At last the US was in space and America was not shy to celebrate it. Huntsville erupted into spontaneous jubilation; their man, their team, had won. The whole town turned out and went wild, behaving like children at a party. The public appetite for the coming space age was voracious. Every small-town newspaper carried the story. Time magazine featured von Braun on its cover. Americans could hold their heads high again. They had even made a scientific discovery that the Soviets had failed to announce: James Van Allen’s Geiger counters had revealed that a belt of radiation enveloped the earth. Honours were showered like confetti on the team. Von Braun was invited to the White House where he hoped to talk to the President about the US space programme.
Dressing at his hotel, he could not find his white tie – obligatory for dinner at the White House. He would be meeting the President without a tie! When informed of the problem, Press Secretary Jim Hagerty told von Braun not to worry: a tie would be found. Later, in the exquisitely pale and resplendent reception room, the President entered, striking an offbeat note, wearing the only black tie in the room and muttering that he couldn’t find his white one …
While the glamorous image of von Braun shone from the front pages of the Western press, Korolev remained completely anonymous, referred to only as the mysterious Chief Designer. In America, von Braun became the space expert, the details of his apparently glittering life familiar to many. For Korolev, the triumph of the Sputniks altered nothing. His name was still unknown to the Soviet people, his success never publicly acknowledged. He was never quoted in the papers, nor did his photograph ever appear. Such was the Soviet fear that there might be assassination attempts from the West, they could not afford to put their top men at risk; better if they did not appear to exist.
Korolev was permitted to publish the odd article under a pseudonym – Professor K. Sergeev – but at no stage did he reveal his true role as the leader of the Soviet successes. After the second Sputnik launch, Korolev was close to exhaustion. His heart was giving him trouble. He spent almost a month in a sanatorium where ‘arrhythmia and overfatigue’ were diagnosed.
While resting near the town of Kislovodsk, he decided to visit the grave of his old friend and mentor Fridrikh Tsander, who had been such an inspiration to him. Tsander had died of typhus at Kislovodsk and been buried in the city cemetery. Korolev fretted when he could not find his friend’s grave. He insisted on an extensive search. Experts were even summoned from Moscow. Eventually Tsander’s grave was identified, overgrown and neglected, as though the man had never lived to inspire with his ideas. Korolev was troubled by the knowledge that Tsander, who had done so much for Soviet science, was simply not acknowledged, as though, just like himself, his very existence had been wiped out. It hurt him to see the indifference that death had brought to a man he remembered so vividly. He therefore arranged for a petition for 60,000 roubles to pay for a tombstone for Tsander’s grave.
PART FOUR
The Race to Orbit
‘It seems that nature jealously keeps its secrets and even here, where the mind of human beings is able to open it up – every step to something new and unexplored is achieved by a narrow margin with a high price to pay … We have such a short period of our life for creating something.’
SERGEI PAVLOVICH KOROLEV to his wife, NINA,
28 September 1960
‘If we do not match the ambitious Communist programme to visit the Moon and the planets … we may in the not too distant future, be surrounded by several planets flying the Hammer and Sickle flag …’
WERNHER VON BRAUN interviewed by VICTOR RIESEL
for the Hall Syndicate, 21 January 1959
CHAPTER TWELVE
‘America sleeps under a Soviet moon’
For Sergei Korolev the success with the Sputniks was just the beginning. The images of rockets travelling with ease through dark, velvet skies had been the original impetus for his career and now, almost thirty years later, the urgency of transforming that youthful vision inspired by Tsiolkovsky into reality was undiminished. ‘The road to the stars has been opened,’ he wrote under the pseudonym Professor K. Sergeev in Pravda in December 1957. ‘An important bridge to space has been built.’ A universe of possibilities was revealed. Encouraged by the response to his success, he requested permission to send out a series of unmanned lunar probes and won approval. ‘Comrades,’ he told his team with some satisfaction in March 1958, ‘we’ve just received an order to deliver the Soviet coat of arms to the Moon.’ Not content with this, that spring Korolev and Tikhonravov began to set out their grand vision for a unified Soviet space programme.
It was ambitious, embodying Korolev’s long-held dreams. In their report ‘On the Prospects of Mastering Outer Space’ they set out an agenda that went well beyond artificial satellites and the exploration of the moon. They argued for settlements in the earth’s orbit populated by scientists busy with investigations into colonizing space. They envisaged an entire transport system around the earth. Reaching even further in preparation for interplanetary travel, Korolev could see a thriving colony on the moon, as if he were a latter-day Columbus setting out for America. Preliminary research for this could start as early as 1960. Preparations for unmanned return flights to Mars and Venus from 1963 onwards would pave the way for man to make the journey to the planets. Each stage in achieving these goals was scheduled, and included research on energy sources, space suits, docking of craft, assembly of rocket components and their integration into a space station, not to mention consideration of the different types of engine to use in space. Their comprehensive plan, which Korolev recommended should start immediately, was sent to the Military-Industrial Commission for consideration.
Korolev did not wait for a response. Pictures of Explorer 1 were a reminder that the Soviet Union did not have sole ownership of the heavens. The next achievement would be to put a man into space, someone who could take that reckless step between earth and infinity. This was uncharted territory. Nothing was known for certain about the effects of space travel. Would a man survive the conditions in space? What kind of craft would be needed to take someone out of earth’s orbit and bring him back to earth safety? The R-7 – once adapted with an extra upper stage – had the power to put a man into orbit but as yet there was no way of bringing him back.
For all of Korolev’s confidence, he was aware that there were many problems to solve. First, they needed a particular kind of individual who would willingly face the rigours of space travel: obviously fit and dedicated, brave without being rash and calm in an emergency. There would be some hard lessons to be learned before space travel became as easy as boarding a train. The delicate human frame was not designed for cutting through the atmosphere at thousands of miles per hour inside a vast rocket filled with fuel. The rocket’s acceleration, acting like the force of gravity, put enormous stress on bone and muscle and could crush vital organs. Extremes of heat and cold could kill. Space, essentially a vacuum with no atmosphere, could cause the astronaut’s blood and bodily tissues literally to boil. The space vehicle would need its own reliable, pressurized atmosphere. No one had given any serious thought as yet to the design of the vessel and how to return it to earth.
Tikhonravov was assigned the task of overseeing the designs of the first spacecraft. The most critical time for the returning craft would be during re-entry to the earth’s atmosphere. Temperatures generated by friction on re-entry through the earth’s atmosphere could reach as high as 5000 degrees F, nearly half as hot as the surface of the sun (10–11,000 degrees F). Tikhonravov’s team had to resolve many issues such as the best shape for the craft, the navigation system and the insulation that would keep its occupants from burning to death on re-entering the earth’s atmosphere. New breaking rockets, known as ‘retro rockets’, had to be designed to guide the craft through the exacting narrow re-entry corridor. If the angle of re-entry was too steep, the craft would burn up as the friction of the atmosphere would be too high for any material to withstand. If the angle was
too wide, the craft would bounce off the atmosphere and ricochet into a higher earth orbit, never to return to earth.
Tikhonravov promoted one of his talented young engineers, Konstantin Feoktistov, as head of the group that would tackle the challenging problem of designing the space ship for safe return. Feoktistov’s team began by working on the optimum shape of the capsule to minimize heat. Months were spent considering the relative merits of cones and spheres. They concluded that a sphere was the best shape that could be designed in the time. The blunt nose of a sphere creates a shock wave just ahead of the surface of the craft, deflecting the hottest area of air flow safely away from its surface. They also developed a simplified attitude control system – for orientation in space – and chose an asbestos-based material to build the craft, making it thicker than was strictly necessary for extra protection. After investigation of a number of different landing methods, they selected a straightforward parachute for the passenger who would be ejected in a cosmonaut’s chair through a hatch. Research was also underway into heat protection, orientation systems and tracking and communications with the craft.
During the spring, competition with the Americans intensified. Although a second US Vanguard had failed in February, by March Vanguard 1 and Explorer 3 had reached orbit and transmitted a wealth of data. However, on 15 May 1958, yet more brilliance shone on Korolev when Sputnik 3 was successfully launched. This was a backup of the original ‘Object D’ that had been delayed in delivery. With a massive weight of 1.3 tons, it eclipsed the US efforts – Vanguard 1 weighed a modest 3 pounds. Khrushchev once again revelled in the impact of Soviet rocket wizardry on the Americans, who were wondering how Soviet rockets had lifted such a weight in space. To the chagrin of the Americans, Khrushchev, putting on his master of ceremonies’ hat, took centre stage and gleefully informed the world that ‘America sleeps under a Soviet moon’. Korolev’s ‘star’ was at its zenith, and it was at this point, when it looked as though he could do no wrong, that unseen forces of destruction began insidiously to undermine his position.
While Khrushchev appreciated the brilliance of his Chief Designer, who had so often given him an opportunity to crow over the Americans, he was beginning to question the success of the R-7 as a missile. Quite apart from the teething troubles in the test schedules, it was proving costly, requiring specially built launch pads. More important still, it did not fit military requirements well enough. The army needed a missile that could be fuelled quickly, and, once fuelled, could be stored for long periods in a state of readiness. The R-7 took nearly a day to fuel, and if a launch was cancelled, the liquid oxygen and kerosene propellant had to be removed. At a meeting in May 1958, Khrushchev drew Korolev’s attention to the R-7’s drawbacks. He wondered if Korolev could suggest a more ingenious alternative to the needs of the army.
Korolev defended the R-7, pointing out that the Americans had nothing as powerful, certainly nothing that could put up anything as heavy as the recent Sputnik 3. Khrushchev argued that it must be possible to design a rocket that could take advantage of the new, more efficient fuels becoming available which appeared to have all the properties that the military needed: greater economy, higher energy and a quicker fuelling time. But Korolev was adamant; new fuels such as unsymmetrical dimethyl hydrazine and nitric acid were ‘the devil’s venom’, a toxic and highly explosive brew, which quickly corroded fuel tanks and was sensitive to too many variables. Furthermore, there was no time to research and test new engines with an unknown fuel. He was in a hurry to have a man in space. He wanted a fuel he knew and the low-temperature cryogenic fuels he used, such as liquid oxygen, were safer and had greater lifting power, essential for a space launch. He was not prepared to compromise.
Khrushchev found Korolev uncooperative; he did not like his attitude. The next day he decided to sound out Glushko on the subject. He soon found that Glushko actually preferred the new fuels, and gave him the very answer he wanted to hear. The new fuels such as unsymmetrical dimethyl hydrazine were much more efficient, he argued, especially for ICBMs. He explained that Mikhail Kuzmich Yangel, who had been in charge of his own design bureau at Dnepropetrovsk since 1954, had successfully designed medium-range missiles using the new fuels. A brilliant designer, Yangel had ambitions to build a longer-range ICBM. Khrushchev was determined to see this through, and made a point of consulting Yangel, who acknowledged that, while there were difficulties, they could certainly be overcome.
At his next meeting with Korolev, Khrushchev returned to the question of the new propellants – but found that Korolev had not changed his opinions. Khrushchev mentioned Comrade Yangel’s work and pointed out that now was the time to build a new generation of ICBMs using Glushko’s engines. Khrushchev was effectively threatening Korolev with Yangel. Suddenly the goodwill he had enjoyed from Khrushchev was paper-thin. Khrushchev later recalled Korolev’s desperate reaction as he abruptly changed his tune: ‘I propose that you give this acid-fuelled missile project to me,’ he persisted. ‘Besides that, I will also make an oxygen-fuelled missile that will be capable of nearly instantaneous action.’
Khrushchev was unimpressed. His former easy attitude suddenly disappeared as he cut Korolev short and reminded him sharply where he was and to whom he was speaking. ‘We made a decision, Comrade Korolev,’ he announced curtly. ‘You are assigned the oxygen version and Yangel is entrusted with the acid missile. That decision will not be cancelled … We will see who wins.’ Yangel was to build the R-16 with the new fuels and, if he succeeded in meeting military needs, the R-7 could become out of date – possibly even obsolete. With that Khrushchev abruptly ended both the interview and any possible feeling of friendship with Korolev. When he later related the story to his son, Sergei, he added that he thought Korolev was about to hit him.
The fact that Khrushchev was now favouring Yangel was a double blow to Korolev. Mikhail Yangel, brilliant engineer and party man, had come to the attention of Ustinov in the early 1950s for ‘fast-track’ promotion, heading a guidance systems department under Korolev. He was the one who was promoted over Korolev in 1952 when the post of director of NII-88 had fallen vacant, a position most people assumed would fall to Korolev. Now here he was in favour once more.
Korolev found that he could no longer pick up the telephone and expect easy access to Khrushchev, bypassing red tape. He was frozen out. Glushko had been instrumental in pushing Yangel forward, and was now designing engines for the new R-16 that would function with the new fuels. To Korolev it seemed as if Glushko had betrayed him. In a meeting between Glushko and Korolev, words flew like knives. Glushko was as vitriolic as Korolev, no longer prepared to stand in the shadow of the great Chief Designer. The breach between them, which had existed for so long, had now become a chasm. Nothing could be salvaged. Although Glushko had virtual monopoly in his field of engine design, Korolev was so angry he swore he would never use Glushko’s engines again.
And Korolev’s loss of patronage continued. In March 1958, Khrushchev’s own son, Sergei, interested in a career in aviation, chose not to work for Korolev, but for an ambitious chief designer who was gaining influence: Vladimir Chelomei. Chelomei had enjoyed an astonishing rise to power during the 1950s, winning support from Khrushchev himself to develop a new type of naval cruise missile. His design, which could be launched from a warship, did away with costly launching sites. Chelomei was a master at diplomacy. ‘He was very stylish,’ recalled Sergei. ‘He looked like an artist, dressed well, wore natty ties … he was very cultured and had everything in his head. He could talk for two days about his ideas.’ The calculating Chelomei decided to challenge Korolev in his own area, and began to develop bold ideas for a space programme of his own. He used his polished charm in senior circles, and, by cultivating Sergei, found that he had the ear of Khrushchev himself. Winged, piloted spacecraft, winged rockets and voyages into deep space: nothing was too ambitious for Chelomei.
No longer having direct access to Khrushchev, Korolev was now forced to go through official chan
nels to get approval for his plans. He was subject to the wishes of his army superiors such as Ustinov and Nedelin whose paramount interest was defence. Rather than sending a rocket to the moon, their greatest concern was to launch a reconnaissance satellite. Korolev faced a dilemma. Tikhonravov had designed the space ship and was now seeking approval to proceed but Korolev knew he would not get the funds to build both a spy satellite and the manned space capsule. ‘Spy capsules won’t work yet,’ he had tried to persuade the military leaders. ‘We have to develop a manned capsule first.’ He was determined to find a way to press ahead with a manned craft, but, if he did so, he could be accused of neglecting defence needs, which might be construed as a treasonable offence. Party politics and the devious scheming of unknown enemies could not be discounted or dismissed as he had found out before, to his cost.
On top of all this, he faced a serious challenge from America. Public fears of Soviet dominance in space continued to be a hotly debated issue. ‘There is something more important than the ultimate weapon,’ Lyndon Johnson, Senate majority leader, had declared. ‘That is the ultimate position – the position of total control over Earth that lies in outer space.’ To answer concerns that the Americans were losing the lead, Eisenhower decided to create a civil establishment dedicated to space research. On 29 July 1958, the creation of an American space agency, the National Aeronautics and Space Administration – or NASA – was approved. ‘Space exploration holds the promise of adding importantly to our knowledge of the Earth, the solar system and the universe,’ claimed the President grandly. More importantly, NASA would preserve America’s position as a leader in space science.
Space Race Page 21