Category Salyut – The First Space Station

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.

At 1.45 a. m., almost seven minutes after finishing the braking manoeuvre, Soyuz 11 crossed the coast of Portugal. Shortly thereafter the automated system rotated it through 90 degrees in order to position the orbital module on top and the propulsion module facing down. At 1.47.28 a. m., while passing over France, twelve explosive charges jettisoned the orbital module and six more jettisoned the propulsion module. Because the main radio transmission equipment was in the propulsion module, this terminated all signals from the descent module except those from the VHF antenna incorporated into the descent module’s hatch. Shortly thereafter it came within range of the antennas at Yevpatoriya, but the controllers still did not know that the braking manoeuvre had been achieved and that, consequently, the descent module was on its way home. If everything was going to plan, then by now they ought to have picked up the VHF transmission. Although Kamanin ordered Dobrovolskiy to report, there was no reply. If the braking manoeuvre had not been performed, then the spacecraft would be in communication between 1.49.37 a. m. and 2.04.07 a. m., and when this session opened Shatalov, who was responsible for communications during re-entry, made repeated calls to no effect.

Just like everyone else in the TsUP, Yeliseyev, the technical flight director, was surprised: “We had asked Dobrovolskiy to make continuous reports as soon as the descent module entered our communication zone, but he was silent. It was strange that Volkov was silent too – he had been very talkative in the recent sessions.”

As time passed without news, the anxiety amongst the people in the main control room rapidly increased as they realised that something must have happened. In fact, no one could have imagined the terrible event that had overwhelmed the crew in the cramped descent module.

Soyuz 11 flew over Germany and Poland and onto Soviet territory. At 1.54 a. m. the Soviet tracking radars reported that they had detected it north of the Black Sea at an altitude of about 40 km and 2,200 km from the aim point. It was sheathed by plasma, and hence temporarily out of radio contact. The radar detection was good news, because it confirmed that the spacecraft was on its way home. The controllers in the TsUP assured one another that the silence from the crew must be the result of a radio system failure. The tracking radars reported the reducing range: “Distance 1,800 … 1,000 … 500 … 100 … 50 km from the planning landing site.”

The small drogue parachute deployed on time. Then, at 2.02 a. m., at an altitude of about 7 km, the main chute deployed. During the 15 minutes or so of the descent on the main chute the crew were to make radio contact with the recovery team via the VHF and short-wave antennas built into the shrouds of the parachute, but there was no word. The basal heat shield was automatically jettisoned. At 2.05 a. m., with 13 minutes remaining, the recovery crews on an IL-14 aircraft and four Mi-6 and Mi-8 helicopters reported to the TsUP that they could see the module swinging on its red – and-white main chute and that they had detected signals from it, although there was still no word from the cosmonauts.

The manager of the recovery team, General Kutasin (call-sign ‘No. 52’), who was in one of the helicopters, reported directly to the TsUP. The clarity of this radio link was excellent. According to Yeliseyev, beaming smiles came to the faces of the controllers upon hearing that a transmission had been received from the antennas on the main chute – the first signals received from Soyuz 11 since it departed from the communication zone during preparations for the orientation manoeuvre above the Pacific Ocean: “Finally, we heard a report from a helicopter in the planned landing area that they could see the parachute. It was wonderful! … Then, the report from

No. 52: ‘It has landed. Our helicopters are landing nearby.’ Well, it seemed that was all. Next, they would report the general state of the crew, and with that we would finish our work. Only a few minutes more.”

Colonel Ivan Borisenko, the ‘Sporting Commissar’, who was actually the member of the recovery team responsible for officially logging the landing parameters, has written: “There was no radio contact with the cosmonauts. … From the Mi-6 in which I was flying we saw the descent module slowly descending,

swinging under the large canopy of the parachute. The soft-landing retro-rockets fired correctly, the module almost stopped for a moment in the air, then settled onto the ground.”

The four small rockets automatically fired at a height of 1 metre in order to soften the landing, in the process raising a cloud of dust. At 2.16.52 a. m., Soyuz 11 landed 202 km east of Dzhezkazgan, having overshot the target by 10 km. Exactly 23 days 18 hours 21 minutes 43 seconds had elapsed since it lifted off from Baykonur. At almost the same time, the helicopters landed nearby.

The TsUP awaited General Kutasin’s next report, but the radio remained silent.

Yeliseyev recalls the dramatic wait:

Five minutes passed by; 10; 15. … No news from No. 52. … How strange. Usually, someone remains in the helicopter to report on the radio the events as they happen…. One hour has passed. … No. 52 is still silent. … It means that something has happened. …

Suddenly, using an internal channel, Kamanin asked me to come. He was alone in the room used by the State Commission. He never called someone without a reason. As I ran to him, he looked darkly at me and said: “Now they have given me the code ‘111’, which means that they have all perished. We agreed a code: ‘5’ means that their general state is excellent; ‘4’ means good; ‘3’ means there are injuries; ‘2’ means severe injuries; ‘1’ means that a man perished; ‘111’ means that all three perished. It is necessary for us to fly to the landing site, I have ordered the plane.”

Kamanin, Shatalov and I were immediately driven to the airport, where an aircraft was ready. I can no longer remember the airport at which we landed. We transferred to a helicopter and were flown to the landing site.

Kamanin did not mention the ‘111’ code in his diary, but he wrote that for at least the first 30 minutes whenever he asked for a report from the landing site the reply

The Soyuz 11 recovery operation was handled on site by Kamanin’s aide, General Leonid Goreglyad.

was always: “Wait.” Then he received the following message: “General Goreglyad has flown from the landing site to Dzhezkazgan and reported via [short-wave] radio that the outcome of the space flight is the most tragic one.”

Although Mishin’s leadership of the TsKBEM was criticised in the aftermath of the Soyuz 11 tragedy, he retained his position owing to support by Sergey Afanasyev, the Minister of General Machine Building, and Andrey Kirilenko, who was a close colleague of Brezhnyev in the Politburo. Mishin’s relationship with Ustinov is very interesting. At first sight it may appear that he was always backed by Ustinov (for how else could he have remained in post despite the deaths of four cosmonauts, the fiasco of the L1 circumlunar programme, the repeated failures of the N1 rocket for

the N1-L3 lunar programme and the loss of two DOS stations before they could be visited) the relationship between the two men was actually much more complex. For instance, when asked in an interview with the eminent space journalist Vladimir Gubaryev about Ustinov’s nomination to lead the Soviet rocket programme, Mishin said: “I am not sure that it was the best choice! It is hard to say whether he brought more harm or good.’’

During the eight years that Mishin ran the main Soviet space institution, he was a controversial figure. He was unfortunate in gaining leadership at a time that NASA accelerated its space programme and won the ‘race’ to be the first to land a man on the Moon. To understand how the Soviet Union lost this race it is necessary to analyse Mishin’s leadership in the context of the roles of Afanasyev and Ustinov, and indeed of the input of Brezhnyev and Kosygin. However, in technical terms, the failures of Mishin’s years in charge of the TsKBEM were, in large part, the result of decisions made by this organisation, initially by Korolev and later by himself.

In terms of Earth orbital flights, Mishin’s period will be remembered for a series of failures, two of which concluded tragically for the crews – the only such losses to date in the programme. Even so, he retained the support of Afanasyev and Ustinov. He was replaced only after the cancellation of the N1-L3, the organisation of which was largely directed by Afanasyev and Ustinov!

The year 1971 marked a low point for the Soviet space programme, with the third launch of the giant N1 lunar rocket ending in failure, the Soyuz 11 tragedy and the deaths of three of the leading rocketry specialists: Aleksey Isayev, Georgiy Babakin and Mikhail Yangel. The disasters continued in 1972 with the loss of DOS-2 and the final N1, and into 1973 with the loss of DOS-3.[125] Although the design of the N1 was criticised by the leading designers at some of the other organisations (and indeed by some of the people in OKB-1/TsKBEM), Mishin continued to work on it, confident that it would soon become operational and enable cosmonauts to walk on the Moon. But the L3 concept was also criticised – if the manner in which the Americans had gone about landing on the Moon was extremely risky, the way that Mishin planned to do it seemed highly likely to result in the loss of the cosmonaut who attempted to execute it.

Mishin often did things in his own way. When dealing with issues about which he really ought to have consulted with his deputies, he made decisions on his own. An excellent example was his ‘contract’ with Chelomey – which marked the beginning of his downfall. Also, owing to his abrupt manner, his intolerance of criticism, and his frequent heavy drinking (sometimes at the TsUP during missions) the number of people whose respect he lost progressively grew. When he lost the support of some of his close colleagues, including Bushuyev and Chertok, this divided the TsKBEM into two factions, one wishing to push on with what was now really no more than a dream of a lunar programme and the other considering the DOS programme (which Mishin wished to discard) as the basis for a strong space programme. When Mishin ignored this ‘mutiny’ by his closest colleagues, the Kremlin stepped in and made its

dissatisfaction clear, and in 1974 he was replaced by his old rival Valentin Glushko. To Ustinov, Mishin said: “I understand everything, except the reason for choosing Glushko.” Although Glushko’s management had its critics, he successfully turned the TsKBEM into an empire on a scale that Mishin could never have achieved.

Mishin was appointed as a professor of space rocket technology at his alma mater, the Moscow Aviation Institute (MAI). In fact, since 1958 he had been lecturing at Lomonosov University in Moscow, and he continued to do this in parallel with MAI. One of his students was Valentin Lebedyev, who joined the TsKBEM, trained as a cosmonaut, and flew as the flight engineer of Soyuz 13, which was the last mission to be flown during Mishin’s term as Chief Designer. While a professor at the MAI, Mishin was able to supervise nine master’s theses and eight doctorates. Those who knew him in these years say he showed two different personalities. At times he was rough, explosive, intolerant and brusque, just as he had been when Chief Designer while speaking his mind in dealing with politicians and generals. But the second personality on display at the MAI was much more pleasant. As a teacher, he transmitted to generations of students his rich experience in the design of rockets. He directed the Department for the Design and Construction of Flying Vehicles at the MAI (later Department 601, Space Systems and Rocket Design) until 1990, and in 2002 its laboratory was given Mishin’s name. He co-authored a number of study-books that are still in use today. In addition, he directed a students’ design bureau where, among other projects, the first Soviet non­hermetic satellite was constructed.[126]

In the second half of the 1980s, after Mikhail Gorbachov had become the General Secretary of the Communist Party of the Soviet Union, Mishin gave interviews and published several works designed to vindicate his still controversial contribution to cosmonautics. Although the CIA had been aware since the 1960s that a man named

Mishin was a key figure in the design of Soviet rockets, it was not until now that his identity was allowed to become public. In Why Didn’t We Fly to the Moon? which was published in December 1990,[127] he described, for the first time, the Soviet lunar programme in detail. Always sharp and direct in his manner, he wrote:

They accused me of not defeating the Americans. But everyone knew right from the beginning that the Americans would win. Our leaders did not listen. After the Americans had done it, we said that we were ready to do it better, but they would not let us try.

In conclusion, he wrote:

Often the question arises: If Korolev had not died, what would have come of our space programme? It is my view that not even he, with all his authority, persistency and predisposition for achieving goals, could have dealt with all the processes that have caught all areas of activity in our society. It would have been difficult for him to work without directives, . . . which followed an incomprehensible politics even during his lifetime. Without doubt, he would have achieved something. We could have had a landing on the Moon, … but sadly not within the deadlines that were imposed on us for prestige over the USA. Too much time had been wasted, and so much money was needed, but the directives did not provide it.

I do not wish readers to think that I am trying to avoid my responsibility as Chief Designer for some of the mistakes that were made in the course of the lunar programme – some by myself. He that does not do anything, does not make errors! We, the successors of Korolev, did everything that we could, but it was not enough.

Aleksey Leonov has strongly criticised Mishin for wasting the money available to the lunar programmes. Leonov firmly believes that in 1968 the Soviets could have beaten the Americans to a circumlunar flight. In fact, Leonov was to command the first L1 crew and, if the N1 rocket had worked and the N1-L3 programme had gone ahead, he would have been the first cosmonaut to attempt to land on the Moon. It is likely that Leonov’s hostility towards Mishin originated with the cancellation of the L1 programme without even attempting a manned mission, and was then worsened by Mishin’s order for Leonov’s crew to stand down and let Dobrovolskiy’s crew fly the Soyuz 11 mission.

Although Mishin persistently denied being directly responsible for the failures of the Soviet manned space programme in the years 1966 to 1973, when asked why he had been so antagonistic to the DOS programme he confessed: “I only understood it later on. In those years, I was not aware that I was making a mistake. The point is that 80 per cent of the tasks that were beneficial to the national economy could have been done by unmanned spacecraft.’’

Few people at the TsKBEM felt sorrow at Mishin’s dismissal as Chief Designer.

In writing his memoirs, Boris Chertok did not feel it appropriate to explain anything about Mishin’s subsequent career.

After leaving the TsKBEM, Mishin left its work behind. Only twice did he cross the doorstep of NPO Energiya. His only real support was his family: his wife Nina Andreyevna, with whom he spent 63 years, and his daughters Yelena (who worked for Korolev and for her father for 40 years), Kira and Vera.

Vasiliy Mishin died on 10 October 2001, aged 84, and was buried five days later in Trekurovskoye Cemetery in Moscow.[128] During a ceremony on 18 January 2007 to mark the 90th anniversary of his birth, his eldest daughter, Yelena, said: “As time goes by, all the things which remind me of my father and link me to him become dearer to me. He did not have relatives in high positions or strong contacts with the top man. He had only his wife and three daughters. . . . Yes, he always said what he thought. He never stepped back from anyone. He was wise, intellectual and a man of honour. It has been said that every scientist must have a gene of renunciation. . . my father had such a gene.’’

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.

EARLY DAYS

The first few days on Salyut were reserved for reconfiguring the station’s systems, checking the equipment, starting the scientific investigations, and allowing the crew time to adapt to their new environment. Salyut was considerably more complex than any previous manned spacecraft, with more than 1,300 individual instruments and in excess of 1,200 kg of scientific apparatus.

The Soviet press, television and radio reported enthusiastically this latest success of the manned space programme – the official line was that the Soviet Union had never participated in a race to beat the Americans to the Moon, it was concentrating on space stations to conduct scientific research and benefit the national economy, at which it clearly led the way.

MEDICINE ON SALYUT Day 3: Tuesday, 8 June

The second day for the cosmonauts on Salyut started at 1 a. m. on 8 June, when the station entered the Soviet communication zone. After breakfast, they checked the life support systems and made a start on preparations for the scientific programme. At 11.02 a. m., the cosmonauts initiated a manoeuvre to raise the orbit to 239 x 265 km with a period 89 minutes. With Salyut’s systems confirmed to be in good order the Soyuz was powered down, since its interior would be ventilated by the station’s life support system. In operating the complex station for the first time, the cosmonauts made several mistakes. For example, because they forgot to disable the docking regime, they had a problem when they first attempted to reorientate the station.

Daily life on board Salyut involved six major activities:

• the flight programme;

• morning hygiene and toilet;

• physical exercise;

• four meals;

• individual rest time; and

• an 8-hour sleep.

The flight programme included the control and maintenance of the station and its systems, the scientific equipment and investigations (the schedule included almost 140 specific experiments), radio communications and TV broadcasts, photographic sessions, and other tasks for flight operations. Exercise was of crucial importance in weightlessness. In addition to 2 hours per day exercising on the treadmill and with a chest expander, each man was to spend 30 minutes light ‘walking’ on the treadmill prior to retiring. Many lessons had been learned from the 18-day flight of Soyuz 9 in 1970, and the complex for physical training (KTF) was more substantial than the one available on that mission. The gravitational load imparted by the KTF on Salyut during physical exercise was 50 kg. On ‘sports’ days, each man had three exercise sessions in a 24-hour period: two of 75 minutes and one of 30 minutes. The flight plan allowed each man 2 to 2.5 hours per day of leisure time, which he could spend as he wished: resting, reading a book, observing the Earth, taking photographs or preparing for a forthcoming experiment. Every seventh day was a ‘weekend’ for the entire crew. The three men were to follow a phased sleep pattern in order that there would always be at least one man on duty, and at least one resting.

Day 4: Wednesday, 9 June

From 3 p. m. on 8 June to 1 a. m. on 9 June Salyut was out of the communication zone. After their morning toilet and breakfast, for the first time the crew exchanged their flight suits for the ones named ‘Athlete’ but irreverently known as ‘penguin’ suits.1 These suits were designed to impart loads on certain muscles to simulate the forces experienced in everyday life on Earth, in the hope that this would minimise the deterioration of muscles and bones during a long period of weightlessness.[67] [68] The cosmonauts used part of a communication session to demonstrate the suits, and to thank the designers. A system of supports and elasticated straps were attached to the wearer, as it were, by rigid soles and shoulder straps. The plan called for each man to wear his suit only for 40 to 60 minutes, 3 to 6 times per day, while working. They initially had some difficulty in moving their arms and legs while compressed by the elastic, but soon found the suits to be so comfortable that they asked to wear them all day, and later became so used to them that they slept in them as well.

On this day the cosmonauts also began to use the treadmill, but when it was noted that the vibrations which were transmitted through the station’s structure caused the solar panels and antennas to ‘flap’ with an amplitude at their tips of about 5 cm they were asked to use the treadmill only for short periods.

They started the scientific work by measuring the radiation level inside the station and the flux of micrometeoroids in space around the station. In addition, they tested the wide-angle periscope provided to enable Salyut to be precisely aligned relative to the Sun and the planets. At 10.06 a. m., Dobrovolskiy and Patsayev fired Salyut’s engine again to raise the orbit to 259 x 282 km. Although the atmosphere at orbital altitude is rarefied, it can impart a significant drag force that progressively reduces a satellite’s orbit, finally causing it to burn up. As the drag was greatest at the lowest point of the orbit, the manoeuvres were designed to raise this altitude. Reducing the rate at which the orbit decayed would extend the interval before another manoeuvre was required.[69] Although the initial engine firings were costly in terms of propellant consumption, in the long term this strategy made sense.

8.29 a. m.

Dobrovolskiy: “Last night I adjusted the orientation prior to stabilising the station; it is easy to control the spacecraft, it responds very well.’’

Volkov: “I’m doing a rotation according to the programme. The engines are firing smoothly. Viewing through the porthole by the right-hand command post, I can see the red-hot jets. I’m controlling the orientation; the jets are working and everything goes well.’’

10 a. m.

Volkov: “The engine is switched off. I’m tracking the time.’’

Zarya: “We understand.’’

Volkov: “A slight vibration. The machine vibrates.’’

Dobrovolskiy: “The engine was fired for 73 seconds. The integrator was switched off.’’

Patsayev: “The engine’s parameters are normal.’’

Zarya to Dobrovolskiy: “We understand, Yantar 1. Telemetry confirms that the engine fired for 73 seconds.’’

11.44 a. m.

Zarya: “In answer to your question about the ‘penguin’. The metal tail should be above your knee. You can regulate its height with the hidden cord in the lower part of your knee. To eliminate unpleasant feelings caused by the tail, move it parallel to the leg.’’

Volkov: ‘‘Yantar 1 is now feeling excellent in his ‘penguin’ suit.’’

In his notebook that day, Patsayev wrote up his first astrophysical observations, and made some suggestions for how to improve the design of future stations.

From Patsayev notebook:

The stars are almost invisible on the daylight portion of the orbit, even when observing through the porthole on the side facing away from the Sun. Only

Sirius and Vega can be seen. After sunset, the stars do not twinkle until their

line of sight is close to the Earth’s horizon.

Remark No. 1 – Add a protective cover for the button on the control handle.

Remark No. 2 – Modify the hermetic seal of the rubbish bags.

At 3 p. m. on 9 June, on the 38th orbit with the crew on board, the station left the communication zone.

Day 5: Thursday, 10 June

One of the primary tasks for this first crew was to determine the degree to which the human body (and indeed other organisms) were influenced by long-term exposure to weightlessness.

The crew were to have a detailed medical checkup every five days. This involved taking blood samples and electrocardiograms, and checking the composition of their bone tissue, in particular of their shins. The procedure was more sophisticated than on previous flights. For instance, whereas only the rate of breathing had previously been measured, now this was augmented by measurements of the volume and speed of inhalation and exhalation, and the overall lung capacity. In addition, the arterial blood pressure and the speed of pulsation waves through the arteries were measured by two separate methods. On Day 5 Patsayev took blood samples of all three men for the first time. He was to repeat this several times during the flight. Placed on the surface of filters, the samples were stored at reduced humidity in hermetic probes. After Soyuz 11’s return to Earth, doctors determined how the levels of sugar, urine and cholesterol varied in each man’s blood during the mission. The sugar level was normal in the blood samples taken during the first and third weeks, but increased in the fourth week just before the cosmonauts left the station. There was an increase in the level of urine in the blood of all three men owing to the manner in which their kidneys adapted to weightlessness. There was no detectable change in the level of cholesterol.

One of the most significant hazards of long-term exposure to weightlessness is the leaching of calcium from bones into the bloodstream, with possible implications for the kidneys. A special instrument was designed to investigate changes in the bones of the cosmonauts. Each day, every crewmember would place a medical belt around his chest. Before doing so, he would smear cream on his skin in order to minimise irritations. The belts had electrodes for vital body functions. During communication sessions with the station, the doctors at the TsUP would receive electrocardiograms, seismo-cardiograms and pneumograms (i. e. breathing activity) in order to monitor the cardiovascular systems of the cosmonauts. In addition, there was the Polynom apparatus to monitor their physiological activity. This could measure 25 different parameters, but only five at any given moment, and it involved two men: one as the test subject and the second to make the measurements, which were recorded for later transmission to Earth. Although more sophisticated than the belts, this apparatus was used only infrequently.

The results of the biomedical tests provided important information on the general health of the three men during their exposure to weightlessness. Dobrovolskiy and Patsayev both had increased hearts rates, increased arterial pressure and an increase in the blood’s exchange rate. In contrast, the cardiovascular system of Volkov, the veteran, was more stable.

0.51 a. m.

“Good morning,’’ called Zarya.

Dobrovolskiy: “Good morning. I report that everything is all right. Yantar 2 just finished exercising on the treadmill. Yantar 3 is resting. During the period between 16.00 and 18.30, ventilation fan No. 7 was buzzing. Obviously something has been drawn into it. We opened the panel. … Just after 18.30, the buzzing ceased. Can we switch to the second ventilator?”

Zarya: “We understand. Do that. During physical exercise please do the following experiment. During the running period on the treadmill, someone should enter the descent module and look through the portholes to observe the vibration of the solar panels. Monitor the period and amplitudes of any vibrations.’’

One innovative piece of apparatus on Salyut was the ‘Veter’ (‘Wind’).[70] With the ‘penguin’ suits, it was to help the cosmonauts to overcome the long-term effects of weightlessness. The ‘waist’ was fastened to the wall by several supporting struts, and the leggings were rubberised. Once a cosmonaut had hermetically sealed his lower body into the apparatus, a pump extracted some of the air from the leggings. The function of this lower-body negative-pressure apparatus (ODNT) was to draw blood into the lower part of the body, just as if the cosmonaut were stood upright on Earth. In weightlessness the feet do not require so much blood, and therefore the cardiovascular system rapidly adapts by transferring 1.5 litres of blood to the upper body – in particular to the chest and head, which is why on their first days in space the cosmonauts felt ‘swollen headed’. Over time, most of this excess is removed by

increased urination. The cardiovascular system is greatly stressed on returning to Earth. The reduced amount of blood that is circulating in the upper part of the body drains to the feet, imposing a considerable pressure on the vessels. While in space, the cardiovascular system loses the compensatory function. The doctors call this an ‘imbalance’. When a cosmonaut stands up after returning to Earth, his weakened cardiovascular system is unable to supply blood to his head, the brain is temporarily starved and there is a risk of fainting. This is called ‘orthostatic intolerance’. The air pressure in the ODNT was reduced gradually to ‘train’ the cardiovascular system to adapt to a state approximating that of gravity on Earth. The ‘vacuum’ test had two stages: in the first stage the pressure was reduced to -27 mm of mercury for two minutes and then to -36 mm for three minutes; for a total of five minutes. At the cosmonauts’ initiative, the second stage could be extended to -70 mm. Using the ODNT involved two men, one as the subject and the other to operate the apparatus. The ‘vacuum’ condition was reported to be a pleasant sensation.[71] After each session, the test subject was required to have the parameters of his cardiovascular system measured.

03.54 a. m.

Zarya: ‘‘Yantars, today is a medical day, so do not take off your belts.’’

Dobrovolskiy: ‘‘Periodically, I will switch it on.’’

From Volkov’s diary:

10 June. Exercise on a treadmill and with a chest expander. Toilet. I brushed my teeth with real toothpaste. Again, something dropped into the ventilator. This time it was a food bag. When I removed the medical belt there were no red spots on my skin.

Viktor is sleeping in the transfer compartment. His arms are outside the sleeping bag, and float strangely in the air. Zhora is at his position – the left seat of the main control post. He has used the new cream under his medical belt.

I shaved, but not too much – I’ve decided to grow my beard.

From Patsayev’s notebook:

I continued with daily shaving. The razor is specially designed with a setting to collect the hair, but it is not close enough and the hairs fly away.

On 10 June, the cosmonauts began daily participation in TV shows. Wearing their ‘penguin’ suits, they talked about themselves, reported their activities and showed some details of their home in space. During one Cosmovision telecast,[72] Volkov said of Salyut’s dimensions: ‘‘It’s so big that it takes some time to swim from one end to the other.’’

From Patsayev’s notebook:

We had the first television broadcast. They asked the commander about our work on board the station, and all of us about our first impressions of being in space. It is nice to study geography, astronomy and physics in space with my colleagues. Virtually entire continents, seas, and islands are visible. For example, it is easy to recognise Australia, Crimea and the Mediterranean. In 90 minutes you get a trip around the world!

At 2.40 p. m. the station left the communication zone, and drew to a close the fifth day.

Mishin’s TsKBEM was not the only design bureau in the USSR involved in the development of manned spacecraft. In Moscow’s eastern suburb of Reutov, 30 km south of Kaliningrad, was the headquarters of OKB-52, which in 1966 changed its name to the Central Design Bureau of Machine Building (TsKBM). It was led by Vladimir Nikolayevich Chelomey. Although there was only one letter different in the titles of the two bureaus, namely the ‘E’, Chelomey, having a staff of only 8,000

employees, had much more modest capabilities. However, because Chelomey had good relations with the military, having developed a number of cruise missiles, and because one of his engineers was the son of Nikitha Khrushchov, in the early 1960s his bureau was the main competitor to OKB-1.

In 1963 Chelomey conceived the idea to develop a military Orbital Piloted Station (OPS) equipped with cameras to monitor the US and NATO military facilities. The project was named Almaz (‘Diamond’), this name being in keeping with the practice of naming his products after precious stones. When designers from the Central Scientific-Research Institute for Machine Building (TsNIIMash) visited OKB-52 in the spring of 1964 they were shown the mockup of the station and its return capsule. It was to be launched by the powerful UR-500 Proton rocket that Chelomey was developing.[4] However, the Ministry of Defence was unwilling to finance the project. Undeterred, Chelomey sought the behind-the-scenes support of his military contacts.

In the meantime, after the assassination of John F. Kennedy, Lyndon B. Johnson became the American president. On 10 December 1963 he cancelled the US Air Force project to build a small winged ‘space plane’ named Dyna-Soar, and it was announced that plans would be drawn up for a new military space programme: the Manned Orbital Laboratory (MOL). This was to monitor the activities of Soviet military forces and observe rocket launching sites, airfields and naval bases. Since methods for rendezvousing and docking in space had yet to be developed, the plan was to launch the MOL with the crew of two military astronauts riding on top in a modified form of the Gemini spacecraft which NASA was at that time developing. The mission would last a month, and the MOL would be abandoned when the crew departed.

The capabilities of the MOL prompted the Kremlin to back Chelomey’s proposal, and the project was given to OKB-52’s Branch No. 1 at Fili, in the heart of Moscow, which had developed the Proton launch vehicle. The manager was Branch No. 1’s Chief Designer, Viktor Bugayskiy. On 12 October 1964, the day that Chelomey announced the start of work, the first Voskhod spacecraft was launched for a 1-day flight with a crew of three cosmonauts. While they were in space, Khrushchov was overthrown – and Chelomey lost his main supporter. The situation was particularly dire because, as Khrushchov’s favourite, Chelomey had gained many enemies. Not only was the new Kremlin leader, Leonid Brezhnyev, not an ally, the new Prime Minister, Aleksey Kosygin, was very rude to Chelomey during their first telephone conversation regarding the future of the UR-200 rocket programme. In fact, neither Brezhnyev nor Kosygin shared Khrushchov’s enthusiasm for manned space flights.

Another man of special importance was Dmitriy Ustinov. Since 1946 he had been responsible for the development of the Strategic Rocket Forces. He was known as ‘Uncle Mitya’ to the leaders of the design bureaus. His influence declined in the Khrushchov years, but his position was reinforced by the arrival of Brezhnyev, and in March 1965, in a major restructuring of the Soviet rocket and space programmes, he became the Secretary of the Central Committee of the Soviet Communist Party responsible for defence and space.

Despite the scepticism of Brezhnyev, Kosygin and Ustinov, Chelomey still had the strong support of the generals in the Soviet Air Force and the Strategic Rocket Forces. He also had the support of Mstislav Keldysh. As a long-time companion of Korolev and proponent of using rockets and satellites to facilitate scientific studies, Keldysh was one of the most eminent figures in the rocket and space programme. In fact, he had played a key role in the establishment of OKB-52 in 1955. To mark his contribution to the management of the pioneering manned space flight by cosmonaut Yuriy Gagarin in April 1961, Keldysh had been appointed President of the Soviet Academy of Sciences. In Brezhnyev’s government, the Ministry of General Machine Building was the public name for the secret rocket and space industry – the bland name was to mask the significance of its work. In March 1965, Kosygin nominated Sergey Afanasyev as the first ‘Space Minister’. On 25 August 1965 President Johnson gave the formal go-ahead for the MOL project, which was to make its first flight by the end of 1968. Two months later, on 27 October, Afanasyev signed the order for Almaz. The preliminary paperwork was drawn up in 1966 and, based on regulations signed by the Council of Ministers and the Central Committee of the Soviet Communist Party, on 14 August 1967 the technical requirements and timescale were specified.

To dock with the Salyut station was a four-stage automated process over which the cosmonauts had no control. The first stage was the initial mechanical contact, when the head of the active spacecraft’s probe touched the interior of the conical drogue. This activated a sensor in the shock absorber on the probe. Then stabilisation thrusters were to slowly force the ship forward to drive the head of the probe into the hole at the apex of the cone, which the engineers referred to as the ‘nest’. When the head of the probe penetrated the nest, this initiated the capture stage, and latches in the nest engaged the probe in order to prevent it slipping out. The Apollo spacecraft had a similar system, and American astronauts refer to this as a ‘soft docking’. The third stage involved retracting the probe to draw the two annular collars together, to engage latches which would form a rigid bond and establish electrical and hydraulic connections located around the external rim – a status that astronauts refer to as a ‘hard docking’. Then the probe would release its head, which would remain in the nest while the ‘beheaded’ probe withdrew into the housing on the nose of the orbital module. Once air had been introduced to the hermetic tunnel and the seals verified, the cosmonauts could swing back the hatch, complete with the docking assembly, to enter the tunnel and then swing the drogue into the station.

In the case of Soyuz 10, the problem struck between the second and third stages – during the retraction, 9 minutes after the first contact. The only physical connection was the head of the probe in the nest. However, owing to an oversight in planning, the control system of the Soyuz spacecraft was still operating and when this noticed an early deviation in attitude it fired the thrusters in an effort to eliminate the ‘error’. If the spacecraft had been free, these impulses would have conformed to the logic of the control system; but it was not free – its probe was confined by the drogue. Upon finding that the spacecraft did not conform to its logic, the control system started to fire the thrusters on a continuous basis in an effort to assert its authority, and this subjected the probe to dynamic forces sufficiently strong to break one of the four

levers surrounding its base. The probe was designed for a maximum force of 80 kg, but survived a load of 160-200 kg before failing.

The first error in the design of the docking process was to leave the spacecraft’s control system active after the initial capture, because the conditions required by its logic no longer applied. The second error was to make the docking sequence fully automated once it had been initiated by the mechanical contact. Yeliseyev, who had participated in the development of the control system, had realised that the control system was jeopardising the docking process, but had no way to intervene – he was a frustrated spectator.

As Soyuz 10 was a 7K-T spacecraft designed to operate as a space station ferry, it carried air, water and food for just 3 days of autonomous operations. There was no option but to return to Earth as soon as possible.

The task was to separate from the station in a manner that would not damage the drogue. In designing the undocking process it had been assumed that the docking would have been finished and that commands could be directed through the circuits in the collars – which was impossible in this case. What would normally occur was that after the crew had left the station they would seal the Soyuz hatch and then command the latches to release the head of the probe from the nest so that the spacecraft could fire its thrusters to withdraw. However, in this unpredicted situation it was possible that the mechanism would fail to release. Indeed, the first attempt failed, and when Shatalov fired the thrusters his spacecraft simply swung around on its damaged probe.

In the control room General Andrey Karas, the Commander of Space Assets in the Strategic Rocket Forces, said bitterly: “Well, congratulations. You’ve developed a docking system in which ‘mom’ doesn’t release ‘dad’!’’

There were two emergency options: one to cut loose the docking mechanism from the nose of the orbital module, and the other to release the orbital module itself. In both cases the only access point to Salyut would be left fouled.

Afanasyev of the Ministry of General Machine Building issued a directive: ‘‘This ‘amputation’ is not suitable. What do you want? To lose the first orbital station? Search for a method by which to deceive your super-clever scheme.’’

Salyut was saved by Zhivoglotov, the engineer who had appalled the control room by outlining eight possible reasons for the docking failure. After Zhivoglotov had outlined his plan, instructions were read up to Rukavishnikov who, during the 84th revolution, once again entered the orbital module and reconnected a number of the cables to deceive the mechanism into thinking that the release command came from Salyut. The command was issued on the next revolution by the cosmonauts using their command panel – and the latches released the head of the probe! At 10.17 a. m., after 5 hours and 30 minutes of drama, and during the 5th revolution spent in a soft – docked configuration, Soyuz 10 withdrew from the station. The news prompted loud applause in the TsUP. Although Soyuz 10 had not achieved its main objective of boarding Salyut, everyone hoped that the station was undamaged and therefore would be available to a future mission.

For almost half an hour Soyuz 10 flew in formation with Salyut, with Shatalov manoeuvring while his colleagues inspected and photographed the docking system.

Few of these black-and-white pictures were published, and those that were released were of a poor quality. Nor was the television from the spacecraft during this period released. On Saturday, 24 April, Moscow TV declared that the docking had taken place and showed a 30-second clip which was said to be from an automatic camera on Salyut as Soyuz 10 withdrew. The Earth was in the background. The only part of the station that was visible was just in front of the camera, and was brilliantly white. The docking was portrayed as having been successful, with the link-up being only a test in an ongoing programme – there was no suggestion that the cosmonauts were to have entered the station.