Space Race

by Deborah Cadbury

  When Korolev was back with Nina in Moscow, he continued with his ritualistic scanning of information from the West on the American space programme. The Americans, it seemed, were as open about their space projects as the Soviets were secretive and von Braun had become the natural figurehead. Over the years, he had become familiar to Korolev, almost like an acquaintance, but there was no chance of any exchange of views between them, working as they did on opposite sides of the Cold War divide. Von Braun was often in the limelight and was able to speak his mind. Necessity had made Korolev the invisible man. They would never once meet nor speak to discuss the subject that consumed them both. Von Braun would never know the sense of urgency that ruled Korolev’s life.

  In late July 1955, Korolev learned of Eisenhower’s announcement that the US would be launching a satellite, which would orbit the earth during the International Geophysical Year. It was as he had feared: America was in the lead. Eisenhower’s ‘moon’ would shine on the Soviet Union. Now that Stalin and Beria were dead, Korolev could not resist stating his beliefs more openly, warning that an American satellite would soon be trespassing above Soviet soil.

  By August 1955, the Committee on Special Capabilities in America was ready to vote on which of the armed services would win the opportunity to put the first US satellite into space during the coming International Geophysical Year. Publicly the emphasis worldwide was on peaceful scientific study; more than seventy countries were involved. A US satellite in orbit furnished with scientific instruments for measuring radiation in the upper atmosphere could both contribute to scientific study and underline American prestige. The upper echelons of power in the US navy and air force were concerned at the dominant role the US army was seeking to take in space. Records show that some of the members of the committee expressed concerns about launching the first American satellite made by German engineers – with a modified Nazi vengeance missile at that. Consequently, the navy, under Milton Rosen, with its Vanguard rocket was selected instead.

  Von Braun managed a face-saving smile when he informed his team of the committee’s decision. ‘They stopped us in our tracks with the satellite,’ he said. Behind the scenes he pleaded with the committee, warning that the Soviets would be bound to get into space first if they went ahead with the Vanguard proposal. ‘They did not realise the tremendous risks they were taking,’ he said later. ‘The Vanguard project had to start virtually from scratch … Any such thing as developing a three-stage missile with three brand new and unproven stages on a time schedule of two years was absolutely unheard of.’ He begged that he should be allowed to continue his work as a backup. This only served to arouse the suspicions of the officials in the Department of Defense. One of them became so convinced that von Braun secretly planned to launch a satellite ahead of the navy that he invited him to his office. ‘Let me make it very clear, Dr von Braun,’ he warned. ‘You have absolutely no authority to do any work on the satellite!’

  Despite the setback, the team at Huntsville was given a consolation prize: designing a larger rocket known as the Jupiter. It would have a much greater range than the V-2 or the Redstone – 1500 miles and travel at speeds of 16,000 mph. Soon they were also at work modifying the Redstone to create the Jupiter C, which was designed to solve the military’s problem of delivering warheads to distant targets and reentering the earth’s atmosphere. On re-entry, the nose cone carrying the warhead at great speed met such friction that it would overheat and melt.

  Von Braun was aware that tests in this area could conveniently serve a dual purpose. A space ship would also need to re-enter the earth’s atmosphere, and information gleaned for the military programme could be useful if ever he got the go-ahead. His team had been exploring the problem of the nose cone overheating for several years. Countless materials had been subjected to the flame from rocket motors and they had found that the best solution was to use an ablative shield: multiple layers of a slow-burning ceramic-based material that melted equally as slowly as each other on re-entry, effectively insulating the nose cone and preventing it from burning up. The design of the nose cone was also critical. A blunt nose cone forms a layer of compressed air ahead of it, which also serves as insulation and, since it has higher drag, speed is reduced.

  The Redstone was used as the basis for the new Jupiter C. It had three stages; the first one used liquid oxygen and kerosene in powerful new engines. The two upper stages were boosted with fourteen small, solid-propellant rockets, and, topping it, the nose cone. As the team worked on refining the Jupiter C, it was becoming hard to hide a sense of excitement. Their brief had been centred on solving the problems of nose cone re-entry, but in the process they had also built a rocket capable of putting a satellite into orbit. If on the trial launch the nose cone were connected on top of an extra rocket stage and loaded with a small satellite, the Jupiter C could put the world’s first satellite in space. The thrilling possibility of taking the world by surprise had not gone unnoticed by von Braun.

  Quite apart from the US navy, von Braun now had a Soviet rival. On 30 January 1956, there was a dramatic U-turn for Korolev. Comments about Eisenhower’s ‘moon’ appeared to have worked like magic on the Soviet bureaucracy. Korolev and Tikhonravov’s campaign for a Soviet satellite now found a more receptive audience. Eventually, the Academy of Artillery Sciences was able to give its blessing to the project and, with this support, other senior figures were gradually won round. On 30 January 1956, at a session of the Presidium of the CPSU Central Committee, the Soviet leadership made its U-turn. An ambitious plan was approved to create a large satellite, weighing 2650 pounds – bearing the hopes of numerous experts involved in scientific research institutes and design bureaus. That same day, the CPSU Central Committee and the Soviet Council of Ministers issued a regulation, ‘On the Operations to Create an Artificial Earth Satellite’. The Soviet satellite was assigned the name ‘Object D’.

  To ensure that the decision was given priority, Korolev seized his opportunity to discuss the satellite with Nikita Khrushchev. The next month Krushchev came to OKB-1, surrounded by army chiefs, to see more of the Soviet ballistic missile programme at first hand. Korolev and the director of NII-88 showed him around the institute, saving the most exciting development until last: a full-scale replica of the R-7. Suddenly, Korolev was the impresario with all the wonders of space on display. Silence descended as the Soviet leaders tried to take in the overwhelming size of the rocket. Just as Korolev had hoped, this towering spectacle had a great impact. Khrushchev’s own memoirs – although describing another occasion – highlight how amazed he was by Korolev’s work:

  I don’t want to exaggerate, but I’d say we gawked at what he showed us as if we were a bunch of sheep seeing a new gate for the first time. When he showed us one of his rockets, we thought it looked like nothing but a huge cigar-shaped tube, and we didn’t believe it could fly. Korolev took us on a tour of the launching pad and tried to explain to us how the rocket worked. We were like peasants in a market place. We walked around and around the rocket, touching it, tapping it to see if it was sturdy enough.

  Korolev’s succinct presentation on the R-7 was followed by Glushko, who gave such a detailed, technical account of the engines that Korolev began to feel anxious the Soviet leadership might lose interest before he had had a chance to mention the satellite. He stepped in swiftly to wrap things up and move the party on. He assured them that the biggest wonder was yet to come. Waiting in a dark corner of the factory was a model of the satellite, which, after the grandiose possibilities of the rocket, looked singularly unimpressive. But it had unlimited potential, Korolev explained. Flying around the world nothing could escape its photographic eye. It was the perfect Soviet spy. America would hate it, especially if the Soviets beat them to it and launched first. Khrushchev, delighted by the idea of the perfect, silent Russian spy hated by the Americans, had only one question – would putting a satellite into space detract from the important work of missile development? Korolev assured him that it would
not, and Khrushchev, flexing his muscles of absolute power, declared: ‘If the main task does not suffer then do it.’

  At last, Korolev had the full approval he needed. No one would be likely to dispute Khrushchev’s decision. He was able to move his long-standing friend Mikhail Tikhonravov into his design bureau to help him. To beat the Americans into space before the International Geophysical Year, everything would now depend on the performance of his revolutionary new rocket, the R-7.

  CHAPTER TEN

  ‘Close to the greatest dream of mankind’

  By 20 September 1956, von Braun was ready for the first test launch of the Jupiter C. He and his team knew that if the final, or upper, stage could be live, it would be powerful enough to reach into orbit. Kurt Debus, who was in charge of launch procedure, later admitted that he ‘jokingly discussed several times … the prospect of surreptitiously or secretly arming the upper stages’. They could take the world by surprise and shoot the rocket straight into history as they launched the world’s first satellite.

  However, this possibility had not escaped officials at the Pentagon. Von Braun was summoned to Washington and duly informed that there were to be no ‘accidental’ satellites. The upper stage must be filled not with fuel – but with sand ballast. Pentagon inspectors attended the launch just to make sure.

  When the rocket was fired it did indeed set a new record, reaching a height of 682 miles and travelling 3335 miles with a speed of 1600 mph. It was a perfect launch and a great achievement. The team was jubilant. Von Braun was ready to approach the Pentagon again for permission to launch a satellite. ‘We flew higher, faster and farther than any rocket had flown,’ he claimed. ‘If we had just one more rocket on top we could have placed a satellite in orbit around the earth.’ Once again his request was met with a blank refusal.

  Von Braun’s team was still bathing in the glory of the launch and still hoping for eventual permission to launch the world’s first satellite, especially since the navy’s Vanguard was behind schedule, when an unforeseen problem arose which killed off all hope. The Secretary of Defense, Charles Wilson, restricted the army to developing weapons with a range of no more than two hundred miles. At a stroke, von Braun’s team was out of the running.

  Ironically, when Korolev studied the Western press he arrived at exactly the opposite conclusion, unaware that von Braun’s plans had been put into jeopardy. Korolev came across a news report on von Braun’s Jupiter C launch, saw the altitude record and was convinced that he had tried, but failed, to launch a satellite. He had no way of knowing that the upper stage had been deliberately filled with ballast. The only logical conclusion was that the Americans were very close to a successful satellite launch.

  No one was more aware of the need for speed than Korolev but he was still a long way from launching the R-7. The design was such a bold leap forward that there were many innovations that still needed to be tested. New materials were being developed to protect the nose cone on re-entry – based on carbon and silicon. Work was also in progress to create a guidance control system for longer-range flight. This was achieved by combining improved inertial guidance systems as used on the A-4, with a radio-controlled system to correct the trajectory, all of which guided the small vernier or steering engines. Arguably the greatest complications arose with Glushko’s ambitious, multichambered engines.

  Initial static tests on the efficiency of the engine showed it fell far short of requirements. Measurements revealed that the acceleration achieved in relation to the fuel consumed was low, which meant the rocket would not have enough energy to reach orbit. Further difficulties arose when these engines were clustered together. In a static test of the first stage, where all four main engines around the central core were fired together, a problem with the oxygen supply line created an explosion. Apart from the damage to the engines, even the test rig was put out of action. Test launches of the R-7 planned for early in 1957 were put back to March.

  As for ‘Object D’ – this, too, was causing major delays. Numerous scientific research institutes were taking part in the satellite experiment and nothing was running smoothly. They were all falling short of their specifications and asking for more time. ‘Object D’, it seemed, had an overload of scientific data to digest. Three-quarters of its weight was dedicated to equipment for analysing cosmic and ultraviolet rays, atmospheric density and the earth’s magnetic field, but it was hard to design the equipment to be light and compact enough to fit into the small space. None of the different faculties could synchronize their efforts. Korolev’s temper was rising as delays and excuses became the norm. Basic mistakes brought him to boiling point. He simply could not understand what he considered to be ‘sloppy workmanship’.

  During the cheerless autumn and winter months at the launch site in Kazakhstan, life was as dismal as extreme cold and long hours could make it. After each shift everyone would meet in the canteen. Korolev arranged for the limited diet to be enhanced by fresh fruit and vegetables to prevent scurvy but the excessive consumption of alcohol was a cause for concern. It was the only easy way to forget the atmosphere of tension, the heavy workload and comfortless conditions. Those desperate enough to forget the world for a few hours could resort to a flask of stolen industrial alcohol. Korolev was inclined to turn a blind eye to it as long as work did not suffer, but his punishment was severe for sloppy work or for anyone displaying a hangover. ‘We have no right to make mistakes and no one to turn to for help,’ he wrote to Nina, ‘yet I myself am expected to answer everything and help others all the time. My mood is good but I cannot hide the fact that it is very hard for me to take failures … I do believe in what we do and in our “lucky star”.’

  As time passed, Korolev was becoming increasingly concerned about the delays in the assembly of ‘Object D’. The factory at Podlipki outside Moscow offered continual excuses. Eventually Korolev lost patience and told them to send it as it was; it could be assembled at the launch site. The factory, glad to be rid of it, packed it up and sent it to the airport in a lorry. Boris Chertok recalls that the driver, with a hearty breakfast of industrial alcohol inside him, drove like a maniac, unaware of the delicacy of the precision instruments in the back, until he eventually crashed into a tree. This episode not only severely tested the shockproof quality of the instruments but also ‘the nerves and health’ of the Chief Designer.

  Korolev was furious. Anyone who had the remotest connection with ‘Object D’ felt the lash of his tongue. However, now that ‘Object D’ was at last under his control, Korolev could see it was never going to work; it was too big and complicated. The many agencies involved with its experimental flight were uncoordinated and unaware that time was running out. Then Tikhonravov came up with the brilliantly simple answer. Abandoning the idea of taking all the complex scientific research equipment, he proposed that they build a much smaller, lighter satellite – just a simple silver sphere containing a radio transmitter, 150 pounds or less. The earth would still have its very first artificial satellite, and, equally importantly, the entire world would be able to hear it. Korolev decided that in the circumstances this was the right decision and immediately asked his engineers to work on a design that would not leave him dependent on many different subcontractors.

  As they began work on the designs for the simple satellite, preparations were also underway for the arrival of the R-7 by rail. Originally the intention had been to build the rocket vertically on site. This had not proved possible. It would be assembled horizontally at the vast hangar and then manoeuvred into an upright position at the launch pad. The launch pad itself was being built to a revolutionary new design proposed by Mishin. His ingenious idea solved many problems. The rocket would be effectively suspended above the ground and held in place by four great ‘petals’ that would swing open on launch to release the rocket. This petal-shaped framework of girders contained all the systems for fuelling the rocket and gantries for providing access to the massive structure. It became known as ‘Tyulpan’ – tulip –
because of the way the ‘petals’ peeled open simultaneously at liftoff to release the missile.

  For Korolev, the demanding workload at the new launch site at Baikonur was eased by the delight of knowing that he had finally achieved reconciliation with his daughter. He had taken a chance and surprised her with a visit at Hotkova, where she was working as a doctor, after four years’ training at university. To please her mother she had promised not to see him. At first, she had been restrained and uncertain in her manner, but after a while the sheer thrill of seeing her father could no longer be reined in by arbitrary rules. ‘We walked through the forest for more than three hours and talked,’ Natasha said. ‘We had never been one to one like this before and we could not stop talking. He was interested in my studying and soon my father was close to me just like in my childhood.’ He told her what he could about his work and she could see how it obsessed him.

  From her practical world of medicine it was difficult to take his stories of satellites and trips to the moon seriously. ‘I can see you don’t quite believe me,’ he said. ‘But it will happen.’ What she saw very clearly was how tired he looked.

  Korolev still had to win approval to launch the simplified satellite. ‘Soviet Union must be first,’ he appealed to the State Commission, explaining the need for swift action. He wanted to supervise the project personally. By February 1957, his request to build a prosteishy – simple – Sputnik reached the USSR Council of Ministers. Korolev secured permission to launch the Soviet’s first satellite later in the spring, assuming that all went well with the launch of his new rocket. Although it had taken Korolev less than three years to get the massive R-7 from the design phase to this point, he was frustrated to have to delay the test schedule by another couple of months. The first launch was put back to May 1957.