To the many anxious observers, the rocket was desperately slow to rise. It seemed to hover, indecisive, but then the white fury of flames under it, struggling to move the dead weight, became an inferno that nothing could resist. It was rising against its will but it was also beginning to tilt alarmingly. With horror the onlookers waited for the catastrophe. Now the rocket was gathering speed and it was obvious that it was meant to tilt. Soon it was against the blue sky, still trailing a plume of fire several hundred yards long. The volume of sound and sheer physical power was overwhelming. The rocket rent the atmosphere as though tearing a thunderous curtain. In the viewing rooms, watching the perfect performance, the crowds cheered madly. The CBS broadcaster Walter Cronkite found he was holding the glass window of his viewing room in place because it was rattling so violently. In the control centre, plaster fell from the ceiling.
Two and half minutes later, the first stage had done its job and was discarded. Now von Braun waited. The second stage, shorter by 57 feet with five equally massive engines giving one million pounds of thrust, should ignite and push the cone of metal into space. He felt more certain of the third stage. It was transporting a lookalike lunar module, with the weight and size of the real thing.
‘Go, baby, go!’ yelled von Braun. He watched anxiously as each stage of the booster did its job and then cut away until, eleven minutes after launch, the Apollo command and service module was in free orbit. What he had just witnessed was a man-made miracle: the synergy of thousands of systems into one powerful purpose. The column of fire could be seen more than 150 miles away. The elation he felt was unrepeatable.
In Russia, a sombre mood hung over the entire country. It was absorbed in mourning a hero. Yuri Gagarin was dead, killed in a plane crash. Kamanin had tried to protect him, Russia’s bright star. After the Komarov disaster, Kamanin had informed Gagarin there would never be another space flight for him. He had bigger, brighter plans for Gagarin’s career, although he was increasingly troubled by Gagarin’s antics. ‘There were many situations when Gagarin miraculously escaped big trouble,’ he wrote. ‘I was particularly concerned about his driving at high speeds … The active lifestyle, endless meetings and drinking sessions were noticeably changing Yuri and slowly but steadily erasing his charming smile from his face.’
When news first broke of the crash on 27 March 1968, Gagarin’s fate was uncertain. The plane was not found immediately. He had been on a training mission with a co-pilot; the weather had been snowy, visibility poor. Without warning, communications had ended abruptly half an hour into the flight. With the continued radio silence, helicopters were sent out to investigate. In the afternoon, a wrecked plane was found. Crisis meetings continued during the night. Those who knew Gagarin could not hide their emotions. ‘Kamanin had his lips pressed tightly together,’ recalled one cosmonaut. ‘Kuznetsov was struggling to control his trembling chin. Leonov had his face to the wall.’ In the morning, at the scene of the accident, Kamanin identified a piece of Gagarin’s jacket. The two pilots had hit the ground at a speed of more 430 mph. The plane was scattered over a wide area, and it became painfully evident that their bodies were as fragmented as the aircraft.
Gagarin’s death was felt as a personal loss to every Russian. As far as the eye could see, silent crowds waited patiently in the snow to file passed his coffin lying in state at the House of the Soviet Army. Gagarin’s mother, a simple countrywoman, overwhelmed by the event, waited to see her son in his coffin one last time before his cremation. She wanted to mourn in a way she understood. Officials refused her request. But she fussed and insisted and the officials gave way. The red velvet cloth was removed. She opened the coffin to find a plastic bag containing human fragments – all that could be found of her son.
Gagarin was irreplaceable. ‘Gagarin’s death will be my biggest loss for the rest of my life,’ Kamanin confided in his diary. ‘I know years will pass and new outstanding space explorers will come along but not a single one of them would be able to go as high as Yuri Gagarin’s grand deed.’ A bright star had burned out, leaving the sky dark. For the Soviets he had been a hopeful symbol of what was good in the all-too-dreary communist system of mediocrity and shortage. Russian grief could not be assuaged. Gagarin’s face, recognized throughout the world, was so much a part of Soviet triumphs in space. Now he was dead and the Soviet Union was slowly losing its premier position to America.
For two years now there had been little but failed flights and disasters. At Baikonur, Vasily Mishin recognized it was crucial to restore the balance but he himself was struggling to make headway, all too often seeking the help of alcohol for this task. According to Kamanin, Mishin had been sent into rehabilitation for a drink problem at least once. In his diary he was unsparing in his criticism, describing Mishin as ‘rude and always up for a fight’ when under pressure, as well as ‘hostile to any advice’. At times it seemed that Mishin was making ‘so many mistakes’ it was hard not to ‘feel sorry for him’.
Earlier in the year, according to Kamanin, he, along with leading cosmonauts, including Gagarin and Leonov, had taken their worries to the First Deputy of Defence, Marshal Yakubovsky. The marshal had given them a ‘very warm welcome’, Kamanin recalled, and listened carefully to their concerns about ‘the USSR falling behind America’. Many of their criticisms centred on Mishin, who was finding it difficult to walk in Korolev’s shoes. Yakubovsky conceded that Mishin, although a brilliant engineer, was possibly a little lacking in charm; those who possessed an abundance of creative energy, he noticed, often had the drawback of a short fuse. He was inclined to the opinion that chief designers as a breed were not the easiest to deal with and promised to help as much as possible. But nothing happened and no action was taken against the struggling Mishin. Kamanin made a forecast: if Mishin were to stay as Chief Designer, ‘things could only get worse’.
America now had the rocket to fly to the moon. And the Apollo spacecraft was phoenix-like, rising from the ashes, born anew. It performed flawlessly on the Apollo 4 mission, even on re-entry where temperatures reached almost 10,000 degrees F. The next mission, Apollo 5, would test the lunar module. By any standards, this was an extraordinary vehicle. It did not need to be an aerodynamic shape as it would be flying in a vacuum in space or in the moon’s gravity – which is only one-sixth of that of the earth. Custom-built to land on an unknown surface with its big padded feet on long, extending legs, it could never be called streamlined. The overwhelming prerequisite was that it had to be light. Its metal skin was so thin; it was barely thicker than a couple of sheets of paper. It stood 23 feet high and came in two sections. The upper part carried ascent engines, a fuel tank and cockpit and would boost the two-man landing crew back to the command module orbiting the moon. The lower half, which would remain behind on takeoff, carried the descent engine, fuel and necessary equipment.
There was no detailed first-hand knowledge of the lunar surface, yet skilful handling and landing of the lunar craft were vital for success. Astronauts practised this in a full-scale mock-up of the cabin layout, with a computer camera-simulated view of a moon surface model seen through the window. In addition, staff at Langley Research Center devised an unlikely flight vehicle designed to give the commander and pilot real flight experience.
A strange craft with more than a hint of Heath Robinson about it was to be seen in the skies above Ellington Air Force Base, seventeen miles outside Houston, Texas. Called the ‘Flying Bedstead’ – and looking rather like one – its function was to give astronauts some experience of a lunar landing. It seemed to be only framework, with no decent covering hiding its complex interior. Reassuringly, four legs jutted out from its four corners. Less reassuringly, the pilot’s control seat jutted outwards, surrounded by nothing more than fresh air. Its official name was the ‘lunar landing training vehicle’ and it was especially designed to remove the feeling of gravity, using a downward-thrusting jet engine and rocket to lift off. Separate manoeuvring thrusters, similar to those used on the lunar modu
le, were also fitted to provide the hapless pilot with enough control in pitch, yaw and roll, to land successfully back on the ground, or, if he failed, to send it spinning off to destruction. Just in case, NASA had fitted an ejection seat.
Neil Armstrong was something of a virtuoso on the machine but one day in May 1968 he almost played his swansong. The ‘Bedstead’ decided to give a bucking bronco performance with an almost vertical 800 feet rise and an equally stomach-churning vertical drop. From his controls in the corner of the ‘Bedstead’, Armstrong held the machine steady, hovering near ground level. Then, without warning, up it went again 200 feet, bucking and veering to the left, rolling and turning over the runway, determined to throw off its passenger. The bed was wild. Ground control shouted at Armstrong to eject, but something in Armstrong’s character responded to bucking bedsteads in a positive way. He was the boss; he would control the thing. Not until he was past knowing for sure that the bed had won would he eject. Seconds later it crashed on the runway. As for Armstrong, his parachute opened only just before his boots met the ground.
The inquest on the untimely demise of the ‘Flying Bedstead’ was a sobering event. On that windy day it had guzzled extra fuel and the inert helium supply used to push propellant through the fuel tanks was squandered, making the engine stutter repeatedly. But more sobering still was Armstrong’s timing. Had he delayed his departure by two-fifths of a second, there would have been no time for his parachute to open. NASA officials hoped that if and when a lunar landing was made, Armstrong’s timing would be less interesting.
In 1968, George Low, Program Chief, Manned Space Flight, and other senior NASA officials were becoming increasingly worried about delays in the manufacture and delivery of lunar modules – it was unlikely an operational craft would be ready for testing before the end of the year. The next mission was intended to test both the lunar and command modules in earth orbit. But it was becoming clear that if they waited for delivery of the lunar vehicle, they might not get their man on the moon by the end of the decade. It was looking more and more as though that prize would fall to the Soviet Union.
The pressure increased as the CIA made NASA aware of a Soviet programme to have a cosmonaut in orbit around the moon by Christmas 1968. It would be hard to claim that they had reached the moon first if the Soviets accomplished such a feat. In 1968, Mishin launched a series of modified unmanned Soyuz capsules called Zonds. In March, Zond 4 had returned from deep space to earth orbit, having tested re-entry from a lunar orbit, and in September a cargo of tortoises, flies and assorted plant life was also taken for a journey around the moon in Zond 5. In October there was a successful rendezvous in space with a manned Soyuz craft. Next up was the N-1 launch itself. It was wildly rumoured that the Soviets were on the brink of going one step further in December with a manned trip around the moon. A date was even specified in the Western press – 8 December. Although the Russians had had their share of failures, their ambitions to reach the moon were undiminished. They too were desperate to see their flag planted on its surface.
George Low was increasingly concerned that the Soviets might beat them to it; it was time to take some short cuts. He went to see Chris Kraft with a risky proposal. Rather than waiting for the lunar module and testing its flight worthiness in earth orbit, he suggested that the next flight should be a huge gamble. They needed to gain experience of navigation and communication on a manned flight around the moon. Why not send the first manned flight of the Saturn V straight into lunar orbit and around the back of the moon? The astronauts would gain the valuable experience of flying in lunar orbit using the Apollo command module. Kraft liked the idea, although it meant speeding up the development of the lunar navigation software.
Unfortunately they had come to this decision at a bad time. During the Apollo 6 mission on 4 April 1968, the second unmanned flight of the Saturn V had run into serious difficulties and revived all the old anxieties. During the initial stages of F-1 testing, vibrations had been so severe that the mechanical stress was approaching 10 g’s. This ‘pogo’ effect in the first stage lasted a full ten seconds and made the command module above judder so much that any astronauts on board might have been in danger. During the second stage there was more erratic data and two engines failed. This made it impossible to put the command module into the right lunar orbit. At the time these failings scarcely made front-page news, eclipsed on the day by the assassination of civil rights campaigner Dr Martin Luther King in Memphis, Tennessee, which prompted a wave of civil unrest across America. Von Braun himself was worried that yet more engine faults were being found at this time. He had believed the problems of the F-1 engines were behind them.
With some foreboding, Kraft counselled the cautious von Braun. He had expected protests from him. It had been his decision to have ‘one more launch’ before Alan Shepard’s flight that had lost America the title of ‘first man in space’. It required more than a leap of faith to send astronauts on the very first manned Saturn trip straight into an untried and complex mission. Von Braun’s team at Marshall had analysed the data from Apollo 6 and introduced further shock absorbers and vibration-absorbing dampeners to reduce the effect – but there was no guarantee of safety.
‘Wernher, we need you to commit to your next Saturn V flight. It has to have men on it and it’s going to the moon.’ Kraft’s appeal did not fall on deaf ears. In spite of recent problems, von Braun had confidence in his rocket. He didn’t insist on yet another test flight. If it could achieve earth’s orbit, then it ought to be able to go further to a lunar orbit. He did not hesitate. ‘It’s a great idea,’ he said.
Had the Americans known the difficulties facing the Soviets they might not have taken such a risk. The original plans for the N-1 and its attendant services had been magnificent, as though conceived in the eye of Colossus. The assembly building, 150 feet high and 800 feet wide, was immense. The two launch pads, 1500 feet apart, would have service towers 500 feet in height. But by the time Mishin was ready to wheel out the first N-1 booster in May 1968, something in the Soviet system had conspired to undermine efficiency. The vast metal meteor was still not ready, with questions about its engines. Almost farcically, cracks were also found in the outer skin of the first stage and it had to be taken back to the assembly building for repair. Ground testing continued to run into problems and in September a bulldozer accidentally severed the main electric cable to the N-1 launch complex causing a two-month delay in testing. Repairs to the booster took far longer than expected. Delivery dates for equipment were invariably missed. A perverse unreliability was becoming the norm, presided over by Mishin who was still struggling with his own little problem with the bottle.
Any plans to modify the Zond missions for manned flight had to be revised in November, when the unmanned probe, Zond 6, raced back from a successful circumlunar mission only to develop a pressure failure, which killed the biological specimens on board. The fall in pressure jeopardized re-entry and also killed the dreams of a manned mission around the moon. Cosmonauts would not have survived. Mishin felt the strain acutely. ‘Mishin did not look good this morning,’ observed Kamanin on 15 November. ‘His eyes were red, his hands were trembling, his face puffed up, he keeps drinking.’ The following night, as the pressure plummeted still further in the landing apparatus, ‘he could no longer stand the strain’. Kamanin was summoned in the small hours to find that Mishin had drunk so much and slept so little he was ‘incapacitated’. He was firmly escorted straight from the control room to hospital. Zond 6 itself crashed into the ground as the parachute failed to deploy correctly.
On 21 December 1968, the mighty Saturn carrying Apollo 8 rose majestically into orbit. The three astronauts on board, Frank Borman, Jim Lovell and Bill Anders, were embarking on arguably the most dangerous manned mission yet undertaken: navigation into the moon’s orbit. In 1966, Gemini 11 had powered 850 miles into space. No one had gone beyond that achievement. Now Apollo 8 had to travel a vast 234,000 miles into the unknown to navigate success
fully into the grip of the moon’s gravitational field. Precision and timing were essential. They must enter the moon’s gravitational field while in control of the craft, using engine power to slow down to a speed of 3700 mph. This would take them into lunar orbit.
Mission control wanted to be sure about the engine – known as the service propulsion system – that would power Apollo 8 into lunar orbit before they made a decision. If all was well, it was feasible to go for ‘trans lunar injection’, or TLI, to power the craft on to a trajectory to the moon. Ground control liked what they saw on the screen monitors. The craft made a perfect orbit around the earth.
‘Apollo 8, you are go for TLI,’ said Mike Collins from mission control. They had the all-clear to power away from the earth, increasing their speed to 33,500 feet per second, beyond escape velocity – the speed required ultimately to break out of earth orbit.
On the third day, they had reached more than 200,000 miles out into space. At 38,000 miles from the lunar surface they began to fall towards the moon, pulled in by its gravitational field. Soon, the astronauts would be behind the moon and out of radio contact for more than twenty minutes. They would be on their own. Entry into lunar orbit required the Apollo engines to fire for exactly 247 seconds. This would take the craft to the lowest point of its orbit, seventy miles from the moon. If this failed, there would not be a second chance. If the engines did not fire for the exact required time, Apollo 8 would be unable to enter lunar orbit, but would sail on forever, lost in space. ‘All the mathematicians in the world had looked at the calculations,’ said one engineer, but still there was no way of knowing for sure that it would work.
Space Race Page 37