Category Salyut – The First Space Station

The mission of the Soyuz 11 crew who lived on board the first Salyut space station is remembered by the phrase triumph and tragedy.

Triumph stands for the successful designing, testing and launching of the world’s first space station in an unbelievably short period of time. In fact, it was done in less than 16 months. It also stands for the ability of the Soyuz 11 crew to dock and enter the station after the preceding crew had been prevented from doing so. And then it stands for their ability to conduct a broad programme of scientific research on board the station. Finally, it stands for their perseverance in conditions that were far from the norm to establish a new world record for the duration of a space mission.

Tragedy stands for the fact that with only a few minutes remaining from returning to their motherland, they were overwhelmed by an emergency which, within just a few seconds, claimed their lives. It stands for the shock of the recovery team which, on opening the capsule, found their inert bodies. It stands for the trauma suffered by their families and colleagues, and indeed the entire nation. And it stands for how, on reflection, the loss of this brave crew ought never to have happened.

In a less than a year and a half after the worst tragedy in Soviet cosmonautics, the book Salyut in Orbit was published. The first time that I laid my hands on it was in the mid-1980s, on a visit to the Russian Home of Culture in Belgrade, Serbia. What caught my interest was that a book intended as a memorial to the fallen cosmonauts should contain a wealth of information describing the first Salyut space station, its apparatus and the experiments that were conducted by the unlucky crew. It contains the cosmonauts’ diaries, and even some of their conversations with the controllers on Earth – it was astonishing that such a book was allowed to be published during the Soviet era. However, it seemed incomplete because it said little of the tragic end of the mission. Why did cosmonauts Georgiy Dobrovolskiy, Vladislav Volkov and Viktor Patsayev lose their lives? Was it a design error in the Soyuz spacecraft? Was it the result of an error by the cosmonauts? Was it utterly inexplicable? The official story was that a ventilation valve inadvertently opened in space and the cosmonauts died when the air suddenly escaped from the cabin. However, in my inner self, I felt that there had to be more to the worst tragedy of the Soviet space programme. I was also fascinated by the fact that even in the latest books, published without official censorship, the reasons for the loss of the Soyuz 11 crew were still not explained. It

was as if there was simply no desire to uncover the details of such a traumatic event. This stirred within me the challenge of finding out what, directly or indirectly, led to the loss of this heroic crew.

As my analysis of the material progressed, slowly the veil of mystery began to lift. I realised that the story of the valve prematurely opening was just a part of the story, and also that if the people who prepared the spacecraft had adhered to the stipulated procedure, then the cosmonauts would have survived the flight because the opening of this valve would not have caused the air to escape!

For a long time while working on my research, I was under the impression that no one else had looked deeply into this subject, but I was wrong. Just before I finished this book, I managed to get in contact with Viktor Patsayev’s daughter and son. It was only then that I found out that their mother, Vera Patsayeva, had over a period of many years gathered material and interviewed the designers, engineers and other specialists who worked on the preparation of the Soyuz 11 mission. In fact, she was the driving force behind the publication of Salyut in Orbit. Her daughter, Svetlana, kindly sent me some of Vera Patsayeva’s material. This corroborated the results of my own analysis. I am grateful to Svetlana for allowing me to included in my book an extract from Vera Patsayeva’s notes.

As I worked on this book, I came to develop an emotional bond with its heroes – Dobrovolskiy, Volkov and Patsayev. I understood that in an odd way they had been murdered twice. The first time was when they became the first human beings to die in the vacuum of space. But when the truth about the cause of their loss was hidden, they were effectively murdered a second time. This is my attempt to shed light on how these inspiring men lived and died. The urns containing their ashes have rested in the wall of the Kremlin for over 36 years. Now it is time for the truth to be told.

Grujica S. Ivanovich Toowoomba, Australia 27 September 2007

Note on transliteration

I have used a modified version of the standard for English translations of Russian names and toponyms, as they are often phonetically inappropriate.

For example:

• Baykonur, instead Baikonur

• Dobrovolskiy, instead Dobrovolski

• Sergey, instead Sergei.

However, because they have been used so widely, I have retained Korolev (which is more correctly, Karalyof) and Kamanin (Kamanyin).

I have noticed that some authors use Russian titles in Latin, and some even combine Latin and English.

For example:

Semyonov, Y. P., ed, Raketnaya-kosmicheskaya korporatsiya Energiya named after S. P. Korolev, 1996.

In the Bibliography, I have added the English translation beneath each Russian title; viz:

PaKeTHo-космическая корпорация “Энергия” им. С. П. KoponeBa/Под. ред. Ю. П. CeMeHoBa, 1996

Semyonov Y. P., ed, Rocket and Space Corporation Energiya named after S. P. Korolev, 1996

However, it should be noted that not all of these books are translated into English. Note on illustrations

I have illustrated this book with as many unique or rare pictures as possible, some of which have never been published before. In some cases, reflecting their historic importance, I have used pictures that are of poor quality, but I hope that they do not detract from your enjoyment of the book. For permission to reproduce illustrations appearing in this book, please correspond directly with the owners, as specified in the individual captions. Uncredited pictures belong to the author.

INTO SPACE

After the press conference at mid-day on 20 April 1971, the Soyuz 10 cosmonauts and their backups went to Pad No. 1 to inspect the 50-metre-tall rocket, enclosed by its service structure. Also present were hundreds of engineers, technicians and the military who managed Baykonur launch operations. The tradition of this gathering had been established a decade earlier, when Gagarin had prepared to ride a similar rocket from the same pad to become the first man to orbit the Earth.

All nine cosmonauts stood in line: the prime crew at one end, then the first and second backups. Behind them were senior people from the TsKBEM, the Air Force, the Strategic Rocket Forces, the Ministry for General Machine Building and the Academy of Sciences. After being given flowers, one by one the cosmonauts were introduced to the launch team. As the spacecraft commander, Shatalov gave a brief speech to thank the launch staff and all of the institutions involved in preparing the mission.

The launch was scheduled for 5.20 a. m. local time (3.20 a. m. Moscow Time) on 22 April. Despite the overnight heavy rain, it was decided to proceed as planned. On arriving at the pad, the cosmonauts rode the elevator up the service structure, entered their craft and strapped into their couches. One by one, the service masts were swung away from the vehicle and people left the pad. The final preparations were conducted from the nearby command bunker, with the cosmonauts participating by radio. But with only a minute remaining before the rocket engines were due to ignite, the umbilical that had supplied electrical power failed to retract from the third stage, and Mishin, who was the technical director for the launch, halted the operation.

As Shatalov recalls: “We were awaiting the command: ‘The key is on the Start switch’. But instead from the command bunker we heard: ‘Prepare for evacuation! The launch is delayed for a day!’ This was nothing new for me. I’d heard the same command in preparing to launch on Soyuz 4. Then I was so disappointed, but this time I accepted it readily. I looked at Rukavishnikov – it was to be his first launch –

and saw how much he was suffering. Probably he was thinking everything was over, so I encouraged him: ‘Cheer up, everything will be all right! Tomorrow you will be launched for sure!’ Rukavishnikov did not respond. Aleksey joked with me: ‘There are always problems with you. Everyone else goes on the first attempt, except you! It is clearly the number thirteen!’ ’’ In the 10-year history of the Soviet programme, the only other time that a launch had been abandoned after the crew had entered the spacecraft was the first attempt to launch Shatalov in January 1969 – evidently he was jinxed by virtue of being the 13th cosmonaut.

The bunker ordered the cosmonauts to remain seated and await the arrival of the evacuation team. The cosmonauts understood the reason. If there were to be a false signal to the launch escape system, this emergency rocket would instantly draw the orbital and descent modules up away from the remainder of the vehicle, and if this were to happen the three men would need to be safely in their couches. Fortunately, there was no false command. As soon as the vehicle was ‘safe’ and the service structure reinstated, the evacuation team opened the hatch and helped the three men out. For the two hours that they had spent in the cabin they had been at a pleasant + 28°C, but outside it was still raining, there was a fierce wind, and the temperature was freezing, so they were given warm clothes for the bus back to the Cosmonaut Hotel.

An inspection by the technicians established that the umbilical tower to the third stage had failed to disengage because rain had accumulated in the connector and frozen it into place. The State Commission decided to retain the rocket loaded with propellant, and to reschedule the launch for the following day. The next night the temperature dropped to -25°C, and when the crew returned to the pad just after midnight they wore black leather coats over their lightweight cotton flight suits for protection against the weather. After making a brief report to General Kerimov, the cosmonauts once again entered their spacecraft.

The umbilical again refused to retract, but Mishin, knowing the reason, allowed the operation to proceed, and Soyuz 10 successfully lifted off at 2.54 a. m. Moscow Time on 23 April. As it did so, Yeliseyev called poetically: ‘‘The sky is cloudless, clear and starry, and the dawn is breaking. We’re ready to go up.’’

Soyuz 10 entered a slightly higher orbit than planned, its altitude ranging between 210 and 248 km, its plane inclined at 51.6 degrees to the equator and with a period of 89 minutes. At orbital insertion, it was 3,456 km ahead of the Salyut station. The first three revolutions of the Earth were without problems. The plan was to perform an automatic orbital manoeuvre on revolution 4, but this was not possible owing to an error in the programming logic for the command – evidently a problem involving the gyroscopic system. The mission controllers on Earth scheduled the manoeuvre for the next revolution, but the parameters could not be specified until the rate at which the initial orbit was decaying had been determined, which could not be done until the spacecraft was once again in range of the Soviet tracking radars. Once the necessary computations had been performed, the data was read up to the spacecraft, but this left insufficient time for the crew to key in the data and the opportunity for the action was missed. In addition, it seems that the ionic sensors that formed part of the spacecraft’s orientation system malfunctioned as a result of contamination of

The three crews assigned to DOS-1 are introduced to the launch team at the pad: Shatalov, Rukavishnikov, Yeliseyev, Leonov, Kubasov, Kolodin, Dobrovolskiy, Volkov and Patsayev (far right).

their surfaces – a common problem for spacecraft during their first hours in space, but easily rectified simply by allowing the harsh sunlight to vaporise the thin film of contaminant. Finally, Shatalov made the manoeuvre manually at 1.34 p. m., with an impulse lasting 17 seconds.

With the rendezvous initiated, the cosmonauts were free to open the internal hatch and enter the orbital module. Yeliseyev recalls: “Together with Volodya, I floated into the more spacious orbital module. We advised Nikolay to remain in his seat in the descent module for a certain time, and to move his head as little as possible. He was in space for the first time, and our desire was to help him to avoid a vestibular disturbance. Nikolay felt completely normal, but he didn’t immediately master the visual situation. I remember that when I wanted an item from the descent module, I swam in through the hatch head forward, my legs in the orbital module, and I asked Nikolay to give me the item. On hearing my voice he immediately turned his head towards me, and I saw consternation on his face. Then he said: ‘To the hell! Could you at least arise in a human manner!’ And we both laughed.’’

In accordance with established tradition, Soviet television did not show the launch until nearly 8 hours afterwards. The 45-minute black-and-white broadcast included a recorded interview with Shatalov, who said the mission would mark a new stage in the exploration of space and contribute to the establishment of space stations and long-duration flights. It then provided a view of Shatalov in the spacecraft, wearing his dark flight suit and a white communications helmet. The radio call-sign for this mission was ‘Granit’ (‘Granite’), and each man had his own numeral. The people heard mission control talking to Rukavishnikov: ‘‘Granite 3, please check your radio apparatus before attempting to speak to us again, as you are coming through garbled. Please, Granite 3, don’t speak so fast!’’

The official Soviet news agency TASS reported that the cosmonauts had started to conduct a programme of “joint experiments” with the orbital station launched four days previously. But there was no indication of the objectives of the mission, or its intended duration. No information had been released about the size of the station, or its apparatus. As far as anyone was aware, everything was going to plan. However, not only had the cover of the station’s scientific module failed to release, there were now other problems. On the second day there were indications that two fans inside the main compartment had failed, and since then others had failed. In fact, by now only two of the eight fans were available to ventilate the air in the station. Despite the absence of official information, knowledge of the capability of the Proton rocket enabled the station’s mass to be estimated at 15 tonnes, and the Daily Mail included an artist’s impression based on information from ‘Iron Curtain’ sources that showed a two-storey cylinder some 3.5 metres in diameter and 7 metres tall with a volume ten times larger than the cramped Soyuz spacecraft – which was correct.

The Soviets did not actually announce that Soyuz 10 would dock; observers in the West knew that officials would not disclose an intention until it had been achieved. As a result of recent newspaper articles by Academicians Keldysh and Petrov, there

was a belief that the Soviet Union was following a bold plan, with Salyut as just the first step. In any case, the fact that Soyuz 10 was commanded by Shatalov was a strong hint that a docking was planned. Interestingly, some people thought that the Soyuz 4/5 mission had been a rehearsal, and Yeliseyev and Rukavishnikov would make an external transfer to the station! Some Western newspapers suggested even more implausible theories, including that there was a large centrifuge on the station to simulate Earth’s gravity. And there was speculation that Salyut was a ‘hub’ with four docking ports, and each Soyuz to visit would leave its orbital module in place in order to expand the station’s facilities.

After confirming that there were no problems with either the spacecraft or the crew during the first hours of the mission, at 3.00 p. m. on 6 June Kamanin and Shatalov took off in an IL-18 with a dozen Air Force flight control and docking specialists. At 5.00 p. m., the TsKBEM team set off in another IL-18. This group comprised the leading specialists in the spacecraft’s systems, namely Mishin, Chertok, Shabarov, Feoktistov and Yeliseyev, accompanied by Minister Afanasyev and some members of the State Commission. After about 4.5 hours in the air, the planes landed at the military airfield near the town of Saki, in Crimea. The passengers were immediately driven to Yevpatoriya. Already at the TsUP were cosmonauts Nikolayev, Gorbatko and Bykovskiy, who had been assigned by Kamanin to talk to the crew. Meanwhile, cosmonauts Leonov, Kubasov, Kolodin and Rukavishnikov flew from Baykonur to Moscow on a third plane.

The Chief Operative and Control Group (GOGU) for the Soyuz 11 mission had five members. General Pavel Agadzhanov was in charge. Yakov Tregub, technical supervisor, was responsible for analysing the signals from space and preparing the commands to be transmitted to the two spacecraft. When the specialists from Baykonur arrived at the TsUP, Agadzhanov and Tregub confirmed that everything was normal on both Soyuz 11 and Salyut, and that the crew were resting as planned. Based on the biomedical telemetry and the reports from the cosmonauts, Volkov was in the best condition; his body obviously ‘remembered’ the weightlessness of his 5-day flight in 1969. Yeliseyev, who had just left the cosmonaut group in order to become Tregub’s deputy, took a seat next to Tregub. He was also able to communicate with the crew. The final members were Boris Chertok and Boris Raushenbakh, experts in the spacecraft’s guidance, control and electrical systems.

At 6 a. m. on 7 June, as Soyuz 11 made its approach to Salyut, the main control room on the second floor of the TsUP building was packed. Although flight control required only the members of the GOGU and five specialists for data analysis, the command-measurement complex, communications, telemetry and medical support, there were almost 100 people present – many of whom were not directly involved in mission control but had been drawn by the significance of the upcoming event. When the overcrowded room became too stuffy, someone opened the windows and a fresh sea breeze made conditions more tolerable. The communication session was to start at 7.25 a. m., and last for 23 minutes. As the time for contact approached, there was a marked increase in tension.

After two manoeuvres, Soyuz 11 was known to be in the ideal orbit to achieve the rendezvous with Salyut. When the range was 7 km, the Igla automatic system was to establish radio contact with the station – a milestone known to the cosmonauts as ‘radio capture’.[65]

At 7.26 a. m. Yeliseyev called the crew: ‘‘Here is Zarya. Yantar, how do you read us? On line!’’

‘‘This is Yantar,’’ came the immediate reply. ‘‘Everything is going according to the programme. Radio-capture passed. The automatic approach is progressing. At 7.27 we are distance 4, speed 14.’’ The distance was given in kilometres and the speed in metres per second.

‘‘Understood,’’ replied Yeliseyev. ‘‘Everything is normal. Continue reports.’’

‘‘At 7.31, the SKD fired for 10 seconds. Distance 2.3, speed 8.’’ By SKD he meant the correction engines.

Judging by the radio, it was Volkov making the reports. The stress was evident in his voice.

‘‘Speed is decreasing. I can see a bright point in the VSK. Distance 1,400, speed 4.’’ The VSK was the forward-looking periscope, and Salyut could now be seen in it as a bright point of light. The distance was now being reported in metres. ‘‘At 7.37, distance 700, speed 2.5. We have turned. I can see the Earth. Again, there is radio­capture!’’

When the radio fell silent, some of the members of the State Commission turned towards the GOGU people in expectation. The NIP-13 ground station at Ussuriysk on the Kamchatka peninsula still had the spacecraft’s signal, but it was only static. Yeliseyev called nervously: ‘‘Yantar, this is Zarya. I do not hear you.’’

At first there was continued radio static, but then: ‘‘Distance 300, speed 2. I can see the station excellently in the VSK. Roll alignment starts. The docking cone is very clearly visible. Roll alignment ended. Distance 105, speed 0.7. Manual control activated.’’ Now that the Igla had brought the spacecraft almost to a halt 100 metres from the station, Dobrovolskiy had taken control for the final approach. Meanwhile, the station had oriented itself to face its front end towards the newcomer.

Yeliseyev called: ‘‘Yantars, when you close in, inspect the docking mechanism.’’ He wanted the crew to look for any damage caused during Soyuz 10’s unsuccessful attempt to dock.

‘‘Yes, understood. Distance 50, speed 0.28. The DPO is firing.’’ By DPO he meant the orientation engines. ‘‘The cone is clean. It is clearly visible. Distance 20, speed 0.2. The ship is stable. We’re going to dock!’’

A few seconds later the spacecraft passed out of range of NIP-13 and headed out across the Pacific Ocean. The next communication session would begin at 8.56 a. m. If all went well, the docking would be achieved on the station’s 795th orbit, and on the 16th orbit of the Soyuz 11 spacecraft.

Leaving only those responsible for the analysis of telemetric data in the control room, the visitors left the building to attempt to relax after the almost unbearable tension. Just as in the case of Soyuz 10, when Soyuz 11 had flown out of radio range

it was only a few metres from the station with everything progressing smoothly – but look what had happened on that occasion!

As the time for the next communication session neared, everybody crowded back into the control room to hear from the cosmonauts whether the docking had been successful.

This is how Dobrovolskiy described the moments leading up to and immediately following docking:

At 7.24, the approach regime began. … By a distance of 150 metres, the ship had aligned itself with regard to the main axis, placing the station in the centre of the periscope.

At 100 metres, we switched to the manual regime. Speed: 0.9 metres per second. . . . After switching, the station began to move to the right in the periscope. … I began to decrease this lateral speed. …

I had the feeling that the left controller was insufficient, so I switched to the right one and slightly raised the ship. . . and then with the left controller I succeeded in reducing the lateral speed. At 60 metres I reduced the speed to 0.3 metres per second. … Mechanical contact at 7.49.15. We were stable. The docking occurred at 7.55.30. There were no vibrations or shaking. We almost did not feel the final contact.

Yeliseyev began to call just before the communication session was due: “Yantar, here is Zarya. On line!” Silence. He repeated his call several times.

Suddenly, the operator responsible for receiving TV signals excitedly announced: “There is television! Docking achieved! The picture is outstanding!”

Yeliseyev continued his calls: “Yantars, I’m calling you for the fifth time! Why do you remain silent?’’

“Zarya, we report. There were no oscillations during the docking. The programme is complete! We will check the hermetic seal and equalise the pressure according to the programme. We have opened the hatch between the descent and orbital modules and moved into the orbital module. Everything is normal.’’

The control room was instantaneously abuzz and someone started to applaud, but Agadzhanov told them not to celebrate until the cosmonauts had entered the station. There were still many things to check. The hermetic seal of the docking mechanism had to be verified, the tunnel pressurised, and the hatches opened. Finally, there was the question of the station’s atmosphere – had the problems with the ventilator fans during Salyut’s first few days in space allowed the air to become toxic.

On the next orbit Volkov established communication before Yeliseyev could call: “Zarya, everything is normal. We are still in the ship. All pressures are within the limits specified by the table. We do not have any remarks. Permission to open the hatch?’’

Yeliseyev looked at Tregub who nodded his head: “Open the hatch!’’

“Zarya! At 10.32.30 we sent the command to open the hatch. The signal ‘Closed’ remained. If it doesn’t open, we’ll use the crowbar.’’

‘‘Yantars, all goes excellently. Well done! Don’t be disturbed. Work calmly.’’

“Zarya! The opening regime is executed. But the indicator didn’t light. Evidently, it did not reach the terminal. However, Yantar 3 has opened it and is about to pass through!’’

At 10.45 a. m. on 7 June, 26 hours 50 minutes into the flight of Soyuz 11, Viktor Patsayev entered the world’s first space station.

“Yantars, attention!’’ called Yeliseyev. “The First will talk with you.’’ Brezhnyev, the First Secretary of the Communist Party of the Soviet Union, was on a telephone line to Yevpatoriya. Some people in the control room were surprised that he wished to congratulate the crew so early, with only one man in the station.

The cosmonauts were also surprised: “Zarya, wait! Yantar 3 is in Salyut. Don’t start until – Zarya, Yantar 3 has returned! There is a strong smell in Salyut! He will put on a mask and go in again!’’

Realising that this was an inopportune moment for Brezhnyev to make his speech, Minister Afanasyev called the Kremlin and deferred the relay with the station to the next orbit.

Mishin was nervous: “All conversations and commands to space must be through me!’’

Dobrovolskiy called: “When we opened the hatch, we peered through. The station is huge – there seems to be no end to it! After our compact spaces!’’

“Yantars, activate the air regenerators. Communication is ending. We’ll pick you up on the next orbit. We are all as happy as you are. Congratulations!”

The 25-tonne orbital complex comprising Salyut and the Soyuz 11 spacecraft left the communication zone. The orbital parameters were 212 x 249 km. The TV which had been recorded from space by Yevpatoriya was sent to the Kremlin, but was not yet released to the national television network.

In the meantime, Mishin asked the doctors to investigate whether the strong smell which had been reported posed a risk to the cosmonauts’ health, but the doctors had no idea of the source of the smell and therefore were unable to offer any advice.

Before the opening call of the ensuing communication session could be made, the black-and-white screen of the control room came to life and showed Patsayev and Volkov inside the station. When the cosmonauts heard the sound of the controllers celebrating, they looked towards the camera and waved.

“They heard our ovations!’’ observed someone in the control room.

“Yantars, here is Zarya! The State Commission and Operative Group congratulate you most sincerely. You are the very first crew on a DOS. We suggest that you take a meal, get some rest, and tomorrow morning we will start the programme.’’

The only problem so far was the smell, and Patsayev had activated a system that would cleanse the air. Soon after launch on 19 April, six of the eight ventilator fans had failed and during the time that the station had been unmanned the air had grown stale with the smell of the burned insolation on two of the fans. Initially, Mishin had blamed Leonov’s painting tools, but Dobrovolskiy said that the brushes and paints were safe in their box. Patsayev found small tracers used by technicians to identify the air flow during pre-launch preparations. After restoring all eight fans to service,

Patsayev and Volkov rejoined Dobrovolskiy, to sleep in their own spacecraft while the regenerators cleansed the air in the station.

While the station was flying outside of the communication zone, the control room was empty. In the evening, the State Commission met and decided that if everything went according to the programme the crew would return to Earth on 30 June – the maximum duration allowing a daylight landing. If successful, this would exceed by five days the record set by Soyuz 9. At the same time at Baykonur, the final preparations for the third launch of the N1 lunar rocket were in progress, and this

now became Mishin’s focus. He recalled three of the GOGU members – Tregub, Chertok and Raushenbakh – to Moscow with him, leaving Yeliseyev to lead the specialists in managing the DOS mission, supported by Nikolayev, Gorbatko and Bykovskiy. Generals Kamanin and Shatalov and the other Air Force staff also returned to Moscow. Kamanin’s aide, General Goreglyad, was at Baykonur to manage the landing and recovery operation.

On awakening, Dobrovolskiy, Volkov and Patsayev all entered Salyut, which was their new home in space.

Marina Dobrovolskiy recalls of these days: “People were coming and going all the time. The telephone rang. Congratulatory telegrams arrived. The docking was especially important. I remember the flight controllers congratulated mother, saying that the docking was performed excellently and that it was a crucial milestone – the station had begun operations!”

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

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

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

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

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

• Marina Dobrovolskiy – for memories of her heroic father;

• Aleksandr Zheleznyakov – for kindly contributing the foreword;

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

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

• Rex Hall – for providing photographs;

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

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

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

• Leon Rosenblum – for information regarding the tracking ships;

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

• Sven Grahn – for Salyut radio-tracking data;

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

• Mark Wade – for providing diagrams;

• Asif Siddiqi – f r his support and assistance;

• Peter Pesavento – for providing photographs;

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

• infrared sensors to determine the local vertical;

• Sun sensors;

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

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

• an integrator for longitudinal accelerations;

• a stabilisation system;

• a control system for the orientation engines; and

• radio-location rendezvous apparatus.

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

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

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

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

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

о Borodin bread о Chocolate о Coffee with the milk

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

o Rizhskiy bread o Cookies

• Lunch (798-928 calories)

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

o Plum jam with nuts o Blackcurrant juice

• Dinner (593-745 calories) o Caspian roach

o Puree o Bread o Honey cake.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Specific references

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

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

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

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

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

EARLY DAYS

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

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

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

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

Early days 3

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

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

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

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

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

Chelomey and the Kremlin 5

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Please! Silence in the room!’’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Distance 800, speed 4.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.