Sitting around the makeshift campground in a clearing, we watched as the team leader reached into a box, pulled out a jackrabbit, and quickly dispatched it with a whack on the back of the head. Then he proceeded to skin it, pausing now and then to describe the nutritional benefits of a certain organ. That was bad enough. But he asked for a volunteer to eat the rabbit’s eyeball, explaining it was a good source of salt and protein that could help keep you alive if your vehicle went down. Somebody cracked a joke about there probably not being many rabbits in space as Clayton Anderson, a fellow Penguin who was also eager to impress his fellow AsCans, reached for the slimy ball and popped it in his mouth.
Star City
As my first year of astronaut training was winding down, NASA leadership began talking about what branch the astronaut candidates would be assigned to and where they would specialize. Each candidate is asked to write down the top three choices of jobs they’d like to have. It was common knowledge that some of us would be needed in Russia, where the three-person crew of Expedition 1 was deep in training to become the first long-duration occupants of the brand new International Space Station. The crew would fly on a Russian Soyuz rocket. Liftoff had been scheduled for October 31, 2000, at the Baikonur Cosmodrome in Kazakhstan, which is 1,600 miles southeast of Moscow. The Cosmodrome was the same site from which Yuri Gagarin in 1961 became the first human to fly in space. However, before the Expedition 1 launch could take place, a million things needed to happen and most of them in Moscow.
The Expedition 1 crew consisted of two Russian cosmonauts, Yuri Gidzenko, a lieutenant colonel in the Russian Air Force, and flight engineer Sergei Krikalev. The sole American crewmember, Bill Shepherd, would be the commander of the International Space Station and only the second American launched in a Soyuz capsule, following on the heels of Norm Thagard, who in 1995 became the first American to live and work aboard Russia’s Mir space station.
Today’s cooperation in space exploration between Russia and the United States is a far cry from the days of the Cold War. Back in the mid-1950s and early 1960s, the two nations were rival world powers. Each nation sought to prove its superiority, from athletic competition and educational standards to military strength and new technology. Space exploration was part of the mix.
On October 4, 1957, the Soviet Union launched Sputnik, man’s first satellite, into space. The launch marked the start of the space race as America scrambled to stay competitive in what many saw as a new front of the Cold War. In 1958, the U.S. launched its Explorer 1 satellite, and President Dwight Eisenhower signed an executive order creating the National Aeronautics and Space Administration.
The space race heated up in 1959 when the Soviets successfully launched the Luna 2 probe to the moon. Two years later, Soviet cosmonaut Yuri Gagarin became the first person to orbit the Earth. Alan B. Shepard Jr. became the first American in space but not in orbit. John Glenn would get that distinction in 1962. Still, the progress with Shepard and the new space agency prompted President Kennedy to boldly claim that America would put a man on the moon within a decade. When that finally happened in 1969, the U.S. claimed victory. In 1975, a joint Apollo-Soyuz mission sent three U.S. astronauts into space to dock with the Soviet-made Soyuz craft. When the two commanders greeted each other high above the Earth, their “handshake in space” symbolized the end of the space race era.
As one of the few unmarried astronaut candidates in the Penguin class, I knew my NASA bosses would see me as a prime candidate for working with the International Space Station branch in Russia. But it was not without risk. Spending a year abroad in the role of crew support, rather than working at Johnson Space Center under the nose of the top brass, could delay my chances at going to space.
As my first choice of branches, I requested extravehicular activity, which I figured would give me a jump on spacewalk training and, with some luck, hasten my assignment to a space shuttle mission. It was the most sought after assignment, one that rarely went to a rookie. I wrote down the International Space Station branch as my second choice, knowing I was probably on the short list for the space station anyway. The robotics branch came in third. I wasn’t surprised when I got a call from Stephen Oswald, in the Astronaut Office at Johnson, telling me I’d been assigned to go to Moscow to be what they liked to call a “Russian Crusader.” From the moment I landed in Moscow on a warm summer day in 1999, I felt as though I was embarking on an adventure.
Moscow itself is a beautiful, vibrant, but complex city. It reminded me a little bit of Chicago, a metropolitan area with a little bit of everything—from downtown tourist attractions and trendy neighborhood hotspots to rundown areas plagued by crime and poverty.
Every time I visited Red Square, I’d think of the film The Saint. The famed city square that separates the Kremlin, the old royal citadel, and the official residence of the Russian president is immaculate and typically filled with Russians and tourists. The mosaic tiles in the city’s subway system are intricate and tell the history of the country. There’s plenty of propaganda in the stories left over from the old Soviet era, but the tile artwork lining the subway system is breathtaking.
It didn’t take long though to realize that I wasn’t in America. People on the street don’t immediately warm up to strangers. They are suspicious, which can be hard for many outgoing American travelers. I got a lot of stares while walking the streets. Sometimes, curious children would come up to me and say hello, and it wouldn’t be long before their parents would pull them away from me. I attributed a lot of that to being an African American in a largely white city. Moscow is one of the world’s most ethnically diverse communities. Yet black skin remains rare.
Once I settled into a neat apartment at the Volga Hotel, I began to think about my training. A van took me from the hotel to Energia, the Russian government contractor working on the space station and the Soyuz rocket. I was assigned to work with Russian interpreters in translating the procedures for the Soyuz and the space station. These interpreters were competent and highly trained, and some of them had considerable technical backgrounds. But that wasn’t enough. These Space Operation Data Files (SODF), as they were called, contained the procedures that astronauts on the space station would follow. My job, and that of my fellow crusaders in Moscow, was to verify those translated instructions and to make sure they worked by testing them in a computer simulation and in a simulated space capsule. The Russian space agency knew the instructions to be accurate and effective in Russian. Yet, even a subtle mistake in translation could be disastrous, or in one particular case, humorous. I received a rather profane Russian-to-English translation to describe the use of a torque wrench to determine how much force was needed to attach a bolt. The translated procedure read “F—k the bolt to the hardstop.” It should have read “Screw the bolt to the hardstop.” I sheepishly approached the translator with the correct word. It was one of the funnier moments over there.
However, the assignment at Energia didn’t last long. About a month after I arrived, I got a call from Houston. It was Anna Fisher, chief of the space station branch. Fisher had been an emergency room physician in Los Angeles before joining the Astronaut Corps and logging 192 hours in space. “Leland,” she said, “we need you to go to Star City and help take care of Shep. He’s going to be the first commander of the International Space Station . . . but there are some problems.”
Shepherd had spent almost two years living and training at Star City, the compound fifteen miles outside Moscow that has served as Russia’s cosmonaut training facility since the 1960s. Nestled deep in a birch forest, the official name of the compound called Star City is the Gagarin Cosmonaut Training Center, named for the U.S.S.R.’s Cold War hero. During the Soviet era, it had been a secret, heavily guarded military installation and it still felt a lot like one when I arrived.
Shep’s bulldozer ways hadn’t been winning him any friends at Star City, among either the Americans stationed there or the Russians, and NASA desperately needed someone to serve as a buf
fer. Shep could be controlling and sometimes stubborn and the top brass at Johnson Space Center was frustrated with his need to be involved in even the smallest details of the upcoming launch. Ginger Kerrick, a NASA instructor, was having some success trying to contain him, but Shep needed someone specifically assigned to getting him through this final stretch.
Inside NASA, if you knew only one thing about Bill Shepherd it was probably this: During his interview for the Astronaut Corps in 1984, the former Navy SEAL was asked what special skills he had. He reportedly responded, “I know how to kill somebody with a knife.” That reply soon became part of NASA folklore and Shepherd himself became something of a legend. Even today, if a Navy SEAL makes it to interview level, someone will invariably ask with a smirk, “Can you kill with a knife too?”
I packed up what little I’d brought with me to Moscow and moved in with Shep in Cottage Number 3 at Star City. The assignment would last fifteen months and I flew back and forth from Moscow to Houston supporting Shep in both locations as needed, until a Soyuz rocket safely transported Shep, Gidzenko, and Krikalev to the space station.
I became Bill Shepherd’s body man. Our cottage was one in a cluster of two-story duplexes for Americans, each with three bedrooms upstairs and a living area on the first floor. The house also had a basement with a weight room, as crude as it was, and an area set up for video conferencing with the folks back at Johnson Space Center. We also had our own private built-in bar—Shep’s Bar, we called it, installed specifically for him. I soon learned the merits of having a bar in your basement.
My job was to accompany Shep on his training exercises, to the massive hangars that contained the Soyuz simulators, and wherever else he wanted to go—anywhere. That sometimes included brisk, cold walks to a lake on the grounds of Star City where Shep would share what he knew about drawing and painting while I taught him the principles of photography. I had loved photography since middle school and took my camera along with me everywhere, a hobby that would serve me well when I flew to space. During that time I got to know Shep and that his concerns were really aimed at ensuring the crew would operate safely. As a Navy SEAL he was trained to work as a self-contained operator and his actions and preparedness would determine the outcome, life or death. So I started to understand why he wanted to know all the details, because he was ultimately in charge of this new multibillion-dollar outpost as the commander.
My obsession with photography that year, coupled with my need to get away from Star City every now and then, took me all over Moscow. I felt relatively safe, despite getting stares wherever I went. The Soviet era had ended eight years before and the city of Moscow was quickly becoming a tourist destination for western Europeans and Americans. Yet I almost never saw another black person. Every now and then I would meet a college student from the African country of Cameroon, which had an exchange program with Moscow universities dating back a few years, but that wasn’t often.
I wasn’t unaware of the city’s potential dangers. Russian police can confiscate your passport, then leave you in a place where their buddies could rob you. Gypsy taxi drivers can drive you off somewhere, rob, and kill you. The year before I arrived, a gang of skinheads had beaten up a black Marine, knocking out two of his teeth. We had been warned to take caution, but I liked walking around by myself, trying to absorb the language and culture.
One Saturday afternoon, I set out for the outdoor market in Filevsky Park, one of the city’s greenways along the Moscow River. After I passed through a security gate, I headed for the back of the market where it was quieter, when I noticed about a dozen skinheads staring me down. The situation grew increasingly threatening, and soon they made it clear they had plans for me. I needed to get out of there. I knew NASA would not be happy if I showed up in a Moscow hospital. I turned and ran for the exit, which seemed to be just the incentive they needed. They were in full pursuit. My speed kicked in and my hamstring didn’t fail me. I finally shook them. Cowboys quarterback Danny White would have been proud.
We had been trained to avoid fixating on problems, to compartmentalize dangers, and make sure that we didn’t repeat a mistake again. The important thing was moving on to the next thing, and that’s what I did. I was determined not to let anyone else—including a gang of crazed skinheads—influence my thoughts and actions to the point where I could not do what I needed to do.
Star City had no real nightlife, and that usually wasn’t a problem. On this one particular night, however, we decided to break the monotony by throwing a party in our private bar. That was our first mistake.
Shep, Ken Bowersox, who was crew backup for Shepherd, and Bob Cabana, manager of international operations from the Johnson Space Center, were there, along with Ginger Kerrick and me. To get the party going, we started playing a military drinking game called Liar’s Dice. A handful of astronauts blowing off steam in the basement of a high-security compound miles from the city. What kind of trouble could we get into? The evening would have been fine enough with the camaraderie and the drinking game, but after a few rounds Bob and “Sox” decided to call our boss in Houston, George Abbey, the head of Johnson Space Center.
I remember Bob reaching Abbey and saying a few words. He then handed the phone to me. I sobered up enough to get out a few words about what an honor it was to be of service in Moscow, followed by a quick “Goodbye, sir.”
To an astronaut candidate in the space program, George Abbey was the single most powerful—and feared—person at NASA. He had the final say in making mission assignments, and unlike Cabana, who had already flown on four shuttle missions, I hadn’t been assigned to my first mission.
The hijinks, however, didn’t stop there. Abbey, still on the line, asked Cabana to hold and transferred our call to Dan Goldin at NASA headquarters in Washington, DC. Goldin was no ordinary manager. He was NASA administrator; he was in charge of America’s entire space program. Once Bob realized who was on the other end of the line, he sobered up, fast.
What happened next depends on who’s telling the tale. Bob remembers both Abbey and Goldin taking the call well. Abbey thought we were bonding, a good sign. Goldin, he said, “loved it.” Ginger Kerrick, the only one of our group who did not partake in the drinking game, may have had the more accurate assessment. “As for Goldin, oh heck no, he was not happy,” she said. “While Abbey [initially] did take it well, when he transferred the call to Goldin he was upset. That’s the whole reason I unplugged the phone.”
The day of the Expedition 1 launch was fast approaching. Shep, Yuri Sergi, Ginger, and I flew out of Star City in a plane that carried Russian troops to Kazakhstan a few days before the launch. When we landed in Baikonur, Kazakhstan, I saw a few things that I didn’t expect. Let’s start with the camels, a major form of transportation. The people appeared to be out of place, too. Many looked like Asians, which seems odd when you think of Russians. Of course, it’s easy to forget Kazakhstan borders Russia and China.
Baikonur sits on the Syr Darya River. The land is barren, dry, dusty, and cold. The town itself was originally built to service the Baikonur Cosmodrome, where Yuri Gagarin made history as the first man in space. The launch site occupies a vast dry plain in the middle of nowhere. The town probably hasn’t changed much since Gagarin’s flight. Our quarters had a drab, muted yellow institutional look from a bygone era, but we made do.
As the crew milled about, Ginger and I set out to explore the town. I loved to cook, and I had heard you could buy saffron at a cheap price in this part of the world. I wanted to make a paella, with sausage, rice, chicken, peppers, onions, and deep golden saffron. The markets were full of people bartering their wares of beef, cloth, rice, and saffron. There’s not much to do in Baikonur. No one was in a hurry, as compared with people living in Houston, New York, and other big American cities. I bought a pound of the spice for twenty-five rubles, about one dollar. Back home, you’d pay a king’s ransom for one-tenth of that amount.
The town had another surprise. We passed by an open area t
hat contained an old buran—a Russian version of the space shuttle. The relic sat outside, having weathered many years since the Russians tried to copy our space shuttle program. This buran flew once, but the Russians decided to forgo further development when the American and Russian space programs opted to build the International Space Station. The vehicle was big and angular like much of the Russian architecture. You wondered how something so big could even fly.
While driving to the Soyuz launch area, we passed a park where kids were swinging, and as soon as they saw the bus, they lined up military-style, looking in awe and wondering what Russian military generals were leading this crew. Historically Russian commanders headed the Mir space station, but not this time. The kids didn’t know they had saluted the first American commander of the International Space Station, flanked by his two Russian engineers.
I could only imagine the excitement building up inside Shep. He had flown in space three times before, all on shuttle missions that lasted about a week. This one would be very different. He and his crew would travel in a Russian-built Soyuz TM-31 spacecraft to the space station, making him the first American to undertake a long-duration flight. It would be the start of uninterrupted human presence in space.
The Russians forgo the frills typically associated with a NASA launch, but that didn’t dissuade Shep. He was in good form and eager to get on with what he had been preparing for the past three years: a nearly four-and-a-half-month stay on the International Space Station as commander of the outpost’s first crew.
Chasing Space Page 10