Supersonic Thunder: A Novel of the Jet Age (Novels of the Jet Age)

by Walter J. Boyne

  Harry Shannon stayed in the background, not wishing to attract attention to himself. He had only the most peripheral contact with the project, running a comparative analysis on available jet engines for Ben Rich, another of Lockheed’s genius engineers and Kelly’s heir apparent. Nonetheless, Harry felt awkward because his father was still involved with Bill Lear in his long-delayed attempt to build an executive jet. Harry knew that there was no real conflict of interest—his work on engines was not transferable because the Learjet, as Vance Shannon was already calling it, was a much smaller airplane, built to less demanding standards. Still, someone with an ax to grind could claim at least an appearance of conflict of interest, and Harry would have to defend himself. He preferred to avoid it altogether.

  The JetStar had come about as a result of an Air Force competition for a UCX—utility transport, experimental. There had been hints that there was interest in buying up to three hundred of these utility transports for transporting high-ranking officers, congressmen, and even the President. There was also a competition for a UTX—utility trainer, experimental. This was a substantially smaller airplane, and if Lockheed had been competing for it, Harry would have recused himself. It was smaller than the JetStar and closer in size, range, and performance to the projected Learjet. The Air Force did not really intend to use the UTX as a trainer in the conventional sense. Rather, it was to be used as an executive transport for rank-and-file officers who needed flying time in a modern jet to remain current but were not assigned to any operational organization.

  The JetStar was radical in appearance, for Kelly had mounted the engines aft on the fuselage, as the French had done with their Caravelle transport—and, as Shannon knew, had been planned for the Learjet. The JetStar’s unencumbered wing was very efficient. Mounting the engines in the rear also made the cabin much quieter and reduced the danger of damage from foreign objects. Shannon had heard through the grapevine that the McDonnell competition looked like a scaled-down DC-8 and its low-slung, podded engines would be a magnet for foreign objects. No wonder Kelly was happy! It was just like the old saying: it is not enough to be a success; your best friend must also be a failure. McDonnell was hardly Lockheed’s best friend, but its failure would serve.

  Harry looked up and saw Johnson striding over to him, parting the crowd like a surfer riding a wave. When Johnson arrived, he slapped his arm around Harry’s back and yelled, “Hello there, Harry! Good to see you! Tell me again why you are here instead of your dad?”

  “He’s all wrapped up in the turboprop transport project, Mr. Johnson, you know; I think they are calling it the Electra II.”

  Johnson nodded vigorously, a wry, almost contemptuous look crossing his face. “Yeah, the C-130 derivative. I think it’s a bad idea. It’s hard to believe Americans will be willing to fly a turboprop when there will be jets available. We’d be better off stretching the JetStar here, and making a bigger aircraft from it.”

  “Well, the turboprops are hard to beat on seat-mile costs. That’s probably what’s driving the thinking.”

  “Bullshit, Harry, and you know it. Your dad has been against the Electra II project since the start, but once the decision was made, he’s been a good soldier and not said anything about it.”

  A reporter rushed up to Johnson to ask some questions, but he waved him off to the Lockheed press officer. Johnson turned back to Harry and said, “Is your dad still fooling around with Bill Lear and his little executive jet?”

  “It’s sort of on hold right now. I think they are having some trouble getting investors.”

  “Yeah, it’s tough, but the JetStar will create some interest, and you know that North American has virtually made a little executive jet out of their F-86, don’t you? I think they’re calling it the Sabreliner—pretty catchy.”

  “I’ve heard about it—I haven’t seen any illustrations or anything. It should be easy for them to make the transition.”

  “Yeah, well, it’s going to be about one-half the gross weight of the JetStar here. I figure the Sabreliner will come in at around twenty-three thousand pounds. That’s still probably twice as big as Lear is planning, if he’s got any sense.”

  Harry didn’t know and said so.

  “Well, lookie here, Harry. I don’t much care for Lear, but I like your dad. He’s always been good to me and to Lockheed. You tell him to think about what North American did with the Sabre, and have him look around for some European fighter he can use as a starting point. They tend to make smaller airplanes than we do, and I think the Swiss are working on an indigenous fighter that might fill the bill. It would save your dad’s company a lot of money to do it that way.”

  Harry was struck by Johnson’s evident consideration and concern. Here he was, at the first flight of his own design, and he took time to come over and pass along something that might mean a lot to Vance Shannon.

  “Thanks, Kelly, I really appreciate it. I hope you’ll call on me if I can be of service.”

  “Count on it, Harry; count on it.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  October 4, 1957

  A desert base near Tyuratam in the

  Kazakh Republic, USSR

  Sergei Korolev moved about the “space room” like a man possessed, walking from one console to the next, constantly checking figures against the little black notebook that was his constant companion. Square-jawed and physically impressive, Korolev dominated his white smocked staff with the power of his personality. So strict that he demanded that even the mock-up of the Prostreisbiy Sputnik—simple satellite—be polished to perfection, he was also capable of the greatest kindness and understanding.

  It was Korolev’s style always to urge his people to work faster and better, using a combination of tyrannical threats and softhearted concessions to make his case. A brilliant engineer, he pleased his staff most with his simple, elegant designs. This space-bound Sputnik was a thing of beauty, with its four antennae dancing back like the legs of a racehorse in full flight. Designed and built in less than thirty days, the eighty-four-kilogram silver sphere was equipped only with two radio transmitters. They would enable ground stations all around the world—and particularly in the United States—to chart the course of its epic flight and, with it, the progress of Soviet science.

  Korolev’s inspirational leadership enabled his small team of scientists to bridge the enormous gap between nuclear ICBMs and experiments in space. He had in fact created the world’s first intercontinental ballistic missile as a means to facilitate his real interest—space travel. An astute politician, Korolev had that most valuable of gifts, the ability to manipulate those above him to do what he wanted to be done, often against clear party guidelines. His scientists and technicians knew this, watched him with admiration, and were devoted to him, despite their primitive living conditions and the ever-present threat of condemnation for failure. They were as dedicated to his dream as Korolev himself.

  As chief designer, he was responsible for every element of this experiment, from the living conditions of his people to the mammoth R-7 rocket—Korolev called it Semyorka, Little Old Seven—that he had built to place the silver sphere in space that day. To pave the way for this first orbital venture, Korolev had on August 21 sent the sixth R-7 on a successful six-thousand-kilometer flight to the target in Kamchatka. The R-7 carried a dummy nuclear warhead designed by Andrei Sakharov. With this incredible triumph—the world’s first successful intercontinental ballistic missile—in hand, Korolev then pressed with all the political subtlety he commanded for using the R-7 to launch a satellite. He arranged for his superiors to ask the Presidium of the Central Committee of the Communist Party if the USSR should try to be the first country in the world to launch a satellite into space. There was no way to say no, and approval came forthwith.

  Now the gigantic R-7 rocket stood on the launching pad like an enormous question mark, symbolizing the high risk it involved. Korolev had long since broken free from German V-2 technology, and his rocket looked like no other. It u
sed parallel staging and was composed of a cluster of five identical rockets that ignited simultaneously at liftoff. One hundred and eleven feet long, the five-unit rocket packet weighed 274 metric tons. Four strap-on boosters were attached to a core stage, and the fuel tanks for all stages also served as structural elements. The R-7 took more than twenty hours’ preparation before a launch, its volatile cryogenic fuels a hazard during the entire process. Of its six previous flight attempts, only the last had succeeded. All the rest had ended in roaring explosions from one malfunction or another, bringing forth a personal promise from Premier Nikita Khrushchev to shut down the program if there was another failure.

  Today’s flight was more hazardous than the previous six, for the R-7’s usual warhead was simple compared to the satellite, which required precise thermal control and reliable vacuum sealing of components. So many things could go wrong, and any one of them would mean the end of the careers of all who worked on it. Five years ago, in Stalin’s day, it would have meant their lives.

  Korolev and his men held their breath as the clock ticked steadily down to zero and the five rockets ignited simultaneously in a hellish blast that turned night into day. After an agonizing wait, those interminable few seconds while the rocket seemed to balance delicately between lifting off and blowing up, they saw almost four thousand kilonewtons of thrust blast the R-7 skyward. Its roar shook the staff like white reeds before rumbling out across the surrounding desert in thundering concentric waves, blowing dust, bending trees, and sending animals scurrying to their lairs.

  As they watched the R-7 accelerate swiftly out of sight, the spontaneous cheers died off slowly, to be replaced by a mortuary silence. One hundred and twenty seconds later there was a little rustle of approving excitement—they knew that if all was well, the boosters were jettisoned. Two hundred seconds more, and another little murmur filled the room with the knowledge that—perhaps—the core engine had now exhausted its fuel. They could only hope that it reached the design speed of 8,000 meters per second so that the satellite could be placed in orbit some 250 kilometers above Earth.

  To the right of the launch control panel, the scientists crowding the small radio room melted away as Korolev walked through their ranks, his face drawn. The hushed room, stifling with the rank odors of unwashed bodies, ill-digested cabbage, and the blue-black smoke of cheap cigarettes, now resonated to heavy breathing and the slight static from the receivers. Stress built up as each man considered what he might have done—or left undone—that could cause a failure. Suddenly there was a very quiet sound, a faint beep-beep, a mere alteration in the static. No one spoke until the sound was repeated, stronger this time, and the room erupted in a shouting screaming mass of almost hysterical delight. Sputnik was in orbit!

  They seized Korolev and raised him to their shoulders. Smiling, he acknowledged their cheers for a brief moment, then motioned for silence, saying, “Our satellite is in Earth orbit. I have been waiting all my life for this day.” It was typical of Korolev to say “our satellite” rather than “my satellite.” Silver foil tops were torn off vodka bottles as the normally austere scientists, even the most bitter career rivals among them, embraced and kissed in the sweet joy of their triumph of science over the bureaucracy.

  Korolev forced his way down and out of the room, hurrying to his private office to make two telephone calls. The first was to the State Commission for the R-7 ICBM. As he expected at this early hour, there was only a duty officer on hand. He took Korolev’s message that “the USSR has placed the world’s first artificial satellite in orbit” with gruff, uncomprehending condescension.

  His second call was to his former prison-mate Andrei Tupolev, who was waiting for his call. There was a long delay before Tupolev’s voice crackled through the phone. The connection, like those of most Soviet long-distance calls, was terrible.

  “Andrei Nikolaevich, my friend, my mentor. I wanted to tell you personally. Today we have placed an artificial satellite into orbit.”

  “Congratulations, Sergei Pavlovich! You have sent the world a message about Soviet science! And what an immense amount of work you have put into this triumph.”

  Korolev filled him in quickly on the size of the Sputnik, its orbit, its equipment. Even as the heartfelt congratulations tumbled from his mouth, Tupolev remembered their gulag days together, condemned as spies and traitors by Stalin. All aeronautical engineers were suspect during the mid-1930s, and a system of sharashkas—prison design bureaus—was set up to exploit the jailed talent.

  “This would never have happened if you had not saved my life.”

  Tupolev certainly had done just that when he requested Korolev to serve with him in the TsKB-39 sharashka in Moscow.

  “Nonsense. You would have survived; we are both survivors; we will prevail. It is our stubborn Russian nature.”

  Stalin’s death in March 1953 gave them a new lease on life and now they were relatively secure in their positions. Strangely, like most sharaska survivors, the two men were not bitter. Just being alive was an incredible stroke of luck—being alive and able to work at their professions was a miracle.

  “Andrei Nikolaevich, I will have a flood of newsmen here tomorrow. May I ask them to have their colleagues call on you for comment?”

  “Of course you may, but why? I had no part at all in this grand experiment.”

  “I want them to ask you what effect this will have on aviation.”

  “Let me think about it until tomorrow, and I’ll have a fine story for them.”

  “May I suggest something, to start your giant brain turning?”

  “My giant brain is already working, but you go ahead.”

  “Tell them that someday, not too far in the future, satellites far bigger than this first one will be used for communications, for meteorology, for navigation.”

  “And how about for intelligence work? Shall I tell them that?”

  Laughing, Korolev joked back, “Yes, tell them that there will be no more U-2s in the future, that Soviet satellites will cover the world with an all-seeing eye.”

  Tupolev laughed and said, “I think I’ll stick with communications, meteorology, and navigation. Then the KGB won’t come after me for mentioning the U-2.”

  They talked briefly, asking about each other’s families, then made their good-byes, Tupolev closing with, “Take care of yourself, Sergei Pavlovich; you know that it is always the tallest nail that gets hammered. I worry about your health.”

  Before going back to the festivities, Korolev went outside to gaze upward where his precious satellite was hurtling around the Earth. He considered Tupolev’s warning carefully. Korolev’s health was precarious, but glancing upward to the moon, he knew that there was so much more to be done and little time in which to do it. He also knew how much he owed his staff, particularly Mikhail Tikhonravov, who had pushed the artificial Earth satellite concept from the beginning. It had taken years, but when Korolev finally became intoxicated by Tikhonravov’s idea, he managed to keep his enthusiasm hidden behind his work on the R-7 missile. Either the satellite or the missile could shape the destiny of the world—and Korolev hoped it would be the satellite.

  CHAPTER SIX

  October 4, 1957

  Redstone Arsenal, Huntsville, Alabama

  October was a blessed time in Huntsville, with the temperature dropping twenty degrees from the scorching high nineties of the summer and the humidity declining from a steaming hot-towel embrace to a healthy 40 percent. The weather more than anything else had shocked the German scientists brought over by Operation Paperclip, that great capture of German scientific talent at the end of World War II. The enervating humid heat of summer was unlike anything they had ever experienced, even the very few who had served in the North African campaigns. It overshadowed the other discomforts such as the strange food, the sense of alienation from German culture, and the longing for family. But all of these things were minor. No one was bombing them now, they were safely out of Germany, and if they had a Nazi past,
it was ignored, if not forgotten. And just not to be working for the Russians was an inconceivable blessing. Best of all, the opportunities at Huntsville to go into space exceeded by a thousand fold those they had left behind in the ruins of Peenemünde.

  No one was more aware of this than Wernher von Braun as he dressed to attend a reception at Redstone Arsenal. There Major General John Medaris, commandant of the Army Ballistic Missile Agency, was hosting Neil McElroy, who in a few days would be succeeding the current Secretary of Defense, the cantankerous “Engine Charlie” Wilson. In American parlance, the red carpet was rolled out.

  The phone rang in von Braun’s bedroom, and as he reached for it he marveled at another of the seemingly endless series of luxurious American conveniences—a bath every day with plenty of soap, wonderful cars, freezers, television, and, just imagine, two telephones in the house.

  “Von Braun here.” He had not yet adopted the simple American “hello.”

  “Dr. von Braun, this is Lieutenant Allen, duty officer at Redstone. We tried to reach General Medaris, but he must be en route to the reception. We thought you would like to know that the Soviet Union has launched an artificial satellite. It is in orbit around the Earth, and apparently sending radio signals, although we have not picked them up as yet.”

  Von Braun sat down on the bed, speechless.

  “Dr. von Braun? Are you there?”

  “Yes, sorry, I was stunned. Do you have any more details?”

  “No, sir, but I’ll feed them to you as soon as they come in.”