosmonauts to alert Baikonur of any symptoms of “space sickness.” Any severe crisis would trigger an early reentry. For such an emergency, Popovich had been instructed to use the code phrase “observing thunderstorms.” As it turned out, Popovich was spared any nausea or disorientation during the entire mission, but he carelessly used the code phrase while describing real thunderstorms he observed over the Gulf of Mexico. At Baikonur, his words “observing thunderstorms” was interpreted to mean that he was suffering severe motion sickness. When asked how he was feeling, Popovich quickly realized his ill-chosen words. When he attempted to reassure Baikonur that he was feeling fine, his reassurances were greeted with skepticism. Mission Control ordered the cosmonaut home on his 48th orbit.11

  American reactions to the Vostok group flight were often intense and in some quarters accompanied by no small amount of apprehension. “I can remember,” NASA official Robert Seamans wrote in his memoir, “that Aviation Week carried the story soon after it occurred, and there was much speculation as to Soviet intentions.” The seamless ties in the Soviet Union between the space program and the military prompted considerable fear, Seamans wrote: “Were they conducting this dual maneuver to gain experience for their own exploration, or were these tests a prelude for Soviet inspection and possible interception of U.S. satellites?” The Cold War had cast a long shadow over the space missions of both countries.12

  A second group flight by Vostok 5 and Vostok 6 followed in June 1963, but this time with a surprising new twist—one of the orbiting cosmonauts was a woman. This bold move scored another first for the Soviet Union. Vostok 5 with Valery F. Bykovskiy inaugurated this space spectacular, reaching Earth orbit on June 14. The launch was trouble-free, but the resulting orbit for Vostok 5 turned out to be lower than planned. As a consequence, the orbit of the spacecraft was destined to decay rapidly, an eventuality that would lead to increased cabin temperatures. These conditions predetermined that his journey into space would be cut short, to conclude in five days. Bykovskiy found his view from space exhilarating; he saw landmarks including Leningrad, the Nile River and Cairo, the fjords of Norway, and mountain ranges. At night, he observed violent lightning storms above South America and the night-lights of major cities below his orbital path. Television coverage of Bykovskiy was broadcast in the West.13

  Two days later, on June 16, Vostok 6 reached orbit with Valentina Tereshkova on board. Her call sign was Chaika (“seagull”). Tereshkova’s arrival in Earth orbit created a global sensation and quickly overshadowed Bykovskiy’s flight. In the mind of General Nikolai Kamanin, then in charge of cosmonaut training, Tereshkova represented the best female candidate for the historic Vostok 6 mission; in his words, she was povedeniye (“a moral exemplar”) and possessed vospitannost’ (“good breeding”).14 Tereshkova was 24 years old, the oldest in a small cadre of female cosmonaut trainees; the group included Irina Solovyeva, Valentina Ponomareva, and Zhanna Yerkina. The choice of Tereshkova reflected the established pattern of favoring those who clearly embodied a communist pedigree and a compliant personality. She received the nod in favor over the more independent-minded and outspoken Ponomareva, a trained scientist, who by some accounts was the most outstanding female candidate.15

  Given the secrecy surrounding all aspects of the Soviet space program, decades passed before it was learned that Tereshkova’s sojourn in space had been a difficult one. Fellow cosmonaut Aleksei Leonov observed that while Tereshkova never lacked courage or failed to perform her tasks as assigned, she did not respond well to space travel, suffering a severe bout of disorientation and at times failed to respond to communication prompts from the ground. Her condition during the flight would remain a matter of speculation in the years that followed. Khrushchev, who had called for the launch of the first woman cosmonaut, took the occasion to praise Tereshkova’s achievement as a sign that “men and women are treated equally in the Soviet Union.” The fact that Tereshkova had piloted Vostok 6 marked another breakthrough, but Korolev and others remained cool to the idea of assigning women future flying roles, at least in the near term.16

  In 1964 the Soviets faced the serious challenge of NASA’s Project Gemini. The spacecraft built for Gemini were designed for a two-man crew, launched into orbit atop a Titan II booster. The Gemini configuration was larger and more sophisticated than its Mercury predecessor. The ultimate Soviet answer to Gemini was to be the Soyuz, which was still under development. The Soyuz, as with its Gemini counterpart, was a spacecraft designed for multiple crews, orbital maneuvering, rendezvous and docking, and flights of up to 30 days’ duration. The advanced Soyuz consisted of a command module (serving as the ascent and descent capsule); an orbital work module (a spherical component offering spacious room for work and an air lock for space walks); and an instrument and systems module (containing propulsion, electronics, and communications systems). To the chagrin of Korolev, however, the Soyuz would not be available in the near term; it would not be flown until 1967.17 Consequently, Korolev began to think of an interim solution, one that would adapt the veteran Vostok spacecraft for a new role as a multiple-crew space vehicle.

  With urgent, cruel deadlines, Vostok was transformed into the Voskhod (“sunrise”) spacecraft and quickly deployed for a new series of risky space ventures. Two critical tests of the Voskhod took place in October 1964 and March 1965. The new spacecraft was a radical modification of the older one-seat Vostok with a gutted and redesigned interior to accommodate additional crew. As such, Voskhod did not flow out of any logical and incremental process of design; instead it was a desperate attempt to maintain competitiveness with the United States. Khrushchev played a key role in the unfolding drama, thirsting for more space spectaculars and seeking to find an effective means to preempt the Gemini program.

  Cosmonaut Leonov claimed that he approached the new Voskhod with great interest. His inspection of the spacecraft was conducted in a bizarre context of secrecy. Leonov was among a group of cosmonaut trainees Korolev had summoned to his design bureau, OKB-1. The Chief Designer gave specific instructions for the cosmonauts to appear in civilian clothes. To prepare for the top-secret conclave, Leonov and his fellow trainees hurriedly purchased new suits. But, to their surprise, when they boarded the bus for the design bureau, they were dressed in roughly identical outfits, prompting an outbreak of laughter: “We had simply exchanged one uniform for another,” Leonov recalled. “We were all wearing the same brick-colored overcoat, tailored by expensive Italian designers.” Once the cosmonauts entered the design bureau, they discarded their expensive civilian garb for white smocks and covers for their shoes.18

  Leonov was not surprised by this elaborate exercise in secrecy. On one level, Korolev’s approach mirrored a political culture where secrecy was normal. The penchant for strict secrecy also reflected Korolev’s decrees for a highly disciplined lifestyle, a set of values he imposed on his family and workers.

  Korolev’s movements were not routinely forecast or widely known. When on vacation in a sanatorium along the Black Sea, he enjoyed unrivaled privacy, livi
ng in quarters sealed off for his personal and exclusive use. Though he was denied proper public credit for his achievements, Korolev’s clandestine life did offer an exemption from certain petty tasks associated with public affairs. His workload was daunting and all consuming. Leonov well remembered his toughness: “Korolev had the reputation of being a man of the highest integrity, but also extremely demanding. Everyone around him was on tenterhooks, afraid of making a wrong move and invoking his wrath. He was treated as a god…. He did not suffer fools gladly. He had the ability to silence a person with the smallest gesture of a hand.”19

  Seeing the new Voskhod from a distance, Leonov and his fellow cosmonauts thought they were looking at a Vostok space vehicle, but this initial impression proved false. Closer examination revealed substantial differences between the two spacecraft. The most striking change was the attachment of an air lock to the Voskhod, which Korolev explained in nautical terms: “Every sailor on the ocean liner must know how to swim. Likewise, a cosmonaut must know how to swim in open space.”20 Looking at the radically redesigned interior, Leonov recognized that Voskhod spacecraft would accommodate two or three cosmonauts in future missions. Other modifications had occurred in instrumentation and in the placement of control panels. It was a new spacecraft, configured for soft landings, but retaining much of the DNA of the old Vostok model.21

  The first launch of the new spacecraft came on October 12, 1964. Voskhod 1 lifted from its launch pad at Baikonur with a crew of three—command pilot Vladimir Komarov, an air force officer and member of the original corps of cosmonauts, accompanied by two non-flying specialists: Konstantin Feoktiskov, a scientist, and Boris Yegorov, a physician. To allow freedom of movement, the crew wore no space suits. The three seats in metal cradles were set perpendicular to the old Vostok ejection seat position, an awkward configuration since the crew could read the instrument panel only by craning their necks. Only one safety add-on adorned the new Voskhod design, a solid retro-rocket package placed on the nose of the spacecraft. The mission remained a high-risk endeavor. Any emergency at liftoff or an explosion on the pad would mean death for the crew.22

  Television cameras on board offered periodic coverage of the Voskhod 1 crew during their epic journey. They made a total of 16 orbits over 24 hours, 17 minutes in space. The Soviet feat of catapulting a three-man crew into Earth orbit made a singular impact on observers in the United States, where many attributed exaggerated prowess to the Soviet space program. The engineering details behind Voskhod 1 remained largely hidden. The Soviet space triumph, as subsequent events would reveal, was more apparent than real. For the moment, though, the impression that the Soviet Union enjoyed a wide lead over the United States in space technology remained fixed, even reinforced.

  One of the great ironies of the Voskhod 1 mission was Nikita Khrushchev’s removal from power even as the cosmonauts were aloft. The Soviet leader was toppled by a cabal led by Leonid Brezhnev and Aleksei Kosygin. Discontent with Khrushchev’s rule had festered for many years; the plotters viewed his erratic and adventuresome ways as dangerous. In the aftermath, Brezhnev assumed the post of First Secretary of the Communist Party. The removal of Khrushchev cast doubts on the future of the Soviet space program. But Brezhnev did not reverse the high-profile campaign to engage in space spectaculars to enhance the prestige of the Soviet Union. Nor did he abandon, in any formal way, the idea of competing with the United States to be the first to land on the moon.

  A WALK ON THE WILD SIDE

  On March 18, 1965, Voskhod 2 began one of the most remarkable space adventures of all time. This second Voskhod mission would be remembered for the first “walk in space.” That epic achievement, however, was just one episode in an extraordinary story of human courage and survival. The two-man crew of Voskhod 2 consisted of Pavel Belyayev, the command pilot, and Alexei Leonov, the cosmonaut chosen by Korolev for the first “swim” in outer space. Both men were experienced air force pilots and highly regarded for their boldness, flying experience, and technical skill. Their exploits that March qualified them for inclusion in any Russian version of The Right Stuff.

  Just before his fall from power, Khrushchev had approved the idea of a space walk, seeing it as a stunning way to overshadow the Americans’ newly inaugurated Gemini program. For Korolev, the high-risk Voskhod 2 mission involved more than just a propaganda stunt. Any future program of space exploration, he felt, would require the perfection of techniques for extravehicular activity (EVA). To achieve this end, Soviet engineers fitted Voskhod 2 with a special airlock to stage a space walk. This cylindrical-shaped appendage could be extended and then retracted with the use of inflatable booms. The device offered a cosmonaut a secure corridor to reach safely the void of outer space.

  Belyayev and Leonov were close friends who had undergone a rigorous training regimen in preparation for their mission. This training program, carefully monitored by Korolev, called for the simulation of every phase of a space walk. The actual walk would last close to 15 minutes, but the techniques for moving a cosmonaut in and out of the capsule proved to be daunting. The airlock, though experimental and untested, appeared to be a workable, even clever, design. For both cosmonauts to acquire the sensation of weightlessness, they had been flown on a modified Tu-104 jet transport in a series of parabolic arcs. There were still many unknowns, since a space walk had never been tried, prompting controllers at Baikonur to speculate about a number of emergencies: If, for example, Leonov lost consciousness in space, how would Belyayev rescue him?23

  Just three weeks before the launch of Voskhod 2, an unmanned prototype was shot aloft from Baikonur, only to explode when the spacecraft’s onboard self-destruct system was triggered accidentally. This reversal placed considerable strain on Korolev and his team; they were now down to one Voskhod spacecraft. A replacement vehicle for testing would not be available for a year. Korolev was inclined not to wait. Asking his cosmonauts for their opinion, he reminded them of the inherent risks in the launch of the one remaining Voskhod: “It is up to you,” he warned. “I cannot tell you what you should do. There is no textbook answer. Nothing can prepare you exactly for what you will experience on your mission.” Korolev then appealed to their competitive instincts, reminding them that the American astronaut Edward H. White was scheduled for a Gemini space walk in May. According to Leonov, this factor swung the scales: “That night in late February 1965,” he recalled, “we were full of self-confidence. We felt we were invincible. Despite the risks, we said, we were ready to fly.”24

  On the morning of March 18, Belyayev and Leonov rode the Voskhod 2 into orbit without difficulty. The mission was planned for one day, so the crew moved quickly to prepare for a space walk on the second orbit. At this juncture, Voskhod 2 was traveling at nearly 18,000 miles per hour in an orbit of 103 miles at its perigee and 295 miles at its apogee. Mission control followed the preparations for the EVA with intense interest, finally giving the go-ahead. Belyayev then began pumping air into the rubber tubes of the inflatable air lock; nearby in the cramped interior of the capsule Leonov strapped himself into his bulky spacesuit. He would have 90 minutes of oxygen for the space walk. Entering the fully extended air lock, he then waited until the pressure in the chamber equaled the zero pressure of outer space. The hatch was then opened.

  Leonov moved slowly to extricate himself from the narrow chamber of the air lock. “What I saw as the hatch opened took my breath,” he recalled. “Night was turning to day. The small portion of the Earth’s surface I could see as I leaned back was deep blue. The sky beyond the curving horizon was dark, illuminated with bright stars as I looked due south toward the South Pole.” Leonov then edged cautiously outside the air lock, holding onto a special rail, a move that took just a few seconds. Looking around from this unique vista, he realized he was then flying over the Mediterranean. On the horizon he could see the entire Black Sea and to one side, Greece and Turkey. In the far distance, he could see faintly the Caucasus Mountains and the Volga River. To the north, even the Balt
ic Sea was in view. Leonov remembered clearly the next moment: “With a small kick, as if pushing away from the side of a swimming pool, I stepped away from the rim of the airlock. I was walking in space. The first man ever to do so.”25 Televised images of this dramatic moment were viewed by millions in the Soviet Union.

  This sojourn in the void of outer space was, by design, short-lived. Almost immediately Leonov realized that his walk would not be without complications and dangers. He first noticed a sharp increase in the temperature of his space suit. This discomfort was accompanied by an inability to manipulate his hands effectively to take photographs with his handheld camera. As he began to move back toward the airlock for his reentry into the capsule, he noticed that his spacesuit had become deformed. To add to the problem, he realized that his feet had pulled away from his boots and his fingers from the attached gloves. Leonov now realized his peril—he could not return feet first into the airlock as scripted.26

  Acting alone and in extreme danger, Leonov moved instinctively to save himself. He decided to turn over and enter the airlock headfirst. In an improvised emergency maneuver he moved carefully, twisting and turning until he gained access. Only with great effort did he wriggle into a position where the outer hatch could be closed again. To achieve reentry into the capsule, he faced yet another challenge: what to do with his inflated and misshapen space suit? Again, Leonov performed a dangerous maneuver. He chose slowly to bleed off some of the oxygen from his pressurized suit, made possible by a valve in the suit’s lining. This was the only way to reduce the pressure in his space suit. It took great physical effort to perform these movements. Leonov later explained his heroic struggle: “At first I thought of reporting what I planned to do to Mission Control, but I decided against it. I did not want to create nervousness on the ground. And anyway, I was the only one who could bring the situation under control.” Facing extreme peril, Leonov remained cool, devised his own path to safety, and narrowly escaped death.27