Category NASA in the World

The National Aeronautics and Space Act of 1958 was signed into law by President Eisenhower on July 29, 1958. 14 It distinguished between the civilian and defense – oriented aspects of aeronautical and space activities, and called for the establishment of a new agency to provide for the former in parallel to the Department of Defense (and—although this was not specified in the Act—to the Central Intelligence Agency and later to a highly secret covert agency, the National Reconnaissance Office, established in September 196115). The primary mission of the resulting National Aeronautics and Space Administration (NASA), which formally came into being on October 1, 1958, reflected the dynamics of superpower rivalry with the Soviet Union in the wake of the Sputnik shocks the year before. The Space Act called on the new agency to ensure “the role of the United States as a leader in aeronautical and space science and technology and in the application thereof to the conduct of peaceful activities within and outside the atmosphere (Sec. 2 (c) 5).”

Other countries, above all from the free world, were to be enrolled in this endeavor. To this end the Space Act also included among NASA’s missions “Cooperation by the United States with other nations and groups of nations [. . .] (Sec. 2 (c) 7).” This objective was developed in a short, separate section headed “International Cooperation.” Here it was specified that “[t]he Administration, under the foreign policy guidance of the President, may engage in a program of international cooperation in work done pursuant to the Act, and in the peaceful application of the results thereof, pursuant to agreements made by the President with the advice and consent of the Senate (Sec. 205).” International collabora­tion thus went hand in hand with foreign policy: NASA was to be an arm of American diplomacy.

Eisenhower stressed from the outset that this clause was not intended to engage presidential authority for all bilateral or multilateral programs undertaken by NASA. Its aim, rather, was to allow for the rare occasions when cooperation engaged such important questions of foreign policy that it had to be underpinned by interna­tional treaties. The Final Report of the Senate Special Committee on Space and Aeronautics, dated March 11, 1959, confirmed this interpretation.16 As a result, as Arnold Frutkin has put it, the pace of the cooperative program “was to be faster and its procedures far simpler than would have otherwise been the case.” In par­ticular, “NASA’s international program was thus immediately distinguished from that of the Atomic Energy Commission which, under its legislation, was required to obtain approval of its international efforts from the Congress.”17 The Space Act thus gave NASA considerable latitude to engage in international collaboration as its officers saw fit, and to handle the diplomatic dimensions of its policies and practices through interagency consultation, above all with the State Department.

A commitment to the “peaceful use” of outer space was essential to the suc­cessful exploitation of space for civilian scientific and applications programs on both a national and international collaborative level. As Eilene Galloway, who was involved in drafting the Space Act, has put it, the emphasis on peaceful use was intended to preserve space “as a dependable orderly place for beneficial pursuits.”18 To that end the United States moved rapidly to set up an interna­tional regime forbidding the militarization of space. In the face of considerable Soviet hostility and suspicion the United States took the lead in establishing an ad hoc Committee on the Peaceful Uses of Outer Space (COPUOS), which became a regular committee of the UN General Assembly in December 1959.19

No clear definition of “peaceful use” was laid down by COPUOS, nor has one been established since. This is because of the immense importance of military space programs, and above all of the role that intelligence and reconnaissance satellites have played since the dawn of the space age. As one scholar puts it, from the get go “[t]he term ‘peaceful’ in relation to outer space activities was interpreted by the United States to mean ‘non-aggressive’ rather than ‘non-military.’” In international law this entails that all military uses are permitted and lawful as long as they do not engage the threat or the use of force. This interpretation has been essential to the preservation of both international stability and the national security of the space powers.20 It is now a central plank of the military’s expanding reliance on space.

In September 1966 NASA administrator Webb traveled to Europe to discuss space collaboration with Germany and other potential partners. Frutkin briefed him shortly before his departure. While the “general atmosphere for space coop­eration with the United States may have improved slightly,” wrote Frutkin, the steps taken to date had done little more than “clear the air somewhat.” The Europeans, he told Webb, “know of no progress in easing US restrictions upon communications satellite technology,” and “it may be sometime” before the progress that had been made in Washington could be divulged to them. Webb was therefore to repeat the standard answer to the usual request for comsat launch assistance: “that we could certainly give consideration to such a proposi­tion on the assumption that the European countries take their Intelsat commit­ment to a single global system as seriously as we do.”65

The damage caused by this reticence was amplified by President’s Johnson official offer of support to Germany just before Christmas in 1965. It will be

remembered (see previous chapter) that in an exchange of toasts with Chancellor Ludwig Erhard at a state banquet, LBJ suggested that existing scientific coop­eration should be extended to embrace “an even more ambitious plan to permit us to do together what we cannot do alone.” The president gave two examples of “demanding” and “quite complex” collaborative projects, which would “con­tribute vastly to our mutual knowledge and to our mutual skills”: a solar probe and a Jupiter probe.66

This gesture was driven by political concerns: collaboration in space science was being instrumentalized by the State Department not only to recognize Erhard’s support for the United States in Vietnam, but to drive a wedge between French and German policies in Europe. Indeed, Erhard was forced to relinquish his post in November 1966, accused of mismanaging the economy and of being too pro-American and anti-French. In addition, LBJ’s offer was interpreted by some as a strategy to divert scarce European resources into science and away from applications, notably telecommunications, that is, as a clumsy effort to secure American preponderance in Intelsat. “All in all,” wrote Frutkin to Webb in August 1966, “we must say the President’s proposal got off to a poor start due to misunderstandings which are inevitable when a proposition of this sort is made in the headlines without preparation of the ground.”67 Barnes put it pithily: because of European “suspicion and distrust,” aggravated by President Johnson’s spectacular overtures to Chancellor Erhard, there was “no prospect for escalating cooperation with Europe unless (1) US is willing to modify its present export control policies, and (2) we could offer other possibilities for cooperation in areas of interest to them (i. e., comsats and vehicles).”68

The opportunity for the United States to shape the European program was, however, slipping away. By September 1966 ELDO had temporarily resolved its crisis: the British had agreed not to withdraw in return for their contribution to the budget being reduced from 38 percent to 27 percent.69 The organization had also reoriented its program unambiguously in favor of developing Europa II that achieved geostationary capability by adding a fourth, French-built solid-fuel stage to the previous rocket. In parallel, France and Germany decided to fuse their national comsat projects in a joint experimental telecommunications satel­lite called Symphonie. Symphonie would be launched by Europa II from a new base near the equator in Kourou, French Guiana.70 ELDO had moved from an artificial political construct to an organization that was working to improve its management structure and that now had a well-defined technical mission. For the moment at least, the Europeans would blaze their own trail into space. They would do so under a new regime led by a Republican president who was sworn into office in January 1969.

In his letter to Lefevre Johnson suggested that a technical working group led by Charles W. (“Chuck”) Matthews, the deputy associate administrator in NASA’s Office of Manned Space Flight, should soon meet with Europeans to discuss both participation in the Space Transportation System and other possible modes of collaboration (as required by Kissinger). Fletcher was determined to focus the discussions on the orbiter, however. At a high-level meeting on October 6 he insisted that the “ensuing technical discussions [with the Europeans] should concentrate initially on defining tasks and working relationships for the space transportation system project, since time is catching up with us.” NASA would define the concepts and the configuration of the shuttle in the next two or three months, and select a prime contractor by spring 1972: it would be “imperative to know the extent of European participation by that time.”61 Thus Matthews’s objectives were clear when he came to Paris later in the month. The American delegation was to engage in “technical discussions aimed at a definition of candi­date areas for possible European participation in the space transportation system, viewed in the broader context of program requirements for the 1980s,” includ­ing payloads in which Europe may like to participate. Political, managerial, and contractor-to-contractor arrangements would be temporarily bracketed.62 After a successful meeting on October 22, 1971 with about 40 space officials it was agreed that a joint group of experts meet in Washington at the end of November to study detailed proposals from NASA.63

Charles Donlan, assistant director on the Space Shuttle Program, visited a number of European aerospace companies before the expert meeting to vali­date again the technological capability of major European aerospace contractors in Britain, France, and Germany (see figure 5.2). He ended his trip persuaded that European firms could carry out any part of the post-Apollo program that was contracted to them, and realized that they had more experience than their American counterparts in working in different languages across technical inter – faces.64 There was not going to be one-way flow of technology from the United States to Europe in the post-Apollo program.

The first “Technical Conference on US/European Cooperation in Future Space Programs” opened in Washington on November 30, 1971. Four main areas were identified and disaggregated into separate work packages where needed. These were the space shuttle itself, the space tug, orbital systems, which included Sortie Cans, Pallets, and RAMs, and general technology development (which will not be dealt with here). It was assumed that the shuttle would have an American prime contractor, so here the work packages had to reflect elements that could be subcontracted. The tug was different, in that if Europe under­took the project the US role would probably be limited to minor contributions such as furnishing some components and providing data on shuttle interfaces. Various scenarios of US-European collaboration were foreseen for the orbital systems and for technology development.65

The discussions were held in the context of an ongoing battle between NASA and the Office of Management and Budget (OMB) over the agen­cy’s budget for FY1973, and the configuration of the shuttle that could be afforded. Indeed as late as September 1971 Low and Fletcher seriously considered whether they should forgo a shuttle altogether for something less expensive like a reusable glider.66 By November, however, the Europeans were assured that the most attractive design for the shuttle that was emerging fea­tured a delta-wing orbiter with an external hydrogen/oxygen tank fueling its main engines along with two reusable boosters to provide sufficient thrust for lift-off. The fuel system for the boosters was still under discussion but would be settled when the call for proposals for shuttle development was
issued in spring 1972. The selection of candidate work packages for collabo­ration was thus restricted to the orbiter and its main engines. The orbiter was disaggregated into separate parts (see figure 5.5), and a corresponding list of work packages was drawn up; this excluded components already devel­oped in the Apollo program, which would be transferred to the shuttle. This list fell into four main areas—airframe, propulsion, instrumentation, and aerodynamic testing—for which a total of 14 individual work packages were identified “along with their general description, schedule and approximate costs.” They were essentially illustrative, and ranged from small elements that could be accomplished by a single firm to larger elements that would engage a European consortium.

The airframe attracted most attention. It was believed to “provide an oppor­tunity for European participation because of the ability to identify areas that have relatively simple interfaces and therefore would prove to be more straight-for­ward to manage and integrate into the total vehicle.”67 The nine work packages discussed here were tail assembly ($20-30 million), main wing ($65-75 mil­lion), elevon ($20-25 million), center fuselage, forward and aft ($100-125 mil­lion), cargo bay door ($30-40 million), radiator ($10-15 million), landing

MANUFACTURING MAJOR ASSEMBLY
MODULE BREAKDOWN

Figure 5.5 Disaggregated orbiter, showing subsystems that were potential candidates for collaborative projects, as proposed by McDonnell Douglas.

Source: Presentation made by the firm on May 7, 1971, attached to memo from Sh (Sam Hubbard) dated May 19, 1971. Record Group NASA 255, Box 17, Folder VI. D.3, WNRC. Permission: NASA.

gear and door ($20-30 million), nose section ($3-5 million), and ejection seat ($10-12 million).

The tail assembly package consisted of the orbiter fin and rudder/speedbrake (see figure 5.6), and could easily be integrated into the vehicle by the prime contractor. NASA was careful to exclude from possible consideration the leading edge and thermal system. Sharing technology here risked upgrading European capabilities in domains with a commercial impact, for example, high performance aircraft. The pattern was repeated with the offer for technological collaboration with the main wing, which was somewhat more difficult to integrate than the tail. Like the tail, the wing had a beam and rib arrangement with an aluminum skin. Again the work package on offer included the design, fabrication, testing, and certification of the primary structure. Yet as with the tail, the leading edge and thermal protection system installation was excluded.

Four propulsion packages were identified: the orbital maneuvering sys­tem (OMS) pods ($40-50 million), the reaction control system pods, the air-breathing engine pods ($20-30 million), and the auxiliary power unit. This list deliberately excluded engines because of the criticality of integration and the considerable development experience already available in the United States.

Not much detail was provided on the instrumentation work packages, where it was thought that Europe might be able to contribute $20-30 million. NASA officials were wary of encouraging close technological collaboration here because

Source: Technology Transfer in the Post Apollo Program. NASA HQ MF71-6399, 7-27-71, Record Group NASA 255, Box 14 Folder II. H, WNRC. Permission: NASA.

of the “multiple interfaces involved and the critical interdependency with other systems.” Subcontracting out parts of the instrumentation would “prove too costly and difficult to integrate and manage.”68 Table 5.3 summarizes the work packages on the orbiter that NASA thought might be suitable for international cooperation.

The second major element in the post-Apollo package was the space tug, which would transfer payloads from the shuttle’s low-earth orbit to higher orbits, most notably the geostationary orbit (see figure 5.1). As we saw earlier, at this time the tug was a central feature of the shuttle system and “a key element of the system economics.”69 In April 1970 the European Space Conference voted 500,000 MU (1 MU or monetary unit, was about $1) for pre-Phase A studies (i. e., con­ceptual studies) of the tug, and early in 1971 two lead European contractors, Hawker Siddeley Dynamics (HSD) and Messerschmitt-Bolkow-Blohm (MBB), presented their findings to NASA. Further impetus toward European engage­ment in the tug came toward the end of 1970, when NASA decided that it could not afford to develop the tug concurrently with the shuttle, and began to look at the possibility of using existing Agena and Centaur upper stages in its stead as a stopgap measure. In February 1971 another 400,000 MU were allocated to HSD and MBB to further study the tug in the light of changes to the shuttle configuration. They presented the results of their new studies in Huntsville, Houston, and Washington, DC, in October.70 Thus, when the experts met on November 30, 1971, considerable progress had already been made in Europe on the definition of a tug.

The experts meeting in November strongly endorsed this work. They were persuaded that the tug was “a logical area for European participation in the post-Apollo activities since it is an easily ‘separable’ item with a relatively clean set of interfaces. In addition,” the Report on the meeting went on, it provided “significant technology challenges in a number of areas and represents a key element of the Space Transportation System.”71 Encouraged, on January 5, 1972, ELDO issued requests for proposals for two Phase A space tug studies costing $1.4 million. Additional funds would be sought later that month for what Causse told NASA was Europe’s “main area of interest” in post-Apollo.72

Table 5.3 Work packages on the orbiter proposed to Western Europe for collaboration in November 1971

1. Tail assembly (fin, perhaps rudder/speedbrake) NOT leading edge and thermal protection

2. Main wing NOT leading edge and thermal protection

3. Elevon

4. Central fuselage, fore and aft

5. Cargo bay door

6. Radiator

7. Landing gear and door

8. Nose section

9. Ejection seat

10-13. Propulsion (without engines)

14. Instrumentation (difficult to integrate)

TOTAL COST ~ $400 million

The Europeans liked the tug. NASA now estimated that it be would be needed on 40-50 percent of the foreseen 60-odd annual shuttle flights. If each reusable tug could be used ten times, this implied a production rate of three-five new tugs annually over a ten-year period. This was a rate of industrial production higher than that foreseen for the anticipated European rocket program. A reusable tug, in particular, was also technologically challenging. As one European report put it, it represented “a new type of space vehicle partaking both of the launcher, by its propulsion and structure, and also to a great extent of the satellite, by reason of its launching in the orbiter, its life in orbit and its intelligent systems (atti­tude control, rendezvous, docking).”73 For Europe the tug prefigured the kind of space vehicle that would be common after the 1980s. It also gave Europeans direct access to the heart of NASA’s space flight planning and operations.

The variety of orbiting systems under discussion exploited various possible uses of the shuttle as a platform for short observations and experiments in space. This idea evolved as the funding for a possible space station was pushed into the 1980s. It was inspired by the use of a converted Convair 990 airplane as an airborne laboratory that scientists were using to make astronomical experiments and earth observations. If an aircraft cargo bay could be transformed into a useful scientific platform for space research, why not use the shuttle in a similar way?74 On one variation, called a Sortie Can or Sortie Module, a shirt-sleeve experimental environment was lodged in the Shuttle’s cargo bay and connected to the orbiter crew compartment by an access tunnel. It could be combined with various external pallets attached to the back end of the Sortie Module (and could also be replaced entirely by such pallets). The pallets would only be humanly accessible by EVA (extravehicular activity) and could serve as platforms for large instruments such as telescopes. In a second variation, called a RAM (Research and Application Module), the entire module would be tailored to a specific dis­cipline or human activity, such as materials science and space manufacturing.75 When the experts met on November 30, 1971, NASA had not committed itself to going further than Phase B studies (Definition) of a RAM, and was think­ing of beginning an in-house Phase B study of a Sortie Can six months hence. Both were candidates for European participation, being reasonably autonomous systems that could be used by both parties. NASA also stressed that in the field of payloads to be carried by these systems, all areas were open for European cooperation. It was concluded that Europe should start at once on a Phase A study on the sortie can and pallet, in close cooperation with NASA, so as to be up to speed when NASA began its in-house Phase B effort in about May 1972. Steps would also be taken to define jointly a candidate experiment program for European researchers on the two systems.

The position of the European delegates to the Washington meeting was an unenviable one. The European space program had been dealt a serious blow between the exploratory meeting with NASA in October and the more exten­sive gathering to define work packages at the end of November. On November 5, 1971, the much-awaited F11 test flight of the Europa II rocket failed catastrophically when the rocket exploded three minutes after lift-off.76 ELDO immediately established a committee of enquiry, and requested American participation in the seven working groups set up to investigate the accident: Frutkin responded positively, if somewhat gingerly.77 With their technological

and managerial confidence shattered, the attraction of working closely with the United States in a post-Apollo program, no matter what the cost, had an increas­ing appeal in European capitals.

In 1974, Moscow’s Institute of Biomedical Problems (MIBP) demonstrated a rare show of Soviet initiative in cooperation, inviting NASA’s Ames Research Center (ARC) scientists to fly experiments on their 1975 Cosmos Biosatellite 782. Over the next several years, the Soviet Academy of Sciences launched these satellites at roughly two-year intervals, leading to a total of nine satellites carrying over one hundred US-led investigations into the effects of the space environment on biol­ogy and medicine. Principle investigators represented a number of research institu­tions and space programs from the United States, and East and West Europe.

In the interest of streamlining red tape and simplifying technological inter­faces, US and Soviet space program officials maintained their policy regarding one another’s hardware. This meant that American experiments operated on independent platforms. Sticking to the doctrine of clean interfaces, neither elec­tricity nor data-recording were supplied by Soviet hardware.

Additionally, the two parties exchanged no funds through the course of experimentation: the MIBP would fund and command all activities associated with launch and reentry whereas the Americans would pay for all hardware and development costs for their biomedical experiments. These conditions changed in 1992-1993 following the organization of a Russian civil space program when Moscow asked NASA to cover half the expenses of launch—roughly $16 million (see chapter 8).

The Soviet Union began launching these satellites in 1973, identifying them by either their Cosmos nomenclature or their Bion number as laid out in table 7.2 . Bion (a contraction of Biological Photon) satellite payloads were designed by the MIBP and carried an estimated design life of approximately 30 days in orbit. Being recoverable spacecraft, the Bions were a derivative of the Zenit reconnaissance satellite (used since 1961) and before that, the Vostok recoverable spacecraft (in use since 1960).

The Intercosmos space council invited participation of East European scien­tists from the beginning, but until November 1974 had not included the United States. At the fifth meeting of the Soviet-American Joint Working Group on Biomedicine, representatives of Moscow’s Institute for Biomedical Problems shocked Ames researchers by inviting experiments from the United States. Following procedures drafted in the 1971 Agreement on Space Sciences and Applications (which was renewed in 1974 and 1977), Ames Research Center functioned as the manager of American participation.

Until the Cosmos 782 mission, cooperation between the two had been lim­ited to sharing data, joint conferences, and publications. After Cosmos 782 landed in December 1975, it supplied data and specimens to researchers in Czechoslovakia, France, Hungary, Poland, Romania, the United States, and the Soviet Union.78 In 1977 Cosmos 936 carried an impressive array of instruments sent from two more nations: Bulgaria and the German Democratic Republic.

Kristen Edwards points out that the Soviet Academy of Science’s offer came at a fortuitous time for American biomedical researchers, in light of the fact that in 1969 NASA cancelled all biosatellite research.79 Following the disappoint­ment of an aborted program on Skylab, NASA bioscientists would otherwise have had to wait until the Shuttle was operational for space access.

Joint work on biosatellites stipulated that Americans design and build their instruments within the predesignated specifications of the Cosmos biosatellite, ship all materials, and when necessary train their Soviet counterparts in the use of such devices.80 Edwards explains that the first invitation for US proposals placed NASA scientists on a tight schedule: experiment descriptions due to the USSR by December 1974, experiment hardware due by August 1975. In the

meantime, NASA life scientists engineered and constructed experiment hard­ware. Edwards points out that these machines were passive specimen modules fitted within containers measuring half a cubic foot. These “passive” modules functioned autonomously from the Soviet spacecraft, neither drawing electrical current nor making use of the Soviet data recording systems. Circumventing Soviet hardware and personnel hinged on matters of security and the fact that communications regarding Bion “were not always sufficiently open due to security concerns in both countries.” Perhaps most important, the use of passive experiment modules eased anxieties regarding technology transfer—for Soviets and Americans alike.81

After payload elements were developed and tested, Soviet engineers took responsibility for system integration and testing of the overall spacecraft. As of 1992 (and likely before) persons in the USSR took charge of all animal training and biocompatibility testing. Soviet mission personnel took complete charge of launch activities. Following reentry, they coordinated the post-flight proce­dures between recovery sites and mission headquarters in Moscow.82 Only when specimens were back in Moscow did NASA’s ARC personnel take over their experiments.

As we take these steps together to renew our strength at home, we cannot turn away from our obligation to renew our leadership abroad.

This is a promising moment. . . Russia’s strategic nuclear missiles soon will no lon­ger be pointed at the United States nor will we point ours at them. Instead of building weapons in space, Russian scientists will help us to build the international space station.

—President Clinton, 1994 State of the Union Address87

Critics and proponents alike recognized that the Gore-Chernomyrdin Commission agreements were intended to liberalize trade structures, introduce new regimes of environmental monitoring and protection, and preserve the institutions and infra­structure in Russia and the Commonwealth of Independent States in exchange for compliance with American standards of demobilization and technology con­trol regimes. Policymakers anticipated that capital—in the form of increased trade flows among American and Russian firms, as well as direct payments from NASA to the Russian government, would not only preserve existing infrastructures in Russia, but contain dual-use technologies and know-how.

Many doubted that taxpayer dollars could reasonably be expected to divert flows of weapons knowledge. One source remarked: “[Officials involved in con­trolling the spread of weapons see the [ISS] plan as a way to give Russian indus­trialists incentives to adhere to Western nonproliferation rules. The two Russian companies with the biggest stake in a joint space station, Energia and Krunichev also build military spacecraft and missile parts.”88

Referring to whether or not the Russians had a right to sell liquid booster technologies to India, another observed, “The space-station deal, for example, was both a reward to Russia’s aerospace industry for not selling sensitive rocket technology to India and a chance for the US to enlist Russian scientists about [sic] the effort to control the future spread of dangerous weapons.” The authors explained, “Washington’s decision to deal in the Russians on the orbiting space station is the cornerstone of an ambitious. . . strategy for binding Russia to the US and Western style reforms by building links with its military, scientific, and industrial elites.”89

Thus, this exception to the “clean interface” mode of cooperation raised a number of difficult quandaries for program officials regarding the relationships of private enterprise, the state, science, and the tenets of free market capitalism. The Gore-Chernomyrdin talks provided Clinton administration officials with an opportunity to shape policy in Russia in a number of fields. It was not merely the floundering Soviet state that the American government sought to regulate—it was the engineers who may defect, scientists who may market technical knowl­edge, or industrialists who may withdraw from weapons compliance. In 1993 Central Intelligence Agency director James Woolsey observed that delays in pay, deteriorating work conditions, and uncertain futures were “apparently spur­ring Russian specialists to seek emigration despite official restrictions on such travel.”90 Such fears led to a number of public and private relief efforts, intended to preserve and contain the former Soviet military-industrial complex.

NASA officials displayed a similar philosophy when dealing with Ukraine, linking participation on the International Space Station with compliance to Missile Technology Control Regimes. In May 1994, Administrator Goldin met with Ukrainian deputy prime minister and director general of the National Space Agency of Ukraine (NSAU) Vladimir Gorbulin. In his premeeting briefing, he was informed that, in March, Gorbulin had “pressed the issue of Ukrainian par­ticipation in the Space Station.” The brief continued, pointing out that Russia “has indicated its desire to employ the Ukrainian Zenit [launch vehicle] to support the Station.” However, “these launchers are being coordinated directly between Ukraine and Russia.” The report stated that, in an apparent effort to secure a more direct NASA partnership, Gorbulin also discussed the use of Ukrainian guidance, control and navigation for the FGB, as well as other ISS components.91

This was not the first time Ukraine had courted NASA. In June 1993 Deputy Prime Minister Shmarov had met with a number of NASA officials, wanting in part to use the former strategic missiles SS -24 and SS -19 as well as the Zenit launch vehicle and AN-225 aircraft for “national economic purposes.” Covering all his bases, Shmarov also informed NASA that Ukraine had produced 65-75 percent of the earth sensing satellites flown by the Soviet Union and that as of the sum­mer of 1993, the company had been broadening its work with satellites in the international arena. It had plans to work with Intelsat, Inmarsat, Eutelsat, and

COSPAS-SARSAT. In addition to this, the country supported joint programs in space geodesy and global climate change research. Ultimately, the report advised: “Mr Shmarov may want to develop a role for Ukraine in the. . . Space Station relationship. If he broaches the subject, you should be non-committal and reply that we have no objection if Ukraine also talks to Russia.”92

Would NASA dismiss Shmarov and Gorbulin entirely? Not likely. Due to National Security Council’s Rose Gottemoeller’s “particular interest” in Shmarov and the “delicate” nature of negotiations surrounding nuclear warhead dismantlement, Goldin was advised to bide his time and yet “NOT” encourage the possibility of direct NASA-Ukraine coordination in space.93 The report con­cluded by stating that, although Ukraine had “significant launch capabilities, including the Zenit and Cyclone launchers until Ukraine becomes a signa­

tory to the MTCR and other international treaties, the US Government does not wish to pursue this.”94

NASA’s collaborative effort was originally located institutionally in the Office of International Programs. The first director, Henry E. Billingsley, was quickly replaced by Arnold W. Frutkin in September 1959. Frutkin joined NASA from the National Academy of Sciences. There he had been the deputy director of the US National Committee for the International Geophysical Year and had also served as an adviser to the academy’s delegate to the first and second meetings of COSPAR.

Frutkin had a long and distinguished career at NASA. In 1978 NASA adminis­trator Robert Frosch appointed him deputy associate administrator, then associate administrator for external relation. The post was not to his liking, and Frutkin left government service shortly thereafter, in June 1979.21 Some have suggested that his resistance to collaborating with Japan, which was emerging as major global power (see chapters 9 and 10), led to his relocation and his eventual decision to resign. His activities were taken over by Norman Terrell for a couple of years, before Kenneth Pedersen joined the agency as director of the International Affairs Division of the Office of External Relations. Pedersen had been an assistant pro­fessor of political science at San Diego State University from 1968 to 1971, before taking on various policy analysis activities in the federal government.

Frutkin laid down the basic principles that guided NASA’s international collab­orative projects for two decades in which the United States was the leading space power in the free world. Pedersen frequently remarked that he was dealing with a different geopolitical situation in which the United States’ historical rival for space superiority, the Soviet Union, was showing a greater willingness to open out to international partners and in which the space programs in other regions and coun­tries, notably Western Europe and Japan, had matured significantly. In September 1985 Pedersen was named deputy associate administrator for external relations and was replaced by Richard Barnes, who was Frutkin’s right-hand man during the 1960s and 1970s.22 In 1991 Pedersen returned to academia and was replaced as associate administrator for external relations by Margaret (Peggy) Finarelli.23 Finarelli joined NASA in 1981 after serving in various government agencies. She was NASA’s chief negotiator for the international agreements with Canada, Europe, and Japan regarding cooperation in the Space Station Freedom program.24

Over the past two decades the management of NASA’s external relations has been reorganized several times reflecting the increasing scope and com­plexity of the agency’s international activities. In 2010 they were handled by the Office of International and Interagency Relations. Associate Administrator Michael O’Brien and his deputy Al Condes watched over a variety of activities that include, for example, distinct divisions for “international efforts to pio­neer approaches in aeronautics research and the exploration of the Moon and Mars and beyond,” for “international and interagency policy issues” for science, and for the administration of NASA’s export control program. NASA had field offices, not only in Europe, but in Japan and Russia too.25

The scope of NASA’s international collaboration is truly vast. In 1970, when many countries only had embryonic programs of their own, Arnold Frutkin reported that NASA had already collaborated with scientists in 70 different countries, and had established 225 interagency or executive agreements with 35 countries.26 Addressing a congressional subcommittee in 1981, Ken Pederson remarked that NASA’s international activities had grown to over 1,000 agree­ments with 100 countries, and that these programs had resulted in more than $2 billion of economic benefits for the country. Michael O’Brien has recently counted over 4,000 international agreements of all kinds.27

Looking only at scientific collaboration with Europe, we find that this has increased rapidly in recent times. John Logsdon counted just 33 projects between 1958 and 198 3.28 Roger Launius later reported that there were 139 cooperative agreements with European nations between 1962 and 1997, that is, about 100 agreements were signed between 1984 and 1997.29

Numbers alone cannot capture this immense enterprise. Table 1.1 surveys the range of international activities that NASA was engaged in for the first 26 years of its existence. These include infrastructural components like tracking and data acquisition, and launch provision. They cover collaboration in science using bal-

Type of Arrangement A B Type of Arrangement A B

Cooperative balloons and airborne projects

Notes: A: Number of countries/international organizations

B: Number of projects/investigations/actions completed or in progress as of January 1, 1984 a Number of actual launches

b AID-sponsored international applications demonstration c Automatic picture transmission stations.

Source: Anon., 26 Years of NASA International Programs (Washington, DC: NASA, n. d.). Thanks to Dick Barnes for providing a copy of this booklet.

loons, sounding rockets and satellites and applications in areas like remote sens­ing, communications and meteorology.

In addition NASA has sponsored an education and training program through fellowships, research associateships, and by hosting foreign visitors. There is no doubt that the agency has played a fundamental role in encouraging and strengthening the exploration and exploitation of space throughout the world, or at least among friendly nations. NASA has helped many countries kick-start their space programs and has enriched them once they had found their own feet. More than that, it has helped give thousands of people in over one hundred nations some stake in space, some sense of contributing, albeit in perhaps a small way, to the challenges and opportunities, the excitement and the dangers that the conquest of space inspires.

The negotiations over European contributions to the post-Apollo program concerned the biggest single attempt to integrate a foreign nation or region into the technological core of the American space program during the first decades of NASA’s existence.1 These discussions were carried on for about three years, and engaged several NASA administrators: Thomas Paine, from October 1969 until he left NASA in September 1970; George Low, who temporarily led the organization while a successor was found; and then James C. Fletcher. They also engaged multiple arms of the administration: NASA of course, as the lead agency, but also the State Department, the Department of Defense, the Office of Telecommunications Policy, the National Security Council, and, hovering in the wings, the Office of Management and Budget (OMB), which assumed extensive powers in the Nixon administration.2 They were of deep concern to industry. And they were dominated by issues of technology transfer and launcher policy, here embedded in a framework that touched on matters of international diplo­macy, national security, and American technological, commercial, and political leadership of the free world.

In a speech to the United Nations in September 1969 President Nixon called for the “internationalization of man’s epic venture in space.” Feeling himself mandated to broaden the base of the post-Apollo program, Paine made a con­certed effort to seek international partners, and made his case with passion to the Australians, the Canadians, the Japanese, and the West Europeans. It was the last who were best positioned to take advantage of it. European engineers, managers, and policymakers, who had learnt so much from NASA in the early 1960s, were deeply impressed by the Apollo missions: the United States, it seemed, could do anything it wanted in space. The gap in technological, engineering, and mana­gerial capacity that had opened up between the two sides of the Atlantic in the space sector had now become a chasm—and yet here they were being invited to join in NASA’s next major program. Their reactions combined awe at American achievements, with pride that they were deemed worthy of inclusion in the next leap forward, and with fear born of uncertainty. Given their limited resources, if they made a major commitment to NASA’s post-Apollo program they risked sacrificing an indigenous space program of their own devising, above all an

autonomous launch capability. If they rejected the American offer they would be doomed to an inferior position, always collaborating from a position of weakness with the world’s space leaders. NSAM 294 and NSAM 398 were suggestive of what that could entail: a vulnerability to the constraints on international col­laboration imposed by US commercial, political, and security concerns, which could mean launchers denied, technology and managerial skills withheld, and prime contractors always based on US soil.

The account that follows will flesh out these more general considerations in greater detail. It is divided into three chapters. The first covers the period from the end of 1969 to early 1971, when the budget appropriations for FY1972 were finalized—and much to NASA’s distress, post-Apollo did not figure largely in them.3 The second chapter covers 1971. While some progress was made on defin­ing the parameters of US-European collaboration, the year was dominated by a separate if related concern: the implications of the definitive Intelsat agreements (accepted in principle by 73 governments on May 21, 1971) on the availability of US launchers for European telecommunications satellites. Finally, there is the period inaugurated by President’s Nixon’s statement on January 5, 1972, that the space shuttle (more precisely the STS, Space Transport System) would be the centerpiece of NASA’s post-Apollo program. Poised to move quickly, NASA rap­idly took advantage of the new situation. Plans for a major technological collab­orative project were refined in a series of meetings with experts from both sides of the Atlantic. A variety of possible platforms for a European contribution were explored, including the construction, under the guidance of an American prime contractor, of parts of the orbiter itself. Alternatives included the European- led construction of a “space tug,” an orbit-to-orbit vehicle intended to ferry hardware and people from the shuttle’s low-earth orbit to the moon, the geo­stationary orbit, and so on, and a Sortie Can or a RAM (Research Applications Module), a capsule or a palette for doing space science that would be lodged in the shuttle’s cargo bay.

The managerial, industrial, and technological complexities of direct par­ticipation in the orbiter soon overwhelmed NASA’s wish to have any partners directly engaged in building its new space transport system. The agency also started having grave doubts about the wisdom of developing the tug, which had emerged as Europe’s preferred contribution to the program. Taking the bull by the horns, in June 1972 it was announced, to the distress not to say anger of many of its partners, that the United States could only support a European effort to build a “sortie can” for space science experiments, while encouraging international participation in the use of the shuttle system. Germany decided to take advantage of this offer, and took the lead in developing what later became known as Spacelab. The French, by contrast, were now even more emphatic that meaningful technological collaboration with the United States was impossible. The withdrawal of the tug, and the conditions under which the United States would launch foreign communication satellites, played into the hands of those who were seeking political justification for an independent European launcher program. The French authorities, yielding to pressures from engineers in their national space agency and the Gaullist wings of the political elite, took prime responsibility for developing a European heavy launcher called Ariane, which made its first successful maiden flight on Christmas eve, 1979.

Kissinger’s insistence that NASA should not restrict its options for collaborat­ing with Europe to the post-Apollo program brought the ongoing negotiations over a jointly developed aeronautical satellite system into focus at the end of 1971. The idea of a NASA/ESRO suite of satellites to handle air traffic over the Atlantic was one of the collaborative ventures promoted by NASA administrator Tom Paine in his early enthusiasm for international projects in the post-Apollo period.78 By August 1971, and notwithstanding the multiple stakeholders and conflicting interests involved, it was agreed in Madrid (to cite the European report of the meeting) that a preoperational aeronautical satellite system would be “jointly developed, funded, managed, implemented and evaluated” by Europe through ESRO and by the United States through the FAA (Federal Aviation Administration), along with other interested governments.79 Europe was pre­pared to assume 50 percent of the full program cost, and although the prime contractor would be chosen by open competitive bidding (and might well not be European), it was stipulated that European partners be included in the scheme and would obtain a “fair and reasonable” share of the contracts. Liberal provi­sion was made for technology sharing. “For the first time,” wrote the science correspondent of the prestigious French daily Le Monde, “co-operation with the United States in the field of application satellites seems to be getting under way under conditions of equality.”80

The assault on this project was again spearheaded by the OMB, along with Whitehead and Flanigan.81 They wanted American industry to drive space activities, and they were hostile to the idea that the FAA and ESRO would be co-owners of the system. They wanted it to be owned privately and leased to governments. In line with the associated concern to restrict technology transfer, they would have no truck with the idea that if the Europeans paid half the pro­gram costs they should be entitled to their fair share of industrial work. There was to be no constraint on US industry’s competitive advantage and no transfer of technology from the United States to Europe, as would be inevitable in a joint program. They also objected to the idea that the satellite should be restricted to aircraft, citing economic efficiency: the Office of Telecommunications Policy wanted a single system for both maritime and aviation services. Thus armed, Whitehead and his allies demanded an in-depth policy review before ratifica­tion of the FAA-ESRO memorandum of understanding (MoU) that had been drafted in Washington on August 20, 1971. As Frutkin noted in his diary in October, “European confidence in cooperative projects has been dented by the long delay in our responding to the Lefevre letter, by the obvious uncertainty of the shuttle’s future and by US behavior on an aeronautical satellite.”82 In November Johnson warned Kissinger that if the United States withdrew from Aerosat at this stage it would have serious repercussions “not only our future co-operation in post-Apollo and other space related activities, but on overall US-European relations.”83

In 1971 the enthusiasm for post-Apollo cooperation that Tom Paine had injected into US-European relations began to wane. The gap widened between the considerable progress made at the technical level between joint groups of experts spearheaded by NASA and the increasing doubts raised at the level of high policy. Whitehead and Flanigan, with the support of David and Fletcher, became increasingly and effectively vocal in their opposition to close collabora­tion. Their fear that the United States would sacrifice its technological lead, and that US industry would be harmed, was mingled with the White House staffers’ distrust of NASA. In their eyes NASA wanted Europe in the shuttle program to protect it from domestic political cuts, even cancellation, and was accord­ingly willing to give away American technology at ten cents on the dollar, as Whitehead put it. Their pressure on NASA was amplified by Charyk’s demand on behalf of Comsat that Johnson tighten up the conditions under which the United States would launch foreign telecommunication satellites before the definitive Intelsat agreements were signed in May.

The European position was summed up by Secretary of State Rogers in a memo to the president in January 1972. As he put it, “[T]he prospects for sub­stantial European contributions to the post-Apollo program are clouded [. . .] by residual European doubts about whether our offer of launch assistance is suf­ficiently adequate to permit Europe to forgo the development of its own large and expensive rockets.” Delays in reaching agreement on the Aerosat project were also being read “as an ominous sign concerning our future intentions on space cooperation.”84 In fact the Europeans had now realized that they would not be treated as privileged partners under the Intelsat framework. The State Department would be flexible, but it would not give them a formal cast-iron guarantee to launch a separate European comsat system. European space policy for the next decade was further complicated by the disastrous failure of the Europa rocket in November. Divisions were emerging between those who felt it was important to work with the United States in an advanced technological proj­ect come what may (led by Germany) and those who saw little or no advantage in it (like Britain and France, for different reasons). An important policy initiative was needed to energize the decision-making process. The official authorization of the shuttle program in 1972 by President Nixon did just that.

Staff at Ames crafted several Cosmos biosatellite experiments specifically to complement projects on US human-rated spacecraft, beginning with the Apollo-Soyuz Test Project. James Connolly, chief of the Payload and Facilities Engineering Branch of the Life Sciences Division, functioned as ARC’s project manager on Bion satellite experiments from 1986 through 1993. When inter­viewed, Connolly recalled some of the pros and cons of flying instruments on human or robotic craft. For one thing, “you have a lot more paperwork on a Shuttle mission,” he explained, due to the safety considerations for astronauts. Bion satellites also had a quick turnaround: whereas the 3-4 year lead time on a Shuttle mission afforded advantages for more complex instrument and experi­ment development, the average Bion satellite permitted only 12-18 months preparation time (allowing for quicker turnover or faster revisions to studies). In the end, ARC staff found that they could use Soviet biosatellites as something of a test bed for Shuttle instruments. Connolly elaborated: “One advantage that we saw in the Cosmos program, as compared to the Shuttle, was that we could acquire technology components, do proof-of-concept development of a system, fly it, and then transition it into a Shuttle mission if the opportunity presented itself.”83 Looking to the future of biomedical cooperation, Connolly predicted that transferring experiments to the International Space Station would pose an entirely new set of demands on ARC equipment, having to function in space for long-duration flights of roughly 90 days (as opposed to the two – or three-week runs on Bion or the Shuttle). “On the Shuttle, we don’t even consider changing out a filter. We have done some inflight refurbishment of water supplies and, of course, there were animal food change-outs that we dealt with in shorter flights.” Perhaps these considerations contributed to his preference for robotic craft: “I’m in favor of as much automation as you can get,” Connolly explained. Automated experiments allowed for greater consistency in operations and when sent on manned missions, require less attention from crews. Although auto­mated missions accelerated the rate of experimentation and eliminated a consid­erable amount of red tape, biosatellites did have their costs.

For the most part, materials and organisms could only be viewed on Bions, not manipulated. This meant that in the event of a malfunction, it was nearly impossible for investigators to repair equipment. In spite of the scrupulous quality control and the necessity for high-reliability hardware to overcome such risks, the flight of nonhuman spaceflight experiments placed a significantly smaller burden on NASA budgets than did manned.84 This relatively low-bud­get ceiling (paired with an equally low profile in the public eye) might well have made it possible for Bion cooperation to continue, even after NASA/Soviet Academy of Sciences 1977 Bilateral Agreement in the Peaceful Uses of Outer Space lapsed in 1982.85

Carter, China, and "Inducing Soviet Flexibility"

NASA and the Soviet Academy of Sciences signed the 1977 Bilateral Agreement in the Peaceful Uses of Outer Space as diplomatic relations were unraveling rapidly at the state level. In the late 1970s, President Jimmy Carter observed Soviet human rights violations against the Polish Solidarity movement with increasing frustration. This, coupled with involvement in conflicts in Ethiopia, Angola, Shaba, Yemen, Cambodia, Cuba, and Iran all reached a climax with the December 1979 invasion of Afghanistan. Cold War historian Odd Arne Westad characterizes Carter’s response as that of “an activist president who was deter­mined to make the Soviets pay a high price for their invasion of Afghanistan.”86 The Carter administration retaliated on a number of diplomatic fronts: recalling their ambassador, boycotting the Moscow Olympics, suspending the Senate con­sideration of SALT II, discontinuing various cultural and economic exchanges, restricting fishing rights in US waters, effecting an embargo on high-tech exports to the Soviet Union, and, most alarmingly, cancelling a 17-million-ton shipment of grain.87

At this time, President Carter flirted with capitalizing on Nixon’s advance­ments in China to isolate and embarrass the Soviet Union as much as possible. Pondering cooperation across a broad spectrum of activities including space and nuclear energy, the Carter administration sought to reinforce diplomatic rela­tions with the People’s Republic of China. American technologies, together with scientific cooperation, were intended to “serve as a positive and constructive force in deepening US relations with the People’s Republic, exerting influence on the PRC’s future domestic and international orientation and, perhaps, mod­erating Soviet foreign policy conduct.” In particular, scientific and technological exchanges stood to “place the USSR on notice that provocative Soviet behavior could stimulate increasingly intimate Sino-US ties with security overtones.”88

In the fall of 1978, the president’s Policy Review Committee met regarding science and technology programs with China. Acting on the president’s instruc­tions that they “move ahead” with student exchanges, technical aid in the field of energy, and space, the committee communicated a few suggestions. In particular, they noted that the Departments of State and Defense, the Central Intelligence Agency, and NASA each agreed that the United States could consider “allowing the PRC to procure” two 12-transponder C-band Westar Class satellites “from US industry under carefully designed controls that would limit undesirable tech­nology transfer and unfavorable domestic and international reactions.”89 The satellite would be purchased and delivered in “turnkey” condition—that is to say, in geosynchronous orbit. Though no satellite hardware would enter the PRC, the committee did allow that US tracking-telemetry-control ground sys­tem technologies would have to be exported. As of negotiations in 1978, the Chinese would “pay all costs associated with activities which benefit them,” and the United States would do likewise.

Up-to-date geosynchronous telecommunications satellites were, in Science Advisor Frank Press’s opinion, the “definitive test of future US-PRC scientific and technological relationships.” Carter also considered PRC interest in acquiring a Landsat ground station, capable of receiving multispectral data from the 1981 Landsat-D thematic mapper.90 At the same time, the Department of Commerce began meeting with counterparts in the PRC discussing possible fields of sci­entific collaboration including metrology, meteorology, oceanography, fish­ery research and management, data center management and data interchange, and patents.91 The committee acknowledged that these actions were calculated specifically to “help induce Soviet flexibility.” Regarding the so-called Soviet – American Factor in Sino-American cooperation, the Committee reported:

In [Soviet] propaganda they condemned the Frank Press visit and they can be expected to cast specific projects in the worst possible light. Yet, the prospects of expanded S&T contact may have helped induce Soviet flexibility. Clearly, they will be especially sensitive to any Sino-US collaboration which they see as enhancing the PRC’s military capabilities vis-a-vis the Soviet Union.92

While this “turnkey” export of satellites to China never came to be, it does illus­trate the lengths the Carter administration would consider.

US and Russian cooperation in the Space Station entails not only government to government cooperation but also industry to industry agreements. The bottom line is that while government agreements will formalize cooperation, the actual building of the station will be accomplished primarily by private industry.

—NASA administrator Dan Goldin95

The case of Ukraine is instructive. Trade restrictions might function as one of many American bureaucratic mechanisms channeling the flows of US resources or they might lessen the negative impact of foreign competition on American firms. However, the advantages of American protectionism diminished with the increase in joint ventures between Russia and the United States. At the same time, US aerospace firms began to vertically integrate: launch providers merged with satellite builders. Initially, as of 1992 one policy analyst noted the division of the aerospace industry into two powerful blocs: General Dynamics, Martin Marietta, McDonnell Douglas, and Rockwell international demanded strong protectionist policies against Chinese and Russian boosters. Hughes, Loral, and General Electric Aerospace, however, lobbied for access to the less-expensive foreign launchers.96

The years 1993 through 1995 brought the merger/acquisition of sev­eral key firms: Martin-Marietta acquired General Electric Aerospace, then General Dynamics. In 1995 Lockheed (which in turn had been collaborating with Energia and Khrunichev) merged with the Martin consortium forming International Launch Services. Thus, the Lockheed-Martin group pressed for the total elimination of Proton launch quotas while Boeing (and its new subsid­iaries McDonnell Douglas and Rockwell) entered into business arrangements with Ukraine’s Sea Launch, marketing the Zenit.97

Globalization is by no means a new phenomenon for the aerospace indus­try, which for decades has seen joint ventures in aviation research, development, and production.98 However the trade liberalization of the 1990s brought US and former Soviet complexes together for the first time. Hughes, Lockheed, Martin Marietta, and General Electric had been key figures in Cold War era reconnaissance, military communications, and early warnings satellites.99 With Europe’s market share rising steadily and defense spending dropping precipi­tously, the industrial lobby, proponents of defense preparedness, and congressmen became increasingly concerned. As of 1969, US firms held an astounding 91 per­cent of the world market share. In 1993 this figure had dropped to 67 percent.100 What follows gives nuance to the significance of US-Russian partnerships.

In 1993, the United States permitted Russian firms for the first time to launch American telecommunications satellites into geosynchronous orbit, providing they sold their launch services at a cost comparable to Western prices. In 1998, Ukraine and Russia entered into Technical Safeguard Agreements designed to protect American satellite and missile technology and allow US industry to launch satellites from foreign locations. Between 1997 and 2006, Proton launchers captured a market share equal to the Atlas (11-12 percent and 10-12 percent, respectively), but it must be recalled that the Proton was by way of joint ventures, now also an American product.

It is indisputable that Russia’s rise on the world market is due, at least in part, to Russian-American joint ventures that brought about a convergence of Western management, marketing, and perhaps most important, customers. These factors were evident in the logic and execution of the Gore-Chernomyrdin Commission for Economic and Technical Cooperation. However the American aerospace industry stood to gain as well—not so much by opening new markets, as finding new business partners. These included the commercial space launch ventures of Lockheed-Khrunichev-Energia (ILS) and the Energia-Boeing-Yuzhnoe venture, Sea Launch.101 Additionally, Pratt-Whitney, Rockwell, and Aerojet initiated busi­ness deals with the former Soviet Space complex, while the Russian manufactur­ers of the Cosmos, Cyclone, and Rokot launch vehicles each found international partners to launch their vehicles. Analysts speculated that Europe’s market share would drop from roughly 50 percent in 1996 to 25 percent in 2006.102

Thus, the United States helped shape the formation of a privatized aero­space industry in the former Soviet Union. The US government opened itself and American firms to Russian space industries, but—as mentioned earlier—in exchange, the United States demanded the formation of a civil space agency as well as agreements concerning compliance in the demilitarization of former weapons facilities. It is at best doubtful that their optimistic wishes for weapons control were successful. Nonetheless, the United States attempted to woo the remnants of the Soviet Union into military and economic compliance by offering a combination of trade and fiscal incentives. With it came more than $760 mil­lion (as detailed in table 8.2) to buttress their faltering aerospace infrastructure

In the long run, these government dollars were but a drop in the bucket—or more aptly a foot in the door—compared with the profit intake of private indus­try.103 As of 1998, Western customers were paying more than $880 million a year for space services. This accounted for roughly 70-80 percent of the Russian space program’s operating costs.104 In 1997 alone, Energia Corporation claimed over $350 million in commercial earnings, roughly half the total foreign sales for the entire space industry. While cooperative space work did not release the largest sum of money to the Russian space program, it did provide a politically palatable environment for reforming state infrastructures to favor trade on the global market.