Category Salyut – The First Space Station

SOYUZ LANDING OPERATIONS

The most critical and dramatic phase of a manned space flight is the return to Earth. For a Soyuz mission, it starts with the orientation of the spacecraft for the braking manoeuvre and ends approximately 90 minutes later with the landing of the descent module on the Kazakh steppe and the evacuation of the crew. This phase involves a sequence of twelve specific actions, the successful completion of which is vital for the safety of the crew. Indeed, to date, the worst accident in the history of the Soviet manned space programme – the death of Vladimir Komarov – occurred during the return from orbit.

The OKB-1 designers based the return operation on the presumption of excellent visibility in orbit for the orientation and braking manoeuvres, as well as on Earth for the landing. Traditionally, the in-space activities were done on the daylight part of the orbit so that the crew could confirm the orientation of their spacecraft relative to the illuminated horizon, and landing was timed to occur at dawn. Setting up for re­entry is crucial, as even a small misalignment of the braking engine in relation to the direction of travel could result in the descent module missing the landing site by hundreds of kilometres. In addition, if the entry angle were too shallow, the descent module might only ‘graze’ the atmosphere and remain in an extremely low orbit which, although it would soon decay, would likely not do so before the crew ran out of air. The orientation and control system (SOUD) developed in Department No. 27 of the OKB-1 under the leadership of Boris Raushenbakh was used to orientate the spacecraft with its main braking engine facing in the direction of travel. Normally, the braking manoeuvre to initiate the descent trajectory occurs 25 minutes after the completion of the orientation manoeuvre, while travelling northeast at an altitude of about 250 km over the Gulf of Guinea towards the coast of Africa. The KTDU-35 had a single combustion chamber, and was designed by Isayev’s OKB-2 bureau. It delivered a thrust of 417 kg, and could be fired up to 25 times for periods between one and several hundred seconds, accumulating a total time of at least 500 seconds. It was this engine that performed the manoeuvres of the rendezvous with Salyut. An

almost identical engine with a thrust of 411 kg served as a backup for the braking manoeuvre. The propulsion module contained four tanks (two for fuel and two for oxidiser) containing approximately 900 kg of propellant.

At the onset of the braking manoeuvre the cosmonauts feel a gentle jolt, followed by uniform deceleration. Depending on the ballistics of the descent, the engine fires for between 145 and 194 seconds to reduce the speed from the 8 km/s required for orbit by 100-120 m/s to initiate the descent. In passing over the Mediterranean at an altitude in the range 110-150 (usually 130) km, the spacecraft adopts an orientation in which its longitudinal axis is more or less perpendicular to the direction of travel, with the orbital module ‘on top’ and the propulsion module ‘beneath’ so that when the three modules are separated, aerodynamic drag cannot cause a collision with the descent module. At the time of separation, less than ten minutes after the braking manoeuvre, explosives simultaneously jettison the orbital and propulsion modules and discard from the descent module all unnecessary elements such as its antennas and periscope. Only the descent module is equipped with the shielding required to survive the thermal stress of entry into the atmosphere; all the discarded items burn up. Owing to mass limitations and the relatively short time of its autonomous flight – about 30 minutes – the descent module is not equipped to issue telemetry. Instead, at all stages of the descent following separation the commander loudly calls out the progress of the automated sequence of operations and on conditions in the descent module, and this commentary is encoded in the form of Morse code and transmitted by a small VHF antenna on the outer part of the hatch at the top of the capsule – the

one which had provided access to the orbital module, and had thermal protection on its exterior. In addition, telemetry from various systems on board is recorded by the ‘Mir-3’ device, which has a duration of 76 minutes.1

In contrast to the spherical Vostok and Voskhod capsules, the descent module of the Soyuz is capable of controlling its path through the atmosphere. This phase of the descent starts over eastern Turkey, 16 minutes after the braking manoeuvre and about 6 minutes after separation. The module has six 10-kg thrusters positioned on its sides which draw their propellant from tanks located in the base, directly behind the couches. The flight control system fires these thrusters as necessary to maintain the broad base facing the direction of travel. In addition, because the module has an offset centre of mass to generate aerodynamic lift, the thrusters can roll the capsule to steer left or right and upward or downward so as to aim for a given landing point. Furthermore, an aerodynamic flight subjects the crew to a lesser g-load than does a ballistic path. The entire module is coated with an ablative material for protection against the heat of re-entry, but the base, which is subjected to the most extreme thermal stress, is covered by a thick shield of azbetextolite material. The maximum thermal and deceleration forces occur while over the Caspian Sea. The Kazbek-U couches enable the cosmonauts to return with their backs facing the direction of travel and in the optimal body-position to endure the deceleration.[95] [96] At this time, the module is sheathed by a hot plasma which, being opaque to radio waves, inhibits communication. The module bounces and shakes in response to the aerodynamic forces of its passage. It is a very noisy time. After the time of greatest thermal stress, the incandescence of the surrounding plasma fades to show blue sky. As the module continues to slow down, the strong vibrations cease and there is a welcome silence.

The parachute deployment begins at an altitude of about 9.5 km. First a cover is jettisoned to allow a small pilot chute to pull out a drogue chute with a canopy area of 14 square metres. This is designed to stabilise the module, and it is released after 17 seconds to initiate the deployment of the main chute at an altitude of about 7 km. This chute is stowed in an egg-shape container behind the heads of the crew that has a volume of just 0.27 cubic metres. It deploys in several stages to produce a canopy of 1,000 square metres by an altitude of 5 km. Small VHF and short-wave antennas on the shrouds transmit signals to the recovery helicopters. By 50 seconds after the start of the deployment of this chute the rate of descent ought to have been reduced to 6-8 m/s. If the rate of descent exceeds the maximum permissible value, the main chute will be jettisoned and the reserve chute of 570 square metres deployed. This is stowed in a separate container adjacent to that for the main chute, with a volume of 0.17 cubic metres. If used, the reserve chute will deploy at an altitude of 4.6 km and achieve the minimal landing speed of 10 m/s.

Immediately after the braking manoeuvre, the Soyuz spacecraft separates into three modules to enable the descent module (in the middle) to re-enter the atmosphere on its own. (From the book Soyuz – A Universal Spacecraft, courtesy Rex Hall)

The normal deployment of the Soyuz parachute system: (1) the pilot and drogue chutes deploy in turn; (2) on the drogue chute; (3) jettisoning the drogue deploys the main chute; (4) while on the main chute, two ventilation valves open; (5) the base heat-shield is jettisoned; (6) the harness of the main chute is repositioned for landing; (7) retro – rockets fire 1 meter above the ground to soften the impact; and (8) the descent module lands and the chute is jettisoned.

Three last operations of the previous graphic are shown by this collage of pictures of a Soyuz descent module landing. The final pre-landing operations proceed as the capsule descends on its main chute (top left); dust is raised as the retro-rockets fire (top right), and the cloud of dust continues to obscure the capsule as the parachute is jettisoned.

After the deployment of the parachute, a pair of valves on the top of the module automatically open to allow the internal pressure to match that outside. At this time, in preparation for landing, each cosmonaut makes sure that his body is comfortable in his contoured couch and shock-absorbing rods elevate the couches from the floor. At an altitude of 3 km (75 seconds after descending through an altitude of 5.5 km), the basal shield is jettisoned to expose four solid-propellant retro-rockets (DMP) to be used to cushion the landing. With the heavy shield discarded, the rate of descent slows. On a nominal descent, there is ten minutes remaining to landing. Each retro – rocket has 22 jets arranged in two rings near the edge of the module’s base. They are fired simultaneously by an altimeter at a height of 1-1.5 metres over the ground to reduce the impact speed to 2-3 m/s, with the shock being absorbed by the couches.[97] Once the Soyuz is on the ground, the parachute is jettisoned in order to preclude this from dragging the module across the surface if there is a strong wind.

The landing area is on the flat Kazakh steppe. The ‘landing window’ usually starts three hours before dawn and ends just before sunrise. In addition to enabling the in­orbit manoeuvres to be made in daylight, this schedule permits the recovery team to observe the descent module without being blinded by the rising Sun. If the descent is on target, the recovery helicopters will soon settle close alongside. If the recovery crew is unable to arrive quickly, the spacecraft commander will open the hatch and exit. Because the hatch swings into the cabin towards the flight engineer’s side, the research engineer is second to exit, after which the flight engineer transfers to the central couch prior to exiting.

As cosmonauts are under stress during the descent they suffer an ‘adrenalin rush’, and even when everything functions as intended they can be taken by surprise. For example, the crew of Soyuz 7 were initially confused when, after the deployment of the main chute, they felt fresh air rush into the cabin through the valves designed to equalise the pressure. And on Soyuz 4 the crew were surprised when the shock – absorbers raised their couches just before the landing. The first mission to return in abnormal conditions was Voskhod 2 in March 1965, with cosmonauts Belyayev and Leonov. When the automatic orientation failed, Belyayev did so himself and landed 400 km off-target in a snowy forest, and they had to spend two nights in the frozen capsule surrounded by wolves and bears. Another serious incident occurred in January 1969 during the return of Soyuz 5 with cosmonaut Volynov, when the propulsion module failed to separate and blocked the heat shield as the spacecraft entered the atmosphere. Volynov was alarmed by the rise in temperature and smell of soot in the cabin, but fortunately at an altitude of 80 km the connections between the modules melted, the propulsion module was torn away by the atmospheric drag, and the descent module stabilised. However, it was off-target and the landing was so hard that Volynov suffered broken teeth. Of course, the worst accident occurred during the return of Soyuz 1 in April 1967. Owing to the lax technical discipline of the people who applied the thermal treatment to the descent module, the volumes of the main and reserve parachute containers were reduced, with the result that when

The recovery team opens the hatch to help the cosmonauts out of the capsule. On some occasions the capsule comes to rest upright, but here it is on its side, which can be uncomfortable for the crew.

the parachutes were inserted they were packed too tightly.[98] At an altitude of 9.5 km the hatch of the main parachute container was jettisoned, as planned. This drew out the pilot chute, which deployed the drogue chute. Unfortunately, the drogue was not able to pull the main chute from its container. Seventeen seconds later, the hatch of the reserve chute jettisoned and pulled out the reserve chute. What happened next is disputed: one account says that the reserve chute was in the so-called aerodynamic shadow of the drogue; another says that it became twisted with the other lines. But both accounts agree that the parachute was unable to deploy fully.[99] In any event, the module struck the ground at a speed exceeding 50 m/s, causing the main instrument panel to break free and crush the chest of Komarov, killing him.

Set against the tremendous success that the Americans had with Skylab, the dismal losses of DOS-2, OPS-1 and DOS-3 severely disappointed the Kremlin. The case of DOS-3 was unforgivable. A special investigating Commission was formed, chaired by Vyacheslav Kovtunenko, who was a Deputy Chief Designer at KB Yuzhnoye. Its members included experts in guidance and control – most notably Academician Nikolay Pilyugin, who was a colleague of Sergey Korolev, a legendary member of the Council of Chief Designers, and therefore had decades of experience in the development of rocket guidance. The KGB conducted a parallel investigation. What particularly caught the attention of the Commission was the change in the plan and the order to perform the orientation of the station by using the thrusters at their maximum level. Given that ionic sensors were in use, this sealed the fate of DOS-3. At an academic level, the question was why it had been decided to use the ionosphere, which is an extremely unstable part of the atmosphere, for such a crucial orientation process. A great deal of data on the operation of the sensor in such conditions should have been collected before attempting to use it in this manner. Finally, the Commission was confused by the fact that there was not a Chief Designer for guidance systems in the TsKBEM’s structure. The last-minute proposal to change the plan by operating the thrusters at their full power ought to have been put to such a Chief Designer who, knowing the implications, would certainly have refused. Dozens of people who were in one way or another linked to the debacle were questioned, ranging from the TsKBEM managers to the people whose actions or inactions directly caused the loss of the station. The tempestuous outburst from the Kremlin that followed the Commission’s report was of a nature never before seen in Soviet cosmonautics – not even after the deaths of cosmonauts.

The burden of blame fell on Yakov Tregub, the DOS-3 flight director. On being urged to leave the TsKBEM, he transferred to the design bureau which had built the Igla automatic docking system. Ex-cosmonaut Aleksey Yeliseyev was appointed in his place, and proceeded to completely revise the organisation and structure of the mission control operation. In addition to transferring the technical facilities from the Army to the TsKBEM, it was decided to create a new TsUP in Kaliningrad, not far from the TsKBEM.[122] After this became fully operational in early 1975, the facility in Yevpatoriya was used only for military space missions.

Also criticised was Boris Raushenbakh, who led the group that developed control and guidance systems. When one of his engineers said that modelling indicated that it would be better to perform the DOS-3 orientation process with the thrusters set at maximum power in order to complete the task as rapidly as possible, Raushenbakh had verbally agreed. When this engineer (whose identity remains unreported) made the suggestion to Tregub, he ordered the revision. Raushenbakh was relieved of his duties and replaced by Viktor Legostayev. Although Raushenbakh was retained as a consultant, he found this unacceptable and soon left the TsKBEM. His boss Boris Chertok was in charge of the general development of control and guidance systems, and received instructive admonition from both Minister Afanasyev of the MOM and the Communist Party organisation at the TsKBEM. Disciplinary measures were also taken against others involved in developing the ionic orientation system, as well as those from the TsKBEM and the Army who were at the TsUP and whose actions or inactions directly contributed to the loss of the station.

The DOS-3 debacle also highlighted weaknesses in the leadership structure at the TsKBEM. At the top was Vasiliy Mishin, who had regarded the DOS programme as a distraction. It had started because in late 1969 a group of his deputies and senior designers had, without his knowledge, put to Ustinov the idea that the Almaz which Chelomey was developing for the military could be made into a station for scientific research. Mishin had argued against the idea when he found out, but was told by the Kremlin to implement it. Wishing to concentrate on the N1-L3 lunar programme, in February 1971 Mishin had suggested to Ustinov that DOS should be handed over to Chelomey, but Ustinov, who did not like Chelomey, had refused to do this. Then in April 1972, during preparations to launch DOS-2, Mishin made an agreement with Chelomey that after four DOS were launched the programme would be transferred to the TsKBM, to enable the TsKBEM to concentrate on its N1-L3 work. The most important point of this Mishin-Chelomey ‘contract’ called for the production run of DOS stations to be limited to the four which were specified in February 1970 by the Central Committee of the Communist Party and the Council of Ministers. In a letter to Minister Afanasyev, Mishin and Chelomey recommended that future research in space intended to aid the national economy be done by the Almaz programme. This did not mean that Mishin was uninterested in space stations – he fully supported the TsKBEM’s Multipurpose Orbital Complex (MOK). This was based on the Modular Space Base Station (MKBS) and would be launched by an N1 rocket. Pointing out that the MOK would be larger than either the OPS or its DOS derivative, and hence would have greater requirements, Mishin and Chelomey suggested that the TKS be used to resupply it. Finally, they broached the subject of the joint mission with the Americans planned for 1975. One suggestion had been that an Apollo should dock with a DOS station, but Mishin and Chelomey rejected this, arguing instead that the docking should be between an Apollo and a Soyuz. Mishin and Chelomey sent their ‘contract’ to Minister Afanasyev, who gave it his endorsement.

Mishin had evidently not consulted his deputies prior to drawing up his agreement with Chelomey, for it provoked intense reactions in the TsKBEM. It was supported by those who sympathised with Mishin – most notably Yuriy Semyonov, a leading figure in the DOS programme,[123] and Sergey Okhapkin, one of Mishin’s deputies for the N1 rocket. It was opposed by Konstantin Bushuyev, Boris Chertok and Dmitriy Kozlov. It was Bushuyev and Chertok who had recommended Mishin to supersede Korolev as Chief Designer in 1966. The critics also included Konstantin Feoktistov, who had led the conspiracy to approach Ustinov with the DOS proposal, and Sergey Kryukov, a close colleague of Korolev who had led the development of the R-7 missile and then been reduced in rank when Mishiin took over. In 1970 he moved to the Lavochkin Design Bureau, and became its manager in August 1971 after the death of Chief Designer Georgiy Babakin. The TsKBEM was therefore split into two factions, one of which favoured concentrating on the N1-L3 and the other wished to focus on space stations. As a result, the design, testing and preparations to launch DOS-3 occurred in a strained and unpleasant atmosphere. To the group centred on Bushuyev and Chertok, DOS was a more realistic project and of greater relevance to the nation. But to Mishin, DOS represented a distraction which he wished to rid himself of as soon as possible.

Afanasyev and Ustinov had for some time been concerned by the situation at the TsKBEM, and in February 1973 a working efficiency assessment conducted by the Ministry for General Machine Building criticised the TsKBEM’s performance over the last several years. Deficiencies in the organisational structure directly influenced the entire organisation and had, in particular, resulted in the degradation of both the quality and the safety of its systems. Mishin was not mentioned by name, but the message was clear: the Kremlin was losing patience with his leadership of what was supposed to be the nation’s principal space organisation. Soon after this assessment, Bushuyev, Chertok, Kozlov, Feoktistov and Kryukov, with the support of Ustinov, who as we have seen had rejected an earlier attempt by Mishin to offload the DOS project to Chelomey, sent a joint letter to the Central Committee of the Communist Party and the Council of Ministers in which they criticised both Mishin’s work and the state of the TsKBEM, particularly expressing their dissatisfaction with both the manner in which Mishin ran projects and the fact that he ignored their criticism of his management. They concluded by demanding that Mishin be replaced.

Ustinov paid an unannounced personal visit to the TsKBEM. Such behaviour can be interpreted as being meant to signal to Mishin that the Politburo was concerned. As it was, when Mishin arrived Semyonov was showing Ustinov a scale model of DOS-3 and they were discussing the possibility of fitting a station with two docking ports. Of course, this idea was not new. The designers had been considering it since right after the first Salyut was launched in June 1971. It would enable an occupied station to be supplied with fuel, food, water and air. With regular servicing, a DOS would be able to be operated for years. The idea had been proposed by Semyonov, Feoktistov and Viktor Ovchinikov, an expert in spacecraft system development. But because Mishin was eager to hand the entire programme over to Chelomey he had refused to waste time on improvements beyond the DOS-3/4 configuration. Taking advantage of the moment, Semyonov asked if Ustinov would personally support the development of further DOS stations. Noting that Ustinov saw promise in the idea, Mishin figured that if he reversed his position and agreed to continue to build DOS stations, then he might gain Ustinov’s support against those who had demanded his resignation. And that is how it turned out. Alone in Mishin’s office, Ustinov pointed out that a station with two docking ports would have tremendous potential, and then he said in a friendly manner that Mishin should give some thought to his position at the TsKBEM. It was clear to Mishin that the only way in which he could remain as Chief Designer would be to support continued DOS development. This rendered the agreement with Chelomey obsolete. As Mishin’s opponents had hoped, this behind the scenes manoeuvring ensured that the TsKBEM focused its efforts on operating space stations – which was just as well, because the N1-L3 lunar programme was in deep trouble from which it was destined never to recover. And, of course, by acting in this way Ustinov was able once again to frustrate Chelomey.

As a result, the TsKBEM directed its efforts towards designing a new generation of DOS with two docking ports, the first of which was launched in September 1977 as Salyut 6. It was manned by five long-term crews, four of which were able to set successive endurance records. By being supplied a dozen times by automated cargo ships and occupied for a total of 684 days, it was a spectacular demonstration of the soundness of the design.

Despite the appearance that Mishin had secured his position, he was undermined by the list of failures by the TsKBEM since his appointment as Chief Designer in January 1966:

• November 1966 – The first unmanned Soyuz (Cosmos 133) suffered a series of faults; it was deliberately destroyed during its return in order to prevent it landing in China.

• February 1967 – Although the second Soyuz (Cosmos 140) was better than the first, it also suffered various difficulties, and ended up on the floor of the Aral Sea.

• April 1967 – Despite two less than satisfactory unmanned test flights, it was decided to start manned flights. Soyuz 1 suffered serious problems early on, and cosmonaut Vladimir Komarov was killed on impact after the parachute failed to deploy.

• October 1968 – Cosmonaut Georgiy Beregovoy failed to dock his Soyuz 3 with the unmanned Soyuz 2.

• January 1969 – The first launch of the N1 lunar rocket failed.

• July 1969 – The second N1 failed.

• October 1969 – The docking of Soyuz 8 with Soyuz 7 had to be cancelled in flight as a result of the failure of the Igla automated rendezvous system.

• November 1969 – The circumlunar L1 programme was abandoned without even one cosmonaut flying in the spacecraft.

• April 1971 – Soyuz 10 failed to completely dock with the first DOS space station owing to a technical failure.

• June 1971 – The third N1 failed.

• June 1971 – After spending a record time in space on board the first DOS space station, the Soyuz 11 crew died on their way home.

• July 1972 – The second DOS space station failed to reach orbit owing to a technical failure in the Proton launcher – although to be fair, this was not the fault of the TsKBEM.

• November 1972 – The fourth (and as events would prove, final) N1 failed.

• May 1973 – DOS-3 was lost soon after it achieved its initial orbit as a result of procedural errors.

As a result of losing DOS-2 and DOS-3, there were five Soyuz spacecraft sitting in storage. They could not be kept indefinitely, since their systems would gradually degrade to the degree that they would be unreliable. The State Commission decided that two would be flown unmanned and two would fly with crews on solo missions. On 15 June 1973, in the guise of Cosmos 573, a Soyuz spacecraft was launched into a 206 x 268 km orbit; it returned after two days. On 27 September 1973, more than two years after the Soyuz 11 tragedy, Soyuz 12 was launched. Aleksey Leonov and Valeriy Kubasov, veterans of the DOS-1 programme, had trained as the first crew for DOS-2, then for DOS-3, and immediately after DOS-3 was lost they were reassigned to the joint mission with the Americans that was to fly in 1975. The Soyuz 12 mission therefore went to Vasiliy Lazaryev and Oleg Makarov, who had trained as the second crew for both DOS-2 and DOS-3. On their two days in space they checked the Sokol-K pressure suit and the operation of all the revised systems. The spacecraft changed its orbital parameters several times. And, for the first time, NASA’s Mission Control Centre played a role in controlling a Soviet mission, as an exercise in preparation for the joint mission.

On 30 November 1973 another Soyuz was launched to a 195 x 295 km orbit in the guise of Cosmos 613. This was the craft in which Leonov and Kubasov would have flown to DOS-2. It remained in orbit for two months to assess how well the systems stood up to prolonged exposure to the space environment, and then returned safely. DOS-2 had carried an Orion advanced astrophysical telescope, but DOS-3 had not, so it was decided to install this apparatus on a Soyuz by substituting it for the active docking system and make observations of Comet Kohoutek as this passed

Soyuz 12, the first manned mission of modified Soyuz spacecraft, was flown by Makarov and Lazaryev (foreground).

Soyuz 13, the last mission before Vasiliy Mishin was dismissed as Chief Designer, was flown in December 1973 by Klimuk (left) and Lebedyev and was primarily to conduct astrophysical research.

near the Sun. In addition, solar panels were added to enable the spacecraft to remain in orbit for a week. Cosmonauts Pyotr Klimuk and Valentin Lebedyev flew this Soyuz 13 mission between 18 and 26 December 1973. The fifth spacecraft from the DOS-2 and DOS-3 stock was used for engineering tests of the special docking system made for the Apollo-Soyuz mission.

Soyuz 13 was the last manned mission to be launched under Mishin’s leadership. His downfall came as no surprise to his TsKBEM colleagues – for many of whom it was long overdue. It would appear that after consulting Ustinov, Brezhnyev decided that Mishin would have to go, and Afanasyev, Mishin’s protector, was powerless to intervene.

The formal decision was made at a meeting of the Politburo in mid-May 1974. As a result, Academician Pilyugin informed Chertok that Mishin was to be replaced by Valentin Pavlovich Glushko, the famous designer of rocket engines and, after Korolev, the most imposing figure in the early Soviet space programme. Chertok has written that it was clear from the behaviour of his colleagues that they knew what was going on, and yet no one wished to talk about it. In fact, Mishin must have been aware. On 22 May Afanasyev and Glushko arrived at the TsKBEM unannounced. Mishin was in hospital, but all of his deputies were convened. Afanasyev announced that the Politburo had decided to replace Mishin with Glushko. In shaking up the TsKBEM, Glushko merged it with his own bureau,[124] creating the Research and Production Association Energiya (NPO Energiya) with himself as Director and General Designer. This organisation became a veritable empire which addressed all areas of the manned space programme, from the development of motors and rockets, transport spacecraft, space stations, and even lunar bases. In mid-1974, therefore, a new era in the history of Soviet cosmonautics began.

Specific references

1. Chertok, B. Y., Rockets and People – The Moon Race, Book 4. Mashinostrenie, Moscow, 2002, pp. 422-434 (in Russian).

2. Afanasyev, I. B., Baturin, Y. M. and Belozerskiy, A. G., The World Manned Cosmonautics. RTSoft, Moscow, 2005, pp. 231-232 (in Russian).

When the Almaz and DOS programmes were initiated, no one could have predicted that such hardware would form the core of a space station at the turn of the century, but the Russian-built Zarya (‘Dawn’) and Zvezda (‘Star’) modules are key parts of the fnternational Space Station. And certainly not even Sergey Korolev could have dreamed that his Soyuz spacecraft would still be in use ferrying crews to this station. This legacy is truly the best of monuments to the lost crew of the first space station.

One day, a space crew will depart from a space station to head once again for the Moon, as a stepping stone to the planets. These future space travellers will owe a tremendous debt of thanks to cosmonauts Georgiy Dobrovolskiy, Vladislav Volkov and Viktor Patsayev, whose names are by now written between the stars.

Specific references

1. Mishin, V. P., Why Didn’t We Fly to the Moon? Znaniye, 12/1990, Moscow, 1990 (in Russian).

2. Gubaryev, V. S., Russian Space, Book 3. Exmo, Algorithm, Moscow, 2006, pp. 390-412 (in Russian).

3. Loskutov, A., ‘Tenable Gene’ (Interview with Mishin’s daughter), Daily News, Moscow, No. 8, 18 January 2007.

4. Novosti kosmonavtiki (in Russian)

No. 12, 2002 (Eulogy for Nikolay Rukavishnikov)

No. 3, 2003 (Necrology for Kerim Kerimov)

5. Molchanov, V. E., About Those Who Did Not Reach Orbit. Znaniye, Moscow 1990 (in Russian).

6. Soviet Cuban (Krasnodar), No. 29, 5 August 2005 (Interview with Konstantin Feoktistov).

7. Biographies of cosmonauts www. astronaut. ru

8. Tracking ships www. ski-omer. ru

Interviews by the author:

1. Marina Dobrovolskaya, 24 May 2007

2. Svetlana Patsayeva, 1 August 2007

3. Dmitry Patsayev, 5 September 2007

The immortal crew of the world’s first space station – Viktor Patsayev, Georgiy Dobrovolskiy and Vladislav Volkov.

[1] KETs – Konstantin Eduardovich Tsiolkovskiy

[2] DOS – Long-duration Orbital Station

[3] The ‘O’ in the abbreviation OKB-1 is the word ossobeniy, which can also be translated as ‘particular’ or ‘experimental’.

[4] The UR-500 rocket first flew in July 1965, and became known as the ‘Proton’ after its first scientific payloads.

[5] Funktsionalno-Gruzovoy Blok.

[6] Transportniy Korabl Snabzheniya.

[7] In effect, it was a Hubble Space Telescope designed for observing the surface of the Earth.

[8] This KSI capsule had the designator 11F76.

[9] A kilovolt-ampere (kVA) is equivalent to a kilowatt (kW).

[10] In the case of Soyuz-P, the ‘P’ stood for Perehvatchik, meaning ‘interceptor’.

[11] The ‘R’ stood for Razvedchik, meaning ‘intelligence gatherer’.

[12] Such a rapid time scale would prove to be impracticable, owing to the slow pace of the development of the Soyuz spacecraft on which Zvezda was based.

[13] The designation ‘VI’ stood for Voenniy Issledovatel (Военый исследовател), meaning Military Researcher.

[14] ‘TK’ stood for Transportniy Korabl, meaning ‘transport spacecraft’.

[15] The designers of the American MOL made the same compromise, placing the hatch in the heat shield of the Gemini spacecraft. An unmanned test flight demonstrated that the hatch could survive re­entry, but no manned mission was ever flown.

[16] This special-purpose gun was designed by Aleksandr Emmanuelovich Nudelyman.

[17] In fact, the Americans did not have such a capability.

[18] The ‘S’ stood for Snabzheniya, meaning ‘supply’, so the role of this spacecraft was to transport a crew and their immediate supplies.

[19] The ‘G’ stood for Gruzovoy, meaning ‘cargo’, so the ‘SG’ model was a cargo transporter.

[20] A decade later, a modified form of the 7K-SG was launched as Progress 1 to resupply Salyut 6.

[21] Note that whereas the large Almaz was able to accommodate a straightforward conversion of an aircraft cannon, Nudelyman had to develop a much more compact weapon for the smaller Soyuz-VI.

[22] The main habitable compartment of the Skylab space station was the fuel tank of the second stage of a Saturn IB launch vehicle, so the basis for Raushenbakh’s idea is obvious.

[23] This was to be the 7K-T (‘T’ for Transportniy, or ‘transporter’) version of the Soyuz spacecraft.

[24] It was one of these cores which, some 13 months later, was successfully launched as the world’s first space station.

[25] On the original Almaz, this forward hatch would have enabled the crew to enter the station from the capsule mounted on the front at launch.

[26] According to Mishin, Ustinov ordered that the first visit to the station should last one month.

[27] The pioneering spacewalker was Aleksey Leonov in 1965.

[28] Soon after this, Shonin was admitted to the Burdenko Hospital in Moscow suffering from depression. On being discharged in March 1971 he was urged to undergo a lengthy medical treatment. He recovered, but never flew in space again. He died from a heart attack in April 1997.

[29] In accordance with Soviet tradition, the first space station did not bear the number ‘1’. If the first example of a new type of spacecraft were to be numbered, it would make evident that a series of such vehicles were planned, and the Soviet Union went to great lengths to keep its plans secret.

[30] The ships were named Morzhovets, Kegostrov and Academician Sergey Korolev.

[31] Kubasov’s mind may have been distracted at this time, because in Moscow his wife was giving birth to their second child: son Dmitriy.

[32] The first two Soviet spacewalkers were Aleksey Leonov, on the Voskhod 2 mission in March 1966, and Yevgeniy Khrunov, who made the transfer from Soyuz 5 to Soyuz 4 several minutes ahead of Yeliseyev.

[33] After the death of Stalin in 1953, Stanislav Kuraytis was rehabilitated and granted a PhD degree, but he died soon thereafter.

[34] The eight TsKBEM engineers selected for the first group of civilian cosmonauts were Sergey Anyokhin (commander), Vladimir Bugrov, Vladislav Volkov, Georgiy Grechko, Gennadiy Dolgopolov, Valeriy Kubasov, Aleksey Yeliseyev and Oleg Makarov.

[35] Later in 1966, Yeliseyev divorced his first wife and married Larisa Ivanovna Komarova, who was an engineer at the TsKBEM.

[36] After 1975 TsUP-E controlled only manned military missions to the Almaz stations.

[37] The Molniya (Lightning) satellite was in a highly elliptical orbit with a 12-hour period and the highest point of its orbit over the Soviet Union.

[38] In December 1971 Cosmonaut Yuriy Gagarin joined the network. At 45,000 tonnes, it was made the flagship of the fleet. All ten tracking ships had their home ports either at Odessa in the Black Sea or at Leningrad in the Baltic.

[39] In cyrillic the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics (USSR) is Союз Советских Социалиста веских Республик (СССР). It is sometimes written as Soyuz Sovetskikh Sotsialisticheskikh Respublik (SSSR).

[40] Soyuz 5 was able to be launched with three cosmonauts and two EVA suits because it was a 7K – OK, as opposed to a 7K-T, and because by serving as the passive vehicle in the Soyuz 4/5 mission it had carried less propellant and no active docking system – it had the lighter passive unit. Furthermore, for half of its three days in space Soyuz 5 had only one man on board. The fact that the 7K-T that would have flown as Soyuz 12 would have been required to carry the extra air, water, food and apparatus needed to sustain the planned 30-45-day visit to DOS-1 would have made it difficult to accommodate in the orbital module two spacesuits and the ancillary air tanks.

[41] In fact, two days before Apollo 13 was due to launch in April 1970 NASA had exchanged a member of the prime crew with his backup, owing to a medical concern.

[42] Георгий Тмиофеевич Добвольский

[43] In 1968 this institution was renamed the Y. A. Gagarin Academy.

[44] In his 13 years as a military pilot Dobrovolskiy accumulated 330 hours of flying time in UT-2, Yak-11, La-9, R-39 and MiG-15 aircraft. At first sight this might appear an unimpressive figure, but it should be remembered that as of 1955 his job combined flying with administrative duties, and later he worked more as a manager than as a pilot. Although a total of 330 hours was one of the lowest accumulated flying times among the pilots of the second group, it was still one-third greater than that of most members of the first group!

[45] At this point the L1 group had 11 men; the military cosmonauts were Leonov, Popovich, Byelyayev, Volynov, Klimuk, Voronov and Artyukhin, and the civilians were Makarov, Rukavishnikov, Grechko and Sevastyanov.

[46] If all had gone well with Soyuz 1 in April 1967, this docking would have been with Soyuz 2. The loss of Vladimir Komarov created an opening in the crew assignments for the second attempt at this important task, and Volynov was added to the group.

[47] In June 1967 a civilian cosmonaut from the Soviet Academy of Sciences, Yershov (who was an expert in navigation systems) joined the 11-man L1 group, then in January 1968 Voloshin replaced Byelyayev and at the same time Bykovskiy and Kuklin were added to the group; making a total of 14 cosmonauts: 9 military and 5 civilians.

[48] Владислав Николаевич Волков

[49] In fact, Anyokhin was a colonel in the Air Force and a former test pilot. Interestingly, despite losing an eye in 1945 during a test flight, 21 years later he was nominated by the TsKBEM as a civilian cosmonaut and given command of the group of cosmonaut-engineers.

[50] It is impossible to prove, but it is likely that Kamanin ordered the Air Force doctors to pass only half of the cosmonaut-engineers sent to the TsPK by the TsKBEM, in order to minimise the number of civilians available to compete with his military cosmonauts for flights.

[51] These two were Nikolay Rukavishnikov and Vitaliy Sevastyanov.

[52] Red Star, the newspaper of the Soviet Army.

[53] Виктор Иванович Пацаев

[54] The tatar warriors were from Mongolia.

[55] By this time, Viktor could already speak German. He mastered English several years later, while working at OKB-1.

[56] To be precise, if all three members of Leonov’s crew wore the patch, then in the case of Kubasov it is not apparent in the photographs available to the author.

[57] The commander’s couch was in the centre, the flight engineer to the commander’s right and the research cosmonaut to the commander’s left. Spanning the cabin in front of them was a panel of instruments, switches and indicator lights.

[58] ‘Zarya’ means ‘Dawn’.

[59] Spacecraft radio call-signs were stones – Soyuz 10 was ‘Granit’ (‘Granite’) and Soyuz 11 was ‘Yantar’ (‘Amber’); Dobrovolskiy was ‘Yantar 1’, Volkov was ‘Yantar 2’ and Patsayev was ‘Yantar 3’.

[60] When Sputnik was launched in 1957, this town was the nearest large population centre on the track of the rocket’s ascent, so the launch site came to be known as the Baykonur cosmodrome.

[61] The Kettering team’s first success was Sputnik 4 in 1960. Its achievements included detecting signals from the Voskhod spacecraft in October 1964 prior to the completion of its initial orbit; identifying the location of the Soviet cosmodrome at Plesetsk in 1966; and the first Western detection of signals from the first Chinese satellite in April 1970.

[62] Although commonly described by Western observers as the ‘orbital module’, the Russian term for this part of the Soyuz spacecraft, bitovoy odsek, is more appropriately translated as ‘habitat module’.

[63] The ‘free volume’ of a module was that which was available to the crew after all of the apparatus had been installed.

[64] The managers had accepted Rukavishnikov’s suggestion that sleeping bags be carried on the Soyuz.

[65] American astronauts would refer to this as ‘lock on’.

[66] Whereas a bactericidal kills bacteria outright, a bacteriostatic is capable of inhibiting the growth or reproduction of bacteria, and so serves to improve the immune system.

[67] The acronym for the Athlete suit was TNK owing to its cyrillic name of Trenirovachniy Nagruzniy Costyum (Training Loading Suit).

[68] On Soyuz 9 Nikolayev and Sevastyanov had tested an apparatus (Athlete-1) intended for this purpose, but it was fixed to the wall of the orbital module and they could use it only at specific intervals.

[69] At an altitude of 300 km, the station’s orbit would be lowered by about 90 metres per day.

[70] This unit is now popular by the Chibis name.

[71] A contemporary Soviet source said that each man was to have two sessions in the ODNT per week, but owing to technical problems this was not feasible, and only two cosmonauts performed the ‘vacuum’ test, and only once during the mission. One was Dobrovolskiy and the other was very probably Volkov.

[72] The term Cosmovision was coined by the journalists for the TV shows from Salyut, not the name of the television programme(s) that participated in broadcasting them.

[73] Astronauts on some Gemini missions had previously conducted astronomical photography.

[74] An angstrom is 1 x 10-10 metre, and is the unit in which spectra are measured. The human eye is sensitive from 4,000 to 7,000 angstroms, running from violet to red respectively. The Orion telescope was designed to observe in the ultraviolet.

[75] Dobrovolskiy had concluded that the enthusiasm of a man exercising alone soon waned; it would be better for the crew to exercise jointly, since then they would be able to encourage one another. As commander, he may have been thinking of Volkov, who had missed several exercises earlier in the mission.

[76] Dobrovolskiy’s frustration at the workload was in part because the mission planners had drawn up the schedule of scientific experiments without appreciating the time that it would take to perform them in the weightlessness environment of space – it always took longer than it had during terrestrial training. Even before they could start an experiment, they had to prepare the apparatus, locate and read the instructions, unpack any samples or devices and install them. Naturally, as commander, he worried about his crew’s performance. It was demoralising for them to be judged by the TsUP to have fallen behind the schedule. However, in retrospect, it is evident that this crew was inadequately trained to conduct a large scientific programme – they were simply not ready.

[77] Although Salyut had four solar panels and could draw on the panels on the docked Soyuz, it had much more apparatus, and to supply the required electricity the designers had had to reduce the brightness of the illumination in some parts of the station. (Indeed, in pictures taken during the mission it is hard to see the details at the rear of the main working compartment.) This made it difficult to operate the apparatus which was installed in these areas.

[78] Specifically, they measured accommodation and convergence.

[79] Mayak (Beacon) was a popular radio programme.

[80] If this were to be done, and the Soyuz 12 launch was on schedule, then Rukavishnikov would establish the world record for the shortest interval between successive missions: 101 days.

[81] In Russian: radiochastotniy masspektrometer (радио-частотный масс-спектрометар).

[82] Recall that 7K-T was the model of the Soyuz in use at that time.

[83] Kamanin was already planning to fly to Yevpatoriya on 16 June at 4 p. m. Prior to his flight, he went to the TsPK and met Popovich (on the eve of the latter’s trip to Paris with Sevastyanov), Khrunov (about to visit the United States) and Volynov (who again asked Kamanin to be included in one of the forthcoming crews). Around 1 p. m., when Kamanin was having lunch, Shatalov approached him with the news of the fire on the station. Kamanin went straight to the airport and at 2.05 p. m. his Tu-104 departed for Yevpatoriya.

[84] Vera Patsayeva worked at the Central Scientific Research Institute of the Academy of Sciences (TsNIIMash), which was adjacent to the TsKBEM’s main building in Kaliningrad.

[85] In fact, Soyuz transmissions continued until 21 June, then nothing more was heard until 24 June.

[86] On Russian trains which travel for many days and nights, some wagons provide roomettes in which passengers can have privacy.

[87] In assuring the controllers that he was taking meticulous notes, Volkov, who was well aware of how he caused problems for his colleagues, flight controllers and even his boss Mishin, may have been trying to make amends as the mission approached its conclusion.

[88] Specifically, Kegostrov was to monitor the braking manoeuvre if this were scheduled for the second orbit after Soyuz 11 undocked from Salyut, and Bezhitsa would do so if it occurred on the third orbit.

[89] He observed the star Vega (alpha Lyra).

[90] Mignonette is the common name for a small family of herbs and shrubs that inhabit arid regions.

[91] The Era investigation, which began on 16 June, was to detect high-energy electrons at orbital altitude.

[92] Dobrovolskiy was referring to the speed at which the human eye adapts to rapidly changing lighting conditions. Although he was able to determine the direction of the station’s motion after watching the surface of the Earth for a while, if he quickly switched his attention to another area that was differently illuminated then it took a while to perceive the motion which he knew to be occurring.

[93] Note that although the Soyuz 9 record was 18 days, the International Astronautics Federation required an endurance record to be exceeded by 10 per cent to recognise it as having been ‘broken’; hence the delayed congratulations.

[94] The situation could have been worse – the catastrophic N1 launch failure of July 1969 had destroyed the launch pad! Fortunately, two N1 pads had been constructed.

[95] When Vladimir Komarov’s capsule struck the ground at high speed, the ‘black box’ was destroyed by a combination of the shock and the subsequent fire. The design had been strengthened in order to survive a recurrence of such an event.

[96] When the direction of the force is from the feet toward the head, the body is exposed to the maximum load. The optimal position is when the force acts at an angle of 10-15 degrees to the chest-to – backbone direction (known as ‘breast-spin’) because this minimises the component from the head to the feet.

[97] The height sensor is a gamma-ray altimeter (Таммалучевой высотомер’).

[98] The root cause of Komarov’s death was the thermal treatment of the descent module and the placing of the parachutes into their containers. Because the parachute containers of both the Soyuz 1 and Soyuz 2 descent modules did not have hatches when they were sent for the application of their thermal treatment, the technicians decided not to ask for the hatches to be supplied and instead ‘closed’ the openings using improvised covers that did not form a hermetic seal. During the treatment, some molecules of the thermal protective material penetrated the containers and coated their walls, thereby both reducing their volumes and making the smooth interior surfaces rough. When the treatment was finished, the technicians tried to put the parachutes into their containers and, on finding that they would not fit, opted not to inform their managers but instead (according to Mishin) to use some kind of tool to force them in. It is ironic that the early problems suffered by Soyuz 1 led to the cancellation of the launch of the second spacecraft for this joint mission, as otherwise both crews would almost certainly have been killed.

[99] The recovery team found the pilot, drogue and reserve parachutes at the landing site; the main chute was destroyed inside its container by the fire that followed the crash.

[100] While sailing towards the assigned station, the crew of Bezhitsa heard the terrible news of Soyuz 11 on Radio Moscow.

[101] A further complication was that owing to the difficulty in achieving a hermetic seal of the hatch prior to undocking, the cosmonauts were initially 20 minutes behind the flight plan.

[102] In addition, neither Stafford or Leonov knew that in 1975 they would command the two spacecraft of the joint mission involving an Apollo and a Soyuz spacecraft.

[103] The poet referred to Viktor Patsayev as Vitya, Georgiy Dobrovolskiy as Gosha and Vladislav Volkov as Slava.

[104] Aleksandr Matrosov was made a Hero of the Soviet Union during World War II for sacrificing himself in an assault on an enemy bunker, and in so doing preserving the lives of his colleagues.

[105] This was reported by The Sunday Times, but there is no direct evidence for this in the radio communications following undocking. However, it is not inconceivable that the cosmonauts had problems with breathing after a long day of transferring the final materials to the Soyuz and the stress resulting from the difficulty encountered in closing the hatch.

[106] In all other respects, of course, the Soyuz was more sophisticated than the Voskhod, particularly in having an escape system in case of a malfunction in the launch vehicle.

[107] Three pressure suits would have weighed a total of about 80 kg, and there would have to have been additional apparatus to support them independently of the cabin environment. The Soyuz spacecraft simply was not designed for such a configuration.

[108] In making this remark, Mishin gave the impression that he expected that a cosmonaut would hold his finger in place to stem the air leak right through the re-entry process, until the capsule was in the atmosphere. However, the real value in interrupting the leak in this manner would have been to buy the time required to close the manual shutter on the valve. Yet there was no tank to replenish the lost air.

[109] Kamanin has interpreted Mishin’s remark about a cosmonaut stemming the air leak by holding his thumb over the hole literally, and is criticising the expectation that this could have been sustained as the deceleration loads increased and forced the crewman back into his couch. In fact, if all that was intended was to buy time to close the manual shutter in the valve, then this criticism of the idea does not apply.

[110] When asked about this by the author, the cosmonauts’ children Marina Dobrovolskiy and Svetlana and Dmitriy Patsayev could not confirm Leonov’s remark. Also, his remark about Vera Patsayeva is not recorded in her meticulous diary.

[111] Here Feoktistov told Vera Patsayeva of the defect noted by Shatalov. The automatic shutter took the form of a ball fixed in its ‘nest’ by a screw, but the screw on valve No. 1 was not fastened properly and the shock of the pyrotechnics unseated the ball from the nest.

[112] As explained earlier, there was a small pyrotechnic charge in each valve to release the ball from its nest. Both valves were on the same electric circuit.

[113] As may be inferred from Mishin’s remarks, he made contradictory accounts in interviews given many years later. The fact that Leonov says he discussed the valves with the crew proves that they were aware of their settings, because they decided to use the settings which were specified in their onboard instruction. The thrust of Mishin’s argument was that he wished to place the blame on the crew’s training (which was the responsibility of Kamanin) rather than on the design of the craft by his bureau.

[114] In view of the poor workmanship and the fact that there were no post-flight checks until after the Soyuz 11 accident, a decompression at this phase of the mission was an accident waiting to happen, and if it had not occurred on Soyuz 11 it may well have done so on a later mission.

[115] In Sokol-K, the ‘K’ was for ‘космос’, the Russian word for ‘space’.

[116] This test could last six days because the unmanned spacecraft placed a lower load on its batteries.

[117] DOS-2 was DOS-7K No. 2, 17K No. 122.

[118] Although recruited as military cosmonauts, the fact that Kolodin and Voronov were not military pilots meant that they were unlikely to be assigned as spacecraft commanders.

[119] The irony, of course, was that Salyut was a civilian development of Almaz, and as Ustinov had realised early on, launching a scientific station first would serve as a maskirovka to hide the real project.

[120] Rodion Malinovskiy and Andrey Grechko (Ministers of Defence from 1957 to 1967 and 1967 to 1976 respectively) and Marshals Konstantin Vershinin and Pavel Kutakhov (Commanders in Chief of the Air Force from 1957 to 1969 and 1969 to 1984) had persistently urged that that the construction of the first Almaz station be accelerated.

[121] DOS-3 was 17K No. 123 and DOS-4 was 17K No. 124.

[122] The Kaliningrad mission control facility was designated TsUP-M, to distinguish it from TsUP-E at Yevpatoriya.

[123] Although Semyonov was a leading figure in the DOS programme, he probably supported Mishin on this issue simply through loyalty to his boss. However, it is also possible that Semyonov realised that owing to the problems faced by the N1 the lunar programme was likely to be cancelled, whereupon the TsKBEM’s only option would be the DOS programme.

[124] OKB-456, later to become Energomash.

[125] The loss of the OPS-1 station does not count in this context, because it was not a TsKBEM project.

[126] When launched, this was named Radio1.

[127] ‘Почему мы не слетали на Луну?’

[128] Mishin outlived his mentor, Sergey Afanasyev, by five months.

[129] It is now part of the Khrunichev Centre.

[130] RKK stands for Raketno-Kosmicheskaya Korporatsiya, which means Space Rocket Corporation.

[131] Fizichesko-Tehnicheckiy Institut.

[132] ‘Ракеты и люди’.

[133] ‘Семь шагов в небо’.

[134] ‘Траектория жизни’

[135] In fact, Kamanin’s ceased to be in charge of cosmonaut training on 25 June 1971, a few days before Soyuz 11 was due to return to Earth.

[136] ‘Скрытый космос’.

[137] Interestingly, it was at this time that the Voskhod 3 mission was cancelled, and Shatalov had been a member of the backup crew.

[138] ‘Трудные дороги космоса’.

[139] ‘Ждзнь – капля в море’.

[140] In 1999 this became the Russian Cosmonautics Federation.

[141] One Astronomical Unit (AU) is defined as the mean radius of the Earth’s orbit of the Sun.

[142] Such ships had already been named after Sergey Korolev, Vladimir Komarov, Yuriy Gagarin and Pavel Belyeyev.

[143] The fate of Cosmonaut Vladislav Volkov is uncertain. It was very likely sold to a private company and scrapped. After the collapse of the Soviet Union, the largest tracking ships Academician Sergey Korolev and Cosmonaut Yuriy Gagarin were anchored in Odessa in Ukraine. Despite protests from Russia, both were sold to a private company that broke them up and sold the scrap to India in 1996.

Dobrovolskiy, Volkov and Patsayev knew well the risks of the return operation, but on the third orbit after undocking from Salyut they were in excellent spirits and impatient for the landing. At 1.10 a. m. on Wednesday, 30 June, while out of radio contact over the Pacific Ocean approaching Chile, Dobrovolskiy, assisted by Volkov, oriented Soyuz 11 to position its main engine facing the direction of the flight.

One of many disputed issues concerning the final phase of this mission is the time of the last words from the crew.

The last officially published communication from Soyuz 11 was at 00.16 a. m., when Kamanin in the TsUP spoke to Dobrovolskiy, who reported that they were in the process of preparing for the orientation manoeuvre. At that time they could still see the Salyut station. Then the controller signed off with: “Good-bye Yantars, until the next communication session.”

The official sources do not give a chronology of the last conversations with the Soyuz 11 crew, or between the cosmonauts.

In his 1971 book Soviets in Space, Peter Smolders cites the following words from Dobrovolskiy as the last communication received by the TsUP: “I am beginning the descent procedure.”

Yeliseyev’s book offers the following account of the final words received by the TsUP: “The last communication session is ending. Immediately before leaving the zone of radio visibility, Volkov managed to call loudly to say: ‘Prepare cognac, see you tomorrow!’ …” However, owing to the phrase “see you tomorrow” the time of this reported communication is unclear – was it on 29 June or 30 June. Nevertheless, the words “Prepare cognac” would be a typical final message prior to an imminent reunion. It may well have been that immediately before the loss of communication Dobrovolskiy said he was “beginning the orientation” and then in the final seconds Volkov managed to add his remark.

Between 1.22.00 a. m. and 1.31.25 a. m. Soyuz 11 passed over South America and then set off across the Atlantic Ocean. As noted, for optimal visibility at the landing site the braking manoeuvre was to be made on the third orbit after undocking from the station. This was why Soyuz 11 had a different re-entry trajectory than previous missions. One circuit of the Earth lasted on average 89 minutes. During this interval the planet rotated through 22.2 degrees, so Soyuz 11 was north of the equator at the moment that the engine fired, somewhat to the north and west of the typical braking position for a Soyuz descent. The engine was fired automatically at 1.35.24 a. m., as planned. At that time, Soyuz 11 was over the Atlantic between the northeast coast of South America and the coast of Africa. The engine fired for the planned duration of 187 seconds and was automatically switched off after reducing the speed of the spacecraft by the requisite 120 m/s. Another interesting detail – in contrast to most of the previous flights, in this case the braking manoeuvre was made during the descending portion of the orbit – i. e. after the ship had passed the apogee point. Following the braking manoeuvre, the automated control system would reorient the vehicle for the separation of the modules, perform the separation, control the path of the descent module through the atmosphere in order to aim for the target, manage the parachute deployment sequence, jettison the heat shield, fire the retro-rockets and jettison the parachute. The crew were not required to participate in any of these critical operations.

Did the tracking ships in the Atlantic Ocean detect signals from Soyuz 11 during the braking manoeuvre? Chertok’s memoirs and Kamanin’s diary, two of the most widely cited sources, offer contrary accounts.

Chertok wrote:

After undocking from the station, two orbits are allowed to prepare for the descent. The crew will conduct manual orientation while out of our visibility

zone and pass control to the gyro instruments. The command for the start of the descent activity will be emitted from NIP-16, with NIP-15 as the reserve. The KTDU will fire for braking at 1 hour 47 minutes on 30 June. …

All indications on the panel were normal, and the cosmonauts reported the achievement of all operations on time. … Everything went according to the timetable. The tracking ships received information as the spacecraft passed above, and reported to the TsUP that the braking engine had operated for the estimated duration and was switched off by the integrator [when the correct velocity had been attained]. The control-measuring complex and the GOGU were satisfied with the control of the spacecraft on the landing orbit.

After engine cut-off, the spacecraft exited the communication zone of the tracking ships in the Atlantic. The orbital module and the propulsion module were jettisoned from the descent module while passing over Africa.

Based on this, we can conclude that the TsUP had information from “the tracking ships” that the braking engine was fired and shut off as expected, and that Soyuz 11 then re-entered as planned. Also, Chertok implies that several ships were involved in tracking this particular re-entry! Furthermore, he said that Soyuz 11 left the radio zone of the ships when the main engine switched off, which is a point also made by the official TASS report (see the next chapter). However, he was mistaken in giving the time of the braking manoeuvre as 1.47 a. m. (this was the time that the modules were separated) and incorrect in saying that the separation occurred above Africa (it was the typical scenario for the previous Soyuz missions, but not in this case).

Another author, Colonel Ivan Borisenko, the ‘Sporting Commissar’, has said that communication was briefly established with Soyuz 11 about this time, then lost at the moment of the separation of the modules.

However, in his diary entry of 30 June General Kamanin says:

According to the re-entry programme, the KTDU must start at 01.35.24 and should turn off after 187 seconds. We impatiently waited for a report of the braking manoeuvre. Shatalov repeatedly called Yantar on line, but there was no response from the crew. …

At 1.47.28 the separation must occur, … but there are no reports about this. We did not know whether Soyuz 11 had begun the descent, or had remained in orbit. The period of communication calculated for the case of the ship not leaving orbit (01.49.37-02.04.07) began. There was an oppressive silence in the room. There was no communication with the crew or any new data about Soyuz 11. Everyone understood that something had occurred aboard the spacecraft, but no one knew what. The minutes of expectation passed terribly slowly.

So, according to Kamanin, no one in the TsUP knew whether the main engine had fired on time or if the braking manoeuvre had been completed. He did not mention receiving the information from the tracking ships in the Atlantic that Chertok cited. There was no response from the spacecraft to Shatalov’s calls. The silence from the spacecraft shortly before, during, and after the braking manoeuvre,

which was about ten minutes before the separation of the modules, is another interesting detail. With the exception of Kamanin, no other source (Chertok, Yeliseyev, Feoktistov, Rebrov, and others) spoke of the silence of the crew in the braking period – while Soyuz 11 was passing over the tracking ships. Yeliseyev, who was in the TsUP with Kamanin, Chertok, Feoktistov and others, did not refer to tension in the control room owing to uncertainty concerning the braking manoeuvre. He wrote nothing about the tracking ships and signals they might have received from Soyuz 11; only of data from the radar stations which detected the descent module after its path had carried it onto Soviet territory.

So what really happened? Let us consider the tracking ships in the Atlantic. Due to the position of Soyuz 11 during the braking manoeuvre, only a ship located in the equatorial region could have received a transmission during this time. Bezhitsa was at its operating station near the coast of Africa in the Gulf of Guinea, at 1.5 degrees south, 13 degrees west, until 29 June. From this station, it would have had two or three opportunities each day to monitor the success of the braking manoeuvre. But it had been at sea for four months, and was low on provisions. It was to sail to Las Palmas in the Canary Islands in early July for replenishment. Since this station was of crucial importance to monitoring Soyuz 11 during its braking manoeuvre, it was decided that Kegostrov, in the South Atlantic at 22 degrees south, 24 degrees west, should move to relieve Bezhitsa. On 29 June Bezhitsa received an unexpected order to leave its station. Amazingly, it left before Kegostrov arrived to replace it! On the morning of 30 June, local time, when it was realised that Kegostrov would not be in position before Soyuz ll’s braking manoeuvre, the head of the Soviet Naval Fleet personally ordered Bezhitsa’s captain to urgently return to his previous station so as to monitor the braking manoeuvre – not just the telemetry but also the commentary from the crew. However, it was apparent that Bezhitsa would not be able to resume its former station in time.[100]

Why was Soyuz 11 allowed to proceed with the undocking and return to Earth if a tracking ship to monitor the braking manoeuvre was absent? As noted, in planning the mission there were discussions about whether it should be for 45, 30 or 25 days. Finally, guided by the ballistics, Mishin had decided to accept the ‘25’-day duration and shorten it by one day, with the landing on 30 June instead of 1 July. This is the first important detail to consider when pondering the reasons for Soyuz ll’s return without a tracking ship in this key position. It would appear that in the final stage of the mission the usually excellent co-ordination between the TsUP (in fact, the State Commission) and the Soviet Naval Fleet failed, causing Bezhitsa to leave its station prior to the arrival of Kegostrov. In addition, there had been a dispute between the Air Force (Kamanin) and the TsKBEM (Tregub) about whether Soyuz 11 should return on the second or the third orbit after it undocked from the station. A return on the second orbit would have taken the familiar route across Africa, but would have meant landing in darkness. During the additional orbit, the eastward rotation of the Earth displaced the longitude at which the spacecraft would perform its

northward crossing of the equator 22 degrees to the west.[101] The descent trajectory for Soyuz 11 was therefore different to the one with which everybody was familiar – as indicated by the mistake in Chertok’s account. Instead of firing the main engine while passing above the Gulf of Guinea, where Bezhitsa was to have been, the braking manoeuvre started at 10 degrees north, 40 degrees west, and was concluded at 29 degrees north, 32 degrees west. At Soyuz ll’s altitude, the communication zones of Bezhitsa and Kegostrov were about 15 degrees in radius, but beyond about 10 degrees the signal was weak. In fact, not only was Bezhitsa off-station when the spacecraft performed its braking manoeuvre, that fact that it was sailing at maximum speed in an effort to resume its station meant that it did not even attempt to listen. And Kegostrov, being even further away, could not have received a signal from Soyuz 11 at the vital time. This is why (as Kamanin noted) no one in the TsUP knew whether the spacecraft had made the manoeuvre. And, of course, even if one of these two ships had been in position, neither was equipped to relay the VHF transmission from the spacecraft to the TsUP, which is why the control room did not hear the cosmonauts’ voices, only “silence”. Academician Sergey Korolev and Cosmonaut Vladimir Komarov were equipped to relay signals from a spacecraft to the TsUP, but only when a Molniya satellite was conveniently positioned, and in this case Komarov was out of service and Korolev was in the North Atlantic and too far away to receive signals during the spacecraft’s braking manoeuvre.

For more than 36 years the ashes of cosmonauts Georgiy Dobrovolskiy, Vladislav Volkov and Viktor Patsayev have rested in niches in the Kremlin’s wall. In addition to their families, they were mourned by hundreds of engineers, technicians, officers, cosmonauts and politicians. Despite the tragedy, there was a determination that the DOS programme must continue. The programme would never have come about if it were not for the support of Dmitriy Ustinov and Sergey Afanasyev, the so-called ‘Space Minister’. They supported the proposal initiated by Boris Raushenbakh, Boris Chertok and Konstantin Feoktistov at the TsKBEM to modify the Almaz military reconnaissance station which was being developed by a rival bureau led by Vladimir Chelomey, to serve as a long-term station for scientific research. Although Vasiliy Mishin, in charge at the TsKBEM, was antagonistic, these men succeeded not only in getting the programme started but also in making it the dominant element of the Soviet space programme.

On the operational side, General Nikolay Kamanin managed the training of the cosmonauts. The cosmonauts whose lives were most affected by the early years of the DOS work were Vladimir Shatalov, Aleksey Yeliseyev, Nikolay Rukavishnikov, Aleksey Leonov, Valeriy Kubasov and Pyotr Kolodin. For months, together with Dobrovolskiy, Volkov and Patsayev, these men trained to operate the world’s first space station, Salyut.

Let us conclude by reviewing the lives of the key people of the programme after its disastrous early years.

Writing this book involved extensive research, but it is a logical continuation of my interest in space flight which was sparked by the television series Star Trek when I was only 11 years of age. The idea for this book arose when the Serbian magazine Astronomija (Astronomy) published a series which I wrote detailing the disasters of the space programme, one of which was an account of the Soyuz 11 tragedy.

Seeing in Spaceflight magazine of the British Interplanetary Society a short letter from Praxis Publishing encouraging new authors interested in space to join them, on 10 October 2006 I sent them my first email offering the story of the greatest tragedy in Soviet cosmonautics. To my great delight, they accepted. In the ensuing months, I read all the material available to me on the Salyut space station, ranging from the early releases in 1971 to the most recent books published in Russia, England and America. It would have been very difficult to write this book without the generous assistance and support of enthusiasts in Australia, Russia, Serbia, England, Scotland, Ireland, America, Israel, Spain and Sweden – some of whom have spent decades probing the secrets of the Soviet space programme – and I thank them all from the bottom of my heart. In particular, I am grateful to:

• My love Natasha and our little angels Tijana Sara and Dushan – for their understanding, support, strength, tolerance and endurance during these long months;

• David Harland – for his comprehensive preparation of the manuscript and illustrations;

• Vadim Anosov – for continuous support, and for sharing his knowledge, interest and endless enthusiasm for cosmonautics;

• Marina Dobrovolskiy – for memories of her heroic father;

• Aleksandr Zheleznyakov – for kindly contributing the foreword;

• Svetlana Patsayeva – for sensitive words about her exceptional father, unselfish assistance, and for exclusive access to the materials pertaining to the Soyuz 11 tragedy collected by her mother, Vera Patsayeva, over many years;

• Brian Harvey – for archive materials of the Salyut space station, and for reviewing an early draft of the manuscript;

• Rex Hall – for providing photographs;

• Dmitriy Patsayev – for sharing memories about his father, and also for professional comments;

• Clive Horwood – for continuous support and belief in the project;

• Ivana Lukic – for reviewing my English, providing translations and advice, and for encouragement to work on this project;

• Leon Rosenblum – for information regarding the tracking ships;

• Aleksandar Zorkic – for continuous support, encouragement and help;

• Sven Grahn – for Salyut radio-tracking data;

• Dmitriy Payson – for help in establishing contact with Marina Dobrovolskiy;

• Mark Wade – for providing diagrams;

• Asif Siddiqi – f r his support and assistance;

• Peter Pesavento – for providing photographs;

• Slobodan Zlokolica – for archive materials of the Soyuz 11 mission from the National Serbian Library.

During the long and silent nights that I studied the material about the first Salyut space station, glances at my rested and blessed parents Stale and Mila provided me an additional strength. They wholeheartedly supported my love of the heavens. Ten years ago, they proudly assisted the presentation of my first book in Serbia. I know how proud they would have been to see this book too.

Again, to all concerned, I kindly thank you, and bow to the immensity of space! After all, “we are all made of stars”.

The development of the Soviet space tracking network began in the early days of rocketry to facilitate the tracking of intercontinental ballistic missiles in test flights from Baykonur. The system was then expanded and increased in scope to deal with orbital flights. The relatively brief Vostok and Voskhod missions were managed at Baykonur by Sergey Korolev, as the technical director for space missions, with the support of the so-called Operation Group of the Strategic Rocket Forces. The first Flight Control Centre (TsUP) was at Scientific Research Institute No. 4 (NII-4) in Bolshevo, near Moscow. For the Voskhod missions it was relocated to the control centre of the Ministry of Defence’s General Staff, which had better communications. Colonel Amos Bolshoy headed the Operation Group of the TsUP in Moscow for all manned space missions until 1966, providing continuous contact with seven ground stations known as Ground-Test Polygons (NIP) which formed a chain that stretched across the Soviet Union. They were at Bear’s Lake near Moscow, Kolpashevo, Yeniseysk and Ulan Ude in Siberia, Sarishagan in the south, Petropavlovsk in the Far East and Ussuriysk on the Kamchatka peninsula. At each site, military and civilian engineers analysed the parameters of the spacecraft’s orbit derived from radar tracking, and the conditions of its systems from telemetry received during communications sessions lasting at most 12 minutes. The Operation Group relayed the data to the TsUP and provided continuous contact with Korolev at Baykonur. The NIP sites were part of the Command-Measurement Complex (KIK) operated by the Strategic Rocket Forces.

Due to the complexity of the Soyuz programme and the ambitious plans for lunar missions, the flight control system underwent a major revision in the mid-1960s. The TsUP was moved to NIP-16 near Yevpatoriya on the west coast of the Crimea, which had been responsible for controlling automated interplanetary probes. Known as TsUP-E (‘E’ for Evpatoriya in Russian), it was much more capable than the old TsUP, and it controlled all Soviet manned space missions between 1966 and 1975 – when a new facility was build in Kaliningrad.[36] Some 500 people worked around the clock in three shifts. NIP-16 was the USSR’s largest command-measurement site. It was in radio communication with the other sites, and could receive from or transmit

to spacecraft. It had many very distinctive antennas, some of which were very small, similar to domestic television antennas, while others were extremely large. Some of its antennas looked as if they had been constructed in a hurry, others had a beautiful design even although in some cases their construction had taken only a few months – for example the enormous antenna complex that was built to communicate with the first probes dispatched to the planet Venus.

The TsUP-E was established in a small two-storey building. On the first floor was the communications centre, which had apparatus to register the telemetry from the spacecraft in the form of graphs on long rolls of paper. On the second floor was the control room housing the flight controllers, experts on all flight procedures and the civilian experts on the systems of the spacecraft. They jointly compiled a flight plan to be radioed to the crew specifying what must be done on each orbit. Alongside the control room were representatives of the TsPK, with one of the active cosmonauts serving as the communication operator who spoke to the crew in space, and also the military specialists for the technical segment of NIP-16 and, by radio, its sister sites.

The core of the mission management team was the Chief Operative and Control Group (GOGU). The military part of GOGU was responsible for the operation of all ground stations, including the necessary technical support. In 1966 Major – General Pavel Agadzhanov, a veteran of the tracking network, was appointed as head of the GOGU for Soyuz flights. His Deputy was Colonel Mikhail Pasternak. There was a separate GOGU for the L1 circumlunar missions, with Colonel Nikolay Fadeyev in charge of flight operations. The other members of the GOGU were technical people from the TsKBEM. From 1966 to 1968 the technical director for Soyuz missions was Boris Chertok. In this role he was responsible for all decisions relating to each space mission. Prior to this, he had been responsible for the control of interplanetary probes. In 1969 Yakov Tregub, who had commanded the cosmodrome at Kapustin Yar, took over this role. He was Deputy Chief Designer of Complex No. 7, which managed the testing of systems for spacecraft, the training of cosmonauts and flight control. Another member of the GOGU was Boris Raushenbakh, a department chief and expert in the control and guidance systems of

spacecraft. His team planned the actions needed for rendezvous, docking and un­docking. For Soyuz 10, the key men were therefore Agadzhanov, Tregub, Raushenbakh and Chertok, with cosmonaut Pavel Popovich communicating with the crew.

In contrast to the American mission control facility in Houston, Texas, which had rows of controllers at consoles and large computers to process data in real time, the main control room at TsUP-E was remarkably unimpressive. On the front wall there was a large map of the world displaying the position the spacecraft in its orbit, and a large black-and-white screen on which television transmissions were shown. The members of the operative group sat around a long table and analysed data traced on rolls of paper. To the side were several controllers. After commanding the Apollo 8 mission in December 1968 Frank Borman made a goodwill tour of the world, and in the summer of 1969 he became the first American astronaut to visit the Soviet Union. On a visit to Yevpatoriya he was so surprised by the modest facilities of the TsUP-E that he presumed the real control centre was somewhere else, highly secret, and perhaps hidden underground!

For the early manned space flights, contact was possible only while the spacecraft was over Soviet territory. During ‘silent orbits’, when a spacecraft was crossing the oceans or over other continents, the crew would either rest or perform experiments that did not require communication with the TsUP. However, in order to achieve a landing in the prime recovery zone on Soviet territory it was necessary to perform a succession of critical operations leading up to re-entry while over the Atlantic Ocean. To provide communications with the spacecraft during these operations, and during the planned manned lunar missions, a number of Scientific Exploration Vessels (NIS) of the Soviet Academy of Sciences were included in the space tracking and control system. Although some ships had been equipped in the early days to receive transmissions from the unmanned Vostoks, four ‘modern’ tracking ships were laid down in 1967, starting in June with Kegostrov, which had a displacement of 6,100 tonnes. It was stationed off the coast of Africa in the Gulf of Guinea. Morzhovets and Nevely, which were smaller, operated in the South Atlantic. Borovochi operated elsewhere. In addition, three smaller ships were capable of receiving radio signals from spacecraft: Bezhitsa, Dolinsk and Ristna.

Later in 1967 the first of the second-generation ships was added. At 17,500 tonnes, Cosmonaut Vladimir Komarov was much larger, with a variety of antennas capable of providing all functions of a NIP ground station, including relaying transmissions between a spacecraft and Yevpatoriya – making it a ‘universal’ communications ship. For manned flights it was stationed in the North Atlantic, near Sable Island, off the coast of Nova Scotia. In January 1969 it was the first to congratulate the Soyuz 4/5 crews on accomplishing their external transfer. In October that year it participated in relaying a transmission from a manned spacecraft (Soyuz 8) through a Molniya satellite to enable, for the first time, the TsUP-E to communicate with a crew while not over Soviet territory.[37]

In December 1970 the network was augmented by Academician Sergey Korolev, which was even larger, having a displacement of 21,460 tonnes and a length of 182 metres. It had over 50 antennas, the largest of which was 12 metres in diameter. In March 1971 it relieved Cosmonaut Vladimir Komarov in the North Atlantic, which then concluded its seventh voyage by sailing to Odessa for refurbishment.[38]

Each ship had a TsPK cosmonaut-engineer to communicate with a spacecraft. For example, Yuriy Artyukhin was on board Cosmonaut Vladimir Komarov and Anatoliy Kuklin was on Academician Sergey Korolev. In addition, for the Soyuz 10 mission, there were experts from the TsKBEM familiar with the design of the DOS docking system to provide advice as necessary. A favourable pass lasted 10-12 minutes. As soon as the spacecraft rose above the ship’s horizon, the controllers began to decode its transmissions. The decoded data was transmitted through a

Molniya satellite to the TsUP, where it was analysed by the GOGU, which then drew up the necessary commands for transmission to the spacecraft when it came within range of the next station.

For the 18-day Soyuz 9 mission in June 1970, medical experts from the Institute for Biomedical Problems were admitted to the main control room of the TsUP-Е for the first time. They analysed data from the medical sensors attached to the bodies of Nikolayev and Sevastyanov, and contributed to the organisation of the crew’s time, which was a serious issue on a long-duration flight. The most active periods were while the spacecraft was over Soviet territory, in range of the NIP ground stations. The transmission of data was at its highest rate during such passes. In addition, the crew could submit reports on their observations, comment on specific events and ask questions. Once beyond Soviet territory, they resumed working independently of Earth. By breaking the familiar sleep pattern of the cosmonauts, this organisation upset their circadian rhythm. A major challenge was to ensure that the crew of the first space station were able to work effectively throughout their month-long flight.

In essence, the Salyut space station was a series of cylinders with small, medium, and large diameters. It had a total length of 13.6 metres, a maximum diameter of 4.15 metres and a mass of 18.6 tonnes. It comprised four sections. At the front was the transfer compartment. This was the smallest habitable section. It was 3 metres in length, just over 2 metres in diameter and had a volume of 8.1 cubic metres. It contained the life support and thermo-regulation systems. It also contained the No. 5 control panel for the Orion ultraviolet telescope. On the outside of this section were various masts and antennas, and a pair of solar panels which were identical to those on the Soyuz. The docking cone was on the axis at the front of this section. The hatch on the inward side of the docking system was one of three hatches in the compartment. There was a second axial hatch to provide access to the work compartment, and also a hatch on the outer wall with diameter of 80 cm to facilitate spacewalking, but there were no plans to go outside – indeed DOS-1 carried no EVA suits.

To enter the station, the cosmonauts had first to clear the docking system from the tunnel and then open the hatch to pass through the transfer compartment to the work compartment beyond. This was the largest component of the station and was in two sections. The smaller section (known as the first work compartment) was connected to the transfer compartment via a conical section 1.2 metres long. It was cylindrical, 2.9 metres in diameter and 3.8 metres long. It contained the central control panel, which incorporated a computer – the first on a Soviet manned spacecraft. Facing the panel were seats for two cosmonauts – the commander on the left (as viewed from the rear) and the flight engineer to his right. It was one of seven workstations for controlling Salyut’s systems and experiments. The No. 1 station was to control the life support and thermo-regulation systems, and to control the automatic orientation and navigation of the station, but it also included a periscope for manual orientation. From there, actually, the commander could control and fly the station using displays and control handles similar to those of the Soyuz. The central panel consisted of the main control panel and command and signal devices. It provided information on the station’s position over the Earth’s surface, the number of the current orbit, the times at which the station would enter and exit the Earth’s shadow and the periods during which it would be able to establish communication with the TsUP.

The system for orientation and control consisted of the following apparatus:

• ion sensors to measure the orientation of the station relative to its velocity vector;

• infrared sensors to determine the local vertical;

• Sun sensors;

• sensors for the angular speed during the rotation of the station;

• gyroscopes for measuring the angle of the station in three axes;

• an integrator for longitudinal accelerations;

• a stabilisation system;

• a control system for the orientation engines; and

• radio-location rendezvous apparatus.

While firing the manoeuvring engine, small orientation engines would hold the station stable. The system for manual control allowed the crew to align the station towards the Earth, the Moon, the Sun or the stars. While in stellar orientation, they would use a globe marked with the constellations and all stars brighter than the fifth magnitude.

The life support system controlled the gas mixture, eliminated strong smells and filtered out dust. In terms of millimetres of mercury, the pressure was maintained at 760 to 960, the oxygen concentration was 160 to 280, and carbon dioxide was never allowed to exceed 9. The air was cycled through a regenerator which contained an active chemical substance that removed carbon dioxide. Another unit topped up the oxygen. Water vapour was removed by a condensation trap. Special filters absorbed unwanted chemicals released by the materials on the station, the experiments and the crew. The equipment for the air regeneration system was to the left of the No. 1 control station.

The No. 2 station was for manual orientation and navigation. It included the control handles for the orientation of the station, a periscope and a means of stabilising the cosmonaut at his work position. Next was the No. 6 station, which included the flight engineer’s seat. To the right, on the side of the compartment, was the No. 7 control panel to operate the scientific apparatus installed externally to analyse the environment around the station.

Aft of the central panel of the No. 1 station was the table for preparing and eating meals. Each cosmonaut had four meals per day, consisting of breakfast, morning tea, the main meal (lunch) and dinner. For the main meal, each cosmonaut had one item (soup or coffee) warmed on a small heater beside the table. They could choose on a daily basis between three types of ration for each of the four meals. For example, ration No. 1 had the following products:

• The 1st breakfast (705-756 calories) о Sausages

о Borodin bread о Chocolate о Coffee with the milk

• The 2nd breakfast (600-700 calories) o Russian cheese

o Rizhskiy bread o Cookies

• Lunch (798-928 calories)

o Green shchi (a type of soup with mixed vegetables) o Chicken meat o Bread

o Plum jam with nuts o Blackcurrant juice

• Dinner (593-745 calories) o Caspian roach

o Puree o Bread o Honey cake.

The water tanks were located nearby the table and at the aft end of the working compartment. Each man was allowed 2 litres of water per day, but actually they did not use more than 1.2 litres. As on Soyuz 9, silver ions had been added to the water tank prior to launch to keep the water fresh.

Usually, the cosmonauts spent their spare time in this first working compartment, where they had a tape recorder with a selection of pre-recorded music cassettes, a small library and a sketchpad.

Externally, the larger section was 2.7 metres in length and 4.15 metres in diameter. It was joined to the smaller compartment by a short conical adapter. There was no internal distinction, however; the compartment was a single room with total length of 7.7 metres and a volume of 74 cubic metres. Including the transfer compartment, the total habitable volume of the station was 82 cubic metres. The central part of the larger working compartment was occupied by the main scientific equipment (ONA), which took the form of a large white conical unit that rose from the floor almost to the ceiling. It included the OST-1 orbital solar telescope, the RT-2 X-ray telescope, the ITS-K infrared telescope and spectrometer, the OD-4 optical viewer that had a magnification of 60, the FEK-7A photo-emulsion chamber, photographic apparatus and various other apparatus. On the walls around it were three portholes. The No. 3 station to control the scientific apparatus was adjacent to the ONA and included a viewing port. Unfortunately, the protective cover had failed to release when Salyut achieved orbit, and therefore these scientific instruments were unusable. The second control panel of this compartment was the No. 4 station, which was mounted on the adapter between the two sections of the working compartment. It was to control the main medical research equipment, and comprised scientific experiments, a viewing port and a chair.

In the upper corner to one side of the ONA sleeping bags were slung from hooks, but if they preferred the cosmonauts could sleep in the Soyuz orbital module or in the transfer compartment. On the opposite side and in front of the ONA there were exercise devices, including the KTF treadmill, an exercise bike and chest expanders. The crew had special ‘penguin’ suits designed to stimulate the muscles that would otherwise decay in weightlessness. The Polynom medical apparatus was for general monitoring of the crew’s health. A small medical kit, identical to that carried on the Soyuz, provided pain relief, heart stimulation, relief of gastric problems, antiseptics, bacteriostatics and sleeping and stress relief tablets.[66] In fact, during the entire flight there were very few cases when the cosmonauts required medication.

At the aft end of the compartment, behind the ONA and separated from the rest of the working area, was the sanitary and hygienic unit. It had its own ventilators and its surface was a washable material. An airflow drew urine into a collector, where it was separated into its fluid and gaseous components. Solid waste was stored in hermetic tanks. Also at the aft of the compartment were the fridges containing food.

To assist the cosmonauts orientate themselves, the work compartment was painted in different colours – the front and rear were light grey, one wall was green, the other was light yellow and the floor was dark grey.

The cosmonauts had a collection of underwear and sports T-shirts. For cleansing their faces, hands and bodies following experiments, maintenance work or physical exercise they used wet and dry tissues and special towels made of bacteriological materials. From time to time, they were to clean the station using a vacuum cleaner.

Detachable panels on the walls and the floor covered support apparatus, electrical cabling, equipment for operating the station, monitoring the composition of the air, thermo-regulation, radio-links and the main command lines. The cosmonauts could open every panel and check the apparatus mounted on the compartment’s structural frames. Hand rails on the walls and floor allowed easy movement in weightlessness. The walls held lockers of food, equipment, documentation, packed clothes, books, hygiene supplies and miscellaneous spare parts for repairs.

The thermo-regulation system had two major elements, one to cool the station and the other to warm it, each with an internal and an external loop. The fluid was based on antifreeze. The external loop ran through radiators with a total area of 21 square metres installed on the surface of the main compartment. The system maintained the air temperature between 15°C and 25°C, the humidity between 20 and 80 per cent, and the maximum airflow at 0.8 metres per second. The temperature and the airflow could be controlled from the central control panel.

An unpressurised section extended the line of the main compartment 1.4 metres to the rear. This was the only section which was inaccessible to the crew. It housed the

An inside view of the Salyut space station showing the main control panel, the seats for commander (left) and flight engineer, and the open hatch leading to the transfer compartment.

KTDU-66 propulsion system comprising a main and a backup rocket engine. It was based on that of the Soyuz, but had larger tanks containing 1,490 kg of propellant (UDMH fuel and nitric acid oxidiser) for a total burn time of 1,000 seconds. At the rear was a smaller cylinder 1.8 metres in length with a diameter of 2.17 metres that housed 32 small orientation engines and had a second pair of solar panels installed on its exterior. Each of the solar panels had an area of 7 square metres, for a total of 28 square metres. In ideal conditions, they had a total output of 2 kW. Because the panels were carried in a fixed orientation on the side of the station, it was necessary to align the station to maximise the illumination of the panels. However, 40 per cent of each orbital period was spent in the Earth’s shadow, and at such times cadmium

accumulator batteries supplied direct (dc) and alternating (ac) electrical currents. A static voltage stabilisation system limited the variation in the voltage to 1.5 per cent. In the docked configuration, the solar panels of the Soyuz spacecraft fed electricity to the station.

In addition to two-way voice and telegraph links, the radio system fed telemetric data to the TsUP. The antennas were on the exterior of the main compartment. The cosmonauts had helmets incorporating headsets. Salyut had four TV cameras: two inside and two outside. One of the inside cameras was static and viewed the area of the central control panel of the working compartment. The other could be set up to record activities anywhere in the station. At launch, one of the outside cameras had documented the separation of the station from the third stage of its Proton rocket. The other had shown the rendezvous and docking operations. The cosmonauts also used them in orienting the station.

Specific references

1. Davidov, I. V., Triumph and Tragedies of Soviet Cosmonautics. Globus, Moscow, 2000, Chapter “Полет продожается” (Flight Continues) (in Russian).

2. Kamanin, N. P., Hidden Space, Book 4. Novosti kosmonavtiki, 2001, pp. 316­317 (in Russian).

3. Chertok, B. Y., Rockets and People – The Moon Race, Book 4. Mashinostrenie, Moscow, 2002, pp. 316-320 (in Russian).

4. Vasilev, M. P., Salyut on Orbit. Mashinostroenie, Moscow, 1973, pp. 38-42 (in Russian).

5. Clark, Phillip, The Soviet Manned Space Programme. Salamander Books, London, 1988, pp. 56-60.

EARLY DAYS

Special Design Bureau 1, OKB-1,[3] is situated some 25 km northeast of the centre of Moscow in Podlipok, Kaliningrad (renamed Korolev in 1997), and it played a key role in the Soviet manned space programme: it designed the first satellites, the first lunar and interplanetary probes, and the Vostok spacecraft that carried the first man into orbit. In the years that followed those early achievements, it defined the major strands of the manned space programme.

The leader of OKB-1, and the main driving force of Soviet cosmonautics, was the legendary Chief Designer Sergey Pavlovich Korolev. After Korolev’s death during what had been expected to be routine surgery in January 1966, he was succeeded by his deputy Vasiliy Pavlovich Mishin, a rocket engineer who had worked closely with Korolev since 1945. Mishin promptly reorganised the work force of more than 60,000 employees, and on 6 March 1966, at the direction of the Ministry of General Machine Building (MOM), and no doubt in an effort to confuse spies, OKB-1 was renamed the Central Design Bureau of Experimental Machine Building (TsKBEM).

Mishin inherited from Korolev the task of completing the development of the new manned spacecraft named Soyuz (‘Союз’, meaning ‘Union’), and using this for the L1 programme in which two cosmonauts were to fly in a very high orbit that looped around the far side of the Moon before returning to Earth. But for Mishin the most important task was the development of the giant N1 rocket for the L3 programme to land a Soviet cosmonaut on the lunar surface.

The development of the Soyuz proved to be more difficult than expected, with a series of unmanned test flights revealing a variety of problems, but in April 1967 it was decided to proceed with the first manned test in which one spacecraft would be launched into orbit with a single cosmonaut and a second spacecraft with a

Early days 3

The founder of the Soviet space programme, Sergey Korolev (left) and his successor Vasiliy Mishin, who was Chief Designer of the TsKBEM from 1966 to 1974.

The Soyuz spacecraft was the workhorse of the Soviet manned space programme. On the left is the orbital module with the active docking probe, then the descent module with the crew cabin, and finally the propulsion module containing the main engine and solar panels.

crew of three would follow the next day. The two spacecraft were to rendezvous and dock, and two of the cosmonauts were to cross from one vehicle to the other by spacewalking. However, Soyuz 1, flown by Vladimir Komarov, ran into difficulties immediately on entering orbit. First, one of two solar panels failed to deploy and this resulted in problems with the star sensor, which made it difficult for the vehicle to maintain the desired orientation in space. The State Commission at the Baykonur cosmodrome in Kazakhstan cancelled the launch of Soyuz 2. After overcoming numerous technical problems, Komarov finally succeeded in orientating his craft and made the de-orbit burn. Unfortunately, the parachute failed to deploy and the descent module hit the ground at great speed and Komarov perished.

When flights were resumed in October 1968, Soyuz 2 was launched unmanned. Georgiy Beregovoy, launched the next day in Soyuz 3, performed a rendezvous, but could not achieve a docking.

When two manned Soyuz spacecraft were finally able to dock in January 1969, Yevgeniy Khrunov and Aleksey Yeliseyev performed a spacewalk to transfer from Soyuz 5 to Soyuz 4, then returned to Earth with Vladimir Shatalov. When Boris Volynov attempted to land in Soyuz 5 the next day, the propulsion module failed to

Chelomey and the Kremlin 5

separate from the descent module, causing the vehicle to start its re-entry with the hatch – as opposed to the heat shield – facing in the direction of flight. Fortunately, the connections between two modules were severed by the heat before the descent module suffered damage, and the capsule rotated into the safe orientation. However, the off-nominal re-entry caused the capsule to descend 600 km from the planned recovery point and the impact was so violent that Volynov suffered several broken front teeth.

The docking of two manned spacecraft was one of the rare Soviet achievements during the race to the Moon. But the success of Apollo 8 in performing 10 orbits around the Moon in December 1968 had rendered politically pointless the simpler circumlunar mission for which the L1 version of Korolev’s spacecraft had been designed.

When Apollo 11 landed on the Moon in July 1969, the Americans won the race to the Moon, and the mood of the Kremlin was further diminished by two failures of the N1 rocket. In an attempt to once again impress the Soviet nation, and indeed the world, it was decided that the next mission should included three manned spacecraft with a total of seven cosmonauts.

Accordingly on successive days in October 1969 Georgiy Shonin and Valeriy Kubasov were launched on Soyuz 6, Anatoliy Filipchenko, Vladislav Volkov and Viktor Gorbatko were launched on Soyuz 7, and Vladimir Shatalov and Aleksey Yeliseyev – both of whom were veterans from the successful Soyuz 4/5 docking – were launched on Soyuz 8. Once all three spacecraft had rendezvoused in space, the crew of Soyuz 6 were to film Soyuz 8 docking with Soyuz 7. This time, however, it was not intended that any cosmonauts should make a spacewalk. Unfortunately, the Igla automatic rendezvous system onboard Soyuz 8 malfunctioned, and despite four manual attempts Shatalov was unable to complete the approach. Pursuing their own programme, Shonin and Kubasov performed the first vacuum-welding operation in space, then returned to Earth, followed in turn by Soyuz 7 and 8 over the next two days. As much as the Kremlin and TASS, the official news agency, had portrayed this ‘group flight’ as another achievement of Soviet cosmonautics, Mishin and his engineers were disappointed.

Mishin’s dilemma was that because the Soyuz was to be a ‘universal’ spacecraft, delays in perfecting it were holding up the programmes that were to exploit it, some of which, including the N1-L3 lunar landing programme, were already years behind schedule.

On the morning of their second day in space, the Soyuz 10 crew performed systems tests in preparation for the final manoeuvre, which was achieved as planned. When their trajectory brought them within 16 km of Salyut the Igla automatic rendezvous system was activated. When the radar had locked onto the station’s transponder the Igla began to steer Soyuz 10 towards its target, with the crew as mere spectators.

Just before midnight on 24 April the control room at the TsUP-Е was so crowded that late arrivals had to stand. The GOGU members were seated, as was Popovich at the communications system, but squeezed in around the table, some seated but most standing, were the TsKBEM managers, representatives of the other design bureaus involved in the mission, generals, politicians and members of the State Commission. One of the most anxious was Armen Mnatsakanyan, the Chief Designer of the Igla. This had failed when Soyuz 8 had attempted to rendezvous with Soyuz 7 in October 1969. He had been criticised by the Kremlin, but not punished.

The final phase of the rendezvous had been timed to occur over the Soviet Union, in order to have ‘live’ communications, but the loudest voices in the control room were those of Mishin and General Kerimov, demanding explanations of events from the members of the GOGU, including wishing to know what would be done if the Igla were to fail!

‘‘Approaching; Soyuz is two seconds in front of the Salyut!’’

‘‘Why do you give us seconds? Give kilometres!”

‘‘Granite reports radio lock-on achieved. Igla works!’’

General Agadzhanov, the head of the GOGU team, lost concentration and shouted into the microphone: ‘‘We understood you – the distance is 10 kilometres. Do not interfere!’’ In fact, only the first part was intended for the cosmonauts; his directive not to interfere was directed at Mishin and Kerimov, whose interminable calls for explanations were interfering with the work of the controllers, but

Agadzhanov still had the microphone keyed when he spoke these words. The cosmonauts, having no idea of the state of the control room, expressed surprise: “We only reported on the progress of our approach, according to the indicators on the command panel.”

One of controllers complained, saying that it would be a miracle if he survived the morning without suffering a heart attack.

General Kerimov, ignoring Agadzhanov’s direction, again demanded information. Struggling to remain calm, Agadzhanov offered an apology to the crew: “Igla works, understood! This is to Granite. Distance 11 kilometres. The rest was to our guests!’’ On hearing of the increased range, Mishin exclaimed: “How! Firstly 10, now 11? Who is guilty?’’

Ignoring Mishin’s question, Agazdhanov spoke a series of sentences, some to the crew and others to inform the people in the control room: “The DOS engine started! Granite reports about the work of its engine. The programme for the 81st orbit has been executed. The DOS engine worked for 60 seconds. I’m No. 12: Granite, on the 82nd orbit we await from you the most important reports about the operation of the Igla and the automatic approach.’’

“Why do you speak so much?’’ demanded Mishin angrily.

Somebody attempted to calm Mishin by explaining that Agadzhanov was at the same time communicating with the cosmonauts and serving as commentator for the audience.

“Engine works 20 seconds; 25 seconds; 30 seconds; 35 seconds; 40 seconds; 45 seconds.’’

“Why don’t they turn it off themselves?’’

“The approach speed is 8 metres per second; steady radio lock-on.’’

“We see a bright point. Distance 15 kilometres, speed 24.’’

“Please! Silence in the room!’’

“Who will explain to me why they were at 11 kilometres and now the distance is 15? Chertok, Mnatsakanyan, Raushenbakh – why do you sit and do nothing?’’ “Igla is working,’’ Mnatsakanyan told Mishin.

“This is a mad house! Only Igla does not go mad,’’ said Raushenbakh quietly. Fortunately, the chaos in the control room was not matched in space. Soyuz 10 continued its automatic approach without any glitches.

“Distance 11, speed 26.5,’’ reported the crew.

“Distance 8, speed 27.5; distance 6, speed 27. DPO light. Starting to turn.’’

At this point Mishin exclaimed: “It can’t approach at that speed! Why do you do nothing? Tell the crew what to do!’’

Knowing that the rate of closure was according to plan, Raushenbakh explained to Mishin: “It isn’t necessary to intervene, it will brake now.’’

The spacecraft had turned and started its braking sequence. The crew continued to report the closure parameters.

“Distance 4, speed 11. We can see the target against the background of the Earth – its flashing navigation lights. Distance 2.5, speed 8.’’

The medical telemetry showed that the heart rates of Shatalov and Yeliseyev were 100 beats per minute; Rukavishnikov, less active, was only 90 beats per minute.

At 1,600 metres from Salyut the speed was 8 metres per second. At 1,200 metres it had slowed to 4 metres per second. At a distance of about 1,000 metres, the crew could see the station in the optical periscope.

With the approach going smoothly, the mood in the control room improved.

“Distance 800, speed 4.”

A few seconds later: “I see the target well and distinctly.”

At this point the spacecraft passed out of range of the last station in the chain that stretched across Soviet territory, leaving the people in the control room in a state of apoplexy during the 30-minute wait for the next communications opportunity.

Mishin demanded an explanation from Raushenbakh for why the docking had not occurred while over Soviet territory. Instead of answering, Raushenbakh noted that Soyuz 10 had consumed 80 kg of fuel in making the approach – almost twice the amount planned! When no one appeared to appreciate the implication, Raush – enbakh pointed out that if Shatalov failed to dock at the first attempt, the fact that 45 kg of fuel would be required for the descent meant that there would be insufficient to set up a second approach, and the crew would have to prepare for an immediate return to Earth.

Meanwhile, the Igla continued to steer Soyuz 10 towards its target. At 500 metres the approach speed was just 2 metres per second. Never before had any spacecraft approached such a large vehicle in space.

Shatalov recalls: “All the dynamic operations of the ship were conducted without any problems. The only issue appeared at the time that the Igla took control of the approach: the ship would oscillate from side to side periodically, requiring the firing of the correction engines. At a distance of 150 metres I took manual control. It was simpler than on the Soyuz 4 mission. The station grew bigger and bigger – in space, it appeared to be much larger than it had on the ground! When we were very close, Aleksey and Nikolay carefully inspected its docking mechanism, antennas and solar panels.”

The final approach was at about 30 cm per second. When the probe on the front of the Soyuz came into contact with the conical drogue of Salyut, the cosmonauts saw the Mechanical Connection indication on their instrument panel. The docking process was automatic, and the crew had only to monitor their instruments as the spacecraft slowly advanced in order to drive the head of its probe all the way into the drogue. There were some vehicle motions, and a scraping noise as the probe slide across the drogue. The probe engaged the mechanism at the apex of the drogue, and began to retract to draw together the two annular collars in order to establish a hermetic seal. The cosmonauts awaited the signal that would indicate that the retraction process was complete. Instead, a warning signal came on to indicate that the mechanism had stalled. How could this be? What had happened?

When Soyuz 10 flew into the next communication zone, Shatalov heard an eager call from Earth, and reported: “I am Granite, I hear you well! At 4 hours 47 minutes we made a manual approach. Contact and mechanical capture passed. The retraction began. But in the 9th minute the SSVP stopped. Retraction not completed. Docking not achieved. We don’t understand why. Look at the telemetry. Let us know what to do.’’

Everyone in the control room turned in silent expectation to the people who had designed the docking system. Pale faced, Vsevolod Zhivoglotov, a member of that team, explained that the active probe had touched the cone of the drogue according to plan. The length of the probe was 390 mm in its fully extended state. It started to retract, but when the length was down to 90 mm the mechanism was automatically commanded to halt. To the amazement of all concerned he explained eight things that could have gone wrong, including the possibility that one of the lateral levers of the probe had broken off – and he said that a pronounced swinging action just after capture strongly suggested that this had occurred.

Mishin exploded: “Why swinging? What are the dynamics? Raushenbakh! Why were there fluctuations?”

Cosmonaut Popovich, who had continued to talk with the crew, told Chertok that Yeliseyev had just reported that during the retraction process the orientation engines had been firing, causing a strong motion of the ship. For Chertok this was sufficient to indicate what had happened: “It is most probable that the mechanical breakdown occurred because of the large transverse oscillations – we didn’t turn off the control system!” As the probe penetrated the drogue, the spacecraft had been deflected and the control system had tried to eliminate the angular deflections. However, the ship was no longer free to manoeuvre, and instead of rotating about its centre of mass, as the control system expected, it swung on the end of the probe and this broke part of the mechanism. In conclusion: “To continue the docking attempt will be futile. We must make a decision about the undocking.’’

As Shatalov recalled of these dramatic moments: “Just after the capture, the ship swung to the right by 30 degrees, and then to the left. The period of oscillation was seven seconds. We were concerned that we might lose the docking mechanism. We didn’t know why this was occurring during the retraction operation. We approached the station with almost no difference between the axes of the ship and the station, so such motions ought not to have happened.’’ The continuous firing of the orientation engines consumed a lot of fuel. “Before docking, the pressure in the tanks was 220 atmospheres, and it was only 140 when the operation automatically terminated. It is unbelievable how much fuel was consumed during this period.”

Soyuz 10 was connected to Salyut only by small latches gripping the head of the probe. The disappointed crew were told to do nothing until the next communication session. Meanwhile, the engineers at the TsUP assessed the situation. The next time that the orbital complex appeared over Soviet territory Rukavishnikov was asked to enter the orbital module and check the electrical contacts of the docking mechanism to ensure that the retraction had not been halted by a faulty signal – since if that was the case the docking probe might not have been damaged at all, and the retraction should be able to be resumed. Rukavishnikov was fully familiar with the system. He removed a cover to access the electronics of the docking system, and confirmed that all of the connectors were as they should be. That was the last hope.