Category Salyut – The First Space Station

LIFT-OFF

When Georgiy Dobrovolskiy, Vladislav Volkov and Viktor Patsayev were woken up at 3 a. m. on Sunday, 6 June 1971, it was still dark at the Baykonur cosmodrome. They briefly exercised, shaved, had a light breakfast – their last meal on Earth – and then the final medical checks. An hour later, after brief reports of the status of the rocket and Soyuz 11 spacecraft, the State Commission gave the ‘green light’ for the launch, and the rocket was fuelled. In contrast to previous missions, this time there were no backups to ride with the crew to the pad. However, they were accompanied on the bus by the Soyuz 10 cosmonauts and some of the officials from the TsKBEM and the TsPK. Just before 5 a. m., with dawn breaking, the bus drew up to the pad, where members of the State Commission, designers, engineers, technicians, military officers, pad workers, TV crews and reporters were waiting.

The cosmonauts wore grey cotton flight suits. Traditionally, military cosmonauts wore officers’ caps, but this time all three men wore pilot caps with a badge on the front depicting the Soviet coat of arms. In addition, each man had on his left arm a tall triangular patch with a dark-blue background, a yellow rocket rising from the Earth towards yellow stars, and the letters ‘CCCP’ below. In contrast to American astronauts, the majority of Soviet cosmonauts did not wear ‘mission patches’. The first Soviet patch was designed for Valentina Teryeshkova in 1963, and it was sewn on the blue garment that she wore inside her bright orange pressure suit; it depicted a dove and a small laurel branch. The second patch was created by Aleksey Leonov, a passionate space artist, and was worn on the right arm of his space suit during his historic spacewalk in 1965. Khrunov and Yeliseyev both wore Leonov’s patch for their external transfer from Soyuz 5 to Soyuz 4, because they wished to retain it as a symbol of spacewalking. The early cosmonauts had ‘CCCP’ in large red letters on their white helmets, but their successors in cotton suits did not have a patch, a coat of arms or even a flag. But in mid-1970, training for the DOS missions, Leonov put his old patch on his flight suit. Kolodin did likewise, but Kubasov seems not to have

joined in.1 As their backups, Dobrovolskiy, Volkov and Patsayev also accepted it. In addition, Volkov had a small rectangular white badge on the left side of his chest.

After Dobrovolskiy had made a brief report to General Kerimov, the chairman of the State Commission, the cosmonauts, surrounded by journalists and pad workers, walked to the rocket, which was lit by floodlights. This was another contrast to the NASA way, whose astronauts don their suits in a building 8 km from the pad and, upon emerging, simply wave to friends and reporters on their way to the van which drives them to the pad, which is clear apart from the team whose task is to assist the crew into the spacecraft. At Baykonur, the departing crew walks through the crowd, speaking to individuals, even joking. Dobrovolskiy, Volkov and Patsayev halted in front of the stairs to the elevator, turned and waved. Reading from a piece of paper, Dobrovolskiy began a speech: “I bow my head to all of you for your attentiveness, for your effort.” Then as they smiled to the numerous TV and photographic cameras, Volkov whispered to Dobrovolskiy: “It’s time to go.”

Volkov led the way up the steps, with Patsayev and Dobrovolskiy following. The liquid oxygen boiling off from the rocket blew in small clouds past the cosmonauts. At the top of the steps, Dobrovolskiy turned and called to the crowd: “Don’t worry. Everything will be normal; everything will be normal!’’ The three men paused at the door of the elevator to wave. Even Patsayev smiled. Then they disappeared into the elevator. When they emerged on the platform leading to the hatch in the side of the orbital module of their spacecraft, they posed for one of the photographers, which is another notable detail of this mission because cosmonauts did not generally pose on this platform. The result was one of the most extraordinary photographs taken of this crew. As a final farewell, the three men stood at the railing of the platform and waved their caps at the crowd.

Technicians assisted first Volkov, then Patsayev and finally Dobrovolskiy to enter the spacecraft. Access was through the side hatch of the orbital module, then down through the interior hatch into the descent module, which contained their couches.[56] [57] When Volkov had taken his place, he switched on the cabin lights and ventilators. Once Patsayev was in place, Dobrovolskiy joined them. The technicians bid them farewell and hermetically closed the hatch between the descent and orbital modules, then the external hatch of the orbital module. With the cabin sealed, the silence was striking. Each cosmonaut donned a cap of white net which included earphones and a small microphone on each side. There was still an hour remaining to the time of launch.

As they settled in, Volkov turned to Dobrovolskiy, they smiled at each other, and Volkov pointed towards Patsayev, who was quietly gazing out of the small porthole by his left shoulder. Finally, Patsayev turned his head inwards to his colleagues, and smiled.

With 30 minutes to go, the twin sections of the service structure split the eight levels of the wrap-around walkway and swung down to leave the rocket exposed on

the pad. Ten minutes later, the topping-off of the liquid oxygen tanks ceased and the kerosene tanks were pressurised.

The control room was in a bunker some 2 km from the pad. A black-and-white TV monitor showed the cabin, but because the camera was located above Volkov’s head only Dobrovolskiy and Patsayev were visible. The communication officer was Leonov. Also present was Afanasyev of the Ministry of General Machine Building, who had just arrived from Moscow. The traditional radio call-sign for the TsUP was Zarya.[58] The call-sign for the mission was Yantar.[59]

At 7.40 a. m., Dobrovolskiy reported: “This is Yantar, and we’re ready to go up.’’

With just 40 seconds remaining, the rocket was switched to internal power and its automatic sequencer was activated. Twenty seconds later, the umbilical arm swung away.

The cosmonauts could hear the final commands. They tightened their seatbelts. The fuel tower withdrew from the vehicle.

Volkov, the only veteran, who knew the launch commands very well, again joked: “Let us wave farewell to them.” They waved to the TV camera. Then: “The key is on the Start button.”

A second later, the launch operator repeated this command. Dobrovolskiy turned to Volkov: “It looks like you want to go early.”

The final commands:

“Ignition!”

“The main!”

“Start!”

The vehicle had a central core stage and four strap-on boosters, each with a main engine. A turbopump in each of the five segments began to feed fuel and oxidiser. At 7.55 a. m., pyrotechnic charges were simultaneously fired to start the five main engines. The rocket was not actually supported at its base; the core was held by four arms located just above the top of the strap-ons. As soon as the thrust overcame its 310-tonne mass, the rocket began to lift. This released the supporting arms, which immediately swung out like the petals of a flower in order to clear the way for the protruding strap-ons. One way or another, Dobrovolskiy, Volkov and Patsayev were now committed.

The launch was perfect.

Dobrovolskiy reported that there was very little vibration.

After initially rising vertically, the rocket pitched over to a northeasterly heading, and as it ascended through the atmosphere it passed almost directly over the town of Baykonur, some 350 km from the launch site.[60] At 115 seconds, at an altitude of about 45 km, the ring of solid-rockets at the top of the 6-metre-tall escape tower were fired to pull it free of the vehicle. A few seconds later, the four 20-metre-long strap – ons shut down and were jettisoned. The core continued and, with half of its propellant used, it accelerated rapidly. At an altitude of 80 km, above most of the atmosphere, the shroud which had protected the spacecraft from aerodynamic loads was jettisoned. At 288 seconds, at an altitude of 175 km, the 30-metre-long core shut down and was jettisoned. The four-chambered engine of the 8-metre-long third stage started immediately, and by the time that it had built up to its full 35-tonne thrust the framework interstage had been jettisoned too. Soon the third stage began to pitch over further in order to increase its horizontal speed.

At 8.02 a. m., the report from the spacecraft was: “Temperature is 22°C, pressure is 840 millibars, all is well.”

At 8.04 a. m., far north of China, the third stage shut down. Dobrovolskiy reported: “Orbital insertion. Commencing separation, stabilisation. Antennae and solar wings deployed. On board everything is in order. Feeling normal.”

The parameters of the initial orbital were: altitude 185 x 217 km at 51.6 degrees to the equator and a period of 88.3 minutes. At the time, Salyut’s orbit was 212 x 250 km in the same plane with a period of 88.8 minutes.

The first Western site to detect signals from the new spacecraft was the Kettering Grammar School in Northamptonshire, England, which picked up a signal within 10 minutes of launch. Geoffrey Perry, the senior science master who led the tracking team, was able to announce the launch of a spacecraft carrying three men more than an hour ahead of the Moscow news report. In fact, because the Kettering team had noticed that after a period of silence lasting almost five weeks Salyut had recently made several manoeuvres and started to transmit signals, they had been awaiting the launch.[61]

In 1936 the book The Star KETs1 was published by the well-known Soviet science – fiction writer Aleksandr Belyayev. The main events in this work took place aboard an enormous “exo-atmospheric laboratory”.

This was an entire city in near-Earth orbit. By the will of the author, the designers of the space station equipped it with a rocket base for receiving vehicles from the Earth, as well as with a gigantic greenhouse to provide the inhabitants of the station with oxygen and fresh food, and also with numerous living, support and scientific compartments offering comfortable conditions for the crew and to enable them to work “for the benefit of humanity”.

Any inhabitant of the Earth could see this “man-made star”. It was sufficient to go outside at night and glance upward. Aleksandr Belyayev believed that it would not take much time – 40 to 50 years – before a real “Star KETs” would grace the sky.

The prophecies of this visionary did indeed come true. Although this will be seen by some as sheer coincidence, the world’s first “exo-atmospheric laboratory” by the name Salyut was launched by the Soviet Union on 19 April 1971, 35 years after the appearance of Belyayev’s book, and within the interval predicted by its author. Only five days later, the first spacecraft with cosmonauts on board docked with the station, and one and a half months later the first crew began to work on board it.

The launch of Salyut was the logical culmination of work that began almost ten years earlier at the design bureaus of Sergey Korolev and Vladimir Chelomey, in which the first sketches of the civilian DOS[1] [2] and military Almaz stations were made. It had been a difficult path, filled with sleepless nights, agonising bitter reflections, disappointments and… unexpected flashes of inspiration. But at the end of this path there was VICTORY!

The book which you are holding in your hands relates the development of the first

Soviet orbital stations. About how they were conceived. About the people who made them. About the difficulties that had to be overcome. About the cosmonauts who worked in near-Earth orbit. In other words, about that which made possible the development of the International Space Station that nowadays warms the hearts of earthlings as it crosses the night sky and resembles, albeit remotely, Belyayev’s “Star KETs”.

Aleksandr Zheleznyakov

Member-Correspondent of the Russian Academy of Cosmonautics Named After K. E. Tsiolkovskiy

Adviser of the President of RKK Energiya

“ЗВЕЗДЫ КЭЦ”

В 1936 году увидела свет книга известного советского писателя-фантаста Александра Беляева “Звезда КЭЦ”. Основные события в этом произведении разворачивались на борту огромной “заатмосферной лаборатории”.

Это был целый город на околоземной орбите. Волей автора создатели орбитальной станции оснастили ее и ракетодромом для приема ракет с Земли, и гигантской оранжереей, обеспечивающей обитателей станции кислородом и свежими продуктами питания, и множеством жилых, служебных и научных отсеков, позволяющим космонавтам вести комфортную жизнь и создающим необходимые условия для работы “на благо человечества”.

Любой житель Земли мог увидеть эту “рукотворную звезду”. Достаточно было выйти ночью на улицу и взглянуть вверх. Александр Беляев считал, что пройдет совсем немного времени, лет 40-50, и не выдуманная, а настоящая “звезда КЭЦ” зажжется на небе.

И пророчества фантаста сбылись. Кому-то это может показаться случайным совпадением, но первая в мире “заатмосферная лаборатория” под именем “Салют” была запущена в Советском Союзе 19 апреля 1971 года, спустя 35 лет после появления книги Александра Беляева. Именно в те сроки, о которых говорил писатель. Уже через пять дней к ней причалил корабль с космонавтами на борту. А через полтора месяца к работе на станции приступил первый экипаж.

Запуск “Салюта” стал логическим завершением работы, которая началась почти десятью годами раньше, когда в конструкторских бюро Сергея Королева и Владимира Челомея были сделаны первые наброски будущих станций – гражданской ДОС и военного “Алмаза”. Это был трудный путь, наполненный бессонными ночами, мучительными размышлениями,

разочарованиями и… неожиданными озарениями. Но в конце этого пути была ПОБЕДА!

Книга, которую вы держите в своих руках, рассказывает о разработке первых советских орбитальных станциях. О том, как зарождалась идея этих уникальных для своего времени комплексов. О людях, которые их делали. О трудностях, которые пришлось при этом преодолеть. О космонавтах, которые работали на околоземной орбите. То есть, о том, что сделало возможным появление Международной космической станции, сегодня “греющей” своим светом землян и, хотя и отдаленно, но напоминающей беляевскую “Звезду КЭЦ”.

Александр Железняков, член-корреспондент

Российской академии космонавтики им. К. Э. Циолковского

‘‘His ambition is to convert a refrigerator into a vacuum cleaner,’’ joked Shatalov of Nikolay Nikolayevich Rukavishnikov, the Soyuz 10 research engineer who was an expert in electronics and the physics of cosmic rays. Short and skinny, and quiet but with a serious face, Rukavishnikov was a natural technician who loved to repair old apparatus and to devise new things, even once attempting to improve the design of a helicopter.

Nikolay was born on 18 September 1932 in the town of Tomsk in western Siberia, to a family which, before the Soviet era, owned a brickyard and a bike company. He was raised without his father Nikolay, of whom nothing is unknown. His mother Galina and stepfather Mikhail Mikheyev were railway designers and travelled widely. His early interests at school were geography, mathematics and physics, and after his stepfather introduced him to radio equipment he became a radio-amateur. Because he was always on the move, he grew used to changing houses, schools and friends. He entered high school in 1947 in the small town of Angrem in Uzbekistan, where he gained first grade. Then in 1950, in one year, he passed three grades in the town of Kehtaice near the Mongolian border, where his parents were working on a new railway. Upon finishing his schooling at high school No. 248 in Moscow in 1951, he immediately went to the Moscow Institute of Engineering and Physics (MIFI). In May 1957 he graduated with a physics diploma from the faculty for electronic calculators, having specialised in dielectrics and semiconductors. In July he went to work at the Central Scientific Research Institute TsNII-58 in Podlipkah, a village near Moscow which hosted several top-secret research institutes and organisations, including OKB-1, and which later became Kaliningrad. His early work was on the development of one of the first Soviet computers, named ‘Ural’, and he participated in the testing of automatic control and protection systems for nuclear reactors.

In September 1959 Rukavishnikov transferred to OKB-1, where he worked as an engineer in the department which made automatic controls for interplanetary probes, and between October I960 and January 1967 he worked on systems for a variety of spacecraft. One task was to develop apparatus to automatically process information which the crew of the L1 circumlunar spacecraft would require if they were to take manual control. In addition, he was involved in testing guidance systems. Later, he led a team which developed experiments in terrestrial studies and solar physics for satellites. Meanwhile, he had married Nina Vasilevna, a mechanic at OKB-1, and in 1965 she gave a birth to their only child: son Vladimir.

Rukavishnikov’s first move towards becoming a cosmonaut was when he passed the medical screening in May-June 1964 as one of 14 candidates that Korolev was considering for a Voskhod flight. Konstantin Feoktistov was also a member of this group, and it was he who was launched 4 months later. In May 1966 the TsKBEM selected its first group of cosmonaut-engineers, but after four failed the Air Force’s medical screening it was decided to add to the diminished group, and in November 1966 Sevastyanov and Rukavishnikov were selected for medical tests. They joined the group in January and February 1967, respectively. As Rukavishnikov recalls of this time: “Of course, I had to catch up on all the training that other cosmonauts had already passed. This included thousands of hours of intensive training, centrifuge, altitude chamber, simulated weightlessness flights and parachute training.’’ His first parachute jump was scary, because his hood covered his eyes and he was unable to see where he was going to land. Later, however, he was able to joke about it with his colleagues.

Yeliseyev later said that he had not expected Rukavishnikov’s selection: “To be honest, when I saw him for the first time I expected that the doctors would dismiss him early on in the medical screening. But I was wrong. It appeared Nikolay was in excellent health.’’ Rukavishnikov was acknowledged to be devoted to his work. As Yeliseyev told a journalist, the new cosmonaut would stay at OKB-1 day and night until his task was done. Rukavishnikov was notable among the civilian cosmonauts for his unusual passions. The first one was bicycling. In the 1950s he had fallen in love with cycles and motorbikes and would ride at any opportunity, day or night. His second passion was travelling. On summer vacations he would leave the group, and disappear into the hills and mountains to explore nature in solitude. And finally, he was an expert in servicing television apparatus, and even made a set for himself!

Rukavishnikov was assigned to the L1 project, in which a two-man variant of the Soyuz would fly on a circumlunar trajectory. The unimaginative name selected for this project was Zond (‘Probe’). The commanders were to be Air Force cosmonauts. When three crews were formed, Bykovskiy and Rukavishnikov were chosen for the second. Unmanned missions were flown to test the spacecraft’s systems and perfect the two-stage penetration of the atmosphere, but the success of America’s Apollo 8 in December 1968, which orbited the Moon ten times, greatly reduced the value of the simpler circumlunar loop and the L1 project was cancelled. The L1 crews also trained for the N1-L3 lunar landing, but with the development of the N1 launcher suffering problems, after the Americans landed on the Moon in July 1969 most of the lunar group were reassigned. In March 1970, Rukavishnikov joined the Contact project as flight engineer for a Soyuz mission commanded by Lev Vorobyev. This

Nikolay Rukavishnikov, the Soyuz 10 research engineer. His official portrait (top left), during theoretical lessons (top right), and celebrating his nomination to the ‘first crew’ for the DOS-1 station – in the company of fellow DOS cosmonauts Volkov (left), Leonov (obscured by Volkov), Kubasov, Shatalov, Kolodin and Dobrovolskiy.

was to test in Earth orbit the rendezvous and docking techniques for the N1-L3, in order that these would be available if it eventually proved possible to mount a lunar mission. However, two months later he was assigned to the first DOS-1 crew as cosmonaut-researcher.

On the eve of the Soyuz 10 launch, Soviet cosmonaut number 23 had an excellent reason to be happy, because if everything went according to plan then he, the rookie on the crew, would be the first man to pass through the hatch and enter the world’s first space station!

Specific references

1. Shatalov, V., The Hard Roads to Space. Molodaya Gvardiya, Moscow, 1978, pp. 139-177 (in Russian).

2. Yeliseyev, A. S., Life – A Drop in the Sea. ID Aviatsiya and kosmonavtika, Moscow, 1998, pp. 8-34 (in Russian).

3. Lebedyev, L., Lukyanov, B., and Romanov, A., Sons of the Blue Planet 1961­1981. Politizdat, Moscow, 1981, pp. 178-188 (in Russian).

Once they had settled down in orbit, Dobrovolskiy began a diary in his notebook, starting with the launch and his impressions of weightlessness:

The launch went normally. A smooth flight. We felt some swinging and vibration but it wasn’t a problem – not too strong. Before separation of the last rocket stage, the loads increased. Then, in an instant, silence! The interior of the cabin became brighter. On board clocks and the globe instrument started after a few seconds. After separation, there was a great deal of dust floating in the cabin. The ventilator worked, but we also collected the dust with the aid of wet tissues. . . .

We have had communications with Earth twice.

At 11.43 we heard the TASS announcement of our launch. On board the ship, everything is all right. After separation from the rocket we all had an unpleasant feeling, but we feel better now. It was just as if someone was trying to pull off our heads. We felt our neck muscles strain. It was as if everything in our body had moved up, and our heads seemed heavier. These feelings were weak while we were in our seats, but still present. In these moments, the forehead and the top of the head seemed to be so heavy. I had the feeling that everything inside my body had moved up.

At the onset of weightlessness, the internal organs that had been held in place by gravity were free to migrate upwards inside the chest and the body fluids that would normally be drawn into the legs tended to accumulate in the upper body, giving the impression of a swollen head.

On the second orbit Dobrovolskiy reported to Earth that the spacecraft’s systems were working as they should, and that the crew was feeling well. It was the time to unfasten their belts and enter the orbital module.[62] Volkov, the flight engineer, was the first to leave his couch. After checking instruments on the control panel which indicated the composition, pressure and temperature of the air in the orbital module, he opened the hatch and, like a fish, floated through. The descent module was a bell shape with a ‘free volume’ of 2.5 cubic metres, but the spheroidal module was some 2.2 metres in diameter and had a volume of just over 4 cubic metres.[63] After they had followed him, the rookies delighted in floating in this weightless ‘aquarium’ – little children once again. The descent module had two small portholes, but the orbital module had four larger ones located at 90-degree intervals. After the initial novelty of weightlessness wore off, the three men went to the portholes to observe the Earth. ft was a beautiful sight. The fact that the planet is a sphere was very obvious. They were flying over the Pacific Ocean, and the Sun was reflecting off the surface of the water. Directly below, the colour of the ocean was deep blue. Towards the horizon, it changed to dark grey. Far away, it was in darkness.

‘‘The sea is always beautiful, even from space, and we can’t live without it,’’ said Dobrovolskiy. For him, the first moments in orbit were a flashback to his childhood on the coast of the Black Sea.

Then the cosmonauts returned to the descent module and Dobrovolskiy reoriented the spacecraft to enable the Sun to fully illuminate the solar panels.

On the fourth orbit, at 1.50 p. m., Soyuz 11 successfully made its first manoeuvre to start the rendezvous with Salyut. Then control was transferred from Baykonur to the TsUP in Yevpatoriya.

Because the mission began on a Sunday morning, the families of the crew were at home.

Marina Dobrovolskiy has said that her father was often away from home and she never knew where he went. She recalls when she heard that he had been launched into space: ‘‘Of course, f was happy for my father. However, f wanted so much that he should return as soon as possible. We were given a brief note that he’d written to mom, my sister and f, in which he said that we shouldn’t worry and that everything would be good.’’

Svetlana Patsayeva was attending a Young Pioneers’ camp, and the news was not entirely unexpected: ‘‘f felt that father had some important and very serious work. For me, he was the great authority, and f was really not surprised that he was flying in space.’’

Viktor’s mother Mariya and stepfather fvan, who at the time lived in the village of Rozhdestvo on the Volga River, were not even aware that Viktor was a cosmonaut! Mariya was in the kitchen and fvan was fishing when the national radio announced the news:

fn accordance with the programme of near space exploration, at 7.55 a. m. Moscow Time on 6 June 1971 the Soviet Union launched the spacecraft Soyuz 11. At 8.04 a. m., the spacecraft reached the planned orbit. The crew is: commander, Lieutenant-Colonel Dobrovolskiy, Georgiy Timofeyevich; flight engineer, Hero of the Soviet Union, Volkov, Vladislav Nikolayevich; and research engineer Patsayev, Viktor fvanovich.

When she heard the name of her son, Mariya Patsayeva exclaimed so loudly that a neighbour rushed in to see if anything was amiss. When Mariya explained the news about her son, both cried. Others soon arrived and the celebrations began. Someone placed a table against the front wall of the house bearing a notice stating that in this house lived the parents of cosmonaut Viktor Patsayev.

Meanwhile, in space one of the major tasks for the crew on the first flight day was to familiarise themselves with being weightless. They also monitored their vehicle’s systems and performed the preliminary preparations for the rendezvous and docking with Salyut. Then it was time to rest – they had awakened early for launch. This phase of the mission was timed to coincide with the period in which Soyuz 11 remained out of contact with the Soviet communication stations for a prolonged time, which was from 3.40 p. m. through to 1.30 a. m. the following day, 7 June.

From Dobrovolskiy’s notebook:

6 June 1971: Vadim and I slept in the orbital module, in our sleeping bags in a heads-down orientation.[64] Viktor remained in the descent module, stretched across the couches, also in his sleeping bag. We slept from 6.30 p. m. until 12.00 midnight, which was less than usual, but our impression was that we had a good rest. When we returned our heads to the normal position, they again started to swell.

Vadim and I looked in the mirror, then at each other, and smiled – “we have swollen up like bulldogs’’. We awakened Viktor and made another commu­nication session. Everything is all right on board. Vadim suggested washing our faces with wet tissues. We did so, and returned to our work. At 2.48 a. m., when we flew over the equator, we heard music coming from the direction of Antarctica.

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.