Space Race

by Deborah Cadbury

  Korolev turned round and saw everyone – Tikhonravov, Keldysh, Glushko and all the team – hugging and clapping and cheering. One senior member of the State Commission, Nikolai Pilyugin, was scrambling around, trying in vain to find something. ‘Give up!’ Korolev yelled, ‘and listen to the music!’

  ‘Music! Music!’ Pilyugin replied. ‘You are a romantic, Sergei. An incurable romantic.’

  ‘This is music no one has heard before,’ came the reply.

  Success was confirmed. For several glorious hours, everyone at the site gave in to wild celebration. The disappointment of the previous launch failures that had characterized the summer months was unleashed in a frenzy of exhilaration.

  Now Korolev could find the words he needed as he rose to thank everyone on an improvised platform. Some of the men had worked without sleep for several days, but the ingrained tiredness that everyone felt seemed to fall away. Korolev was transformed, almost lit from within, unable to contain his elation at the momentous step forward made in the name of Russia.

  ‘Today, something has happened that the best sons of mankind and our wonderful scientist Konstantin Tsiolkovsky had dreamed about,’ said Korolev. ‘A genius, he had predicted that mankind won’t be eternally confined to earth. The sputnik is the first confirmation of that prophecy. The conquest of space has begun – a big Russian thank you to you all!’

  The next day, before he left by plane for Moscow, Korolev gave orders that all the scientists who had been at the firing range be given a teapot of alcohol to celebrate. He used the flight to catch up on sleep but was woken by the pilot who had exciting news. He went to the cockpit to hear more details and returned elated: ‘Well, comrades, you can’t imagine. The whole world is talking about our satellite. It seems we have caused quite a stir.’

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  ‘A Race for Survival’

  On the night of 4 October, as Sputnik was blithely crossing the American continent, von Braun happened to be hosting a cocktail party at Huntsville to welcome the new Secretary of Defense, Neil McElroy. The press officer at Huntsville ran in with unwelcome news. The Russians were coming: a Soviet satellite had the run of the American skies.

  Silence descended on the party. The guests were stunned, the top brass visibly diminished. Von Braun was furious that the Soviet Union had been allowed to take the lead: ‘I was in a position to have done this a year ago with Jupiter C.’ He turned on McElroy and made it very clear what he thought of the way decisions on space had been handled. ‘Everyone is counting on Vanguard. I’m telling you right now, Vanguard will never make it!’ When asked by McElroy if the US could respond, von Braun was unhesitating. ‘For God’s sakes turn us loose … I can launch a satellite in 60 days,’ he replied. General Medaris modified this; he thought it might take ninety.

  Having the Secretary of Defense as a captive audience, von Braun urged the need for an immediate US space programme. The balance in the Cold War was changing. The Soviet Union appeared to be visibly dominating the skies, and, by implication, the earth. ‘The launch of sputnik has revealed Soviet capability to fly to the moon, or orbit the sun or even go for a manned flight,’ he declared. ‘It could well be over five years before we could catch up.’

  The following day, America awoke to the electrifying news that a Soviet ‘moon’ was now watching over them. On 5 October 1957, this was the front-page headline in the New York Times:

  SOVIET FIRE EARTH SATELLITE INTO SPACE;

  IT IS CIRCLING THE GLOBE AT 18,000 MPH.

  SPHERE TRACKED IN 4 CROSSINGS OVER THE US

  Journalists led with an almost irrational howl of horror. If the Soviet Union could put a satellite in space, then it could deliver a nuclear warhead: American cities were in their sights. The US was now in a race for survival, continued the New York Times. ‘Whoever controls space will control the world,’ warned Senator Lyndon Johnson. In the face of mass hysteria from the public, the Pentagon stayed calm while von Braun continued to state the urgency of the situation: ‘Failure to be the first in orbit is a national tragedy that has damaged American prestige around the globe.’ Elsewhere in the West there was praise for the Soviet triumph. In France, Le Figaro declared that gravity was now conquered: ‘Myth has become reality.’ In England, the Manchester Guardian announced: ‘the achievement is immense. It demands a psychological adjustment on our part towards Soviet military capabilities … The Soviets can now build ballistic missiles capable of hitting any chosen target anywhere in the world.’ The underlying message behind all the headlines was that communism seemed superior to capitalism. The Soviets had triumphed where the West had failed.

  Presiding over the fairy-tale minarets and golden domes of the Kremlin, as Sputnik ringed the earth, the solid, practical Nikita Khrushchev suddenly found himself metamorphosed into a leader of considerable stature. The world appeared to be at his feet, acknowledging the potent, almost mythical power of the Soviet Union, which without fanfare, in a throwaway gesture, had apparently conquered space. The end of the war had seen the Soviet Union broken and impoverished. Now, not much more than a decade later, their totalitarian system had, it seemed, produced a legendary flag to wave at the West.

  Enjoying both his success on the world stage and the discomfort of America, Khrushchev consulted Korolev to find out whether another such landmark event could be produced for the fortieth anniversary of the October Revolution, which would occur on 7 November. To Khrushchev’s amazement, Korolev suggested putting a living creature, a dog, into orbit around the earth. For Khrushchev, this was a welcome publicity stunt that would affirm his position as world leader of standing, but for Korolev there was a fundamental issue at stake. Could a living creature survive in space? Animals had been launched into the upper atmosphere but never before experienced a prolonged state of weightlessness in orbit around the earth. There could be unknown problems that might prevent a living creature surviving in space.

  With less than a month to create a satellite, all those on holiday were summoned back to work. Korolev held an impromptu meeting with senior members of his team to discuss how they could design the second satellite to support life. With great delight, they savoured the headlines. Mishin began by reading from the New York Times: the achievement of Sputnik was the ‘greatest deed of Soviet science’, which ‘could only be achieved by a country with first-rate conditions in a vast area of science and engineering!’ In other papers, it was nothing less than ‘a turning point in civilisation’ in which for the first time ‘man is no longer confined to his planet’. The comments of Hermann Oberth – who had joined the Germans in Huntsville – were particularly appreciated. ‘Only a country with a large scientific and engineering potential could solve the most intricate problem as launching a satellite,’ he said. ‘I am impressed by the talent of the Soviet scientists.’

  Korolev explained that their next challenge was to modify the satellite to support a living creature for several days in space. There was no time to design a completely new piece of equipment; instead they would adapt the nose cone of the R-7. The dog would be held in a cylindrical container, fitted with life-support systems and monitoring equipment. The life-support system would provide oxygen and absorb carbon dioxide and water vapour from the small cylinder. Drawing on expertise from previous high-altitude testing on animals earlier in the 1950s, a special pressure suit would be adapted for the dog and a system provided to keep it cool; there would also be a tailor-made automatic feeding trough. Scientific equipment was to be placed on board to study radiation and cosmic rays. Although this satellite would weigh 1120 pounds, six times more than the first, room was found for a television system to show pictures of the dog in space.

  Several dogs had been in training as part of the high-altitude testing programme and one of these was chosen for this extraordinary journey. Although her name was Laika (‘barker’), she had a particularly sweet-tempered nature. One of the air force doctors on site even took her home to play with his children. Korolev visited the institu
te where her flight was being prepared and with his usual relentless thoroughness insisted on scrutinizing every last detail of the life-support system and the measuring devices.

  On 31 October, once sensors had been put in place to monitor Laika’s heart rate, blood pressure and respiration, she was strapped into her container. Over the next two days, as the R-7 was prepared, she waited patiently 70 feet up in the nose of the quiescent rocket, oblivious of her sacrificial role; and during the long night prior to takeoff, the tiny scrap of life, of bone and fur and trusting eyes sitting astride the rocket, was mercifully unaware of the brilliant trail she would be blazing.

  Finally, on 3 November, Laika was launched from Tyura-Tam. Her heart raced to 260 beats a minute during the launch, but no abnormalities were detected and she made it successfully into orbit. In weightlessness, too, there were no signs of adverse effects. Laika seemed calm and she was breathing normally. Her main difficulty was coping with the heat. Despite the cooling system, however, the temperatures in the cylinder rose steadily and Laika died of overheating after about six hours. For years Soviet propaganda concealed her true fate, claiming that she had survived until the fourth day in orbit.

  Pictures of a Soviet mongrel dog travelling in space looking as comfortable as if she were on a car journey were beamed down to an incredulous American public. Khrushchev boasted insufferably and American humiliation was complete. Twice in a matter of weeks the Soviets had beaten the US. Now they had another first: a live creature in space. Von Braun could not be silenced. He gave lengthy interviews to the press explaining the need for America to act quickly. ‘Our own work has been supported on a shoestring,’ he said angrily, ‘while the Soviet Union has emerged more powerful than ever before. The thing that worries me most is their rate of acceleration.’

  Medaris received furious calls from Washington, urging him to stop von Braun talking to the press. Worse still, von Braun found himself actually blamed for the American failure and an alleged ‘missile gap’ – with the Soviets suspected of having more powerful missiles, and many more of them. A Senate Armed Services Preparedness Committee was hastily convened to investigate how the Americans had apparently fallen so far behind the Soviets. Von Braun was principal witness. As chief of missile development at Redstone, von Braun ‘was in charge of the whole programme so if there is any responsibility it rests with him,’ declared the democratic National Chairman, Paul Butler, to the press. ‘Von Braun himself should have told Congress and the President that we were not making satisfactory progress!’ Von Braun in turn was vociferous in his criticisms of the Defense Department and the Pentagon, pointing out the repeated frustrations he had experienced and how officials turned a ‘deaf ear to pleas’ that ‘we build a really big rocket engine’.

  As if to rub salt into their wounds, on 7 November 1957, President Eisenhower went on television to reassure Americans that there was less to fear from Soviet missile and satellite developments than was thought. In an attempt to highlight American successes in this field, Eisenhower even showed the Jupiter missile nose cone that had been successfully recovered from space – but he failed to credit von Braun or the army team for this work. Von Braun and Medaris watched this televised display in disbelief. It was the ultimate insult. They had been repeatedly denied the opportunity to launch a satellite and were not even credited for the successful work they had done. They both drafted letters of resignation.

  The very next day, there was suddenly a change of heart. General Medaris and von Braun were informed by McElroy that approval had come from the Pentagon for the army to launch a satellite, with the proviso that it must contain equipment for scientific experiments in accordance with the spirit of International Geophysical Year. The press had a field day reporting on the major policy switch. ‘Army told: Join Race. Get Satellite Up There’ blazed the San Francisco Chronicle, reporting on the odds in favour of the army. The ‘Jupiter C is considerably bigger and substantially more powerful than the Navy’s Vanguard device’, declared the Chronicle. It weighed significantly more, and while Vanguard could ‘only manage to send a satellite up 200–300 miles’, the Jupiter C could potentially reach more than six hundred. Nonetheless, the navy had the key advantage: they were given the go-ahead to launch at Cape Canaveral first. Von Braun’s team would go second.

  Preparations for the firing of the Jupiter C went ahead smoothly. It was modified into a four-stage rocket, Juno 1, which had the power to reach an orbital velocity of 18,000 mph. There were a few delays while scientific equipment was installed in the modest 30-pound satellite, ‘Explorer 1’. Scientists at the Jet Propulsion Laboratory in Pasadena, California, led by Dr William Pickering, designed the 34-inch satellite to carry sensors that would measure temperature inside and outside the satellite and record micrometeorite impacts. A special cosmic ray counter, devised by the physicist Dr James Van Allen, was installed to measure radiation around the earth. Chemical batteries were fitted to provide power to operate the transmitters.

  Meanwhile, in less than a month, on 6 December, Milton Rosen and his navy team were ready to launch their satellite, to much flag-waving and high expectations. The event was to be televised and the country waited for the wonder that would show the Soviets what the Americans could do. The countdown began. The whole world was watching as liftoff started with a fury of flames, the huge 70-foot rocket balancing for an infinitesimal second or two, lifting a drunken couple of feet before collapsing into its own inferno. In a final irony, the modest satellite – not much bigger than a grapefruit – had tumbled clear of the nose section, and, not far from the blaze, its transmitters could be distinctly heard broadcasting – not from space but from the surrounding scrubland: beep, beep, beep.

  The disaster, witnessed not only nationwide but worldwide, was humiliation on a grand scale. The press hummed into life with endless inquests on the fiasco: ‘Oh what a flopnik!’ There was no shortage of names for disaster: ‘Dudnik … Puffnik … Oopsnik … Stallnik … Goofnik … Kaputnik!’ Even the director of the Vanguard project conceded it was the worst ‘humiliation since Custer’s last stand’. This was not good enough for the politicians. ‘How long, how long, Oh God,’ cried Senator Lyndon Johnson, ‘will it take us to catch up with Soviet Union’s two satellites?’ Khrushchev was thrilled, revelling in the ‘Vanguard’ shame. Had the Americans thought they would be first in space, he wondered out loud to the listening world.

  Kurt Debus and others from von Braun’s team had been at Cape Canaveral preparing their own test launches during the navy’s Vanguard launch. They had heard the countdown through the loudspeaker and could not stop themselves smiling when it all failed. At last they would get their chance. Von Braun had a three-day launch window at end of January. If the army failed to launch in this time, the navy would get a second chance in early February. On the 29th, von Braun’s enormous Jupiter C, carrying the satellite, was sitting on the launch pad, a thin column of steel rising 70 feet out of the flat landscape waiting for the drama to begin. The countdown started. To his great frustration, von Braun had been ordered to Washington, leaving General Medaris and Kurt Debus in control at the Cape. Since it was anticipated that the event would cause a great stir, von Braun had been requested to join senior army officials at the Pentagon’s communications room to deal with the press.

  Warnings started to come in showing adverse weather conditions. At high altitudes winds were a menacing 170 mph. This would affect the rocket’s course, and the flight had to be cancelled. If von Braun’s rocket could not be fired within three days, his flight would be deferred and the navy would get their second chance. Next day there were long faces as the weather deteriorated even further. At 40,000 feet the winds were an unrelenting 230 mph. Another cancellation was inevitable. Time was running out and the high winds were forecast to continue. Then on the last day, with just a few hours left for the launch window, General Medaris was faced with a choice. He was informed that one of the younger meteorologists had predicted that the high winds might possib
ly drop for a few hours towards the end of the day. The long wait had been gruelling. Medaris made his choice.

  At 8.30 p.m. on 31 January 1958, countdown started once again. At 9.45 p.m., with barely two hours left of their launch window, a potentially serious problem was found – a possible fuel leak directly beneath the rocket. Someone would have to go out to the pad and check underneath the fully fuelled ‘live’ rocket. The call went out for a volunteer ‘without any dependants’. Quite apart from the dangers of an explosion, there were uncertainties about breathing in the fuel, dimethyl hydrazine. One young engineer did not hesitate. He ran out towards the rocket, a solitary figure in the darkness, and disappeared among the clouds of venting gases. When he finally reappeared, he was able to confirm there was nothing wrong – it was just a spillage. The countdown continued. Then, with just an hour and half to go, a question mark hung over a jet vane. Other data did not confirm a fault and Debus continued the countdown. At 10.45, with just over an hour remaining, it was time to press the switch for ignition.

  Amid the noise and hubbub surrounding him in the communications room in Washington, von Braun became increasingly anxious. An hour and a half had passed since the launch and there was no confirmation that the satellite was in orbit from the Pasadena tracking station, which would be the first to come into range if Explorer was in orbit. They should have heard by now. It was beginning to look as though Khrushchev would be dancing with joy once again and saying something painfully witty at America’s expense. Minutes passed. Explorer was overdue. They rang the tracking station in Pasadena – still no signal. Eight minutes had elapsed since the signal had been due. Failure looked to be on the cards.

  Suddenly all the telephones in the room started ringing at once. Four tracking stations had a signal loud and clear. Explorer was in a higher orbit due to a slight excess of speed, which accounted for the delay. The sound of Explorer’s signal was the sound of success; its unmelodious messages sweet music to everyone concerned.