Category NASA in the World

When the 1969 Agreement was signed there were no less than 24 pending requests for the transfer of launcher technology from the United States to the Japanese fledgling N-program. Here is a typical example of one such case that was pending in June 1969. It indicates how difficult it was to decide what could reasonably be passed on to Japan, and the importance that NASA officials attached to the final terms of any agreement between the two nations21:

Case No Company

64-69 TRW

a. Commodity: Assistance in performing a “Sizing Study” of the Japanese N launch vehicle, including computer simulations.

b. Comments: NASA finds it difficult to evaluate the significance of this case. It recommends that a final decision should be left in abeyance until after the agree­ment. DOD, in an interim reply on the case, said it would not object to those parts of the assistance that are within the scope of the agreement. ACDA gave an unqualified no objection.

The agreement itself authorized American industry, with US government per­mission, to provide “unclassified technology and equipment [ . . . ] for the devel­opment of Japanese Q and N launch vehicles and communications and other satellites for peaceful applications.” As regards launchers, an attachment speci­fied that the agreement would hold “up to the level of the Thor-Delta vehicle systems, exclusive of reentry and related technology.”22

This was fine as far as it went, but it did not specify just which Thor-Delta con­figuration was to serve as a benchmark. Successful implementation, in the view of a State-DOD-NASA team, thus required the formulation of “a package guideline that a) would enable the Japanese to reach their objective of placing a synchro­nous satellite into orbit, b) would not raise any security problems for the U. S. and c) more importantly would serve as a yardstick to measure specific cases, as to whether they are within the scope of the agreement and therefore approvable.”23 The task of setting that yardstick was entrusted to a multibody group called the Technology Advisory Group (TAG). It was composed of representatives from the DOD, NASA, the State Department, and the OMC (Office of Munitions Control).24 First chaired by Mr. Vincent Johnson, deputy associate administrator of NASA for Space Science and Applications, the TAG broadly acted as a control mechanism for limiting the technology that was transferred and made sure that the equipment that was offered to Japan provided the bare minimum configura­tion to place a satellite in geostationary orbit.25

The immediate task before TAG was to clarify the wording of the agreement that was signed in 1969. This baseline would be used by the OMC to evaluate the licenses for exporting technology and equipment. However, as Vincent Johnson

put it, “[T]he task of generating an explicit, single faceted and easy to administer definition of the level of technology authorized and/or intended under the U. S./ Japanese Space agreement [was] not a simple one.” He pointed to the agreement providing “reasonable latitude in interpretation” notably as regards the “level” of the Thor-Delta technology that could be shared.26 Since the level could be interpreted differently depending on the specific set of conditions surrounding a particular situation, the TAG wanted to have an unambiguous baseline to use as a yardstick against which to evaluate specific requests for release. The TAG provided OMC with such a detailed Thor-Delta definition on October 30, 1970 (see table 10.1).

The TAG chose Thor-Delta 58 as the baseline launcher for collaborative pur­poses. This was the model that provided the first two stages of Thor-Delta 71, the vehicle in use when the US/Japan space cooperation Agreement was signed in July 1969, and it had a geosynchronous capability of 156 kilograms. Thor-Delta 58 was the least sophisticated launcher capable of achieving the geosynchronous target of 120-130 kilograms the Japanese had set for their first experimental test satellites. It had also been used in May 1969 to place an Intelsat III communi­cations satellite weighing about 145 kilograms into geostationary orbit. To the above baseline TAG inserted this caveat:

It should be clearly recognized that such a definition cannot be used as the sole criteria for approval or rejection of a given request. Many cases will arise where it is either impractical, undesirable, or not in our own best interest to provide the specific hardware and/or technology defined in the base line system. In these instances the judgment must be exercised as to the need, suitability and relation­ship to the general Thor-delta “level” or “class” of hardware and/or technology.

In these instances, a rationale should be provided setting forth the reasons for departure from the base line system.27

It is clear that Europe cannot allow itself to be reduced to a subordinate or subsid­iary role in space ventures if it is to maintain its current hard-won position [. . .] The need for international collaboration on major space undertakings is not disputed, but Europe wishes to enter such undertakings on an “equal partnership” basis, this concept applying at all levels, including operational control.

—Reimar Lust, 198790

The new determination by ESA to be taken seriously as an international partner by the United States required a change of approach in Europe. More resources were needed for space science along with a coherent plan that could be used to win the broad support of the multidisciplinary space science community and of potentially reluctant member states. Existing procedures for selecting experi­ments were creating some resentment in the United States and also had to be revised. The Cassini-Huygens spacecraft, whose launch in October 1997 by a Titan IV-Centaur vehicle was “regarded as a miracle by some people involved in the mission,” not only promised to be of immense scientific importance, it also benefited from these institutional reforms, along with the possibility of levering the Clinton administration’s commitment to international space collaboration in the mid-1990s.91

The Cassini mission extended the avenues opened up by the data from the Voyager 1 and Voyager 2 flybys of Saturn in 1980 and 1981. The mother craft that would approach Saturn was provided by NASA, and the probe that would land on Saturn’s moon, Titan, was provided by ESA. The Italian Space Agency provided telecommunications and microwave systems. US-European cost­sharing on Cassini-Huygens was about 70 : 30. Eighteen instruments would “conduct orbital remote sensing of Saturn’s atmosphere, icy satellites and rings; in situ orbital measurements of charged particles, dust particles, and magnetic fields; and detailed measurements [would be made] with six instruments on the Huygens probe during descent though Titan’s dense, nitrogen atmosphere to the surface.”92 The probe would also make surface science measurements if it survived impact. The range of questions addressed by the mission was such as to attract broad-based support in the planetary science community.

The intricacies of the decision-making processes and funding battles that accompanied the acceptance and development of the Cassini mission on both sides of the Atlantic have been adequately described elsewhere.93 This brief account will focus on those features of the mission—be they scientific, institutional, or political—that provide insight into the international aspect of the cooperation.94

When Roger Bonnet was nominated ESA’s director of the scientific program in 1983 he was determined to place it on a stable base. He believed that ESA required a long-term science plan that was ambitious enough to demand regional collaboration, and broad enough to satisfy the diverse needs of the European space science community. It also had to be challenging enough to attract inter­national cooperation with leading space powers, notably NASA, without being vulnerable to the kinds of setback that had bedeviled ISPM. Bonnet’s solution was Horizon 2000.95

Horizon 2000 emerged after intensive and extensive consultation with the European space science community. It comprised four costly, long-term “corner­stones.” Two were in the field of solar system exploration (solar-terrestrial phys­ics and cometary science), and two were in the field of astronomy/astrophysics (X-ray spectroscopy and a far-infrared telescope). These cornerstones were to be under ESA’s leadership and to be consistent with Europe’s own technical and financial means “in order for ESA to be master of its own future and not to be dependent upon decisions taken outside its own control.”96 The cornerstones were complemented by small – and medium-sized satellites with no a priori exclu­sion of disciplines, and were to be selected one by one. This introduced the flex­ibility needed to respond to changing scientific demand and to take advantage of opportunities for international cooperation.

The broad scientific support for Horizon 2000, the lucidity of its logic, and the scope that it gave national administrations to plan their financial appropria­tions in advance had an immediate effect. Meeting in Rome in January 1985, the ESA member states agreed to increase the science budget by 5 percent annually in real terms (i. e., after adjustment for inflation) for ten years. This was the first time that the science budget had been increased for fifteen years, and it made it possible not only to rationalize coordination between ESA and national science programs, but also to coordinate the agency’s initiatives more effectively with its international partners. With more money available for space science, and with a protective wall around the major ESA-led cornerstones, Horizon 2000 enabled the European community to engage with NASA from a position of strength that combined competition with cooperation.

Another important source of friction between ESA and NASA was removed in 198 3.97 In line with the announcement at COSPAR in March 1959, NASA had a policy of allowing any interested party to respond to an Announcement of Opportunity (AO) on its space science satellites. This caused little difficulty when other programs were in their infancy. But as they matured, and more and better foreign proposals were received, some American scientists began to feel that the agency preferred payloads submitted from abroad because they were free of charge to the US, as opposed to US entities having to pay the cost of their experiments. This frustration was heightened by ESA’s restriction of its AO to proposals from

member state scientists, as required by its charter. Nor did ESA feel that it should be called upon to reciprocate each individual agreement that a member state had negotiated bilaterally with NASA without involving the European agency.

Bonnet was called upon to resolve this thorny issue as soon as he took up his new position at ESA in 198 3.98 The matter was resolved after a spirited discus­sion thanks to the previous progress made by a committee of “wise men” that ESA had set up to tackle the problem and make recommendations. To defuse the obvious ill-will that the European policy was causing it was agreed that ESA, like NASA, would open flight opportunities to foreign investigators.99

In November 1988 ESA’s Science Program Committee selected the Titan probe as the first medium-sized mission in the new Horizon 2000 paradigm, and baptized it Huygens to emphasize its European provenance. A year later the US Congress approved start-up funds for the Cassini and CRAF (Comet Rendezvous Asteroid Flyby) missions, the latter a joint venture with Germany. ESA and NASA issued separate but coordinated AOs for their respective contri­butions to Cassini. Sixteen European countries and the United States provided 18 instruments distributed over both mother craft and probe, with two-ten countries providing parts of each instrument. The overall management of the program was based at NASA Headquarters. Project managers for the Cassini mother craft and the Huygens probe established offices at the Jet Propulsion Laboratory (JPL) and at ESTEC (the European Space Research and Technology Centre), respectively. They were advised by Project Science Groups that gathered together all principal investigators, scientists, and team leaders that had instru­ments on the parts of the spacecraft that they managed. These groups served as a valuable forum “to optimize scientific return and to resolve the usual conflicts between the engineering and science sides of the mission.”100

In fall 1991 the trajectory of the joint project hit a bump that threatened to sour the good relationships that had been established between the partners. A House-Senate committee cut the budget allocation to Cassini/CRAF for 1992 by $117 million, which NASA absorbed by deciding to delay the launch of Cassini from 1995 to 1997. The chairman of ESA’s Space Science Advisory Committee, David Southwood, immediately contacted Berrien Moore, the chairman of NASA’s Space Science and Applications Advisory Committee. Southwood emphasized that the increase in the cost of the Huygens probe caused by the delay would create an “intolerable stress” on ESA’s program. It had not been easy to get the member states to agree on funding for the probe and for instrumentation for Huygens and Cassini. Their delegates had been “dragooned, cajoled and otherwise persuaded” to do so, “by emphasizing the importance of not delaying the NASA timetable.” A launch delay imposed by NASA “within a year of the selection” would increase costs by about 15 percent, and could seriously undermine the “climate of cooperation.”101 Southwood’s letter was quickly followed by one from ESA director general Jean Marie Luton to NASA administrator Richard H. Truly stressing that any delay in the launch date was “unacceptable” and would cost ESA a further $30 million.

In 1992 NASA and Germany agreed to cancel CRAF altogether. Responding to European objections, engineers at JPL in consultation with their European colleagues simplified the orbiter design to meet the domestic budget cut with­out delaying the launch. Instruments that were mounted on movable platforms that could be continuously pointed at their targets were bolted down so that the entire spacecraft had to be turned toward the target to take measurements. A separately steerable antenna intended to provide a communications link to the Huygens probe was removed, and just one antenna was used for the Cassini – Huygens link and for the Cassini-earth link. This meant that scientific data had to be stored in a buffer system until data-taking was suspended, whereupon the antenna could be turned toward the earth to transmit the stored information to ground stations. To absorb the increased operational costs of the program it was also decided to drop plans for the acquisition of scientific data in the journey through space to Saturn and its moon. While the scientific community was dis­tressed by the limitations imposed by these changes, they also realized that some “descoping” was imperative if there was going to be any mission at all.

Cassini almost suffered the axe again in preparation for the president’s budget request to Congress in January 1994, and the Congressional deliberations in the summer of that year. The threat-level was increased by the approach taken to satellite projects by a new NASA administrator collectively known as “faster, better, cheaper.” In 1992 the National Space Council, reestablished by President George H. W. Bush, engineered the removal of Richard Truly who they felt was too committed to NASA’s tradition of large and costly activities.102 He was replaced in April by Dan Goldin, then an executive of TRW who had the repu­tation of favoring small, inexpensive spacecraft. In his confirmation hearings Goldin did not suggest that “faster, better, cheaper” was necessarily the best way for NASA to operate, and he did not mention it at all in his first address to NASA employees. It was only when he got down to preparing the agency’s budget request for FY1994 that he felt that NASA had “unrealistic” expecta­tions. Goldin decided to “re-invent NASA” by miniaturizing technology and by streamlining project management. Let’s see, he said, how many satellites “we can build that weigh hundreds not thousands of pounds; that use cutting edge technology, not ten-year old technology that plays it safe; that cost tens and hundreds of millions, not billions; and take months and years, not decades, to build and arrive at their destination.” From henceforth larger spacecraft were to be the exception, not the rule for NASA projects.

Faced with pressure from the Senate to reduce the budget, Goldin cast a skep­tical eye over Cassini-Huygens in 1994. Indeed it was a prime example of the kind of mission that he wanted NASA to avoid. Howard McCurdy’s calculations of the cost and weight of the satellite and its probe from various NASA sources give one an idea of why Goldin was so concerned:

Cost Cassini. Launched 1997. Development, $1,422m; launch support, $422m; mission operations and data analysis, $755m; tracking and data support, $54m; foreign contribution, $660m; total, $3,313m (real-year dollars)

Weight Cassini. Orbiter, 4,685lbs; Huygens probe, 705lbs; launch vehicle adapter, 298lbs; propellant, 6,905lbs; total, 12,593lbs.103

Contrast the $3 billion plus for this mission that matured for fifteen years, and that needed another eight years after launch to begin taking data, with the cost and time of the satellites built by NASA respecting Goldin’s mantra. Beginning in 1992, the first sixteen missions flown under the new philosophy together cost less (in inflation-adjusted dollars) than did Cassini-Huygens alone. Nine of the first ten of these ventures were a success—though the initiative floundered in 1999 when four of the next five “faster, better, cheaper” missions failed.104

Given the inhospitable climate at NASA to a mission of this scale it is hardly surprising that a major effort was made on both sides of the Atlantic to save Cassini-Huygens from further damage. This time the scientific communities were united by their dependence on each other, as Roger Bonnet explained: “The Europeans wanted to put their probe on Cassini because they could not do the mission without it [. . .] For the Americans, the provision of the probe was a unique opportunity to do outstanding novel science.” In Bonnet’s view the Europeans also brought more, though: project stability. He remembers “Carl Sagan calling me on the phone from California asking for help because NASA was trying to stop the mission.” European ambassadors to Washington were asked to impress upon the State Department “that they could not stop Cassini, with such a big involvement of Europe, both on the payload of Cassini and with the Huygens probe.”105

European pressure over the satellite was given added leverage because the Clinton administration needed to make amends for its poor handling of the geopolitics of the International Space Station (ISS) that Canada, Europe, and Japan had joined in the 1980s. This is discussed in chapter 8 of this book and the thread is taken up again in chapter 13. For the present, suffice it to say that meet­ing in Vancouver in April 1993 the American and Russian presidents established the Gore-Chernomydin Commission comprising a number of working groups, including one on space, to advance bilateral cooperation. A year later, beginning around April 1994 stakeholders on both sides began to explore ways to integrate Russia into the ISS. This was formalized at a meeting in June 1994. NASA and the Russian Space Agency signed an interim agreement covering initial Russian participation in the ISS program. This included a $400-million contract with the new partner, 75 percent of the American money being for Russian space hardware, services, and data in support of the “Shuttle-Mir” project (a joint flight program leading to the development of the ISS). In doing so the agency not only suspended the principle of “no exchange of funds” that had been required of its traditional allies, but NASA also rode roughshod over their sentiments. As NASA official Lynn Cline put it to me, “This was another case where I don’t think we adequately consulted with our partners. People in charge at the time told Dan Goldin that we needed to consult with our partners. He didn’t want to hear it.”106

This attitude may well explain why the ESA director general, Jean Marie Luton, bypassed Goldin and wrote directly to the vice president ten days before the June 1994 meeting of the Gore-Chernomydin Commission to plead the case for Cassini. Luton upped the stakes by stressing that a negative deci­sion on Cassini could have implications far beyond this one case. As he put it, Europe “views any prospect of a unilateral withdrawal on the part of the United States as totally unacceptable. Such an action would call into question the reli­ability of the US as a partner in any future major scientific and technological collaboration.”107 A month later, in July 1994 President Clinton intervened to enable NASA to proceed with both the space station and its science program. All are agreed that in this case “the international aspect of the Cassini mission was an extremely important factor in reversing almost certain cancellation of the mission.”108 It must not be forgotten, though, that that “international aspect” coupled a satellite of predominantly scientific importance with a space station of immense technological and geopolitical significance. This strong coupling is probably what saved Cassini.

Goldin did not give up his reservations about the program even after the dra­matic crisis of 1994 was resolved. In 1995, much to the distress of the European participants, the NASA administrator demanded that the entire project, includ­ing the foreign contributions be subjected to an external review. This not only struck a blow to the fine cooperative spirit that had prevailed at the scientific level, it was doubly infuriating because technical findings of the review panel that were deemed to touch on matters of national defense could not be conveyed to partners abroad. In the event the mission overcame this hurdle, but was then confronted with another: the “Stop Cassini” campaign by the Florida Coalition for Peace and Justice. The coalition objected to the use of plutonium dioxide in three radio-isotopic thermoelectric generators and on heater units. This was a technological option that the designers of the spacecraft had invoked since solar power was not feasible for a deep-space mission. Rallies and demonstrations were held on both sides of the Atlantic, letters were sent to the US president for and against the mission, and protestors threatened a sit-in on the launch pad in Cape Canaveral to force a launch abort. Their objections were overruled by a safety evaluation made by the Department of Energy and the Interagency Nuclear Safety Review Panel.

Cassini-Huygens finally lifted into space on October 15, 1997. Its long journey was punctuated by difficulties that emerged in the radio relay link between the European probe and the American spacecraft. These were overcome by having Cassini fly by Titan at a far greater distance than foreseen, so that the Huygens probe had to travel 65,000 kilometers instead of just 1,200 kilometers to enter Titan’s atmosphere. Cassini went into orbit around Saturn on July 1, 2004. The probe was separated from the mother craft six months later on Christmas Day, reaching Titan’s outer atmosphere on January 14, 2005. The descent of Huygens was slowed when its parachutes were deployed about 150 kilometers above the surface. It survived the impact and it continued to transmit data for over three hours. The first results were relayed via NASA’s Deep Space Tracking Network to the European Space Operations Center in Darmstadt, Germany, where “sci­entists waiting anxiously for the data to arrive [. . .] hugged each other when the first signals arrived during the morning, showing that the mission, 20 years in the planning and execution, was functioning.”109

The joint development of the Cassini mission was a fine example of interna­tional collaboration. That success only makes sense, though, if placed in his­torical context. The scientific importance of the trip to Saturn and Titan was as crucial as the historically maturing institutional and political factors: the new cohesion of the European space science community provided by Roger Bonnet’s Horizon-2000 long-term plan, the “institutional learning” that structured the joint management of the project, the determination by scientists on both sides of the Atlantic not to let a repeat of the ISPM experience sour their cooperation, and the political backbone provided by the opportunity for ESA and its member states to escalate a threat to Cassini into a threat to US-European collaboration in any future major scientific and technological project.

A European delegation led by Lefevre met again on February 10 and 11, 1971, at the State Department. They had prepared the ground with a lengthy let­ter sent the month before.13 They wanted, as the Belgian minister put it in his opening statement, to participate in post-Apollo in ways that “would facilitate mutual dependence,” “co-management,” in a “joint venture” in which the part­ners would have “equal rights” to information, even though Europe only con­tributed 10 percent of the budget.14 They sought associated benefits in terms of launcher availability and access to technology—Europe wanted to buy or build under license American launchers that could be launched from their new equato­rial base in Kourou, French Guiana. They also insisted that once the shuttle was built, or rather “jointly developed,” as they put it, it would be “available without restrictions to each of the partners for peaceful uses.” Lefevre reiterated that the Europeans sought access “to all the technology developed within the framework of the post-Apollo program, and not just that part of it which is necessary from [sic] executing the tasks accorded to Europe.”

These requests were strategic rather than realistic. A State Department brief­ing document emphasized again that “[t]he very marked asymmetry in the part­nership and the very advanced stage of US planning leave no alternative but to regard the post-Apollo program as a US program, not as a joint program.”15 As for the related request for technology sharing, the State Department emphasized that “[i]t is not possible in the world of commercial competition, congressional overview, and US industrial self-interest, to provide Europe full access to the commercial know-how developed in the post-Apollo program in return for a 10% contribution to that program.”16 As for launchers, the United States had no objection to Europe launching American rockets from foreign soil, or building Americans launchers abroad under license—but only if they respected “Intelsat – linked conditions” wherever they were launched.17 As NASA feared, U. Alexis Johnson’s new interpretation of those conditions was the biggest single blow to European hopes. And NASA was not alone. At a meeting of the senior staff of the National Security Council on the eve of the European visit, National Security Adviser Henry Kissinger doubted whether the United States was being “reasonable” in refusing to give an “unequivocal commitment” to provide launch services for European communications satellites.18

Lefevre was incensed.19 Europe needed launchers “without political condi­tions,” he fumed; it could not participate in the post-Apollo program otherwise.

He reminded the State Department of its original interpretation of the Intelsat vote. He could not see why the United States was now demanding a positive finding in the Intelsat Assembly before it would agree to launch a regional European comsat. This new interpretation was against the spirit of cooperation that had prevailed until then.20 Resenting the insinuation that Europeans were behaving irresponsibly, Lefevre also pointed out that the Europeans were just as concerned as were the Americans to respect the definitive Intelsat agreements— but since the Assembly of Party’s recommendations were not legally binding, they could not stop a country or region launching a rival system even if the assembly made an adverse finding. In European eyes Johnson was reinterpreting a consultative recommendation as a binding determination. They were treating a relatively weak legal finding as a non-negotiable political constraint.

Johnson could not budge: his hands were tied by his commitment to Charyk. The meeting inevitably ended on a sour note on February 12. Lefevre “stated that the results of the discussion had been very disappointing,” and affirmed that “if the US position remains unchanged, Europe would have to have a negative view toward post-Apollo participation.”21 A stream of telegrams from embas­sies abroad confirmed Europeans’ puzzlement and anger. The member states of CETS, meeting on March 22, were unanimous in agreeing that the “proper interpretation” of Article XIV(d) was that enshrined in the “negative finding” (see table 5.1).22 One European speaker after the other, including those who were sensitive to the dilemmas faced by the United States, expressed their disap­pointment at the new turn of events.23 It was too much for Frutkin. Why was there so much criticism of the United States in this forum when it had done so much to promote international collaboration in space? Should one expect the leader in space technology to remedy the technological gap? How could one expect parity in technological exchange when the levels of contribution to a collaborative venture differed so greatly? Given the enormous benefits derived from collaboration over going it alone, could the Europeans not be “a little more relaxed about pressing for national advantage”?24

Secretary of State Dean Rusk had already anticipated these criticisms in 1966, when he distributed a paper to the Space Council, pondering post-Apollo objec­tives and concerns in a climate of detente. Therein he identified a “Twofold International Objective” for the 1970s. Rusk first urged that the United States take action to “de-fuse” the space race between America and the Soviet Union. Doing so would not simply eliminate the hypothetical waste implicit in compe­tition, but it would also thwart the sense of exclusivity and alienation imparted upon nonparticipants (i. e., Europe and the developing world). Second, he advised that for both the “technically unsophisticated as well as industrially advanced countries, the role of active participant offers a better route to awareness and understanding—and responsible conduct—than the role of passive beneficiary.”30 For Rusk, collaboration in space was never to take the form of “foreign aid.”

White House officials harbored high hopes for remote sensing in particular, predicting that it would

do more to establish the theme of using space as a resource for mankind. Earth resources surveying satellites, which we are now developing, should be of special help in this regard and open new routes to cooperation. By emphasizing such activities, we can not only help bridge the “have” versus “have not” gap but also begin the transition away from a race deeper and deeper into space toward a more (but not exclusively) earth-oriented program.31

In order to meet this objective the paper suggested educating and enlisting Western Europe and the developing world in space exploration. This alone would bridge the “technology gap” that loomed between the so-called space powers and others. The report continued, explaining that it was the United States’ responsi­bility to enlighten budding or potential space powers: “It is even more difficult for technically unsophisticated countries to grasp the meaning of changes now in train. Yet their reactions will be important if the international adjustment to these changes is to be responsive to our own interests. Accordingly, we will need to use our programs still more effectively to broaden the base of cooperation.”32 The point bears repeating: “Broadening the base of cooperation” not only provided additional data to networks or instruments to satellites to satisfy the demands of globally oriented programs. For some, multilateral partnerships were viewed as a method to sway international sentiment, aiming to yield coalitions more respon­sive to superpower interests and build institutions of space research and develop­ment that exhibited values complementary to those of NASA.

Moving from international policy to national, the remainder of this chapter illus­trates the variety and complexity of US national interests coupled to the Gore – Chernomyrdin agreements. It introduces the reader to the perceived doldrums the Space Station Freedom had fallen into, the financial savings at first antici­pated by ISS reorganization, criticisms and concerns as voiced by Congressional representatives wary of various elements of ISS collaboration. The subsection “On Being More Equal” illustrates alternative trajectories that the ISS partner­ship may have taken when Russian partners (and Energia in particular) raised questions of national autonomy. The final sections address the linkages between US national security and Russian defense industries, including other motiva­tions for trade liberalization.

The original goal for the N rocket program was for the launcher to be capable of placing a 130-kilogram satellite in geostationary orbit. Japan soon began to negotiate an upgrade to their N-1. In late 1971 and again in 1972, NASDA director Hideo Shima, responding to demands from private corporations for heavier application satellite payloads, “informally indicated they were interested in upgrading their launch capability from the initial 130 kg geosynchronous N-1 to 300 kg by the late 1970s and 500 kg by the mid-1980s.” TAG was approached by the Office of Munitions Control in January 1972 to inquire if the model of Thor-Delta or other launch vehicles would help the Japanese in meeting their desired 300 kilograms to geosynchronous orbit goal. The TAG resorted to the baseline it had framed earlier and replied that the 300-kilogram limit could be achieved by a “change in configuration but not in the level of technology.” However, for the 500-kilogram goal TAG was skeptical if the target could be met by reconfiguring the baseline and it suggested that a “technical approach to such a target was premature at that time.” The OMC circulated the TAG memoran­dum to the concerned government agencies for information. Arnold Frutkin was emphatically opposed. He informed the State Department that “NASA would not want to concur in any escalation of Delta technology for the Japanese.” He also took steps to “make sure that our people on TAG would not be involved in anything that would appear to be a recommendation for any increase; they could give only a technical assessment of the increase in performance which would be required if the USG decided to meet Japanese program needs.”28

The Department of State, on behalf of the Japanese, raised the question of an N-1 upgrade again in October 1972. They asked for the provision of nine strap – ons to the first stage that could be achieved with the so-called Universal Boat Tail (UBT); an ablative cooling thrust chamber for the second-stage engine instead of regenerative cooling; an enlarged second-stage propellant tank; an eight-foot fairing to handle larger payloads; and a larger third-stage motor. The Japanese proposed to buy the hardware first, then move to “kit-type” assembly in Japan and finally to production under license. NASA replied to these Japanese requests in November 1972, limiting cooperation to hardware sales only: as one document put it, “since the US would benefit little if at all from the sale of technology in this field, we recommended that the requested items be provided on a hardware-only basis” (emphasis in the original). Frutkin emphasized that “the selling of hardware to Japan does not produce an independent launch capability for Japan beyond that available through launchings for Japan from the US.” It was also in line with overall US national interests, and was favored by contractors such as McDonnell Douglas. In sum Frutkin recommended that

we should go along with hardware sales of the items requested by Japan since they did not represent more advanced technology (larger fairing and third stage motor), or would be exceedingly hard to reverse engineer (thrust chamber), or could be easily developed in Japan without U. S. assistance (UBT) . . . and since the income to industry from continuing hardware sales could be substantial.29

Repeated requests from Japan, and pressure from the State Department, frequently undermined NASA’s preferred policy that, beginning in 1972, emphasized the sale of hardware rather than the licensing of technology. For example, NASA tried to resist Japan’s efforts to secure approval for the licensing of the technology of the solid-fueled CASTOR II strap-on rocket that was manufactured by Thiokol and used on the Thor-Delta 58 that served as the baseline for the 1969 agreement. The agency tried to persuade Japan to purchase the CASTOR II rockets directly from Thiokol, rather than develop the capability to manufacture them in Japan. The State Department objected, suggesting that it had “considerable difficulty with the proposition that Japan must engage in debate in order to secure benefits to which it is entitled under an existing agreement.”30 Bowing to pressure, NASA informed the State Department that although it continued to prefer that Japan buy the rockets from Thiokol, it would no longer object to the licensing of the relevant technology, as long as there was added to the price of licensing “an additional rea­sonable recoupment fee to compensate the U. S. for the R&D costs incurred.”31 After an extended interagency review the United States, by the end of 1973, had agreed to sell Japan hardware to allow for the upgrade of the N rocket to a geostationary capability of 250 kilograms. That done, in 1974 NASA dug in its heels. The agency would “fully support the original agreement which provides a synchronous orbit capability of either 130 or 150 kg, depending on how the base­line is interpreted.” But NASA officials unambiguously stated that “any changes to the baseline vehicle which has the capability of improving the synchronous orbit payload capability becomes the subject of a new policy decision.”32

TAG was disbanded in mid-1974, and subsequent consideration of Japanese requests for launch-related technology was handled through normal interagency procedures.33 NASA became directly involved in the approval of anything related to the transfer of N1-SLV technology to Japan. When Tsuyoshi Amishima, deputy chairman of Japanese Space Activities Commission, visited NASA in April 1974 to further discuss raising the level of technical assistance, NASA’s negative stance was clear. NASA knew that it had to assist Japan to satisfy the Department of State, but beyond those obligations it had “no real interest” in doing so. NASA had helped Japan on its N-1 launch vehicle, not out of conviction, but only to play a “purely” technical advisory role.34 Now, as Deputy Administrator George Low put it,

The fact remains that when the original agreement was reached with the Japanese the baseline Thor Delta (Vehicle No. 58) had a capability of 130 kg to synchronous orbit. Over the years this has been upgraded by various means to a 250 kg capabil­ity, whereas the United States has upgraded its vehicle to 315 kg. In other words, the Japanese have received the benefit of a high proportion of all of the upgrad­ing activities. With these results in mind, I have no alternative but to require that either Dr. Fletcher or I approve all (emphasis in the original) future changes in U. S. activities having to do with the Japanese “N” vehicle.35

In particular, as far as NASA was concerned, any changes to the baseline vehicle that further improved its geostationary orbit capability would be the subject of a new policy decision taken by Fletcher or Low themselves.36

This response led to extended discussions between the United States and Japan for close on two years after the visit of the Japanese team in 1974. NASA’s position was that the requested assistance for the upgrade of the N-1 vehicle was technically beyond the terms of the 1969 agreement and the agency did not wish to amend or supplement that earlier agreement. The United States proposed an exchange of letters between the Department of State and the Japanese Scientific and Technological Agency to establish sufficient understanding by both gov­ernments as to the level of technology and hardware assistance the United States could make available for the N-1 through normal export channels.37 The United States agreed to provide Japan with the capability it desired but primarily through the export of already manufactured hardware systems and subsystems. Japan disagreed with this position, believing that the upgrades it was request­ing were indeed covered by the 1969 agreement and that the licensing of the desired technologies should be allowed to proceed. The US line prevailed and in August 1976 the Space Activities Commission (SAC) announced that Japan would purchase from the United States the hardware required to upgrade the N-1 launcher. This was embodied in a 1976 exchange of diplomatic notes that constituted a new US-Japan space cooperation agreement. Because of the hard­ware-only limits set by the United States, all stages of what came to be known as the N-2 vehicle were of US design and manufacture (see table 10.2).

In 1971 the US assistant secretary of the East Asia Bureau, Marshall Green, gave his unequivocal support to space collaboration with Japan, defending it as a valuable nonproliferation strategy. As he put it,

The key reasons why we originally supported the Space Cooperation Agreement with Japan were: to provide Japan with the means of satisfying requirements for national prestige that would not involve nuclear weapons; and, to get the U. S. in on the ground floor of the Japanese space program to assure an American orienta­tion. Other related objectives were to demonstrate the value of cooperation with the U. S. to broaden our bilateral relationship in areas less contentious than secu­rity, to spur the sale of U. S technology and hardware, and to shape and influence Japanese policy in areas that hopefully will involve only the peaceful application of space technology.38

Green was emphatic that those same objectives were still valid in 1971, and that space cooperation provided an opportunity to bolster US-Japanese relationships that were suffering “temporary strains” in the political and economic fields.39

NASA took a different tack. In the Intelsat agreements, the agency was par­ticularly concerned about the commercial implications of helping Japan develop access to the geostationary orbit. It had little option but to yield to pressures from the State Department and Japan and went along, albeit reluctantly, with the 1969 agreement. Subsequent negotiations with Japan over sharing Thor-Delta technol­ogy took place in parallel with negotiations with Western Europe over its participa­tion in the post-Apollo program, discussions that had been dominated by concerns of technology transfer. By 1974, after stretching the interpretation of initial agree­ment to accommodate requests for an escalation of payload capability to the geo­stationary orbit to 250 kilograms, and allowing the sale of hardware to achieve that end, the agency took control of the situation and cried halt. It had been an uphill struggle. As Frutkin put it in a memo to Low that year, working through the TAG, NASA had “consistently and successfully slowed down the outflow of produc­tion know-how and technology with potential commercial implications. We have tried especially to limit the number of Japanese assigned to U. S. plants (GE and Hughes),” he went on, “and also to provide that only results of tests, design, review etc. would be provided to the Japanese, rather than give them access to the process of exercising know-how. In all of this,” Frutkin concluded with exasperation, “we are working up-hill against the fait-accompli of the State Department.”40

The Japanese authorities, for their part, became increasingly resentful. As the head of the National Space Development Agency (NASDA), Hideo Shima, put it in 1976,

The philosophy of the U. S.-Japan agreement was that the United States would help Japan until Japan would become a colleague. . . Up to now we have made efforts in line with this philosophy. Hereafter, however, the United States is saying that, although it will sell manufactured hardware related to large launch vehicles beyond the technical level of the U. S.-Japan agreement and will also provide launching services, it will not teach Japan how to manufacture hardware. Japan’s position is, that is OK, and we will develop it for ourselves from now on, building on what we have learned.41

The previous chapter described the initiatives taken by NASA to promote sci­entific collaboration through bilateral agreements with friendly states in Europe, and with ESA. It was stressed that this form of collaboration, while not with­out its tensions, was not bedeviled by the dilemmas that accompany technology transfer. This chapter explores those dilemmas in some detail, discussing the early attempts made by NASA, in consultation with other agencies in the admin­istration, to define and implement a policy for technology transfer. Satellite­launching technology, be that with expendable or reusable systems, was the key issue around which these debates took place both within the administration, and between NASA and Western Europe.

The issue of technology transfer with Western Europe was not on NASA’s agenda until the early 1960s. A survey written by Arnold Frutkin in October 1960 projecting the scope of NASA’s international activities over the next decade focused exclusively on space science and the supporting infrastructure (such as the construction of tracking stations).1

The terms of the debate began to change when the possibilities of using space for commercial purposes began to emerge—and missiles became standard delivery sys­tems for nuclear warheads. On the one hand the Europeans, prodded by the British, began to think about building together a multistage satellite launcher funded and developed through a new supranational organization called ELDO (European Launcher Development Organization). The intergovernmental agreement that was signed in 1962 and ratified by national governments in 1964 provided for the shared development of a three-stage heavy launcher for civilian purposes.2

Telecommunications satellites provided the key rationale for developing this European rocket. As early as fall 1960 the British approached NASA to learn of its plans regarding an “active” communications satellite program.3 A col­laborative venture was quickly formalized in which the British, the French, and other friendly countries (e. g., Brazil) agreed to build ground terminals on their soil so as to participate in the testing of NASA’s Relay, Telstar, and Echo II satellites.4 These experiments were followed by the spectacular success of Early Bird launched into geostationary orbit in April 1965. Early Bird, which began commercial service on June 1, 1965, had 240 voice channels—all existing

transatlantic telephone cables had just 317. And it was far cheaper: the most up – to-date underwater telephone cable cost about ten times as much.5

West European governments and their telecommunication operators had an immense stake in these issues. They agreed to invest heavily in space, above all in the development of an independent launch capability, because they looked to a future in which telecommunications and other applications (meteorology, naviga­tion, etc.) were an integral part of their national and international technological strategies. They saw the 1960s as the period in which they would develop their industrial capabilities so as to position themselves internationally in the 1970s and beyond. They were not driven by Cold War rivalry with the Soviet Union, and they did not seek to establish a human presence in space—this would be left to the superpowers. What they sought was (eventually) to reap the practical benefits of space (along with the possibilities for new scientific discoveries that it offered).6 In their eyes, the meaning of (civilian) space was transformed from a domain of esoteric scientific investigation (with multiple military implications) into a sector of immense commercial and political importance. Communications satellites, in particular, not only created new opportunities for the transmission of radio, television, and telephone signals. They also promised to be an important platform for promoting and projecting images of national culture and of national prowess to the remotest regions of the globe. In other words by the mid-1960s the Europeans were seeking to become less technologically dependent on the United States and to expand their activity in space to include both science and applications, along with an “autonomous” launch capability.

NASA and the Department of State welcomed these developments. NASA’s objective was to promote the peaceful use of space. The State Department strongly favored European integration and the creation of an Atlantic community: only a united Europe, under American leadership, could contain the threat of Soviet expansion on the front lines of the Cold War. Support for an organization like ELDO, which was supranational and civilian, was compatible with these goals. To quote an early position paper on the issue, technological assistance to ELDO was coherent with “our objective of an economically and politically integrated European Community with increasingly close ties to this country within an Atlantic community.” In addition, by working with a multinational organization rather than making bilateral arrangements with separate states, one could hope to discourage the proliferation “of independent national medium – and long-range nuclear delivery systems.”7 Technological collaboration, unlike scientific coop­eration, was thus firmly embedded in the broader strategic and foreign policy concerns of the US administration in the European theater.

American willingness to assist Europe develop its aerospace technology was also linked to concerns about a supposed “technological gap” that had opened up between the two sides of the Atlantic. These concerns were widely aired in the media and were given an important impetus with the publication of Jean-Jacques Servan-Schreiber’s Le deft americain (The American Challenge) in 1967.8 Some American commentators placed the blame for Europe’s relative “backwardness” squarely on the continent’s own shoulders (as indeed did Servan-Schreiber).9 Others, including NASA and the State Department, took a broader view and saw the “technological gap” as a threat to the stability of the free world. For them, European scientific and technological strength was essential if capitalism was to compete successfully with the Soviet system, and if America’s partners across the Atlantic were to share the burden of the defense of the West. Space was particularly important in this regard, not because of the content and goals of the space program, but because such programs were seen to be key drivers of scientific and technological innovation.

Frutkin forcefully made this point at a meeting of the American Academy of Political and Social Science in Philadelphia in April 1966. The American space program, he said, pushed established scientific and technical disciplines to probe new frontiers, be it in fields such as physics, astronomy, and geodesy, or in materials, structures, and fuels. “In fact,” he insisted, “we may with increas­ing confidence say that the peculiar quality of space science and technology is its forcing function, its acceleration of joint progress in a wide range of disciplines.”10 Frutkin claimed that space research and development had contributed “signifi­cantly to the fundamental strength and viability of the United States in a world where economic and military security increasingly rest[ed] upon technology.” The Soviet Union had absorbed the lesson, “matching and outmatching” the United States in space expenditure, notwithstanding the people’s dire need for consumer goods. Western Europe, by contrast, was spending only about one-thirtieth as much as the United States on space technology. Their relative lack of interest in space could “lead only to political and economic strains and to weakness” he insisted. It was in America’s interest, therefore, that the technological gap in the space sector should be narrowed: “What has stimulated, energized and advanced us, may well stimulate, energize and advance them,” Frutkin suggested.11

This Cold War agenda, and the relatively paltry investment in space in Western Europe, obliged NASA to step in if it could. As the author of a 1964 CIA report put it, whatever measures the Europeans took to build their capability, “the assis­tance of the US—both officially and through unofficial commercial channels— has been, is, and will probably remain the critical factor in the success of any European space program in this decade.”12 This was the thinking that lay behind President Johnson’s and NASA’s support for Germany’s $100 million Helios pro­gram described in the previous chapter. It also informed the administration’s interest in assisting ELDO, though here the thrust to technological cooperation had to contend with a far more complex and contested policy agenda.

The uproar over launcher availability crowded out ongoing discussions at the technical level over the modalities of European collaboration in the post-Apollo program. Three possibilities were on the table: (1) the space tug (figure 5.1) that would ferry satellites from the shuttle’s low-earth orbit to other, notably geo­stationary orbits; (2) experimental modules for the station or the shuttle (Sortie Cans or RAMs); and (3) the construction of components of the orbiter itself.

Frutkin and other senior NASA personnel discussed these matters on February 1, 1971.25 They concluded that a reusable tug was “the most valu­able and desirable element the Europeans could contribute to the post-Apollo program.” It was “an essential element which cannot be undertaken directly by NASA for a number of years.” For financial reasons, in the short term the agency would probably have to use expendable adaptations of the Centaur or Atlas rockets for tug missions. If Europe built a tug and had it ready by 1979, the United States could take advantage of that alternative. Even though the tug

Figure 5.1 The space tug concept.

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.

was a big step forward, the advanced technology that it required—in structure, propulsion, and controls—was probably within European capabilities, and could productively feed back into NASA’s work. Interfaces would be clean, manage­ment simplified, and, in the event of failure, delays, or overruns, the impact on shuttle development would be minimal. The USAF’s attitude was the only “major uncertainty,” but it was felt that this was not an “unmovable obstacle,” if only because the Air Force might not get funding for its own tug and could probably manufacture a tug developed abroad if it needed one.

Frutkin and his colleagues viewed the manufacture Sortie Cans or RAMs as the next best task, for the same reasons as the tug. The least desirable contribu­tion was selected elements and structures for the orbiter itself. Technology trans­fer was a major concern here, even though US industry had identified excellent possibilities for subcontracting elements of the orbiter to European sources. If a single European firm made a critical item, like the vertical tail, it would obtain “proportionately more in general knowledge about the STS system than could be justified by the depth and amount of contributions to the program.”

These ideas were presented to a joint meeting of experts from February 16 to 18. The leaders of the European delegation, Causse and Dinkespiler, were extremely impressed with the clarity of the presentations made by NASA.26 The cross-range requirements for the shuttle, and their implications, were spelt out in detail. The plans for the station were explained, and the importance of RAMs emphasized. A mission model for the use of the shuttle covering all payloads was also presented. Some 60 flights per year from 1980 onward were foreseen; the tug was needed for about two-thirds of them. NASA’s preference for Europe to build the tug or a RAM that could be used with the station or with the shuttle alone was stressed. Its concerns about subcontracting out parts of the
orbiter were emphasized.27 One issue on which all agreed—Low, Johnson, and Lefevre—was that collaboration should be in a multilateral framework. This was to simplify management, to pressure European nations to work together, and to stop individual countries from signing bilateral agreements with NASA to the benefit of their home industry.

Meteorology has a dual character as a public service and as a branch of the physical sciences which leads to its peculiar position as a part of both operational systems as well as basic research.

—1977 Report to House of Representatives33

The year 1968 brought big changes to the World Weather Program (WWP): Soviet and American satellites went operational that year and with that, member nations began to participate in the first of many regional observation experiments (the Global Atmospheric Research Program or the GARP). GARP experiments yielded basic data for atmospheric research, which was then applied to numerical models for computer forecasting. Morris Tepper, a key participant, claimed that “numerical prediction was made possible by the Global Atmospheric observa­tions that the NASA program developed.”34

In order to advance weather modeling, one must not only observe global phe­nomena on a daily basis, but also study with greater rigor seasonal occurrences or regional anomalies. Thus, WWP planners used the joint infrastructures of WWW and GARP to merge satellite data with conventional synoptic ground data. From the launch of the first experimental weather satellite in 1960 until both the United States and the USSR had operational systems up in 1967-1968, scientific understanding of meteorological phenomena became increasingly sophisticated, and models more detailed, due in part to data-sharing between the United States and the Soviet Union.35

Researchers took an increasingly systemic approach to meteorology and in so doing, plugged in an ever-growing number of variables that were lacking

in weather models. The atmospheric physics of the poles, ocean currents, and temperature ranges, as well as seasonal phenomena such as monsoons and hurricanes—each of these fields of knowledge demanded a more refined under­standing of the Earth’s atmosphere and oceans (table 7.1).

GARP’s multilateral programs depended on an extensive mix of scientific instruments including sounding rockets, automatic weather stations, balloons, weather ships, and the newly developing weather satellites and computers. Such cooperation—often predicated on the agreement to merely observe the same phenomena from different vantage points and instruments—precipitated scien­tific advances that would otherwise have been impossible without a global assem­blage of tracking stations and Soviet-American willingness to share satellite data. Nevertheless, American researchers and technologies dominated GARP research and also took unquestionable initiative in the formation of other spin-off inter­national programs.36

By developing satellites and supporting networks, NASA officials bore con­siderable responsibilities to the NOAA and the WWP. As satellite systems engi­neer, NASA developed, procured, constructed, and insured Command and Data Acquisition stations. As government launcher, NASA selected and procured launch vehicles while maintaining launching sites. Even after launch, NASA tracked orbit through the entire useful life of satellites.

In times of malfunction, NASA staff monitored and commanded satellites, or simply made themselves available for consultation.37 Together these responsibili­ties made NASA fundamental to the development of several overlapping fields of global atmospheric sciences. These included, but were not limited to mete­orology, oceanography, and seasonal events such as hurricanes and monsoons. Working alongside NOAA, NASA helped construct the bureaucratic and techni­cal infrastructure necessary for the development of global participation in—and benefit from—the WWP.

NASA’s Morris Tepper, deputy director of Earth Observation Programs and director of Meteorology at NASA (Office of Space Science Applications), wrote to the executive director of the NOAA in 1972, enclosing a statement on NASA’s maritime and meteorological programs in the coming decade. Tepper framed their relationship as one governed by NOAA’s leadership. As “national meteo­rological representative” NOAA provided NASA with its specifications for all meteorological satellite observations. Embedded in this NASA-NOAA partner­ship lay numerous national and international demands, “requirements of a global nature.” In the WWP, NOAA and NASA partnered with assorted national and international scientific organizations to produce what he described as “require­ments on an international basis and areas of international cooperation.”38 Partnership with the Soviet State Committee on Hydrometeorology and Weather Control—in the form of satellite telemetry from their Meteor-1 and Meteor-2 satellite networks—remained the most important linkage to operation of this system.

After nearly a decade of development and $9 billion in tax expenditures, NASA had no hardware, nor a singular plan to show for the Space Station Freedom project. On March 9, 1993, the newly elected president Clinton ordered NASA to begin a “rapid and far-reaching redesign of the Station,” with the intention of “significantly reducing development, operations, and utilization costs.”57 Clinton wanted to reduce the planned cost from $14.4 billion to $9 billion and directed NASA to submit options to a redesign committee.

In the spring and summer of 1993 Charles Vest, vice presidential appointee and MIT president led a committee assessing three new possible space station configurations, all of which still averaged $10 billion over the Clinton admin­istration’s prospective costs of $5 billion, $7 billion, or $9 billion. Option A was estimated to cost $17 billion and required 16 Shuttle flights for assembly. Option B was larger than Space Station Freedom, required 20 Shuttle flights, and cost $19.7 billion. Option C cost $15.5 billion, was the least like Space Station Freedom, and required 8 Shuttle flights to place in orbit one US module and seven internationally contributed modules.58

While weighing Options A, B, and C for station redesign, the Vest Committee considered the ramifications of cooperating with Russia in space station con­struction. It eventually endorsed the notion of consolidating design plans and hardware from Mir-1 (still in orbit), Mir-2 (still on the drawing board), and Space Station Freedom, in spite of the fact that it would demand a higher inclina­tion orbit—moving the space station from a 28-degree orbit to one that extended 51.6 degrees from the equator (and therefore necessitate expensive upgrades to the Shuttle).

NASA staff took the Vest Committee recommendations and ran with them. One year later, a number of former committee members and NASA staff alike agreed that they had successfully implemented a “single core NASA manage­ment team to optimize efficiency, accountability, expertise and cost effective­ness.” Changes included setting up a single host center, identifying a single prime contractor, following the new Integrated Product Team approach to concurrent engineering, and refining Program Office-line organization.59

Thus, within a brief period of time NASA administrators, staff, and contrac­tors weathered several interconnected changes. They completely overhauled SSF management, “co-locating” Boeing and NASA in one International Space Station Program Office. At the same time, NASA prepared itself for the possibil­ity of cooperating with Russia, reviewing Russian space technologies and their possible contributions to the space station.

Why were all these changes necessary? Critics of NASA management includ­ing Dan Goldin himself believed that in order for an initiative as expensive and complicated as the space station to survive, it must operate more smoothly and inexpensively. One Clinton official demanded in 1993 that NASA would have to go through organizational reengineering similar to most major companies of the time, observing, “[I]ts decision structure is cluttered, it’s circular, it’s labyrinthine.”60

It is important to note that these changes were implemented on the assumption that Russia would be integrated into the new space station, either as a contractor or partner, and that NASA made these initial decisions inde­pendent of the original Space Station Freedom partners. The (then hope of) political and financial benefits of Russian cooperation paired with drastic changes in NASA management to build a new coalition of supporters that was just barely strong enough to defend the International Space Station from a hostile Congress: the project survived by just one vote in the House in sum­mer 1993.61 Russian-American cooperation on the space station was finalized later that year.

Administrator Daniel Goldin used the ISS’s redesign as evidence of greater changes taking place in NASA. Pointing out that his staff had reduced the SSF’s projected annual operating costs from $3.5 billion to the International Space Station’s $2.1 billion, Goldin explained, “The problem we had was we had 4 prime contractors and 4 NASA Centers. Now, that’s an oxymoron in itself—4 prime contractors.”62 Not only was management hopelessly decen­tralized, but the four NASA Centers tended to compete for jobs, dollars, and autonomy. Observed Goldin, “And each prime contractor reported to a cen­ter Director and every so often, Center Directors would get together. . . And NASA Johnson didn’t trust NASA Marshall. They did the pressurized mod­ules, and NASA Lewis did the power system. NASA Kennedy did the launch integration. But who was responsible? Each Center Director was responsible for their budget.”6 3 Centralizing management accompanied drastic budget cuts at NASA (estimated at 30 percent).64 At the same time, SSF’s former Tier 1 subcontractors trimmed staff and budgets. McDonnell Douglas downsized from 1,800 to 1,000, Rocketdyne from 1,000 to 800, and Boeing from 1,230 to 1,100.65

Rarely did Goldin miss an opportunity to tout the estimated $2 billion sav­ings that resulted from cooperation with the Russians. “We get a space station that has almost double the power,” he raved.

We go from 60 kilowatts to 110. We get a space station over a year sooner. And we get a space station that costs America $2 billion less. We get a [space station] that has dual access from Cape Kennedy and Baikonur, which gives us tremendous flexibility. We get a tremendous knowledge base from the Russians, who have had astronauts in space since 1986 almost continuously.

Goldin continued, stating, “They have helped us solve some reliability prob­lems already. So we have a more robust station earlier for less money,” plus, he added, “we have a coming together of the scientific community in Russia with America.”66