Space Race

by Deborah Cadbury

  In a few minutes the astronauts would know if this was a new beginning or a fearful end to their lives. The engines fired for the required 247 seconds at full blast. They had done it. They could now use the attitude control thrusters to align the craft. For the first time in the twin histories of earth and moon, a tiny speck of humanity was sailing confidently in the vastness of space behind the moon travelling at 5000 mph, viewing what looked like the world of the dead, a blanched landscape of peaks and troughs devoid of life. They were in lunar orbit, and could hardly believe it.

  Ground control, meanwhile, did not yet know the outcome. Adding to the nail-biting suspense, they could not stop calling the ship although they knew they could not be heard:

  ‘Apollo 8, come in. Apollo 8 … Apollo 8 …’

  Agonizing minutes and seconds were to pass before they heard:

  ‘Go ahead, Houston.’

  Jim Lovell’s voice sounded calm and clear as though it were coming from just round the corner. In mission control, grown men, sober men, whose days had been filled with equations and figures and bone-dry facts displayed on monitor screens, exploded into noisy delight. The relief was enormous. The thrill unbelievable. The huge complexity of their exquisite calculations had created a thing of wonder.

  Kamanin recalls that on 24 December as he and some of the cosmonauts were travelling in a bus at the launch site, they suddenly rounded a corner and saw the bright crescent of the moon. ‘Everyone grew silent for a minute.’ They knew full well that Apollo 8 was at that minute circling the moon, and were ‘filled with contradictory feelings’. It was impossible not to admire the courage of the American astronauts, yet also they ‘felt hurt that it was not our men orbiting the moon’.

  It was Christmas, a time when humanity traditionally paused to consider its collective myths and miracles: and now they had a real one. Some of their number were within a short distance of the unreachable moon, almost among the stars. The crew of Apollo 8 felt a sense of wonder. Looking out of their window, they felt themselves surrounded by the numinous. The view of the moon’s surface beneath them was spectacular, millions of years of history embedded in its heavily cratered surface. They wanted to investigate the Sea of Tranquillity, a possible landing site for the following year. Jim Lovell, who was assigned to the task, reported that he could see no reason why it would not make an excellent landing site.

  On Christmas Eve, they broadcast to half a billion people. ‘This is Apollo 8 coming to you live from the moon,’ began Borman. Each described the scene. ‘The vast loneliness is awe-inspiring,’ Lovell said. ‘It makes you realize just what you have back there on Earth.’ The moon ‘looks a vast, lonely, forbidding place, an expanse of nothing … clouds of pumice stone’. And, in contrast to the dead and ghostly moon, Lovell saw the earth ‘as a grand oasis in the big vastness of space’. Bill Anders sent earth a Christian message reading from Genesis: ‘In the beginning God created the heaven and earth …’ And Frank Borman was moved by the sight of the earth rising beyond the moon’s bleak surface, a beautiful globe of swirling white and blue surrounded by the vast blackness of space: ‘This is the most beautiful, heart-catching sight of my life.’

  The euphoria continued, then on Christmas Day Apollo 8 completed its tenth and final orbit around the moon. It was time for the journey back into earth’s orbit, and it was this journey, the ‘trans earth injection’, that unnerved NASA. A small miscalculation, a wrongly placed decimal point, an infinitesimal cough in the engine, would translate into disaster from which there was little hope of rescue. Everything now depended on the service propulsion system engine. Failure meant the Apollo 8 would not come back. When the oxygen ran out in about seven days’ time, the men would die and the space craft with its phantom crew, alternately bathed in silver light and blackest night, would circle the moon forever.

  Once again, the Apollo 8 astronauts were behind the moon and out of radio contact. Once again, NASA was sitting on the edge of its seat. The time came to operate the engine, which fired for the exact 304 seconds required, taking them out of lunar orbit and on their two-and-a-half-day trek through the darkness of space towards the brilliant, luminous earth. The computer was in charge. They felt the jolt and heard the roar of flame as they sped to the precise point that would allow re-entry. At 25,000 mph, with a flaming tail 120 miles long, they entered the narrow orb that would take them back to their lives on earth. The intense burn-up of re-entry inevitably slowed the craft. Then, still high above the Pacific, the ship’s three parachutes opened like exotic flowers. Their triumphant return was a heady affair even by American standards: these were men who had touched the infinite and their epic journey was a harbinger of things to come.

  The Apollo 8 circumlunar mission sent a shock wave throughout the Soviet space industry. America was leading the way, showered in glory, while the Soviet Union, with faltering steps, looked like the country cousin. As 1969 began, a meeting chaired by the Minister of General Machine Building, Sergei Afanasyev, was held at Baikonur with the aim of rescuing the situation. ‘How can we get out of this mess?’ he appealed to the chief designers in the room. The discussion centred on how to beat the Americans to the moon. It was acknowledged that it was a good thing that Mishin would soon be testing both the manned Soyuz space docking and the N-1.

  Once again, Mishin confounded his critics. On 14 January 1969, Soyuz 4, with one man on board, was launched from a Baikonur covered in snow. The next day, Soyuz 5 followed, with three further crew members. After successfully docking, two of the cosmonauts transferred to Soyuz 4 and returned. Re-entry was somewhat more hair-raising for the remaining cosmonaut, Boris Volynov, left in Soyuz 5. The service module failed to separate from the main descent capsule and the craft turned over and over, out of control, with temperatures rising fast and smoke wafting inside. Volynov had the impression that the craft was disintegrating around him. He was convinced he was going to die. By a miracle he survived, only to find that the parachute was deployed too early and the cords became caught up, preventing it from opening. He hurtled through space, waiting for the sickening impact that would mark his final exit from the world. But incredibly the disastrous situation righted itself. The parachute straps took their correct positions and he was able to land safely. In spite of the hazards, the trip was a success, and the Soviet press were quick to claim that this represented the world’s first orbital space station.

  The N-1 launch was planned for February. By January, work was well underway to prepare the N-1 for its coming test. Waiting to be called into life, it lay in the assembly building attended by more than two thousand workers who had been drafted in from the services to wait on the behemoth and deliver it to the site on a transporter. On its slow journey to the pad, there was a ghostly, unoccupied presence just ahead of the rocket, where Korolev had once walked. Slowly it rose up vertically, a colossal tower held fast by forty-eight bolts at its base, pale against the leaden skies. As it stood alone, its size brooked no comparisons. This was Korolev’s beloved N-1, 344 feet tall with a thrust of 4500 tons. It was his dream ticket to the moon and he had bet he would get there before the Americans.

  The launch date set for 20 February 1969 was missed due to icy winds, blowing snow. The next day was bitterly cold, but bright. The occasion was toasted with a big bottle of champagne by Mishin, and high-powered visitors awaited that singular and exciting moment of takeoff. For Kuznetsov it was to be the first time that the layout of the engines would be fully tested firing together. ‘Even if you had attended our Soyuz launches dozens of times, you couldn’t help being excited,’ Boris Chertok observed. ‘The image of an N-1 launch is quite incomparable. All the surrounding area shakes, there is a storm of fire and you would have to be insensitive to be able to remain calm at such moments. You really want to help the rocket: “Go on! Go up! Take off!”’

  The rocket blazed off with a fury of fire and thunder as all thirty engines sprang to life. The ground submitted to the terrible upheaval. The buildings absorbed the s
ickening shock waves. The windows trembled. The power of the engines and the white fire were awesome as the majestic column slowly moved upwards through the mass of billowing clouds at its base. The audience was enthralled.

  Suddenly it became clear that something was wrong. Two engines shut down. The rocket kept going at reduced power. Then all the first-stage engines cut out. Still rising, with a tremendous surge of power it shuddered with enough violence to break fuel lines, bathing the interior in cascades of flame. Still rising, all the engines were now ablaze. The great star of fire travelled seventeen miles before exploding in unseen glory over the barren desert.

  Solemn faces emerged from the bunker. ‘I’m so sad I could cry,’ Kamanin admitted in his diary. ‘But it could have been worse. The rocket did take off and the launch pad is not damaged.’ Their analysis showed that the KORD control system may have caused the initial shutdown of the two engines. Quite what triggered the huge fireball that engulfed the first stage and prompted all the engines to shut down was unclear but Mishin was reassuring. It was early days. More testing was needed; this was entirely normal. They had been through it all with the R-7. America had not won yet.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  ‘One small step’

  Deke Slayton was in charge of assessing the American astronauts and choosing the crews for various different missions, with the assistance of Alan Shepard, who had been grounded for medical reasons and was now chief of the Astronaut Office. They had made their decisions for the next Apollo trips, 9 and 10, which would test further docking in space and the flight of the untried lunar module. These astronauts were all currently in training for their missions but now they needed to confirm the crew for the ‘bull’s-eye’ trip – the one that would land on the moon. They had established a rotation system for the crews: the backup crew of one mission would fly the third flight after that. On this basis, the backup team for Apollo 8 would fly Apollo 11. Neil Armstrong would be commander. His prowess and unique skills with the ‘Flying Bedstead’ would be essential when it came to making the critical lunar landing. Buzz Aldrin had proved himself brilliant at space walking – as had Mike Collins. They seemed the ideal team.

  Deke Slayton summoned them to a meeting and got straight to the point. The three men practically looped the loop when they heard the news, even though the ‘bull’s-eye’ date was as yet unknown. It might never happen, of course; in the space programme, so much could go wrong. Overnight, disasters had a way of changing schedules. But if and when it happened, the Apollo command and service module in lunar orbit would be manned by Mike Collins, who would stay in that orbit, while Neil Armstrong and Buzz Aldrin would attempt to land on the moon using the lunar module. Meanwhile, the emphasis would be on training, especially in the lunar landing simulator.

  Buzz Aldrin was alight with excitement. The captain always stayed with his ship. That surely meant Aldrin would be the first man to set foot on the moon. Not necessarily so, replied Armstrong, who also had plans to make the first historic step. Both men in their mind’s eye had the same vision of standing alone in the white moon world. Their name would be a living legend till the end of time.

  The lunar simulator became a battleground. In too many sessions, Armstrong crashed. Aldrin challenged what he saw as irresponsible behaviour. Armstrong replied that he was quite deliberately pushing the machine in order to find its limitations. Aldrin continued to accuse; Armstrong continued in his own unique style, skimming disaster. The two men were caught up in a squabble that could threaten their lives, to the growing alarm of Gene Kranz who was to be Flight Director for their mission. The astronauts reined in their feelings but simmered like dormant volcanoes. Behind the scenes at NASA, a decision was made that Armstrong would be the first to step on the moon. Buzz Aldrin was bitterly disappointed. As difficulties persisted in the simulations, Kranz began to wonder if they would have enough time to rehearse the lunar landing.

  The deadline was approaching all too fast. In March, Apollo 9 tested docking the command and lunar module in earth orbit and the lunar module was given a test run of more than one hundred miles. In May, Apollo 10 took the lunar module down to within nine miles of the moon’s surface, and in a dry run for the real flight tested the ascent stage of the lunar module as they flew back to dock with the command module. Next up was Apollo 11 – the moon mission. This would carry the red, white and blue American flag that would be planted firmly on the moon’s pale surface. The date was set for 16 July.

  Surreptitiously, people began bringing the astronauts souvenirs to take to the moon. A flag was chosen, one with no manufacturer’s label, to thwart advertising. And interested noises in the project were growing from a whisper to a steady clamour. Who were these men, so ready to gamble their lives, willing to risk the hellfire of rockets or the prospect of being lost in space for a day’s glory? The world’s press was avid for details. Life magazine arranged a family get-together for the three astronauts. From the comfort of their armchairs, people the world over could see them at last, nice, normal family men, with pretty wives and beautiful children, just doing a job like everyone else.

  Just when the Americans seemed on the verge of winning, the CIA produced yet more worrying information for NASA. They had news that the Soviets were ready to launch a massive new rocket. All year rumours had been growing that the Soviet Union had ambitious plans for a sensational space venture that would dwarf the Apollo missions. Now American spy satellites had photographs showing a rocket bigger and more powerful that Saturn V on the launch pad at Baikonur. Von Braun believed that the Soviets could reach the moon first using its huge booster, if for any reason Apollo 11 missed its July deadline.

  The Soviet Union was abuzz with talk of an imminent, astonishing space event. With conflicting reports it was difficult to distinguish rumour from fact. The cosmonauts themselves were in full training for a lunar mission. They were only too aware of America’s imminent target to reach the moon with a launch date of 16 July for Apollo 11. ‘The Soviet Union is also making preparation for a manned flight to the moon, just like the Apollo programme of the US,’ cosmonaut Alexei Leonov declared. ‘The Soviet Union will be able to send men to the moon this year … We are confident that pieces of rock picked from the surface of the moon by Soviet cosmonauts will be … on display.’

  In April and May, Vasily Mishin’s team was making frantic adjustments and improvements to the N-1 rocket. In spite of frenzied activity to meet the mid-June launch deadline, it was missed. The new launch day would be 3 July, which would still beat the Apollo launch. Baikonur buzzed with activity as staff laboured to bring the launch to fruition. Soldiers and technicians struggled in the July heat. Slowly order was created from chaos. The rocket stood on the pad, unbelievably tall and slender against the blue sky, waiting to orbit the moon. On 3 July, preparations lasted all day. All the prominent people in the space and military industry made their way to Baikonur, and every road leading to the site was congested with vehicles. Chief designers, manufacturers, cosmonauts and ministers mingled with the less elevated, all eager to witness the great event.

  Most spectators were well away from the site. The cosmonauts had found an observation point, over four miles distant. Those in the bunkhouse were waiting in expectation. The countdown went ahead without problems and liftoff began at 11.18 p.m. The enormous firestorm of white flames under the rocket forced it upwards, bathing the night sky in shadowless brilliance, almost too bright to watch. In the glare, the rocket, so slender against the night sky, appeared to hesitate. Thick clouds of smoke billowed out. As the thirty engines arranged in two concentric circles reached full power, the ground shuddered and heaved. The rocket trembled. The noise was overwhelming.

  At 600 feet, it was clear something was wrong. The upward flight could not be sustained. The rocket doubled over and fell back towards the pad where it exploded with almost the force of a nuclear bomb. Hot blast waves shot out in increasing circles and a mushroom cloud in lurid purples rose over the steppe as hot met
al rained on the ruined launch pad. Those viewing the launch at some distance in the open felt the shock waves breathing hot air over them as the rocket, splintering into a thousand brilliant fireballs, fell like hailstones.

  The light of the morning revealed carnage as thousands of dead birds and other wildlife littered the blackened launch site at Baikonur. The damage was extensive. It would not be possible to recover quickly from such a blow. Mishin was in despair. For months there had been no break from his unremitting workload. Three days after the disaster, he collapsed with chest pains.

  ‘I was convinced that the rocket would not fly, but somewhere in the depths of my soul there glimmered some hope for success,’ Kamanin admitted. ‘We are desperate for success, especially now, when the Americans intend in a few days to land people on the moon.’ Initial analysis showed that, once again, the KORD control system had turned off most of the engines a few seconds into the launch. The reasons for this were unclear although the evidence pointed towards the possibility that some loose component, perhaps one single shard of metal, had entered the oxygen pump of one of the engines, triggering the catastrophe. Other evidence pointed to an overall design flaw: the thirty engines of the N-1 were aligned in two circles, with low-pressure regions between them. If some of the engines failed, the low-pressure regions would not balance out, the forces in the rocket would no longer be symmetrical and it would become unstable. Whatever the reason, months of detailed investigation lay ahead.